by Linda Lovely
“Yes, we can even show you video,” I said.
Andy pulled out his phone.
“A motion sensor sends a phone alert when someone comes to the side door or passes by,” I explained as Andy played the short video.
“Let’s see it again,” the chief prodded. “Sure looks like he’s up to no good. Too bad we can’t see his face. The burn pattern suggests the fire started next to the fireplace. If it weren’t for your prowler report, I’d suspect an ember escaped the firebox. Your tenant Miss Amber admitted she and Judge Billings lit a fire early evening to ward off the chill. She swore it was out and the screen securely in place before she retired. ’Course we hear a lot of wishful remembering.”
“You’re certain the fire started inside?” Andy asked.
“Not a doubt.” He frowned. “Miss Amber also claims the cottage door was locked. Based on what you and Andy said about timing, I can’t imagine how your prowler had time to jimmy a lock, set a fire, relock the door, and escape, all before you came running.”
I closed my eyes to picture the fireplace surround. “He didn’t have to unlock a door—at least the kind you’re picturing. A previous tenant put a trap door next to the fireplace so he could pull wood in from the woodpile. Pretty ingenious. I’ve used it myself.”
The chief arched an eyebrow. “No lock on the trap door?”
“Just a hook and eye latch to keep critters from pushing their way inside,” I answered. “It wouldn’t be hard to lift the hook from the outside. Almost any scrap of wood slipped through the opening would do it.”
The chief nodded. “Hmm, yes. An arsonist could manage that. Flip the hook, shove some burning tinder inside, and run for it.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll investigate. I’ll talk with the sheriff. Meanwhile, don’t discuss this with anyone, including the press. Already saw an Ardon Chronicle reporter and photographer here. Can’t stop ’em from taking pictures, long as they stay behind our barricades. But they’ll get a ‘no comment’ if they pester me.”
I smiled. “Won’t say a word. My family’s not exactly on friendly terms with the paper’s owner.”
A sly smile lit the chief’s somber face. “Yes, I do seem to recall the Hookers are less than chummy with the local press.”
MacLeod tipped his hat and turned to Andy. “You can take the little lady home, son. See you at the station Saturday?”
“Yes, sir,” Andy answered.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Trying to keep the blanket wrapped around me, my walk to Andy’s truck was closer to a shuffle than a stroll. Snail tempo. Unfortunately, that gave the Ardon Chronicle photographer who popped out of the bushes, ample opportunity to snap photos of me and Andy. I couldn’t even wave him away or cover my face. Needed both hands on the blanket to make sure he didn’t post pictures of me in my underwear.
“Auck!” The photographer toppled like an Iowa tipped cow.
Paint’s grinning face appeared out of the shadows. “Too bad you stumbled,” he told the downed man. “Lots of tree roots around here.”
“You tripped me!” the photographer swore. “That was no accident.”
“Prove it.” Paint laughed as he walked away from his angry victim to join Andy and me.
“What brings you by? Did a radio report go out that I’d stripped down to my unmentionables?”
Paint hooked a finger in the blanket behind my neck and peered down my back. “My, my, so you have. But I have faith Andy wasn’t the immediate cause of said stripping. Don’t expect a concession speech.”
He cleared his throat. “I was engaged in some stripping efforts of my own when that siren alert told me Summer Place might have a prowler. For the record, said stripping involved a cedar bench I’m refinishing not items of female clothing. Heard the news report of a fire while I was en route. What happened? Are Ursula and Amber okay?”
“Yep, though Ursula is once again in an ambulance, headed to the ER,” I said. “Amber’s with her. They both inhaled a lot of smoke. Ursula passed out, but the EMTs revived her. Said they’d both be fine.”
“Good,” Paint said. “Was it arson?
“How about we tell you all about it at my folks’ house?” I suggested. “I called Mom and Dad right away in case they heard about the fire. While I figured they were likely in bed, asleep, I feared someone might wake them with the news. My folks insisted I come over. I woke Eva, too. Told her I was fine and would give a full report come morning.”
We’d reached my date’s truck. “You want to follow us over?” Andy asked.
“Sure.” Paint winked at me. “Keep that blanket wrapped tight. Andy’s seen enough.”
My parents’ kitchen table was as welcoming as Aunt Eva’s. An hour had passed since we arrived. Time enough for Mom to call the hospital and chat with Ursula and Amber, who were now bedded down until morning for observation. Ursula had recovered enough to speak, though Mom said her voice sounded raw. Amber was kicking herself for shutting off her cell phone. Said she knew Ursula was exhausted and didn’t want a call to wake her. She’d forgotten all about the security app.
My suitors, my folks, and I all held steaming mugs of coffee. I’d borrowed a pair of Dad’s PJ bottoms. No way could I fit in any of Mom’s size-two clothes. I’d pulled the tie waist tight on Dad’s oversize flannel jammies and rolled the cuffs up two turns. His spare bedroom slippers kept my bare, bruised feet from the indignities of a cold floor. While my tootsies swam in the too-big moccasin slippers, my curled toes kept them from falling off as I shambled to the coffee pot for a refill.
Once Mom satisfied herself that Ursula and Amber were doing fine, she’d joined Dad and Paint in bombarding Andy and me with questions. It had begun to feel akin to an inquisition when Mom voiced her conclusion: “Someone’s out to kill Ursula.”
I was leaning toward that opinion as well. It would explain why someone set fire to the cottage. The toxic ingredient—most likely ground-up theophylline—added to my chocolate mousse was meant to end Ursula’s life. When Harriett died instead, the killer had to make a second try.
The theory held despite some unexplained disconnects, like Karen’s death. It seemed too coincidental for two young members of the Temple of True Believers to die in a two-day span. Then there was the Summer Place vandalism. The spray-painted threats in my kitchen were aimed at me, not Ursula. Two different sets of Summer Place intruders? Or was the vandalism just designed to confuse and distract?
My gaze locked on Mom’s worried face as I considered her verdict.
“Remember Dr. Swihart’s three theories of the crime?” I began. “One, someone wanted to kill Harriett. Two, someone wanted to kill another luncheon guest and failed. Three, someone wanted to destroy my reputation, and Harriett’s death was an accident. The fire—”
“If Harriett was the target, the fire makes no sense,” Andy interrupted. “She was already dead.”
I nodded. “That makes the two theories I like least seem the most logical. Someone is either trying to kill Ursula or has developed a burning hatred for me.”
“Wrong.” Dad’s voice boomed. “You weren’t in the cottage, Brie. Ursula and Amber were. And Ursula was a luncheon guest. I agree with your mother, she’s the target.”
I figured Dad’s response was partly wishful thinking. The arsonist could have seen lights in the cottage and assumed I was inside. Dad didn’t want to believe some villain out there might be after his daughter. Nonetheless, I didn’t argue.
“Why would someone want to kill Ursula?” Paint asked. “Somebody she ruled against in TV court? A stalker? Who?”
Mom shot Dad a look that said, “We shouldn’t have opened this can of worms. Now what?” Her teeth worried her lower lip.
She finally broke the silence. “I can’t tell you why without Ursula’s permission. But it’s quite likely that someone’s trying to kill Ursula to make sure a secret stays buried.”
Andy shook his head. “Mrs. Hooker, I get that you promised to keep some secret for Ursula, but don’t you think we all should know what’s going on? How else can we keep Brie safe?”
“Gotta say I agree with Andy,” Paint added. “Surely you can tell us who you suspect is behind this? Is Brie still in danger now that the fire has effectively evicted Ursula and Amber from the Summer Place cottage?”
Mom huffed and, in turn, fixed Andy and Paint with angry glares. “I am Brie’s mother. Of course, her life is more important than any secret. But I don’t believe Brie’s in any danger now. Ursula is leaving town. Tomorrow. And I’m going with her. Amber will head back to Miami.”
My mouth dropped open. So did Dad’s.
“You’re what?” he said.
Mom waved her hand. “Howard, we’ll discuss this later. For now the matter is closed. Ursula’s secret won’t be secret very long. Then this whole nightmare will be over.”
No, it won’t.
Karen and Harriett will still be dead. And I’ll always know Harriett might be alive if I hadn’t invited her to lunch.
Mom stood. “Why don’t you boys go on home? Brie can sleep here tonight. Either Howard or I will drop her at Udderly tomorrow morning.”
All of the table’s occupants knew my mother’s verdict was final. No further debate from prosecution or defense.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I said.
On the porch, I hugged Paint, then Andy. “Thanks, guys. What would I do without you?”
As I watched them saunter down my folks’ sidewalk, I asked myself that question one more time. With feeling. Tears slid down my cheeks.
My heart had decided. My mind argued. But I knew it was another verdict that couldn’t be appealed.
After Andy and Paint departed, Mom provided Dad and me with a crucial update. Lawrence Toomey had flown to Washington D.C. yesterday morning to prepare for confirmation hearings.
“Clearly Toomey didn’t start that cottage fire, but he could have hired someone to do it,” she said. “Ursula doesn’t want to spend another night in Ardon County and risk putting anyone else in danger. She figures the best way to end this is to confront Toomey immediately. I’ll accompany her as legal counsel.”
Dad stroked Mom’s arm. “Honey. If someone’s trying to kill Ursula, being by her side makes you a target, too. If you’re determined to go to D.C., I’m going with you. No argument.”
But, of course, there would be. An argument that is. Or discussion as my parents preferred to characterize them. I’d witnessed very few rows between my parents, and, from the look Mom tossed my way, I wouldn’t be privy to this one either. When my folks had a rare disagreement, it was private, not public. And, once they came to an understanding, there were no pouts, no recriminations.
How did they manage that?
“Brie, the guest room is made up. Do I need to wake you or will the alarm on your phone do the job?” Mom asked.
I’d been dismissed. For a fleeting moment, I considered weighing in. I did have opinions about Mom’s—and Dad’s—plans. But why bother? I was an adult and my opinion mattered to them. But Mom was nothing if not stubborn. And Dad loved her—in part for her independence and integrity.
I was 99 percent certain she’d go to D.C., and Dad would hold down the fort in Ardon County. Me? I’d hold my tongue and pray.
My agreement to set up a meeting between Amber and Ruth totally disappeared from my mind until the lumpy, too-soft mattress in my folks’ guest bedroom practically swallowed me. Would Amber still want to meet Ruth?
Doubtful, was my last thought before I drifted off.
THIRTY-NINE
Shortly after Dad delivered me to Udderly Kidding, a text arrived. If the subject line hadn’t read Fire Destroyed My Cell, I might not have opened a message from an unknown address. The anonymous texter had to be Amber.
I have no plans to leave Ardon County. Please go ahead and set up meeting.
Wrong on another front. Will call after AM chores, I typed. That’s when I realized the cottage fire must have burned up all of Amber’s belongings, not just her cell phone. U need clothes? Place to stay?
Her reply: No. Bunking w/ Jane Bonnie, Clemson police. Call me by eight.
I couldn’t decide if I admired Amber’s pluck and talent for discretion or felt annoyed her texts had the feel of a superior issuing orders to an underling. I shrugged. She’d been through hell. Deserved the benefit of the doubt.
I raced through my morning chores so I could phone Amber by eight a.m.
“Hi, you still at the hospital?” I asked.
“No, I’m at your parents’ house. I’ve already been to Walmart. Bought a burner phone, a toothbrush, and enough clothes to keep me clean and covered for a few days. Your mom loaned me cash. Called my chief to let him know my police ID, badge, gun, and credit cards were toast. He put me in touch with Jane, a police officer he knew in Clemson. She’s putting me up for a few days.”
I frowned. “Mom told me you were returning to Miami today. What changed your mind?”
“Didn’t change my mind. Ursula assumed that if she flew off I would, too. I never agreed though I haven’t broken the news to her yet. Can you try to contact Ruth today? She works till three p.m. on Saturdays. Maybe you can snag her as she leaves the clinic. Her apartment’s close and she walks to work.”
“You’re not worried Ruth might be involved in whatever is going on?” I asked. “Maybe she confessed to her dad that she’s been in contact with you, her illegitimate half-sister. Maybe that pushed Toomey to try and poison Ursula and, when that failed, hire someone to kill both of you in a fire.”
Silence on the other end of the line. “Toomey was in D.C. when the fire was set,” she said, “Both murder attempts were staged to make them appear to be accidents. So, let’s say Lawrence Toomey planned them. If he has any smarts—and he must if he’s a judge—he has to realize killing me and Ursula now wouldn’t do a bit of good.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Your mother would tell the authorities about Toomey’s motive if anything happened to Ursula or me. For Toomey that accusation would be far worse than if he simply admitted to a one-night stand. Lots of men have skated in similar circumstances. He’d ask forgiveness, characterize what happened as a youthful indiscretion when he was drunk.”
Amber’s assessment made sense. If she or Ursula died, my folks and I would definitely point an accusing finger at the Toomey clan. Until Amber noted both murder attempts were designed to look like accidents, I hadn’t given that aspect much weight.
If it looked as if Ursula and Amber were victims of an accidental fire, it’s unlikely that Mom or I would have made it our mission to reveal Toomey’s scurvy past. If it weren’t for the motion detector alert and the fact that Andy and I were on the scene, the fire might well have been labeled accidental. The deaths a sad tragedy, not a crime.
I shivered.
Mollye arrived on cue as Eva and I sat down for a late eight-fifteen breakfast. She poured herself a cup of coffee before she walked to the table and slapped a copy of the Ardon Chronicle in front of me. Moll set her coffee mug down so she could put her hands on her ample hips in her trademark I’m-really-peeved pose.
“Some friend you are. You practically burn to a crisp, and the fire chief says you saved the lives of two people renting your cottage—names not disclosed—and I hear about it in the newspaper. You’re pictured with both Andy and Paint on the front page, and do you call me? Not a word. Why is it I don’t know jumping jack junipers about all the drama?”
Aunt Eva laughed at her tirade. “It kills you, Ardon’s queen of gossip, that you weren’t first with all the inside details. Take a load off, and enjoy your coffee. Our heroine hasn’t shared with me either.”
Moll let out an audible, put-upon sigh and took a chair. “So give.” She tapped
the newspaper. “Cute earrings by the way. Did your mom give them to you?”
I glanced at the newspaper photo taken just before Paint’s “tree root” boots tripped the photographer. The cropped, somewhat fuzzy picture caught me in profile as Andy hugged me. The cameraman must have snapped the second photo while sprawled on the ground. It caught me walking away with Andy and Paint. Swaddled in a blanket, I looked like a child between my six-foot-four escorts.
My fingers flew to my earlobe. The orphaned earring. What did I do with it? I sort of remembered it getting caught when I got back to Udderly and pulled off my top. Had I left it on my nightstand?
“Come on, give,” Mollye goaded, forgetting all about her jewelry question and jumping ahead. “What the heck happened last night? Was it really arson?”
I filled Eva and Mollye in on most but not all the drama. Neither my best friend nor my aunt knew why Ursula was visiting Mom. Since I’d kept my lips sealed, neither had the slightest clue that Amber was Lawrence Toomey’s daughter and Ruth Toomey’s half-sister. If Toomey withdrew his name from high court consideration, they’d never know. Once again I asked myself if Ursula’s confrontation and demand constituted blackmail. I chose to consider it akin to a plea bargain. Like most folks, my conscience came equipped with exception clauses, especially if the deed in question seemed just.
Eva and Mollye were all ears as I explained how we believed the prowler set the fire.
“Someone really has it in for you, Brie,” Mollye said. “First, the poisoning. Then, the vandalism. Now, arson. What will they do next?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think it’s about me.”
While I couldn’t tell them why someone might be targeting Ursula, I could share Dr. Swihart’s theories, and the consensus opinion that Ursula was the target, not me. I also shared Ursula’s plan to leave town today. My intent was to forestall any Mollye-fueled hysteria about a killer gunning down anyone who got in the way.
“Does the discovery of that prescription drug in the urine samples exonerate you as a food poisoner?” Eva asked.