I scrambled out of bed. “Where? In the house?”
She shook her head. “Outside.”
“Show me.”
Emmie and I skidded down the hall in our socks. She tugged me into her bedroom and over to the window.
The mansion is shaped like a large H, and we confined most of our living to one of the sidebars, mainly to be near the kitchen hub and save heat. My bedroom was closer to the junction with the massive central hall and faced in toward the semi-enclosed courtyard that was overrun with dead, scraggly weeds. But Emmie’s room was farther along, toward the top end of the H, with a better view of the world outside our little enclave.
I leaned against the sill, my breath clouding the thin single pane of glass. Mostly it was a dull orange glow deep in the trees, but a few visible flames flickered as what appeared to be brambles flared and burned out quickly.
“Wilbur and Orville and the Terminator.” Emmie clenched the hem of my pajama top.
She was right. The fire did appear to be coming from the direction of the old calving shed where the animals were penned for the winter. I placed a hand on Emmie’s head and dialed Walt with the phone in my other hand, still warm from my call to Josh.
Walt woke quickly. He confirmed what I thought I’d remembered — that the calving shed only had a couple working external faucets, no hoses. I knew we’d always used buckets to water the animals.
I knelt next to Emmie, trying to keep my voice calm for her sake. “Wake up Clarice and get dressed, but you must stay inside. Do you understand? Clarice will tell you if she wants you to do anything. I’m going to check on the animals.”
Emmie nodded, biting her lower lip. No tears yet, but her eyes were swimming. She’d already known so much sadness. I hated the idea of dealing with the charred bodies of the potbellied pigs and goat. She must never see that.
I squeezed her shoulders and flew back to my room. I jammed my feet into my boots then tripped down the stairs, pulling on Skip’s robe as I barreled through the kitchen door.
The air outside hit my lungs like a pair of brass knuckles. It was so cold, it crackled. I sucked breaths in through my teeth, my feet pounding on the frozen ground. I couldn’t remember where I’d put the keys for Lentil. It was faster just to run.
The half moon cast enough light that I could pick out the track. Drifting fog wisps eerily collected and dispersed, swirling away from the flapping edges of my robe.
By the time I reached the shed, it was fully engulfed, the corrugated metal roof curling in on itself. Headlight beams raked across me, and Walt’s pickup lurched to a stop nearby.
Four or five of the older boys jumped out of the bed. Their clothes had been thrown on too, their hair mashed into unusual shapes. Walt sent them around the perimeter of the shed, shovels in hand. “Whistle if you need help,” he commanded.
Then he turned to me with another shovel. “Want one?”
I held out a trembling hand. The wood handle was rough, and it felt like it weighed a ton.
“No way we can extinguish the fire,” Walt hollered over the increasing roar. “Best we can do is keep it from spreading. The area around the shed is pretty clear. Smack out any cinders and watch the brush.”
“Fire department?” I asked.
I think Walt read my lips because my voice barely registered. He shook his head. “Too late.”
oOo
Walt’s predictions proved true. The shed’s remaining rotted beams snapped, and the whole structure crumpled in a heap, inciting a rush of sparks and hungry flames. But just as quickly, the inferno died down to a blanket of embers with a few hot spots where larger chunks smoldered.
Walt found me leaning on the shovel handle, shivering uncontrollably. In Skip’s white robe, I probably stood out like a pillar of salt against the dark forest. Walt tipped our shovels against a tree and wrapped his arms all the way around me. I felt tiny inside his embrace, but his warmth was very welcome.
“You okay?” His throat rumbled against my cheek.
I tried to nod. “The animals?” I whispered.
“No sign of them.”
I moaned. What was I going to tell Emmie? She’d probably feel guilty for not noticing the fire sooner when it really was a wonder she’d noticed at all. Why had she been awake and looking out her window in the wee hours? Maybe she’d heard the voices from my room.
A spasm shook me to my core, and Walt clasped me even tighter. “Go back to the mansion,” he said. “The boys and I have this cover—”
But he was interrupted by a sharp voice calling my name. “Nora? Nora Ingram?”
She pulled up beside us, and I peeked at her over Walt’s shoulder.
“You’re okay?” she asked, the irritation still clear even though her tone softened. “Of all the idiotic—” She bent over, pressing her hands against the tops of her knees, huffing. The fur around her hood obscured her face from the side, but I only knew one person who would wear a chic, down-filled, designer parka for a jog in the woods in the middle of the night.
Of course, I’d made the sprint in a terrycloth robe and hiking boots which definitely put me at a style-statement disadvantage. Who was I to judge? I patted Walt’s chest, and he released me. “I didn’t know you were here, Violet.”
“I’m always here,” she grumbled. “These are my colleagues.” She waved an arm toward several men dressed in jeans and thick coats, gloves, and hats standing behind her. They were also billowing clouds of steam into the frosty air. “Usually unseen but present. I think you know about us.”
I nodded grimly. Special Agent Violet Burns was Matt’s partner, so I assumed the men with her were part of the FBI surveillance team. Matt had been my point of contact all along, so I hadn’t had much interaction with Violet, except if he was temporarily unavailable. I’d had no idea she was the one coordinating the company campout on Mayfield property.
“You shouldn’t be out here, exposed like this.” She clutched my arm.
I resisted her tug. “I’m out and about all the time. Why not now?”
“Skip may try to contact you,” she hissed, her fingernails digging through the plush fabric of my robe.
“By starting a fire? That’s ridiculous.” I yanked free of her grasp.
“No, no,” Violet forced a conciliatory note into her voice. “We just want you in one piece, healthy, and able to receive his message when he sends one. We can clean this up.”
I scowled. There was nothing to clean up. Ashes. Charred hunks of wood. Twisted metal. In the middle of a derelict property. A threat to no one. If left alone, the burned patch would be completely covered with blackberries by the spring.
And then it hit me — they suspected something. They were going to search for evidence.
Of what, though? Arson was completely pointless. The shed had been on the brink of collapsing before the fire. No insurance value. I almost snorted at the idea of a mobster sending me a threatening message by burning down a junky old shed. The criminal associates of Skip’s whom I had met weren’t that subtle.
I opened my mouth to object again — I hated that contrariness had become second nature — when Violet blurted, “What are you doing here?”
I flinched and glanced to the side. A familiar stocky form, in jeans and flannel coat — not in his usual olive drab sheriff’s uniform. It appeared Des had just rolled out of bed too.
“Ms. Burns,” Des Forbes replied, but he was watching me with amused eyes. “Happens to be my county.”
I noticed he left off the Special Agent title when he acknowledged her. Relations were not quite peachy between law enforcement agencies. I grinned at him. My sentiments exactly.
Des stretched out his arm and shook hands with Walt. “Heard you had some trouble here.”
How he heard, I had no idea, but neither was I surprised. News travels faster than proverbial wildfire in Mayfield County. Maybe Clarice had called 911 even though there really had been no point.
“It’s under control,” Violet mu
ttered, conveniently ignoring the fact that she’d had nothing to do with containing the fire.
“Got a few deputies here. They’ll assist you,” Des continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “I had the fire department stand down since it looks like what’s done is done. How’re the boys, Walt?”
“Fine. Tired.”
“Cause?” Des asked.
Walt stuffed his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. “Wiring was from the 1940s. I had all the breakers flipped off except for one light circuit for when we came to tend the animals. Based on what we’ve found so far in the garage, which is from the same era, I’d suspect a faulty connection and a little juice still flowing where it shouldn’t have been. It’d only take one arc or a mouse chewing through the wrong wire with how old and dry the timbers were.”
Des matched Walt’s shrug. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it. Nor the last, unfortunately.”
I quickly became unnecessary to the mop-up operation. I signaled Violet that I was returning to the mansion so she wouldn’t get all harpy again and trudged home.
The sun was coming up, although I couldn’t see it. A thick, gray blanket of clouds had moved in low over the trees. They had the iron-metallic feel of impending snow and muted the scraping and shoveling sounds of the final firefighting efforts.
Clarice met me at the kitchen door, a pair of binoculars in her hand. “You need to see this.”
“Spying on the neighbors?” I joked. At least, I thought it was funny. I was also a little punch-drunk.
She shot me a disgusted look, turned on her heel, and marched up to the bedroom wing and down the hall to Emmie’s open door.
Emmie was still holding vigil at her window, nose against the glass. She’d pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, but her hair was a tangled mess.
“Find a sweater.” I nudged her toward her dresser. Apparently the fire had been an all-consuming event inside the mansion as well. I hoped she wouldn’t ask me about the animals.
“Here.” Clarice thrust the binoculars toward me. “See that rock outcropping to the left of where that horrid FBI woman is bossing everyone around? Where that dead tree is leaning on that other one? The rocks right next to it.”
I wrinkled my nose and squinted through the eyepieces. I was half tempted to tease Clarice about her amazing descriptions, but the truth was that I wouldn’t have done any better. My entire field of view was composed of rocks and trees and brush. “Her name’s Violet. Where the two trunks are kind of shaped like an A?” I asked.
“Yeah. Go left a little more. See that other tree?”
“Um?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. They’re gone now,” Clarice huffed.
“You want me to look for something that’s not there anymore?” I leaned back from the window and stared down at her. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one operating on a woeful lack of sleep.
“Not something. Someone. Several someones. I saw them run away in the light from the fire.”
“A couple were kid-sized,” Emmie said. “I saw them too.”
I glanced back and forth between their serious faces. “Was this before or after I got to the shed?”
“A little bit after, and Mr. Walt was there too. But you were looking at the fire, not away from it,” Emmie said from inside her sweater as she tried to locate the correct holes.
I reached out and helped her automatically, finger combing her dark brown hair after her head popped through. I expected it would even be below a mob enforcer to bring his children along on a job — like take your kids to work day. Let’s burn down this woman’s shed, my darlings, because her husband stole my boss’s money and I want to make her very afraid. I shook my head to clear the vision. Nope.
“The food in the garage loft,” Clarice murmured.
I gasped as her meaning sank in.
What if it had been more than just one man living up there in secrecy? What if he had a family? And it had completely slipped my mind to tell Walt about what we’d found. Where else would a homeless family have gone after we’d essentially evicted them from the garage? The next most habitable and yet private building on the property — the one deemed sufficient shelter for the animals.
“We need to find them,” I whispered. “It’s too cold.”
“Not right now.” Clarice tipped her head toward all the people still milling around the burn site.
“Before dark.”
CHAPTER 11
I’d cleaned up and made myself presentable and was just finishing a grilled egg and cheese sandwich at the kitchen table when a dented, white minivan with squealing brakes pulled to a stop outside. It seemed a little early in the renovation process for a painting contractor, but I stepped outside to wave him on toward the garage worksite.
Instead, a slender woman with an acne-scarred face hopped from behind the wheel and hurried over. “Saw all the commotion,” she called, pointing in the direction of the burned shed. “Is that Walt’s pickup out there? I don’t think this old van will make it down that track. Safer to stop here. Maybe when you have some spare money, you can get this road graded.”
“Uh, yes,” I mumbled, because I’m incredibly socially adept.
“Jillian Mendez, DSHS.” Her dark eyes sparkled as she grabbed my hand and pumped it vigorously. “You must be Nora. Walt’s told me all about how you’re funding the boys’ camp now and the improvements to the facilities.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “I have the Clayborne boys in the van.”
I retrieved my hand. “You know we’re not quite ready — um, they’ll have to double up for a while. But yes,” I added quickly, “we are expanding. Most definitely.”
“No worries.” Jillian leaned in conspiratorially. “Temporarily cramped is fine. It can’t possibly be worse than where they’ve come from. Father’s AWOL. Their mother burned down one end of the apartment complex where they were living. Butane hash oil explosion. She pleaded guilty, so she’s facing at least thirty-six months. Plus she’ll need surgery for her scarring. Then she has to get clean before she even has a shot at getting her boys back. It’s going to be a long ride.”
“I just love Walt,” Jillian continued as she rounded the van and rolled open the side door. “He gives these boys exactly what they need — a place where they fit in, responsibility, a great education. He’s like the Mother Theresa of Washington State.” Her face scrunched up in a funny expression. “Well, sort of, I guess. Don’t tell him I said that. I doubt he’d think it was a compliment. Anyway, here we are—”
She helped a small boy climb out of the van. Two more clambered down behind him. They were like identical triplets but in a sort of nested — small, medium and large — set with their shaved heads and gigantic puppy-dog eyes and buck teeth. They were all on the scrawny side, and their clothes drooped on their bodies.
Jillian introduced them by placing her hands on their bald heads, starting at the shortest end. “Odell — six. Purcel — eight. Latrelle — ten.” She slung three small sports bags out of the back and dropped them on the cracked concrete patio outside the kitchen door. “I emailed the paperwork to Walt. All set?”
The boys and I sized each other up. And then I realized Jillian expected a response. “Yes. Right-o,” I said, trying to sound like a competent adult. I’d done this before. I could do it again. I held out my hands to the boys. “Do you want to know where the secret Oreo stash is?” See, I totally had it figured out.
In my work managing Skip’s charitable foundation, I’d evaluated orphanages the world over and designated grant money to them. Which meant I’d traveled extensively and seen all kinds of living conditions, many of which turned my stomach inside out. No matter what circumstances the children were in, I’d loved hanging out with them and showering them with attention and affection. But I’d always left them behind when I’d boarded my plane. Bringing needy children home to actually live with me was something new, and somewhat disconcerting.
Emmie had been easy to assimilate into our da
ily lives. Walt managed the boys so well I hadn’t really considered how taxing it must be for him. And his brood had just grown from nineteen to twenty-two.
And three more small boys needed winter coats and sturdy boots and new jeans.
Oreos are short-term balm for all sorts of wounds. I installed the boys at the kitchen table, and Emmie and I consumed our fair share of the cookies while keeping them company.
For all they’d been through, the boys still had a resilient silly streak a mile wide, and it was a delight to watch them wriggle in their seats and try to top each other’s stories. It was all I could do not to tell them to close their mouths when they chewed. Sugar is as effective a social lubricant as alcohol is, at least for the younger set.
An hour later, Walt stuck his head through the doorway. “Thought I saw Jilly’s van. Hey there, fellas.” His gaze took in the crumb-covered tabletop and sticky smiles all around. He narrowed his intense blue eyes at me, an infectious grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess they won’t be needing dinner.”
“What?” Purcel shouted. “No way. I eat gobs and gobs. You’ll be amazed.” He arched his back and made a show of protruding his stomach under the baggy shirt, although, frankly, he didn’t have a lot to work with.
“Hollow, are you?” Walt asked.
“Yup.”
Walt chuckled. “Come on, then. Eli and Mason have been getting their room ready. You’re going to bunk with them.”
“Like real bunk beds?” Latrelle’s eyes about popped out of his little round head.
“Submarine style,” Walt replied. “Eighteen inches clearance. You’ll have to put off growing until we get the garage converted. Think you can do that?”
A faint worry cloud crossed over the boys’ faces, and I jumped in. “He is absolutely joking — not about the beds, but about the growing. You can grow as much as you want.” I stuck my tongue out at Walt, and the boys snickered.
They trooped outside, Odell making a brief detour to hug me around the knees. Aww. That boy already knew the way to my heart.
Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 8