by Girard, Dara
She became still letting the sensations come back to her. “It was the same man from the warehouse. The third man.
He’s good. He knows buildings. He won’t make mistakes.” She paused. “He reminds me of my father.”
“Do you think it’s him?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Do you think the building burned for profit?”
“No, the first one started that way, but both are about revenge. He thought the restaurant was poorly made. So he hurried it.”
Robert rose to his feet. “We’ll see what the lab comes up with.”
“You won’t catch him easily. He’ll—”
“Thanks for your help.” He looked at the table. “You’re a good worker.”
“I’m happy to be here.”
“I’m glad you’re...” He bit his lip then made a show of looking at his watch. “I have a call to make.” He patted her on the hand, indulgent. “Keep up the good work.” He left.
Victoria stared at her hand irritated. He’d patted her as though she were a pouting child that needed reassurance. She knew what she’d seen, but why didn’t anything make sense? If they didn’t stop him, he’d grow more careless. Would he snap as her father had? She stared at Braxton’s sweater then stripped off her layers and put it on. His body heat had made it almost indecently warm and his cologne clung to the cashmere wool mix. She shook her head to stop any other distracting thoughts and went into the kitchen.
“Whose sweater is that?” Dana asked as Victoria opened the closet.
“My uncle’s,” she lied.
Dana stared at her, tapping her chin. “I could have sworn that Mr. Braxton has a sweater just like that.”
Victoria closed the closet and flashed a bright smile. “Amazing.”
* * *
She didn’t return his sweater simply because she didn’t want to. If he wanted it back he could ask her for it She wore it the next day letting it warm her through the cold morning until the sun offered enough heat so that she could wrap it around her waist. It was like having him near. She liked the feeling, though she felt ashamed to admit it.
The sweater gave Robert just as much trouble. He liked how she looked in it. As if she belonged to him. He liked seeing how the sleeves swallowed up her arms, how it seemed to claim her like a high-schooler wearing her boyfriend’s lettered jacket
It filled him with possessive thoughts, dangerous enough to tempt him to risk her temper. His body responded at the thought of how she’d be in bed. He wondered what kind of fire she would be. A quick flame or an inferno? Unfortunately, a sweater wasn’t a big enough net to capture this butterfly. He leaned back in his chair, trying to ease the strain of his erection and glanced around his book filled office.
No, he was wrong. He didn’t want to capture her at all. No matter how intriguing she was. No matter how she challenged him to analyze and classify his unwanted feelings for her, he would not act on them. She had her place in his home and he had his. Chaos came when order was ignored. He didn’t want to risk that.
Besides, they argued about everything except one thing. If there was a firestarter involved in these two fires, he would burn again.
* * *
Grant toyed with the change in his pockets as he listened to ATF agent Melinda Brenner talk to Braxton. The wind had loosened her hair from its ponytail and he had a strange urge to fix it. She was usually so together that the wayward strand irked him. It softened her hard-edge look of ball crushing ambition. She almost looked human.
He understood her drive though. As the first of his family to make it through college he knew where focused energy could take you. He just didn’t feel the need to go around thinking he had something to prove. Perhaps it was different for women in high positions.
He sighed. They still hadn’t gotten a hold of the elusive Ms. Warren. She hadn’t returned yet. So there were no inventory records, bills, or other papers to send to the auditors to find out what this pile of rumble had been all about. The lab concluded that an accelerate had been used. Too bad they hadn’t found remains of a timer or detonator starting in the north center section where the jugs were discovered. So how did the firestarter get the 300 jugs into the warehouse to get the fire started?
“Who, manufactured the kerosene jugs?” he asked when there was a pause in the conversation.
“A company called CHC,” Melinda said as though he’d interrupted a more important discussion.
He didn’t care.“What do you know about them?”
“We didn’t come up with anything. The company doesn’t exist in the U.S.”
“Great, an invisible foreign company. Just what we needed.”
“The lab identified the CHC residue as acetone.”
Robert shook his head. “Nasty stuff.”
Grant grinned. “Not if you want to start a bonfire.”
Melinda walked past him and turned to Robert. “Let’s go inside.”
***
An hour later, Melinda flashed her light through the murky darkness, gloom, and drifting ash to the point of the fire’s origin. Robert stood next to her—patient and alert. They both knew the answers were here waiting for them to find them.
“Who stored things here?” Robert asked.
We won’t know until we get papers from the owner, and no one has made an insurance claim yet.”
She moved her flashlight and let it bounce off the charred remains of a cabinet. “Things are getting cold fast.”
“I know.” That was always bad news. The colder the trail, the less likely they’d be able to capture the culprit.
Sunlight slipped through like a beam of swirling dust from an opening in the roof. It illuminated a single large square where the CHC containers had been concentrated.
“The acetone is the key,” Melinda said. “Acetone is a controlled substance. You can’t legally buy it in large quantities without the seller’s keeping records on who buys it and where it goes.”
“What do you think that means?”
She chewed her lip. “I don’t know exactly how it’s used legally, but I know one thing.”
“What?”
“Dope smugglers process cocaine with it.”
Robert understood where she was leading. “Which means big money.” And if business was too good, someone may have wanted revenge.
CHAPTER TEN
Victoria walked in the direction of the carriage house, but stopped when Katherine approached her. “Do you know where Amanda is?” she asked.
“No.”
The corners of her mouth turned down in disapproval. “She has a habit of disappearing.”
“She is a child having fun,” Victoria said. “It’s spring. She can’t help it.”
“She can learn to help it. Having fun has its place.” She measured Victoria with one significant glance. “Everything has its place. Always remember that.” She walked past.
Victoria resisted the urge to say something rude then continued walking. She stopped when she saw the same dog from the first day, resting under a willow tree. It didn’t look at the cardinal whizzing past or notice a squirrel racing up the trunk. It just continued to rest his head on his front paws, the breeze blowing his golden coat. Victoria approached the dog, it growled low in its throat.
She knelt in front of it and held out her hand. It raised its head and sniffed her hand then growled again in greeting. She rubbed its ear.
“Why are you so sad?”
“Because Bailey’s gone,” a young voice replied from above her.
Victoria peered between the branches and saw Amanda stretched out on a limb. Bark and dirt spotted her white stockings, while her shoelaces hung undone.
“Who’s Bailey?”
“The other dog. A black Lab. He was old. I miss him too.” She sighed. “He was the best dog in the world. Everybody thought so, even Uncle Robert, though he’ll never say so. Great-granddad gave Bailey to him as a puppy when he was fifteen after his dad had died. He was re
ally sad and Great-granddad was worried. Mom said that when Uncle got Bailey be was never sad again. They were the best of friends and he would even take him on his trips.
“When he didn’t, the house always knew when he was coming back because Bailey would stay by the window all day until he arrived. Uncle didn’t really want Benjamin.” She stared down at the sad dog below her. “But one day he saw Bailey playing with him and another time saw him wandering around the property, so he adopted him. They all got on real well. When I came to stay, Ms. Dana and I would call Uncle and the two dogs The Three Stooges. But then Bailey got sick.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. Uncle just took him away and buried him.”
“Where?”
She pointed. Bitterness entered her tone. “He’s out there.”
Victoria squinted at the great expanse of green that seemed to stretch and only touch sky. In the distance, she saw a lonely twig sticking out of the ground.
“It must have been hard for him. That’s why he didn’t tell you.”
“He just ignores poor Ben as if he doesn’t exist.” She rubbed her eyes. “I wish he’d given me the chance to say goodbye.”
“You still can.” She chewed her lip thoughtful. “Everyone needs a chance to say goodbye.” She thought of the kiss her mother had given her before she drove into town and out of her life. “Every spirit deserves a proper burial.”
Anticipation replaced Amanda’s bitter tone. “Do you think we could have a funeral for him?”
Victoria looked at the dog and considered the question. She’d never done a funeral for a dog, but didn’t see a problem with doing something. “I don’t see why not.”
“We could have it on Saturday after breakfast. We’ll have to bring flowers and wear black.” Amanda sat up and swung her legs. “I’ll wear the same dress I wore to Granddad’s funeral and get a black bandana for Benjamin to wear.”
“That sounds fine. Now, next question. What are you doing up there?”
She groaned and lay back on the limb. “Nicholas and Patrice are coming,” she said gloomily.
“Yes, I know. Who are they?”
“My cousins,” she grumbled. “I hate them more than my flute lessons.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re stupid.”
“Are they your age?” she asked, wondering if that was why Amanda didn’t like them.
She shook her head. “No way. They’re old, like twenty-two or something.”
Victoria did not feel the need to explain that twenty-two was not old. “Okay, so you don’t like them. That still doesn’t explain why you’re in a tree.”
“I’m on the lookout. I can see people drive up from here. It’s a great place to hide from people and see everything that’s going on. Do you want to come up and see?”
Victoria stroked the trunk of the tree, trying to remember the last time she’d climbed one. “Not this time. I have to find the gardener.”
Amanda looked around then pointed. “He’s started planting flowers near the side of the house.”
She turned and saw a group of men hauling mulch.
“You can’t miss him. He’ll be singing to himself. Off-key.”
* * *
Victoria went to the side of the house and let her hand sink discreetly in the soft earth. The sight, feel, and smell of new soil always gave her a special thrill. She picked up a handful and let it paint her palms with its richness. The sky was still and the clouds hung like suspended smoke. At home she would have finished the washing, then make sure Chassie was fed and wait while dukunu boiled on the stove, its aroma already seeping through an open window like a beckoning finger.
A deep voice, occupied in song, broke through her thoughts. She turned and saw the same man from before—Foster, Mr. Braxton’s assistant. He wore an old T-shirt displaying muscle as defined as rocks on a waterfall, his sandy brown hair plastered with sweat.
“You can’t be the gardener,” she said.
He turned to her and smiled. “Well I am. I took up the job recently.”
“Why?”
“I like it.” He began to sing again.
“That song belongs in a pub,” she said, listening to the bawdy lyrics.
He didn’t spare her a glance as he expertly worked the ground. “Hmm, too bad. Pubs don’t agree with me. So I’ll just have to sing here.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Is it the pub or the liquor that doesn’t agree?”
“What do you think?”
“How long have you been away from it?”
“Two years.”
She knelt beside him, curious. “Were you a mean drunk?”
“I’d like to think not. I’m sure others may have a different opinion.”
“So you haven’t worked here long then?”
“I have.”
She furrowed her brows. “Even when—”
“When I was drinking? Yes. I never let it affect my work.” His voice fell. “I just let it destroy everything else.”
She felt his sadness and thought of the man who’d burned down her aunt’s flower shop. She wondered if he regretted what he’d done, if he even remembered it.
“Braxton was good to let me work for him.”
“I’d like to work for you.”
He scratched his head. “Work for me?”
“Yes. I’d like to be your assistant.”
“Why?” His eyes twinkled. “You have trouble with the bottle too?”
“No, I just want to help. I’m a good worker.”
He looked her up and down. “You’re certainly built for it.”
“I’m built for a lot of things.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Too bad I’m too old to find out what other things.”
“You’re never too old.”
He pressed a hand against his chest and bowed. “Flattery is the key to everything, my dear.”
She picked up a bag of mulch and dropped it next to him. “I know a lot about planting and I’m full of knowledge and you could—”
He held up his hand. “I don’t need a resume. As long as it’s all right with the boss it’s all right with me.”
“Mr. Braxton has no complaints.”
* * *
Victoria passed the afternoon with Foster, listening to his singing as she followed his pattern of planting, digging holes, and then tucking new plants into the ground. They discussed the structure, and which plants would fit where. He showed her several garden diagrams and talked of the upcoming contest, sure they would win. Although pleasure filled her time in the garden, however, she sensed something was wrong. Because she couldn’t identify the cause of her uneasiness, she dismissed her concerns and worked into the evening.
* * *
Prescott glanced at the newspaper article and laughed. Accidental fire. Perfect. He knew starting it in the kitchen was the best. Yep, that pile of crap needed to be burned, and it had burned beautifully. He’d done the owner a favor. At least the owner would get his insurance claim and perhaps he’d learn to build a better structure next time.
Prescott pulled his eyebrow thoughtful. Perhaps he could call and offer to help. Wouldn’t that be a nice turn of events? A contract like that would be great. There was always the upside to destruction. Something needed to be rebuilt
“I didn’t call you over here to read,” a raspy voice said. “What do you think?”
Prescott turned his attention back to the window he’d measured. The old woman beside him wanted a built-in window seat. “I think it’s definitely doable.”
“How much?” When he told her the estimate she scoffed. She turned her wrinkled face to him and narrowed her eyes. “That’s a damn rip off. You’re all crooks.”
He calmly listened to her tirade. She was old and frightened. She lived alone with no family, except a little dog, and probably couldn’t afford him. She probably lived on a government check every month. Maybe she even invited contractors over just to have some comp
any. Sad how society threw old people away. Either shuttling them into nursing homes or leaving them in crumbling old buildings like this.
Her house needed a lot of work, work she couldn’t afford. She shouldn’t suffer because of that. He’d do her a favor and make it all go away.
* * *
Grant tapped the carton of cigarettes inside his jacket pocket with relief as he stood near the interview room at the ATF office. Ms. Warren had finally decided to come out of hiding or grace them with her presence, whatever was right. He watched her as someone handed her coffee. An older, good-looking woman who carried her age well, she had her sister’s blonde looks, but with a more sophisticated air.
He glanced at Melinda and could see she didn’t trust the woman. He didn’t care about trust; he just wanted some answers. It was his turn to go into action. She and Robert were good at investigation, but interrogation was his territory.
“Try not to drool,” Melinda said.
He winked and tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “Don’t be jealous.” He shut the door in her face then sat down. He studied the elegant way Ms. Warren sipped her coffee as though it were in fine china instead of a plastic cup. He nodded toward the cup. “It’s certainly not Blue Mountain, is it?”
She merely stared at him.
He sighed. She wasn’t going to be easy to charm. “Thank you for coming.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. It’s the consequences you can’t control.” She looked at him with such condescension he wondered if he’d done something offensive. Perhaps he hadn’t shaved close enough this morning. Then he remembered he was a cop and that usually offended a lot of people. “Do you have insurance for the amount of loss you’ve incurred?”
“No. I’m insured of course, but I never anticipated something like this. I know that most of my customers have insurance, but I am responsible for those who don’t.”
“What do you store?”
She took a sip of her coffee. At the rate she was going, the coffee would last for days. He didn’t blame her, the stuff was awful. “Many of my clients store excess merchandise. Or cargo waiting inspection by U.S. customs.”