“Let’s go to my office,” she said, then led the way down a wood-paneled hallway.
Her office was quaint and situated in the southwest corner of the building with casement windows on two sides of the room, which allowed dappled light and patterns of maple leaves to splay across the plaster walls. There were no drapes or blinds on the windows, as Beatrice wanted as much sunlight to enter the room as possible.
Her desk was like most of her personal furniture—old, distressed, battered, in need of reupholstering and bought at yard sales, though loved and adored by her. The lamps were another thing altogether. They were true antiques. Most were Frank Lloyd Wright designs in stained glass and she’d sat in the rain for hours at area estate sales to win them. Luckily, she’d never paid more than a hundred dollars for any of them, but they were her treasures. Where other women fancied jewelry or leather handbags, for Beatrice, her Achilles’ heel was the lamps—these illuminations that glowed with colored lights through dark nights or gloomy days. They made her smile and gave her hope when she banged away at her electric calculator and pulled up a white tape with globs of red ink.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to a rumpled linen-slip-covered club chair that sagged, but whose bones were pure 1940s craftsman-designed hardwood.
Rand lowered himself into the chair. It groaned with his solid weight. He laid his hands on the rounded arms. “I like this chair. A family heirloom?”
“Not quite. There’s nothing heirloom about my family,” she said, sitting in the swiveling wooden desk chair.
Though the desk chair was circa 1930 and she’d seen replicas in box stores selling for hundreds of dollars, she’d snagged hers on Maple Avenue in Indian Lake during the spring cleanup days—an event in April where residents put out unwanted furniture and the city garbage trucks picked them up for free. Mrs. Beabots, whom she’d known since she bought the camp and was a true believer in her mission, had phoned her to tip her off to some special finds down the boulevard, at Katia and Austin McCreary’s house.
Beatrice hadn’t wasted a minute. A call from Mrs. Beabots, who’d obviously prescouted Maple Boulevard for her, was never taken lightly by anyone in town. That day, Beatrice came back to camp in a rented truck with end tables, a Ping-Pong table, a set of twin beds with headboards for the women counselors’ cabin, one walnut bookshelf and a credenza for the far end of the dining room near the stone fireplace.
The following week, Mrs. Beabots had donated the tables and chairs the children now ate at for every meal. Just thinking of the octogenarian’s generosity brought an emotional lump to her throat.
“Nice rug, too,” he said, tapping the red, gold and black wool rug.
“Thanks, I hooked it myself.”
His eyes darted to her face. “You’re kidding?”
She shrugged. “I hook rugs. Mea culpa. I do it in the winter when the days are lonely and bleak here at the camp. It keeps me busy at night.”
His face went solemn. He blinked and shook his head slightly, as if he didn’t believe her. Then he took out the recorder.
“So, for the record, how long have you had the camp?”
His voice took on an intimidating tone that matched the physical strength of the man. She was amazed at how quickly he could bounce from pleasantries to business. Then again, that could be a self-criticism since it was so easy for her brain to remain in idyllic fields and grasses of splendor. Anywhere to avoid the shards of reality, most of which had to do with her shrinking financial status.
“Three years and a few months,” she answered. “But we’ve only been open two summers. I spent a great deal of time—not to mention my small inheritance and all my savings—on upgrading the camp. It’s been a financial struggle, I’ll tell you, but I’ve done it. I’ve put in the regulation wheelchair ramps, and we have very safe recreation equipment. I’ve upgraded all the electrical, bought new beds, linens, kitchen equipment. If you didn’t know, the camp was built in the early 1950s. The bones of the place are solid as a rock. But the rest... Frankly, I have to admit that from a financial perspective I would have been better off bulldozing it down and starting over with new buildings. The bank would have been happier. But I loved this place too much to tear it down. Anyway, the bank did give me a loan for the new plumbing and electrical system.”
“And that’s all up to code?”
“Absolutely!” She ground her back teeth. Man, but she hated officiousness. “I have the inspections and permits if you need to see those.”
“I’ll take your word for it. But keep them handy if it comes up.”
“Comes up?” She glared at him.
“I’m trying to help you, Bee... Beatrice. If there was an incident last night, my chief might ask for documentation of your inspections.”
“Why?”
“If that fire had crossed the road then your camp would have ignited. All it would have taken was a strong wind for the sparks to carry. City regulations are there to protect you. In an emergency, do you have enough power to run electrical equipment? Enough water to feed fire hoses once the pumper is empty? I see you have a little lake. You could use the water from that lake, but you’d need a sump pump to extract it. And that sump pump would require an electrical feed.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll have to make sure everything is in order.”
“Mr. Nelson...” She took a deep breath, but it didn’t calm her at all. In fact, she felt she was about to ignite with indignation, which happened nearly every time she defended her camp. “I bought this place because I loved it when I came as a kid. It was lovely here. I met real friends here. You see, I grew up in Chicago, in the city, actually, and life was all about concrete and traffic and buildings. I didn’t have a yard. I had an elevator. I never had a dog or cat. When I came to camp, I felt I was me, for the first time.”
“You never had a cat?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have one now?”
“I still want one. But we’ve had a few kids with allergies.”
“Let me guess, cat dander. Dog hair.”
She mimed shooting him with her pointed finger. “You got it.”
He pursed his lips. “I have a cat.” He paused. “And a dog.”
“Don’t tell me—it’s a dalmation.”
He lifted his shoulders.
“No way.”
Then he laughed. “I’m kidding. Jack Russell terrier. He can’t even jump up on my lap. He was the rescue dog of all time.”
“You saved him from a fire?”
“No. I saw his owner dump him at the fire station. He was just a pup. I rushed to get him before the idiot drove over him with his car. He was high or drunk. I called 911 and gave them his license plate.”
“Did they catch him?”
“Uh-huh.” He grinned and for the first time she noticed a dimple in his left cheek. “But I kept the dog.”
She couldn’t help it. She should be wary of him, this official in his black jeans and shirt “uniform,” but impossibly, he won her over. She needed to keep her mind on the issue at hand. “You’re lucky. But I have to think of the kids, and funneling all the money I have into making this a great space for them, albeit a low-tech one. Kids here learn to swim, fish, row a boat, dive and give CPR. There’s no video games or motorized vehicles. They’ve got Ping-Pong, board games, puzzles and group activities. Art classes, tennis, badminton, tetherball and no swimming pool. The shallow lake out back is for kayaks and rowboats—small, new and very watertight rowboats.
“My garage-sale finds, I save for me, Amanda, the cook, and the counselors. The kids get the best of everything.”
“Albeit low-tech,” he added, echoing her.
“Right.”
“It does sound like a dream.”
“Thanks.” She gave him a slight smile.
�
��The kids. Tell me more about them. Like Eli, for example.”
“Some of the kids have special needs, but Eli and Chris are foster kids. We get several of those a year. Most of the foster children’s fees are paid by the state or the county, which you pointedly addressed earlier.”
Rand cleared his throat.
Was that an apology for accusing the innocent before being proven guilty? Or did he just default to guilt? And why? she wondered.
“You were saying?” he urged.
Beatrice continued. “Zoey Phillips from DCS has recommended my camp to other Child Service Departments and thanks to her and others like her, we are booked weekly until school starts. We’ll stay open on weekends only up ’til Thanksgiving, when the weather gets too cold.”
“I never heard of a camp staying open so long.”
“Frankly, I need the income. And this year, there’s a demand. Look, Mr. Nelson—”
“Rand,” he interrupted.
“Rand. The foster kids can’t afford a cell phone or tablet. I believe all children need fresh air and sunshine, time to play and be kids. Those needs don’t know a season. If I could afford the kind of heat it would take to stay open all winter, I’d do it. I’d have skating lessons on the little lake. Ice hockey, tobogganing, cross-country skiing. This is the land to do those things. The outdoors is the only place to live one’s life fully.”
He stared at her. “I agree.”
“I want to show these kids how wonderful life can be in the out-of-doors.” She knew her words came out in a passionate rush, but she didn’t care how carried away she got. She believed in her purpose. She’d bet all her life savings on this kids’ camp. She’d cleaned, scrubbed, painted, pounded nails, replaced pipe and hammered in roof shingles to save money to provide the best camp she could. And he wasn’t going to take it away.
Just then, there was a firm rap at the door.
Beatrice looked up into the face of a middle-aged, medium-height man with thinning brown hair. He wore a short-sleeved summer shirt, tan trousers and sneakers. He carried a plastic kit that looked like a fishing tackle box.
“Rand, we’re finished. I’ll be sending my formal report to the chief.”
Beatrice assumed this man was the head of the forensics team.
Rand bolted to his feet, his face stern, his eyes obsidian stones as he looked at the man.
Beatrice could see that Rand was braced for bad news. “Arson?”
“Afraid so,” the man answered.
Rand turned to her. “Beatrice Wilcox, may I introduce Art Bishop, our forensic investigator. Art, this is Beatrice.”
“Mr. Bishop.” Beatrice nodded but bit off her words so sharply, she hoped both men would feel the sting. “No one would deliberately set that forest on fire,” Beatrice countered.
“Sure they would. It could be you, Miss Wilcox. Maybe you wanted to burn this old camp down. Collect insurance money to pay off debts.”
“I just spent the last few minutes trying to convince Mr. Nelson how preposterous that idea is!”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “We see it all the time. People who do that wind up in prison.”
Beatrice looked into Rand’s dark, unforgiving eyes and felt her heart turn cold.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAND HAD SUSPECTED arson all along. It was the only probable explanation. His eyes darted to Beatrice. He was convinced now that she would never destroy her camp. She’d poured her heart out to him, relating her dreams with so much passion, he’d felt his own heart kick up a notch. But Art Bishop brought them both back down to earth.
“You are very mistaken.” Beatrice refuted the forensic expert by slapping her desk with her palm.
Art stepped up to her desk. He handed her a business card. “My card. The fire chief can provide a more extensive report if you wish. After the report is filed, I can answer any questions you’d have.” He looked at Rand. “Can I talk to you? Outside?”
“Sure.” Rand followed Art down the hall and to the front drive.
“What did you find?”
“I went directly to the area where you said you found the woman and the younger boy. My guess was that the little kid didn’t stray that far from the fire’s origin.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. “It’s burned, but that’s a Hershey bar wrapper. And this is a kid’s metal toy car.”
“Hot Wheels. I used to collect these.”
“So did I,” Art said. “I figure he dropped it or it fell out of his pocket when the fire started and he ran.”
“My guess is it was accidental. The kids could be charged with reckless burning. Which would mean detention hearings, attorneys, dispositional hearings, review hearings. Time in detention halls. That’s a lot of trauma for a kid.”
“That’s gonna be your call. I have to write it up as arson because it was man-made. You talk to them. Find out all you can.”
“Still, there will be consequences,” Rand said sternly.
“There’s always consequences. The sooner these kids learn that, the better their lives.”
Rand shoved his hands in his pockets and looked back at the dining-hall building.
“You got any idea who did this?” Art asked.
“I do.”
Art gazed up to the crystal blue sky. He didn’t lower his head as he spoke. “Kids. A crude fire in a small clearing but unfortunately not far enough away from all those dry pine nettles and grass.”
“Probably didn’t even take much wind to get it going, did it?”
“Nope. There was a lot of dry kindling around. Broken limbs. Twigs from storms. The usual.” Art pointed down the gravel road. “I saw that you noted there is only one hydrant out here. Code is three.”
“I noted that, yes,” Rand replied in a low tone. “If it hadn’t been for the change in weather, the wind dying and the rain, the fire would have been worse and taken us longer to extinguish. I’ve already surmised Miss Wilcox is running this place on a shoestring. And she may not have been aware of that code—it’s only a year old.”
“Following it is for these kids’ safety.”
“I know.” He scratched the back of his neck roughly as if spiders were crawling down it. “I’m just doing my job, so why do I feel so guilty?”
“Can’t say.” Art glanced around at the camp. “I remember this place. I came here as a kid. I’m glad someone reopened it. She do all this?”
“Says she did.”
“Amazing woman. It’s a lot of work.” He clicked the side of his mouth, making a snapping sound. “She’s pretty, too.”
“I noticed.”
“Did you?”
Rand cleared his throat. “Yeah. Last night when I saw her at the hospital.”
“You? Went to see a victim?”
“She’s strong. Tough. She’d do anything for these kids. Lay down her life. And so sweet—like a honeybee. I’ve never met anyone like her.”
Art stared at Rand with rounded eyes. “I see that.”
Rand stared off. “And I’m the one who keeps delivering bad news to her.”
“Yeah. That’ll make it hard to get on her good side.”
“Impossible, you mean.”
Art put the plastic bag back in his pocket and shuffled his forensic kit to his left hand so he could extend his other hand to Rand. “Thanks for reminding me I take care of the small stuff.”
“Would you shut up?” Rand slapped him on the back. “You coming over for barbecue this Sunday? I’m doing ribs. My entire family will be there.”
“Can’t say. Did you call Alice? She keeps our social schedule.”
“I did. She accepted.”
“Great. I’ll bring beer and my famous Boston baked beans. See you Sunday. About five?”
“You got it.” Rand gave him a thumbs-up, then went back
to Beatrice’s office. He rubbed his nape again.
Rand had written over a hundred reports during his career. Handled all kinds of investigations. Real arson. Accidents. Chemical explosions. He’d never had a problem sorting out the truth and reporting it.
So why did this particular investigation pierce him like an arrow? It was his responsibility to make certain the kids were protected. That’s what city and county codes were for.
It didn’t take a wizard to see just how much Beatrice was struggling financially with this camp. It was his bet she didn’t even charge enough for the kids’ visits. Particularly foster kids like Eli and Chris. State funds were not exactly extravagant. He’d bet she’d let them stay for free if she could.
She had that kind of heart. Tender. Vulnerable. Giving. The kind of heart that could knock a man to his knees.
The problem with big-hearted people, though, was they expected others to bend rules for them. Make concessions because that’s what they would do if the situation was reversed.
But ever since smoke-jump training in Idaho, he’d learned to play by the rule book. Because if he didn’t, others would—and did—get hurt.
Get a grip, Rand. You’re just doing your job.
She was on the telephone finishing a call as he came to stand in the doorway.
“I’d like to speak to Eli and Chris, if I may,” he said once she hung up. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes darted to her landline receiver. “That was my attorney. He says I shouldn’t consent to anything until I see the formal report from the fire chief.”
Rand was surprised. He’d thought they’d started to bond. And perhaps they had, but that was before Art Bishop had entered with his findings. The landscape had changed then as quickly as a brush fire sweeping across a sun-scorched prairie.
“I’ll get that report for you, but it’s not complete until I conduct this interview.”
She rose slowly from the desk and hobbled around to the side. “You need to understand something, Mr. Nelson.”
Rescued by the Firefighter Page 6