Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned

by Annette Dashofy

  “Since Mr. Kroll’s been laid up, stuff’s falling apart right and left. There’s a leak in the roof. My kitchen sink is dripping. One of the window panes in Mrs. Kroll’s front room is cracked. Yesterday the main breaker tripped. And today the water heater died.”

  Pete scowled as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Your water heater’s electric, right? It probably blew an element. That’s what kicked the main.”

  “Possibly. But how do you replace an element?”

  “I could come over this weekend.”

  “Don’t be silly. We could have you there full-time for the next week to get everything fixed. And then something else would go. Did I mention I need some boards nailed back up in the barn? And the whole farm needs to be mowed.”

  “Do you want me to find someone for you?” Pete dropped the last bare bone on the plate as the waiter arrived with two steaming plates of salmon.

  “I already have someone in mind.”

  Pete moved his small appetizer plate out of the way so the waiter could set down the entrée. “Who?”

  Zoe swallowed. “Holt Farabee.”

  Eight

  The appetizer plate nearly slipped from Pete’s fingers, but he made a good save, juggling it and allowing only one scoured wing bone to hit the table. “Holt Farabee? Have you lost your mind?”

  Zoe didn’t reply other than getting that stubborn-as-a-mule look on her face.

  Pete should have seen this coming with all her talk about the little girl and horseback rides. “You yourself pointed out the man seemed to have his wife already dead and buried before we’d found a body. Yet you’re willing to let him in your house to do repairs?”

  An odd look flitted across Zoe’s face. Pete had seen it before, when she was hiding something. “Well, why not?” she said. “He’s an out-of-work carpenter with a child to feed. Obviously he can’t afford a decent room for the two of them. He needs work. I need repair work done. It seems like a good fit.”

  “Good fit, my ass.”

  Zoe glanced over his shoulder and gave the tattooed eavesdropper an apologetic grin.

  Pete lowered his voice. “There are a number of unemployed carpenters in the area. Not to mention handymen who hire out for just this kind of work. Let me ask around. I’ll get you a list of names.”

  That look crossed Zoe’s face again. She picked up her fork and poked at her dinner. “If you want. But I still think Holt needs the work more than anyone else.”

  “You’re trying to save the world again. First you want to give the kid pony rides. Now you want to give her father a job.”

  Zoe skewered a piece of fish and popped it in her mouth, chewing slowly. Was she intentionally avoiding a response? After a long rumination, she lowered her fork to her plate. “Haven’t you heard? When you save a life, you’re responsible for it?”

  “Bullshit. You save lives all the time.”

  Something slammed behind him. A hand on a table, perhaps. A chair scraped on the floor, ramming into the back of Pete’s, jostling him. “Excuse me,” said an irritated voice.

  Zoe grabbed her fork and dug into her salmon. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk business at dinner.”

  Pete climbed to his feet and turned slowly to face the tattooed man. Or rather, face the man’s chest. The guy had to be pushing seven feet tall. Pete looked up without surrendering his law-enforcement-officer-in-charge expression.

  “My family and I are trying to have a quiet, pleasant dinner,” the man growled, “and your big mouth is ruining it for us.”

  Pete held back a desire to inform the irate diner his own romantic dinner plans were sinking faster than the Titanic, too. He considered a subtle flash of his badge, but this guy didn’t look the type to be the least bit intimidated by a cop. One wrong word or move could escalate an uncomfortable encounter into thrown punches. Getting thrown out of one of his favorite restaurants lacked appeal. Other patrons had stopped eating and were watching the two men facing each other down. Pete could imagine tomorrow’s headline. “Local Police Chief Creates Scene in City Dining Establishment.” Complete with a photo from one of the other patron’s cell phone. The job offer in Hawaii might become his only option.

  Pete eyed the half-eaten dinners on the neighbors’ table. Nothing too extravagant. “Would your evening be salvaged if I picked up your check?”

  The man’s hard glare softened. “Well, I suppose that might be all right. Thanks.”

  Pete turned back to his own dinner to find Zoe staring wide-eyed at him. “This just became a very expensive date for you,” she said.

  He waved her off and dug into his fish. She was right, though. Especially considering he had little hope of getting anything more than dinner out of the effort.

  “Let me pay for half of it.”

  He glared at her. “No.”

  She shifted her gaze toward the next table. “It’s my fault as much as yours. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Some of Pete’s irritation subsided. Here he was, finally on a date with the girl he’d been harboring lustful fantasies about for years, and she now felt like she couldn’t say anything to him without raising his hackles. Good job, Pete. Way to go. “You’re not paying for me not knowing how to behave in public.” He shot a sheepish grin at her.

  She grinned back. God, she was beautiful. Maybe the evening could be salvaged after all.

  His pocket vibrated. “Damn it,” he muttered as he dug for his phone. No matter who it was would have to wait. He was off duty.

  Except the screen read Franklin Marshall.

  Pete answered the call. “What have you got?”

  “Thought you should know. The fire investigator just informed me they found something at the Farabee house.”

  Pete glanced at Zoe who had questions in her eyes. “What did they find?” he asked the coroner.

  “I don’t know all the details, but they’re saying the explosion may have been intentional. They’re ruling the cause of the fire as suspicious. Looks like maybe the undetermined cause of death for Lillian Farabee has just been reclassified as a homicide.”

  Zoe wasn’t unfamiliar with crappy dates. She’d been on more than her share. But she never expected a real date with Pete would end up on her top ten bad dates list. The next morning, she mulled it over while feeding the horses. Pete had looked good. Real good. The food had been incredible. But the conversation sucked. She never should have brought up the Farabees. Any of them. In fact, she should have begged off the date after her bad experience in autopsy. It had put a pall over the entire day.

  This day wasn’t faring much better. Seven a.m. and already sweat trickled down her back. There wasn’t even a trace of a breeze. As the horses finished their morning grain, Zoe slipped plastic mesh fly masks over their eyes and faces before opening each stall door and letting them out. Too sluggish to kick up their heels, each freed horse ambled out the big door at the end of the barn. She’d leave it open in case they chose to hang out in the indoor arena, but they’d probably wander down to the creek and loiter in the shade of the willow trees.

  By eight o’clock, Zoe kicked off her barn sneakers on the back porch and stepped into the relative cool of the farmhouse. Hot, sweaty, and dusty, she longed for a cool shower. Cool. Not ice cold, which was the only kind available at the moment.

  Muttering to herself, she pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, hauled her biggest soup pot from the cupboard, and positioned it under the spigot in her sink. A spot bath wasn’t going to do the trick, but would have to suffice for now. She was on duty later and intended to arrive early to take advantage of the crew shower facility.

  The pot was less than half full when a knock at the back door interrupted. She cut the tap and padded across the hardwood floor to answer the door. Through the lace curtain hanging on the door’s w
indow, she made out an unfamiliar man’s form. She swept the curtain aside for a better look and was greeted with an eager smile.

  Dave Evans. The cheerful land developer who seemed intent on making her homeless.

  “Ms. Chambers, isn’t it?” He extended a hand the moment she opened the door.

  She reached for the hand, but hesitated and pulled back. “Sorry. I just came from the barn and I’m pretty disgusting.”

  “Oh. Right.” He stuffed both hands into the pockets of his wrinkled khaki trousers. “I don’t mean to bother you. I’m looking for the owner. Mrs. Kroll. You gave her my card, didn’t you?”

  “I forgot.” Sort of.

  “No problem. I’ll give her one in person. Is she home?”

  “I told you before. The farm isn’t for sale.” But one look at the overgrown Boy Scout’s eager smile, and she knew she’d never dissuade him. “She’s home, but Mrs. Kroll isn’t an early riser. You’ll need to come back later.”

  The man’s smile faded into disappointment. “Of course I don’t want to disturb the poor woman from her rest.” He held up another business card, pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Please make sure you give this one to her. I can offer her top dollar for this farm. A lot of the local farmers are eager to make a deal with me. Mrs. Kroll would probably kick herself if she missed such a golden opportunity.” Evans gave Zoe another big smile. The kind the used car dealers used in their television commercials.

  Zoe watched him glance back over his shoulder at her as he climbed the path to his car. Why, she wondered, was Dave Evans so interested in acquiring more property when the development he’d already started remained largely vacant?

  She waited until he’d driven down the lane and turned onto Route 15 before she returned to her kitchen to wash her hands. The second card went into the trash. Then she hurried out her door and across the porch to Mrs. Kroll’s door. Zoe knew full well her landlady was always up at dawn unless she was sick.

  Mrs. Kroll answered within seconds. “Who was that man?”

  “Just some salesman who’s been hanging around.”

  “Well, I’m glad you got rid of him.”

  “Do you mind if I come in for a couple minutes? There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

  Mrs. Kroll stepped aside. “Please, please come in. I’m happy for the company. I hate being alone here all day.”

  Zoe passed through the kitchen into the dining room. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  After accepting a cup of coffee, she took a seat at the table. “Now,” Mrs. Kroll said, settling into her chair. “What’s on your mind?”

  Zoe ran the scenario through her mind one more time, mapping out her plan while imagining Pete’s reaction when he found out. “You know about the explosion over at the housing development…”

  “Yes, of course. Terrible thing. Just terrible.”

  “The man who lived there, whose wife was killed, he and his little girl are staying at an awful motel in Brunswick. He’s lost his job, too.”

  Mrs. Kroll’s face was a study in compassion as she silently listened, her frail fingers curled against her chin.

  Zoe took a deep breath. “He’s a carpenter. An out-of-work carpenter with a ten-year-old daughter and no place to stay. We have a bunch of stuff around here that needs to be fixed. I was thinking…”

  Mrs. Kroll brought her hand down to the table with a soft thud. “You want to take in this poor man and his daughter in exchange for him doing some repairs.”

  “Yes,” Zoe said, unable to read whether the older woman was appalled by the idea or approved.

  “You’ve met this man?”

  “I tackled him when he tried to run into the fire to save his wife. And I went with Pete yesterday to the Sleep EZ to tell him it really was his wife’s body in the rubble.”

  Mrs. Kroll fixed her with a glare, which included one raised eyebrow. “The Sleep EZ? That man is staying at the Sleep EZ? With his little daughter?”

  Zoe nodded. “It’s pretty hideous.”

  “Hideous? I read the Monongahela Review. That place is in the news almost every day. Drug dealers. People getting shot. Mercy me. I can’t imagine a child in that dump.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I let them stay here? One of them can have the sleeper sofa and the other can sleep in my recliner.”

  Mrs. Kroll waved her hand as if shooing a fly. “No one is going to sleep in your recliner. Or on your sofa. I have a perfectly good guest room. And there’s one of those air mattresses in a box in the attic so the little girl can have her own bed. They can stay as long as they need to. He can work on repairs here in exchange for room and board. If he runs out of things to fix…” She chortled. “Well, we’ll deal with that possibility when and if it ever happens.”

  Zoe smiled. The guest room had been her preference, too, but she hadn’t felt right suggesting she bring a stranger into the Krolls’ home, especially their half of it. But since it was Mrs. Kroll’s idea…“How soon can I tell them?”

  “As soon as you can. Right now. The guest room is all made up. I changed the linens after our son stayed here for a few days following Marvin’s accident.”

  “Great.” Zoe finished her coffee. “I’ll get washed up and give Mr. Farabee a call.”

  As she headed for the door, Mrs. Kroll called after her. “Tell him to bring a hot water tank with him.”

  The acrid odor of burnt building materials, more chemical than wood, still lingered on the air around Scenic Hilltop Estates. Pete stood on the road next to the flattened house and gazed across the valley dotted with cattle to the barn on the distant hill. Zoe’s barn.

  He’d been a damned fool.

  How long had he waited for a chance to take Zoe out? Years. He’d finally—finally—convinced her they should try a romantic relationship, that it wouldn’t mess up the friendship they both valued so much. And he’d screwed it up royally. By the time he dropped her off at the farm last night, she didn’t even give him a chance to walk her to the door, let alone kiss her goodnight.

  Maybe she’d been right all along. They should have remained just friends.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  “What?” Fire Chief Bruce Yancy asked.

  Pete’s attention snapped back to the small group of men standing behind him. “Nothing. What were you saying, Reggie?”

  Reggie O’Brien, the state fire marshal, leaned on the hood of his pickup, which was currently doubling as a desk. He’d spread a series of photographs out for the others to view. “I said as devastating as the fire was, it didn’t destroy this bit of evidence.” He tapped one of the photos. “Someone disconnected the gas dryer and broke the valve.”

  Wayne Baronick picked up the picture in question and studied it. “Whoever did this planned to kill Mrs. Farabee?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Reggie?” Pete asked. “‘Not necessarily?’”

  The fire investigator shifted to face Pete, but continued to brace one hip against his truck as if he didn’t have the energy to stand without support. “You have to understand. There are gas explosions leveling houses all the time, but using it to murder someone is difficult to pull off with any degree of reliability. There are too many variables.”

  “You couldn’t be sure how much bang you’d get for your buck,” Yancy said.

  Baronick replaced the photo and shuffled through the others. “You’re saying there are more dependable methods of murder.”

  “Exactly,” Reggie said.

  Pete gazed at the broken lumber, bits of insulation, a door blown off its hinges…“What triggered the explosion?”

  “Hard to say.” Reggie gathered his photos into a neat stack. “We’re lucky we found the source of the leak.
We’ll likely never know what sparked it.”

  “Educated guess?” Pete asked. “Did Mrs. Farabee come home and hit a light switch?”

  The fire investigator shook his head. “A gas explosion probably wouldn’t be initiated by a light switch spark. The switches are inside the walls, reasonably well sealed, and covered by a plate. There are always the other potential ignition spots. Pilot lights on the water heater or furnace. But in a new home like this, those wouldn’t be on unless needed.”

  Baronick slipped out of his sports jacket. “And it’s the middle of summer, so we can rule out the furnace.”

  “Which leaves the water heater.” Pete glanced across the valley toward the Kroll farm and another troublesome hot water tank. “Mrs. Farabee comes home from her job interview. She turns on the hot water tap…”

  “The pilot light kicks on,” Baronick added.

  “And boom.” Yancy opened both hands as if an illustration was needed.

  “Yeah.” Pete stepped away from the others, once again transfixed on the farm in the distance. “Boom.” There might be easier, more reliable methods to commit murder, but if a man wanted to make his wife’s death appear to be a tragic accident, a gas explosion would fit the bill.

  And Zoe was intent on playing the Good Samaritan by bringing the man into her home.

  “Over my dead body,” Pete muttered.

  Nine

  Holt Farabee had been oddly reluctant to accept Zoe’s offer when she’d phoned him. Male pride, she guessed. But when she’d brought up Maddie and the difference between his daughter staying in a sleazy motel versus a farmhouse, even one currently without hot water, he acquiesced.

  As Zoe waited for the Farabees to arrive, she thought about the little girl who had complained because her dad hadn’t let her stop at home to pick up her stuff and the sad fact she no longer had anything to pick up. Zoe jogged out to the barn where a small group of her boarders, mostly young teens, were busy saddling their horses for a ride. She told them about the girl and her father and how they’d lost everything. The kids started buzzing with ideas. Clothes they’d outgrown and their moms had packed away. Toys their younger siblings never played with.