by Hillary Avis
Bethany nodded. “At least the other cop, Charley, seems nice. She acts fair, like she hasn’t made up her mind already.”
“Exactly. She acts fair. Who knows what she really thinks, though. What if they blame this on Auntie just so they can close the case?”
“Hey. Hey.” Bethany put her arm around Kimmy’s shoulders and squeezed. “This is all going to work out. They’ll figure out who set the fire, Amara will get her insurance payout, and then she’ll be able to rebuild her life. Sharky will probably get a deluxe doghouse out of the deal.”
The joke coaxed a grin out of Kimmy. “I hope you’re right. Oh!” Her smile vanished as she noticed something over Bethany’s shoulder. Bethany turned to see what had caught her eye. An older man was shuffling up the side yard between his house and Amara’s.
“Is that the guy who sent the note? George?”
Kimmy nodded. “I’ve always called him Mr. Washington. I hope we didn’t get him into too much trouble with the cops.”
Bethany watched him unlock a small shed and retrieve a garden hoe. He carefully relocked the shed and began scraping the weeds from around the edges of a flower bed, never once greeting Amara or even glancing in her direction.
“For someone concerned about neighborliness, he doesn’t seem too worried about what happened to his neighbor.”
Kimmy sighed and leaned her head on Bethany’s shoulder. “He was really kind to me after my parents died. He used to let me come over and watch cartoons after school because Auntie would never let us get a TV. I feel so terrible that he’s been caught up in this!”
“I wonder what excuse he’ll make for that mean note when the police question him.”
Kimmy’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! I should warn him that they’ll be coming.” She started toward the yard.
“Kimberly!” Amara stood on the lawn holding Sharky held away from her body with two hands. “He needs to potty! Will you take him? I have to finish sorting the silver.”
Kimmy sighed and made a face at Bethany. “We really don’t have time for this.”
Bethany glanced at the clock on her phone. Kimmy was right. They needed to leave in the next fifteen minutes or she’d be late to work—again. “I can go talk to him if you want. That way we’ll all be ready to go in a few minutes.”
“Would you? Just tell him I sent you.” Kimmy raised her voice so Amara could hear her fifteen yards away and called, “Coming, Auntie!”
Bethany nodded and cut across the grass to where the man was chopping some delicate pink flowers underneath a lilac bush. She cleared her throat as she approached so she wouldn’t surprise him. “Um, hi. Mr. Washington?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her and then resumed hacking the pretty plants, scraping the ground around the blooming shrub down to bare earth. As he broke the roots and crushed the stems, the plants emitted a sharp, familiar smell that Bethany couldn’t place.
“Little Kimmy sent you.” The way he said it wasn’t a question. He must have been watching them even though he acted like he wasn’t paying attention.
“Yes, she wanted to let you know—”
“That ol’ Amara thinks I torched her porch?” He straightened up and winked at her.
“No! I mean, I don’t know what she thinks. But Kimmy wanted me to tell you that the police might be by to ask about that note you left in the mailbox.”
He froze, his forehead furrowed. “Oh. That. Amara gave it to the cops?”
“Yeah. But Sharky got ahold of it, so there’s not much left. Can’t even read what you wrote.”
He chuckled. “What a shame.”
Bethany swallowed. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “I know what you wrote, though. I saw it before the dog ate it. And I copied it down word-for-word.”
He turned to face her, the humor evaporating from his expression. “And?”
She eyed his hoe and took a step backward so she was out of range if he decided to swing it at her. “You sounded angry. Were you?”
He thumped the hoe on the dirt. “Darn right I was! You would be too if that critter was chewing up everything you own!”
Bethany thought of the eviscerated throw pillow currently on her sofa, right next to the coffee table with only three functional legs. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine why someone would bear ill will toward Sharky. “So you threatened to kill the dog so she’d keep him inside?”
“Nah, I wouldn’t hurt the little stinker. I just meant she might not see him again if he ran off. She ought to keep him on a leash. Out of my yard and safe.”
Bethany nodded. Maybe Kimmy was right—maybe the note wasn’t a threat at all. “You could just build a fence.”
George snorted. “Tell that to the historical society. I tried to put up a chain link and they said no way. Had to be something in keeping with the age of the home, they said. A fence like that is too rich for my blood, and for most people on this street. So we try to be good neighbors even without good fences. You know the saying?”
She nodded. “So that’s what you meant about Amara not being neighborly?”
“Yup.” He leaned the hoe against the side of the shed and resumed his weeding by hand, pulling plants from between the lilac’s roots where the hoe couldn’t reach. Bethany watched him for a few seconds, puzzled as to why he disliked the little flowers so much. They were pretty, lacy plants, and their purple-pink hue complemented the lilac bush’s green, heart-shaped leaves, but he was ruthlessly yanking them out by the roots, tossing the limp plants into a pile beside him.
“So we know what you have against Amara, but what do you have against pretty flowers?” She hoped that lightening the mood would smooth over any residual resentment between the neighbors.
George picked up a handful of the plants he’d removed. “These Herb Robert? They may look nice, but they’re a nuisance. Take over everything. And get a whiff—there’s a reason they call it Stinking Bob.” He held out the flowers to Bethany, and even without bending her head down, she caught the overwhelming and familiar scent she’d noticed before.
“Ugh! It smells like burning tires!” She waved her hand in front of her nose, and George tossed the plants on the ground, laughing.
“Here, sniff this to get it out of your nose.” He bent a lilac branch toward her and she inhaled the sweet perfume of the starry blossoms. He let go of the branch and it sprang back into position just as a light breeze picked up, sending ash swirling around the yard next door.
“Shame,” George murmured as he watched the windblown ashes. “Amara’s place, I mean. Stood there a couple hundred years, and then gone in one night.”
“Yeah—two decades of Amara’s life up in smoke. Do you have any idea who might want to do something like that? Seems like a pretty serious grudge.”
George chewed the inside of his lip contemplatively. “Hm. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s those developer folks who have been hanging around. The ones who bought the old church down the street.”
A zap of recognition buzzed through Bethany’s body. He’s talking about Todd’s project—the condo development! The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “What in the world would they have against Amara?”
“Oh, not against her personally—against all of us. They’ve been hounding everyone to take a vote so they can go ahead and knock that old church down.”
“I heard the city approved it already.” Saw the papers with my own eyes, even.
“Yup.”
Bethany’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t follow. Why did they need neighborhood votes if it was up to the city council?”
“You know, all the silly rules. You can build that, you can’t build that, you need a proper fence. They couldn’t just knock the church down because it’s part of town history, see? But if enough of the neighborhood agreed, they could remove the historic designation and do whatever they wanted.”
Bethany nodded. “I see. The historic status of the neighborhood meant that the church was tied up in all
that bureaucracy. The developers would have to preserve the historic integrity of the building instead of knocking it down to build something new.”
“Yup. But now there’s no need—the fire solved that problem. One less house on the street is historic, so the whole neighborhood lost its status automatically. It’s got to be a certain percent, see?”
Bethany felt the blood drain from her face, and her hands were suddenly cold. “So the condo development was only approved because of the fire?”
“Yup. Those developers are like ol’ Stinking Bob, here. Their condo building will look real nice, but then they’ll take over everything. Choke out all the other plants. And it stinks.”
She swallowed her nausea. She’d celebrated with Todd last night—drank a champagne toast, even!—and what she had celebrated was Amara’s devastating loss. She’d even been hired to cook for the groundbreaking party! Can I even do it? Can I stomach building my career on the destruction of my best friend’s childhood home?
She watched Kimmy load the last box into the car as Amara and Sharky wedged themselves in the front seat. Amara beckoned to her through the window. Time to go.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Washington.”
He grunted in reply, already back at work on his flowerbeds. Bethany cut back across the lawn to the car. As she picked her way around Amara’s sooty belongings, she wondered whether she should just tell Todd that she wouldn’t cater the party after all. It just seemed gross to party when Amara and Kimmy were grieving all the memories they’d lost with the house. Worse than that, someone involved with the project might have been responsible—and might even attend the groundbreaking party!
She swung into the back seat and slammed the door. Even inside the vehicle, the smell of smoke clung to her, making her eyes water. She squeezed them shut as the car pulled away from the curb. I will not serve hors d’oeuvres to the arsonist. I just won’t!
Chapter 7
Tuesday
BETHANY GLANCED AT the time as she clocked in and sucked the air between her teeth. Late again—really late. But hey, at least she wasn’t wearing pajamas.
She looked over her shoulder as she slipped her apron on over her head and tucked her hair into a net. No sign of Alex. The door to his office was shut and she could hear male voices inside. Lucky me—he’s in a meeting.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to talk to him at all today if she slipped out quietly at the end of her shift. Then she’d walk over to Todd’s office and tell him that he needed to find another caterer. He’d have to understand once he heard about her personal connection to the fire. She could audition her food for his investor another time.
She mixed a batch of batter according to the Seafood Grotto recipe. It was a classic combination of flour, milk, baking powder, salt...safe, but bland. No one was watching, so she added some garlic powder to the mixture—it didn’t add any color to the batter, so Alex would never know, but it’d add some much-needed flavor!
The first lunch order came in: a three-piece cod basket. She set the potatoes to fry and battered the fresh Atlantic cod fillets, dipping them first into lemon juice—another deviation from the Seafood Grotto manual—before dredging in flour and dipping into the garlicky batter.
Her little tweaks paid off. Compliments from customers rained into the kitchen during the whole lunch shift. She clocked out feeling proud and satisfied—she’d made great food and managed to avoid getting chewed out about her punctuality problem, too! But as she turned to go out the back door, she caught a glimpse of Alex coming out of his office with a guy in a suit who looked familiar.
She racked her brain for a few seconds, trying to place him—it was Todd’s investor, Don Hefferman! She ducked quickly into a storage room before Alex or Don spotted her. The last thing she needed was to get scolded—or fired!—in front of Don. He could be the key to her career move, but not if he knew she was just a fry cook at a fish and chips place!
The two men were still talking at the back door, and though she couldn’t hear the content of their conversation, the tone wasn’t friendly. Alex sounded just as upset with Don as he’d been with Bethany yesterday. No way she wanted to run into him now. She’d have to sneak out the front door to avoid him.
She peeked around the corner and, when Alex looked away, darted down the hall into the dining room. She let out a sigh of relief as she neared the exit, pausing only to hold the door for a customer entering the restaurant. The woman couldn’t open the door herself because she was lugging an enormous antique accordion camera. Bethany couldn’t help staring.
The woman looked back at her through tiny round sunglasses with wire frames, and her annoyance was unmistakable. “Close your mouth! You look like one of the codfish they serve here. You know, it’s bad manners to stare.”
Bethany blushed. “Sorry. I was just wondering—are you Fancy Peters?”
The woman set the camera down on an empty table and took off her sunglasses. Behind them, her pale skin glistened under the fluorescent lights of the restaurant. She nodded slowly as she scrutinized Bethany. “I am. How did you know?”
Bethany gestured to the high-necked blouse, button boots, and bicycle bloomers Fancy had on. “I heard you only wear clothes that are at least a hundred years old. Not many people fit that description.”
“Hmph. Who told you that about me?”
“Amara Caldwell. Well, her niece Kimmy did.”
Fancy pursed her lips and fingered the floral brooch pinned to her blouse. “Oh, them. Well, they’re wrong. These are antique styles, but they’re newly made. Most clothes that old can’t stand up to the rigors of daily wear, and I’d hate to ruin something that had lasted a whole century. Something that old should be in a museum. Your friends need to get their facts straight.”
“Well, here’s a fact I have straight. You were at Amara’s house on Sunday, weren’t you?”
“I was there on historical society business. Hosanna Street is a very important neighborhood for Newbridge. Did you know—”
Bethany cut her off before she could launch into a lecture on local history. “Did you know that her house burned down on Sunday night—right after you visited her?”
Fancy paled. “I didn’t! What a terrible loss.”
Bethany couldn’t believe her ears. Of course Fancy knew about the arson! There was no way she hadn’t heard about the church project being approved. The historical society was the main opponent to the development and the only reason the approval went through was because of the fire. The society had to be up in arms! So why was Fancy lying? “You haven’t read about it in the paper or anything?”
Fancy shook her head.
“I’m surprised you don’t follow the happenings in such an important historic neighborhood.”
“I mean, I heard about a fire—I just didn’t realize it was Amara Caldwell’s house,” Fancy stammered. “I didn’t pay much attention.”
“You weren’t curious about it? Seems like if someone is burning down historic homes, it might concern the historical society.” The bells on the restaurant door jangled, and Bethany stepped aside to let another customer enter.
Fancy shook her head. “My photography has kept me busy. Anyway, if Amara Caldwell’s house burned down, she probably set the fire herself.”
Bethany rolled her eyes. “What? Why would she do that? She lost everything.”
“But she’ll get a payday, won’t she? Collect the insurance money? Amara doesn’t care two figs about anything except making an extra buck. She even took those developers’ dirty money to build that ridiculous porch. It was a blight on Hosanna Street. Whoever lit the wick on that swan did the city a favor.”
Bethany paused as she took in the new information. The developers had funded Amara’s porch addition? Why in the world would Todd and Don give money to Amara for home improvements?
Maybe they wanted to build goodwill for their project. That could explain why Amara felt friendlier toward them than her neighbor George. Something bugged Beth
any about this explanation, though.
“Why would Amara build a new porch just to burn it down?”
“Greed,” Fancy Peters hissed. “Pure greed. Everyone’s in it for the money. The developers bribe people to remove historic character on the street so they can build their little rathole condos for start-up millionaires. The city approves the building permits, no questions asked, because the home value goes up and they can raise the property taxes. And once her house is reappraised, your friend Amara gets a bigger payout from her insurance company if the place goes up in smoke.” By the end of her little diatribe, Fancy’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were glittering.
Bethany’s blood chilled. It all sounded...possible. Not crazy at all, actually. Todd was definitely ambitious enough to offer bribes to get his way, and it was likely that his friends on the city council preferred to gentrify the Hosanna Street neighborhood to generate more tax revenue for city schools and parks. Maybe Amara wasn’t as innocent as she pretended, either. Maybe she’d realized the developer’s bribe was a way to cash out and leave a neighborhood that didn’t seem to sorry to see her go, anyway.
“How do you know all this? What proof do you have?”
Fancy tapped her camera. “I document everything. I spend plenty of time on Hosanna Street, and I’ve seen them together. Amara Caldwell rubbing elbows with the developers. Developers kissing up to the mayor and city council. All plotting to destroy Newbridge for their own gain.”
Bethany realized with a jolt that all the people in question—the developers, the city council and mayor, the tech millionaires—all of them would be at the groundbreaking gala. Maybe instead of backing out, she should cater the party and ask some questions. If she could find out more about Amara’s relationship with the developers and the developers’ relationships with city officials, she just might figure out who burned down the house on Hosanna Street.