Perfectly Matched

by Heather Webber

  His eyes narrowed at me. Sweat and grime covered his face. “Just keep Sean away, okay?” Pivoting, he stomped away, the acrid smell of extinguished fire trailing after him.

  I watched him go until he was undistinguishable from the other firefighters; all dressed alike in their heavy coats.

  Finally, I turned and started making my way back to the car. My crutches were rubbing raw the skin under my arms, and my hands were slick with sweat.

  The forecasters hadn’t been exaggerating the heat.

  Ahead, Sean and Sam waited for me at the corner. I could tell by the set of Sean’s shoulders that he was absolutely beside himself. With anger. With sadness. With helplessness.

  In turn, I felt those things, too.

  And as I neared them, I couldn’t help the kernel of suspicion growing in my head. About firefighters who liked to be heroes.

  About how desperately Curt wanted to keep Sean away from the scenes of these fires.

  ***

  “I found her!” Preston threw open my door, startling Ebbie, who bolted for the bedroom.

  Grendel paid Preston no mind. He had a new favorite spot in the house—inside the bassinet. He was beside himself with happiness. Sean and Sam were outside, walking Thoreau. All the way home, we’d bandied ideas on who could be the arsonist. Who would frame Sean. Who were his enemies.

  They both dismissed my suggestion of Curt Meister.

  I, however, hadn’t crossed him off my list.

  “Who?” I asked, setting aside my laptop. I’d been searching Sean’s P.I. databases for Curt’s name to see if anything suspicious popped up. No red flags yet. Good credit, money in the bank, responsible homeowner. No arrest record.

  Damn him.

  “Orlinda! It took forever to track down the hotel the convention is using. I left her a message to call you as soon as she could, that it was an emergency, life or death, blah, blah, blah.”

  She sat across from me, and despite the enthusiasm in her voice, she looked even worse than she had this morning. Pale, drawn. Not healthy at all.

  “If that doesn’t make her call you back within the next couple of hours, then we start worrying about her.”

  “You’re amazing,” I said. “I didn’t even think to contact the hotel.”

  “I know. I’m a genius.”

  “Modest, too.”

  “Don’t forget cute as a button.”

  I smiled. “Cuter than a button.”

  “Don’t make me blush.”

  I wish I could—it would add color to her cheeks. As nonchalantly as I could, I said, “What time is your appointment today? I can go with you. Nothing is going on here except waiting for someone to come burn down the house.”

  “You have a sick sense of humor, Lucy Valentine.” She shook her head. “Waiting for someone to burn down the house. Sheesh.”

  I sat up straight. “Say that again.”

  “Sheesh?”

  “No, the part before that!”

  “Waiting for someone to burn down the house?”

  I snapped my fingers. “That’s it!”

  She grinned. “Glad I could help. Now, what’s ‘it?’”

  “We’ve been going about finding this arsonist the wrong way, trying to figure out who it could be, who would have motive, that sort of thing.”

  “Isn’t that the way investigations are usually done?”

  I peered out the window, wondering where Sean was. I couldn’t wait to share my plan with him. “Sometimes you have to think outside the box.”

  “I hate that saying. Think outside the box. What does that even mean?”

  I said, “It means that we need to set a trap.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Your question has no answer.”

  “I’m confused,” she said, holding her head.

  “What time is your appointment?” I asked, smiling.

  She peeked out at me through one eye. “I hate you.”

  “You love me.”

  “You think you know me so well.”

  “The appointment?”

  “At three, and I don’t need a chaperone. I’m a big girl.”

  I gave her the hairy eyeball, not sure I believed her. She stared back, unblinking.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  We continued to have a stare-down before she finally said, “Have you talked to Em today?”

  I wasn’t fooled by the change of subject, but I let it go for now because my eyes were getting gritty from not blinking. “Not yet. Have you heard how the recon went?”

  “Complete dud. Aiden didn’t leave his house all night. No one went in or out, either. They tried to sneak a peek inside the house, but Aiden had all the blinds closed. He went to bed at eleven, and they went home.”

  “How high was their disappointment level?”

  “Marisol’s was off-the-charts. You know how she likes catching people in the act. But Em? I think she was plain-old relieved. What do you think is going on with Aiden?”

  “I’m not sure.” If I had time this afternoon, I’d try to track him down. I’d be able to get a much better feel for what was going on if I saw him face to face.

  Preston said, “My article about the Diviner Whiners is almost done. My editor wants me to hold off on finishing it until Graham...you know.”

  I glanced at the pink bear, which shared the bassinet with Grendel, and felt the ache in my heart. The editor would want the conclusion to the story. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

  The phone rang, and thankfully I had the portable sitting on the coffee table. I didn’t recognize the number and almost let it go through to voicemail until I remembered that Orlinda was supposed to call.

  I cautiously answered, ready to do battle with a telemarketer if need be.

  Orlinda’s voice came across the line loud and clear. “What in the hell is going on up there, Lucy Valentine?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I leave for a couple of days and all hell breaks loose?” Orlinda said. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything. And don’t you dare leave out one single detail.”

  I spent the next ten minutes filling her in and wondering where Sean and Sam had gone. Thoreau’s walk should have been long over with.

  Preston had fallen asleep on the couch.

  Orlinda hadn’t called me back because she hadn’t received the messages. She’d lost her phone between leaving my office and flying out to Chicago.

  “You have to find a safe house,” Orlinda said.

  I’d been thinking about that. Staying here wasn’t safe. Dovie would have to move out, too. And Em.

  I was suddenly mad at this arsonist for disrupting our lives.

  I watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Preston’s chest. I could feel in my bones that there was something seriously wrong with her. “A hotel, I guess. But I have to find some place that takes a dog, two cats, and a hamster.”

  “I’d let you stay at my place, except I’m allergic to cats.”

  That’s right. It was why she had dropped Ebbie off at Jeremy’s.

  Or so she claimed. I still wasn’t convinced about her motives.

  Now wasn’t the time to get into that, though. There were much more important things to think about.

  Sean and I and our menagerie couldn’t stay at my mother’s house like the last time a psycho had forced us from our home. The arsonist undoubtedly knew to look for us there. Same with Raphael’s. I couldn’t put him and Maggie in danger.

  “Let me think, let me think...” Orlinda said, and I could easily picture her tapping her chin.

  “While you’re thinking, I should tell you that you missed several other calls as well.” I told her about Dr. Paul’s and my visions. And about Graham’s.

  Silence stretched along the line. “I’ll call and speak to them,” she said softly.

  Preston shifted, letting out a sigh.

  “Orlinda, do you rem
ember when you healed my stomach?”

  It was at our first meeting, and I’d been utterly perplexed by what happened.

  “Of course.”

  “Can you heal over the phone?”

  I heard the smile in her voice. “I cannot heal broken bones, Lucy Valentine.”

  “It’s not for me,” I said. “It’s Preston.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think you can help?”

  “Not until I return. My energy to heal comes through palms. I will try to get on an earlier flight. I feel my presence is needed more with you than with the psychologists’ association.”

  Selfishly, I wanted her here. She was a safe harbor in what was turning out to be quite the storm.

  I heard her inhale sharply. “I have an idea about where you can stay.”

  “Where?”

  “With Jeremy Cross. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  She laughed. “You don’t know him. Give him a chance. You can trust him. I promise.”

  I frowned.

  “I can sense your frown, Lucy Valentine. You must remember that some scars run deeper than what’s on the surface. Wounds run deep.”

  What was she trying to say? I pictured Jeremy’s scar, the one that ran along his jaw, and wondered how he got it. “Who is he?”

  “A friend,” she said. “I’ll have him call you. Stay strong, Lucy. Your inner strength is your greatest strength, but your impulsiveness is your biggest weakness. Look before you leap.”

  “‘Leap and the net will appear?’” I quoted a famous saying.

  “Not always,” she said darkly.

  I hung up with her feeling as though I’d just been warned.

  About what, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  ***

  Five minutes later, the phone rang. The Caller ID was blocked. I had a good idea who it was.

  “You cannot stay here,” Jeremy Cross said after I answered.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” I countered, watching Preston nap. She looked out for the count.

  “Be that as it may, it’s a horrible idea.”

  “It’s been good talking to you,” I said, ready to hang up.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t stay here, but I can help.”

  “How?”

  “I know people.”

  I laughed. It sounded so gangster. “People who own hotels? Because I need a place to sleep tonight.”

  “You can stay where you are.”

  “Didn’t Orlinda give you the memo about the arsonist?”

  “I didn’t need any memo.”

  Right. I’d almost forgotten how he’d seen the vision of Sam’s house going up in flames.

  “A security force will be arriving at your house within an hour. They’ll remain hidden unless there’s a disturbance. You have my word that the arsonist will not get within one hundred feet of your or your grandmother’s houses.”

  A shiver ran through me. Not only because he knew where I lived and who lived next door, but because of the hard tone of his voice. It brooked no argument. He meant business.

  I didn’t quite trust his word, but I did trust Orlinda. If she said he was a friend, then I’d believe her.

  “Give me a safe word,” he said.

  “A what?”

  “If you happen across someone on the property, you’ll know who’s who. Pick a word, a phrase. The security officer will know it. A prowler would not.”

  “Fuzzy navel.”

  “Fuzzy navel?”

  “That’s right.” I could practically see him rolling his eyes.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “How’s Ebbie?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. She was asleep on my pillow. “Good. I’m thinking about keeping her.”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “We’ll discuss this tomorrow. I’ll stop by and see what Ebbie has to say.”

  “Who are you?” I said. “Really? Because I know your name isn’t really Jeremy Cross.”

  There was a long silence before he said, “I’m a ghost of a man” and hung up.

  Preston stirred and sat up. “Who was that?”

  “A ghost of a man.”

  She blinked at me, then said, “I’m going back to sleep.” Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back.

  I set the portable phone on the table, stood up, and hopped over to the window. Sean and Sam sat in a pair of Adirondack chairs perched at the edge of the bluff. Not talking, just sitting.

  Both, I was sure, were formulating plans.

  But as soon as they came in, I’d run my idea past them. Sean had lived in limited places. If each of those homes were staked out overnight, the chances of catching the arsonist in the act were much greater. We would need more manpower, but with Sam’s connections, I wasn’t worried about that.

  Jeremy’s security force had my and Dovie’s house covered. We would need someone at my father’s penthouse. At Valentine, Inc. At all of the homes Sean could remember living.

  We would catch him. I was sure of it.

  I felt something brush against my leg and looked down to find Ebbie sitting next to me. I scooped her up, amazed at how light she was compared to Grendel.

  Her purrs vibrated my hand as I held her against my chest, and I thought about what Jeremy had said about asking her opinion on whether she wanted to say.

  I rested my chin atop her head and hoped her answer would be yes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hours later, Dovie handed me a glass of wine. “Drink.”

  Flames from tiki torches flickered around us on her deck. The ocean looked peaceful in the moonlight. It was the only peaceful thing in my world right now.

  Well, the ocean and Thoreau, who slept at the top of the deck stairs.

  Dovie settled next to me on a wicker loveseat and put her arm around my shoulders. “Telling you not to worry probably wouldn’t help.”

  I shook my head and sipped the wine. My foot was aching a bit—I’d cut back on the painkillers, switching to ibuprofen, but the pain was tolerable.

  The ache in my chest was much, much worse.

  The arsonist stake-out had begun. Without me.

  Sean and Sam had insisted I stay home.

  I hadn’t been happy about it, even though I understood their reasoning.

  With my foot, I couldn’t give chase, and if I tagged along with Sean, he would be more worried about me than catching the arsonist.

  So here I was, at girls’ night in at Dovie’s.

  Worried sick.

  Sean was watching the Donahue’s house; Sam was watching Valentine, Inc.; and they’d enlisted various others to help with various different locations.

  Aiden had regretfully sent his apologies that he couldn’t help out tonight.

  I was worried about him, too.

  “I spotted one of the guys in the woods,” Dovie said. “Ha cha cha. Dressed all in black, muscles galore. Drop dead sexy.”

  I hadn’t seen anyone, and it was rather creepy knowing they were there.

  Creepy yet reassuring.

  “Should Mac be worried?”

  She smiled. “Always.”

  She wasn’t fooling me. She adored Mac. Unfortunately, how long their relationship would last was in the hands of fate.

  Mac had cancer. Originally the doctors had predicted a fairly quick death, but he was beating the odds.

  But for how long?

  I breathed in the salty night air. The temperature had dropped into the high eighties, but it was still oppressive. Half the city had lost power, and I felt bad for those who didn’t have a cool ocean breeze to take the edge off the heat.

  Dovie pressed a kiss to my temple. “Have you heard from Sean?”

  “A couple of text messag
es.” He promised to keep me informed throughout the night. “So far he’s bored, sweating to death, and wishing he’d brought more snacks.”

  “No sign of the arsonist.”

  “Not yet.”

  The French doors behind us opened, and Marisol came out carrying a tray of tapas. Em followed with a full bottle of wine, and Preston brought up the rear, looking like she was about to fall over.

  And she hadn’t even been drinking.

  The sneak had lied to me about her doctor’s appointment. It had been at two, not three, so by the time I made it up to the house to demand she take me with her—she had already returned.

  The doctor had taken blood for testing and sent Preston home to rest.

  She still wore the Band-Aid that the nurse at the doctor’s office had put over the puncture site. The wound was being stubborn about clotting.

  “You two didn’t tell us we moved the party outside,” Marisol said.

  It didn’t feel much like a party.

  I was a nervous wreck. Preston looked like death. Em refilled her wine glass and stared at it morosely.

  “What a lively group,” Dovie said as if reading my thoughts.

  I smiled. Leave it to Dovie to point out the obvious.

  “Do you think he’s having an affair?” Em asked.

  “No,” we all answered at the same time.

  She frowned. “Then what’s going on?”

  “Give him time, Emerson,” Dovie said. “He’s obviously working through something.”

  “Then why doesn’t he tell me about it?”

  “Maybe you’re what he’s working through,” Preston said, demonstrating yet again her lack of tact.

  Em stuck her tongue out at her, downed her wine, and refilled her glass.

  “Well,” Marisol said, “things are great with me. Business is great, and I have a date this weekend.” Beaming, she glanced around.

  We all stuck out our tongues at her.

  “Well, fine. Be that way.”

  Dovie smiled. “Who’s the man?”

  “Tall, blond, gorgeous. He’s a pastry chef.” She rubbed her hands together. “And he’s delectable.”

  “Ew,” Preston said.

  I grinned.

  “We can’t all be so lucky to have a Cutter McCutchan in our lives,” Marisol said, poking her.

  “I know,” Preston said softly.