by Mary Logue
Claire could feel her anger building. Her fingers got twitchy and her ears got warm. “It’s my job as a deputy sheriff to try to prevent crimes from happening in this county and to try to solve them when they do. That includes your barn burning down.”
“It wasn’t a crime, it was an accident. Why don’t you focus on what’s happening to me? What about Margaret persecuting me? Trying to take away the farm. Have you done anything to prevent that?” Patty Jo spit the words at her. “And I saw you at the Lakeside senior home today. Are you following me? I want you to leave me alone.”
Claire held herself back. No good would come of telling Patty Jo off. “I was visiting a friend. I’m sorry if you think I have something against you. I thought you might like to know what happened to your barn.”
Patty Jo stood on the steps, looking down at Claire, and said quietly, “I don’t care about the barn. I just want to be left alone. So please get off my property right now.”
The house felt cold, so Margaret went and fetched the afghan that her mother had crocheted. She had persuaded her mother to use only green tones, so it hadn’t ended up a hodgepodge of color. She found the afghan soothing and the fact that her mother had made it comforting. She wrapped herself in it and sat on the couch.
It was past midnight. She had slept for two hours, then woken up. This was an all-too-familiar pattern for her. In the last two years, she had gone from easily sleeping ten hours straight a night to being lucky if she could catnap for two to three hours at a time. Between having to pee and just feeling anxious, she couldn’t stay asleep for long.
Margaret tried not to let it bother her. If she got up and read for an hour or so, she could often fall back asleep for another few hours.
She picked up the book she had left next to the couch, but it looked no more interesting to her now than it had last night. What she wouldn’t give for a good book. They seemed harder and harder to find. Maybe she was just getting to be more difficult to please. Mark thought so. She opened the pages, then snapped it shut. She was tired of reading about women whose lives were falling apart. Women in jeopardy—these were women in apoplexy. Who wanted to read about her own life? Didn’t people read to escape?
She stood up and didn’t know what to do with herself. Her mind churned at this time of night. Maybe she should try to write a book about a woman who is afraid of nothing and conquers all.
Margaret looked around her house. She had a good life. Couldn’t she get that through her head? She had a husband who loved her. Sure, he tracked in mud and didn’t put the dishes away, but he brought her wildflowers when they were in bloom and did more than his fair share of the milking, claiming he liked it.
Maybe once she got through this transition phase of her life she would hit a good patch and try some new things. Get excited about life again.
If only they would get the farm. It would make all the difference in the world. She tried not to think about it, but it was hard not to fantasize.
After she’d heard about the will, she and Mark had decided to try to get the farm away from Patty Jo. They thought they might have a chance of proving that Patty Jo had unduly influenced Walter in the grief that had followed his first wife’s death. They had filed for another injunction in probate court.
She had talked to the lawyer today, and he’d come right out and said not to count on it. He’d said their case was very difficult and there wasn’t much to argue against in her father’s new will.
“But the timing . . .”
“The woman was his wife,” the lawyer reminded her.
“But they had only been married a few months.”
“I’m aware of that. I don’t know that it can matter in this case. The will was signed and witnessed.”
“She never loved him,” Margaret blurted out, and then regretted it. Why did she always have to make everything so personal?
Margaret walked to the front window. The moon was a small gleaming boat in the dark sky. The leaves hung still on the maple tree. She decided to walk out and check on the goats. Maybe counting goats instead of sheep would make her sleepy.
She folded the afghan and placed it on the couch, then grabbed her barn jacket, which hung by the back door, and slipped her feet into her rubber boots. Pulling the jacket over her flannel nightgown, she was sure she would be warm enough. The nights hadn’t started to cool off much yet. The thermometer outside the kitchen window said it was still fifty degrees out. Not bad.
She opened the door and smelled the air. The sweet smell of decay. The leaves were starting to fall. One good wind and most of them would drop. Sometimes it happened in a weekend. It would be nice to get a few days of color before they fell.
She walked around the side of the house and stared at the barn. At first she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
A candle was burning in the window of the goat barn. She stood still and wondered if Mark had taken one of the automatic candles she put in the windows for Christmas and set it up in there. As a night-light for the goats? Not likely. But what other explanation was there?
She started walking quickly toward the barn. The candle was very short. What might happen if it burned all the way down? There was a lot of hay in the barn.
The candle exploded in front of her eyes, and the whole window of the barn filled with light. Margaret wasn’t sure what had caught on fire, but she knew she had to stop it before it got out of control.
She yelled for Mark as loudly as she could but didn’t stop moving toward the barn. She had to get the animals out.
She started to run and tripped over her nightgown. Sprawled in the dewy grass, she felt panic building inside her. She picked herself up, lifted her nightgown over her knees, and ran for the barn.
When she got inside, she didn’t know what to do first. The fire had dropped to the floor and was lapping up the walls of the barn. The goats were restless in their stalls, and all of them stared at her with the fire reflected in their large eyes.
She had to get the goats out but decided to try to put the fire out first. There was no time to lose.
They always left a hose next to the water trough. She got it, turned it on full blast, and aimed at the barn wall above the fire. She started up high, then sprayed downward. She had to save the roof. If the roof went, they would lose the building. She soaked the wall and then worked on the fire. Freezing-cold water ran down her arms, but she couldn’t stop.
Just when she thought she had control of it, the fire popped up again in the straw that covered the floor. She started spraying the floor. The smoke was getting pretty thick, and she knew that could do a person in—or a goat. She needed to get the goats out of the barn before it was too late.
She dropped the hose, which was still aimed in the direction of the fire, and hoped the stream would keep it under control. Then she ran from stall to stall and undid the latches. The goats started to push their way out, but they seemed stunned and sleepy. It was the middle of the night.
She sang to them the song she sang in the morning when she let them out to pasture: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” They butted her and poked one another, and she started to slap them on their backsides and push them out the door. Twelve goats. She counted their heads as they went out in the barnyard, then left them milling about.
Margaret took a deep breath and plunged back into the barn. The smoke was dense and made her cough. She grabbed a bucket, dipped it into the water trough, and threw a bucketful of water where the remains of the fire crackled in a pile of straw in the far corner of the barn. That did it. The fire was out. The barn fell into darkness. She caught her breath and stumbled outside.
Margaret walked into the milling herd of goats. They talked to her in their soft language and butted up against her thighs, nibbling on the edges of her jacket. She pushed her hands into their soft fur and tried to stop trembling.
CHAPTER 17
Daniel Reiner’s black Lincoln Navigator sitting at the top of the driveway looked to Clai
re like a big block of coal. The chunky vehicle made the sleek silver-blue Citroën sitting next to it look even more foreign.
Reiner opened the front door and smiled at Claire. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite deputy sheriff!” He stepped aside, but without giving her enough room to walk through the door without brushing by him. Claire decided to stay where she was.
“I need to talk to Dr. Wegman. His office said he was here.”
“Come on in. He’s here. We’re having some coffee, and he’s giving me the lowdown on this fire. He told me you stopped by yesterday. Not really necessary. I think we’ve got it under control.”
“Mr. Reiner, when a crime is committed in this county, it is the sheriff’s department’s business. We need to be involved. You can’t take over the investigation.”
He smiled his big broad smile. Claire was sure he had had his teeth whitened, or maybe they were all caps. There was no way nature would allow a man of his age to have teeth that white.
“I guess I’ve been put in my place,” he said in a manner that told Claire he didn’t care what she had to say.
“Well, there’s been another fire,” Claire told him. “Probably set by the same person. I think it might answer some of Dr. Wegman’s questions.”
Dr. Wegman came up behind Reiner. “Claire, what happened?”
Reiner finally stepped back and gave her some space. Claire walked into the foyer and then followed the two men back to the living room.
When they all sat down, Claire told them what she knew. “I haven’t been over there yet, but a fire was started last night at Margaret Underwood’s place. She was the daughter of Walter Tilde, Patty Jo’s husband. I think Patty Jo is on a rampage. We’ve got to stop her. We need some proof that she’s behind this string of fires.”
“Tilde,” Reiner murmured. “But that’s the woman I was going to buy the farm from.”
“Exactly.” Claire felt like giving him a gold star. “And you reneged on the deal and then your barn burned down.”
“What do you know about this latest fire?” Wegman asked.
“Margaret was lucky to catch it before it got out of control. She managed to put it out. She told me it had been started with a candle.”
Wegman rubbed his chin. “Makes sense. A woman would use a candle. Simple, effective, right at hand. Tough to detect once it’s done its job. Let’s get over there,” Wegman said, standing up.
“I didn’t hire you for this,” Reiner said.
Wegman looked down at him. “Yes, you did. You told me to find out who had set your barn on fire. Have you changed your mind?”
Reiner settled back in the couch. “If you think it’s what you need to do.”
“We can take my car,” Claire suggested.
Reiner stood by the door as they were leaving. Claire got the feeling he was hoping to be asked along. Not on her watch, she decided.
“You going to come back?” he shouted at Wegman.
“I’ll come to get my car,” Wegman called back as he climbed in the squad car.
After Claire turned out of the driveway, Wegman asked, “Who made him president?”
“Not much competition around here. He’s got the money to ride roughshod over everyone.”
Margaret came walking out of the house as soon as they pulled into the driveway. She looked as though she’d had a rough night. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and her eyes were pouched with dark shadows. Dr. Wegman asked her a few questions about the fire. Margaret offered them coffee, but he wanted to go right out to the barn to begin his work.
Claire took Margaret up on her offer and returned to the house with her. Margaret poured two big mugs of coffee and didn’t even ask if she wanted cream and sugar. She pushed a plate of oatmeal cookies toward Claire. Claire took one. Lunch might be a while.
“Do you think it’s Patty Jo?” Margaret asked.
“Do you?”
Margaret looked down at the table and smoothed the tablecloth with her hand. “I have no doubt.”
“I suspect you’re right. Now we have to prove it. Did you see anything before the fire started? Hear anything?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I wake up awfully easy these days. Almost any noise will get me out of bed. I might have heard something, but I don’t remember anything in particular.”
“Have you had any contact with her?” Claire asked.
“No. I haven’t even seen her since the funeral. I’ve been glad. I’m almost afraid to go to town. I worry that I might run into her, and I’m afraid of what she’ll say.”
“She’s got a mouth on her.”
Margaret looked nervously around the room, stood up and walked to the window and flicked back the curtain, then came back and sat in her chair.
“I don’t know where Mark is,” Margaret told her.
“What do you mean?”
“He was so mad about the fire. He took off early this morning. I’m afraid of what he might do.”
Claire hated to hear this. If Mark did something rash, it could make everything worse. “You have to talk sense to him. If we can pin this on Patty Jo, we’ll be headed in the right direction. He needs to leave her alone.”
“I know. I’ll try to talk to him.” Margaret looked at Claire. “Do you think she’ll try again?”
“I can’t say, but I doubt it. She knows you’ll be watching for her now. I think you’ll be safe, but you might want to rig up some kind of alarm to let you know if anyone comes near the house or barn.”
“Maybe that’s where Mark went. He would think of that.” Margaret’s voice said otherwise.
Rich picked up the clothes Claire had left in a pile on the floor last night. He threw them in the hamper in her closet. She wasn’t the neatest person he had ever met.
Claire and Meg had certainly stirred up his life. Not that he’d thought living with them would be all romantic and fun, but he realized what a staid life he had been leading before. Claire didn’t seem to ever let up on herself. Even when she did the dishes, she was thinking, usually about her job. Talk about taking work home—she carried it around with her in a backpack.
It was odd to be living with a deputy sheriff and learn about all the crimes that were being committed in this small county. He wasn’t sure if the county was getting more dangerous, but since Claire had moved down from the Cities there certainly seemed to be an increase in crime.
But then she wasn’t the only person who had moved down from the Cities. First the area had been discovered by the artists in the late seventies and early eighties. Then the tourists had followed. Once the artists had fixed up their houses and set up shops and restaurants, the rich folks had followed. He wouldn’t be able to afford his farm and land if he had to buy it at the going rate now. Thank goodness it was paid for and he could keep up on his taxes.
The mayor of Fort St. Antoine had told him that in 1990 there’d been fifty people commuting from Pepin County to the Twin Cities. Now over five hundred people commuted. It wouldn’t be long before the county would change from a farming community to a suburb of the greater metropolitan area.
Living with Claire on a daily basis, he found her more intense than he would have guessed, and also more crotchety. He liked it. If she didn’t care for something, she said so. He didn’t have to try to guess what she was feeling. It was right out in the open. But the downside was that he then had to deal with how she was feeling and do something about whatever it was.
When she came home from work that evening, later than usual, Meg and he had already eaten dinner and Meg had gone upstairs to work on some homework. Claire stomped in and slammed the door shut behind her. Her dark eyes were flashing.
He dished up a plate of mashed potatoes and meat loaf and sat down with her to watch her eat it.
“This looks great,” she said, and slammed a kiss into his cheek. He could tell she was seething about something. He decided not to ask, and wondered how long it would take her to burst out with it.
She as
ked how his day had been. She praised his mashed potatoes. He had learned, early on, that she loved mashed potatoes. She ate everything on her plate with great energy. And then she exploded.
“I’m furious.” Claire set her fork down on her plate.
“How unusual,” Rich said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He wondered if he should try to explain. Sometimes he just dug a deeper hole for himself. “I’m learning that you often come home upset about something that happened at work.”
“I’m a cop. Yes, I do bring my work home. I thought you might be interested.”
“I am.”
Meg came galloping down the stairs. “Hi, Mom.”
Rich wanted a few moments alone with Claire, and he didn’t think Meg should have to hear about all the gory details of her mother’s job. “Meg, why don’t you give us some time alone?”
Meg didn’t pay any attention to his request. She sat down at the table with them. “What’s up? Mom, you have a hard day?”
Meg got a smile out of Claire. “Yes, Meg. Thanks for asking. I’m a little pissed off.”
“Don’t worry about me, Rich.” Meg turned back to her mother. “What’re you mad about, Mom?”
“I’m just getting frustrated. I was over at Margaret’s. It was their turn for a fire last night. . . .”
Rich had heard about it at the bank. “Stanley told me about that.”
Meg nodded. “Mariah told me at school.”
“So I was over there nearly the whole day, combing through her yard for any evidence. That arson investigator took back bagfuls. I’m mad because I think we know who’s doing this and she keeps getting away with it. I’m hoping he can find something that links this fire with Patty Jo Tilde.”
“See, Rich,” Meg said, “I told you about her. That’s the woman Mom and I saw at the nursing home. She looks like she could have been a school principal.”