Clarets of Fire

by Christine E. Blum

  “Not really. That suspicious arson investigator kept me there for over an hour breathing in that toxic air.”

  “Arson? Wow, no wonder it took me forever to get here. Every street leading to Rose Avenue was blocked off, and I ended up leaving my truck at the Santa Monica Airport and jogged over here. How did you get involved with the fire? Sally wasn’t entirely sure.”

  “I’m suffering from the smoke too.” Marisol forced a gasping cough to punctuate the point.

  “That’s your own fault. You could have left at any time, but you just had to nose around.”

  “It just so happens that I am assisting with the investigation.”

  “On whose orders? Are you part of the volunteer fire department now, Marisol?”

  “I could be.”

  “I’m just glad that you’re both safe,” said my amber-eyed redwood of a man as he gave me a kiss.

  At a muscular six-foot-four, Jack could be an imposing figure to people, especially with his shaved head and close-cropped beard—but he has the kindest eyes that always have a twinkle and a heart to match his size. When he is not rescuing victims of accidents with his dog on behalf of CARA—Canine Rescue Association—he is saving pet owners by providing positive reinforcement dog training. In fact, that’s how we met. I’d just moved here and was foolishly worried about Bardot falling in the pool and not knowing how to swim. She showed us. I sometimes suspect that she was playing matchmaker from the get-go. Jack makes his life about helping people with dogs. I wish that I could say I have an equally noble calling.

  I make my living writing code and designing websites, and when I started my company in New York City during the tech bubble, I would never have imagined that I’d be plying my trade from a suburban house on a Chinese elm–lined street with a converted garage for an office. I have a small roster of steady clients like the Marina del Rey Coast Guard, but I could always use a few more. I am working on a site for the Abigail Rose Winery, but I would never charge them for payment in anything but wine.

  “Nice ring, you stinker. When were you going to tell me?” Sally teases Jack.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s gorgeous, prettier than a stick of soft butter on steamed corn.”

  “Why are we all standing outside in this air? Come in, everybody,” I said, climbing my front steps.

  “Good idea, Halsey, and keep yours and your dog’s nose away from the fire investigation.”

  I turned in the direction of the voice and saw the owner was none other than our neighborhood gumshoe. His car was parked in front of Marisol’s house; this was undoubtedly the closest that he could get to the scene.

  “Can’t stay away can you, Augie?”

  “It’s for your own good; they are taking a good hard look at Enrico and Isabella’s business and their actions leading up to the fire. They strongly suspect arson by the way the fire went up so fast. Someone started it, and to find the culprit they need to find out who stood to benefit the most from going out of business.”

  “Well it isn’t the Brunos, Augie. They just went into a joint venture with the winery, opening up a whole new customer base for their delicious food.” Sally, who towered over Augie, was all up in his face.

  “Good to know,” he replied, standing his ground.

  “I hoped that you’d be on our side, Augie.” I really was disappointed.

  “I am on the side of right and wrong. I am on the side of the law!”

  “Geez, Augustus, you’re giving the family a bad name. Even a Boy Scout bites the head off a worm every once in a while.”

  I stared at Marisol, wondering if she was speaking from experience.

  “You have all girls, Marisol, so when exactly were you hanging around Boy Scouts?” I said to her while opening my front door.

  “I used to teach fencing.”

  “Where the heck did you learn that?”

  “Old Errol Flynn movies.”

  * * *

  “So, arson huh? That’s a scary thought.”

  Jack and I were enjoying a bottle of Bonny Doon grenache after going for a relaxing evening dip in the pool. When I got home, I’d taken a thirty-minute shower and then I’d used an expensive, fragrant lotion to stamp out any remnant of a smoky smell, but I still felt gritty and, frankly, violated. I couldn’t get my last image of Roberto, covered with a sheet, out of my head. Perhaps I was seeking a womb-like refuge in which to float away my memories of the day.

  Bardot didn’t care what the excuse was, she couldn’t be happier that her two favorite people were in her pool. We’d taken turns racing her to the bottom of the pool to retrieve toys, and she’d won each time. She had finally resigned herself to the fact that we were done diving for the night and was stretched out on a chaise looking to the sky for shooting stars.

  “Do you think Bardot actually smelled Roberto from that far away? I mean I know she liked him, because she made that clear every time I visited with Isabella at the pizza parlor. He’d pay her special attention and slip her a pepperoni.”

  Jack was grinning from ear to ear.

  “What?”

  He just kept grinning.

  “Oh no, is that silly smile because I said ‘slip her a pepperoni’?”

  Now he was laughing.

  “You are such a child.”

  “I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

  I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  “But to answer your question . . . possibly. Scientists believe that a dog’s sense of smell could be up to a million times greater than ours. They can even sniff out elements that aren’t detected by sophisticated technology.”

  “Wow, I wonder if she can smell winning lottery numbers.”

  “Bardot’s wet schnozz can trap scent particles and give her information about them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, first you need to understand that dogs use each nostril for different purposes. One is for breathing and one is for scenting. So with one sniff air is sent back to the lungs and the scent is diverted to the back of the nose.”

  “All of this is going on even when she is smelling another dog’s butt?”

  “Especially then. At the back of the nose they have these things called turbinates, which are full of scent receptors. We have them too, but they are not nearly as well developed. As Bardot sends a sniff back to the turbinates, the receptors send electrical impulses to her brain. And it stands to reason that the longer a dog’s nose the more turbinates it will have.”

  “Which is why pugs make lousy hunting dogs.” I’m proud of my powers of deduction.

  “Among other reasons.” Jack took a sip of wine before continuing. “Now add to this the fact that Bardot has a large olfactory bulb in her brain, and you’ve got a dog with extraordinary scenting ability.”

  I could tell that Jack was proud of himself.

  “You are the dog nose whisperer, honey. But I’d still like to know if Bardot could smell all the way to the fire.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t give up on that . . . more wine?” He poured while he thought.

  “It’s not that black-and-white, babe. Dogs like Bardot not only take in lots of scents, but they are also able to separate a scent they recognize from a thousand other ones. Like in a truckload of oranges, she can detect the one rotten one. Or in an Olympic-size swimming pool, she’d be able to locate a half teaspoon of sugar. So it is not just about distance but about how they process the information being sent to their brain.”

  I got out of the pool, grabbed a towel, and joined Bardot on the chaise.

  Maybe the stars will give me the answer . . .

  “Okay, okay.” Jack laughed and got out as well. “If we were in a court of law, I would tell them that a number of factors impact a dog’s ability to detect scents. Weather, wind direction, the type of scent, and the dog’s training are the main ones. In Bardot’s case, she’s been well trained in scent tracking, so that puts her way up there in ability. Today was clear with a nice breeze, so
that also works in our favor. Labs have been recorded detecting unique scents at a distance of one-point-two miles, and I’ve heard of cadaver dogs that can identify a decaying body buried eighty feet underwater.”

  “Wow, if only we could get her to talk!”

  “Maybe we can.”

  I looked at Jack for clues to what he meant by that. He smiled, and just before he spoke we heard: “Do you know what time it is? I almost died today, I need my sleep.”

  Like a Whac-A-Mole contestant, Marisol’s head popped up above the fence separating our properties.

  “You didn’t almost die, Marisol, and since when do you sleep?”

  “Not when you’re out here getting drunk and having a wild party.”

  I surveyed our scene. Bardot and I were on the chaise, Jack sat on the grass beside us, and there were no extra lights on and no music. I quickly looked around for something resembling a mallet.

  “Besides, you didn’t need to know all that stuff from Jack. I already told you Bardie’s nose knows. And by the way, she talks to me.”

  Chapter Four

  The next day it was back to work for me. All of my mystery-solving shenanigans barely kept me out of jail and did little for my business and bank account. Even as I tried to focus, I couldn’t get it out of my mind that Jack never did get around to telling me what he meant by “getting Bardot to talk.” I wonder what he meant by that. Marisol had ruined the mood in more ways than one, and he’d gone home shortly after she popped her nosy head over the fence.

  One more new client would take some of the pressure off and keep me out of trouble. I started combing through the tech newsgroups I subscribe to for a lead.

  There wasn’t much that interested me or was worth the time and effort, but then something caught my eye:

  Liza Gilhooly Commercial Real Estate—RFP for website, including property database, inquiry capture, dynamic photo feeds, and rental calculator.

  I’d seen her signs on storefronts and small office buildings around Mar Vista, and I’m all for helping out local women in business, so I downloaded the proposal form for this project.

  The questions all seemed straightforward enough, but something made me decide that I was better off going to her office and introducing myself. She was close enough to walk, so I grabbed Bardot and we headed out.

  Who doesn’t love a visit from an adorable puppy?

  Our route necessitated that we pass by the fire-ravaged strip mall. The sidewalk was all cordoned off with police tape, but there were a few inches of curb that were still accessible, so Bardot and I practiced our balance beam exercises. If returning to the scene of the crime bothered Bardot, she didn’t show it. There were lots of odors to smell and she was taking inventory. I paused in front of the charred remains of Rico’s Pizza. Nothing was recognizable any more—not the red and green neon sign that hung in the window, none of the white subway tiles that lined the walls, not even their heavy metal pizza oven was really discernible from the ashes. That had been some hot fire, and thinking back to the sequence of events it got hot very quickly. That must be why the arson inspectors were called in.

  I tried to reason why Enrico and Isabella would have set the fire, and I couldn’t come up with a plausible scenario. Sure they worked very hard, but they took two weeks off every summer to visit relatives in Italy.

  I also doubt that it was for the insurance money; it would be a long time before they saw any payout, and they seemed to be doing just fine financially. But you never really know.

  “Total bummer, isn’t it?”

  I turned and saw that the question came from a twentysomething guy in board shorts and a tank. He had that dark caramel tan that you get from surfing every day, and his sandy blond hair was tied in a top knot and the sides were shaved close to the scalp.

  Justin Bieber called, he wants his vibe back . . .

  “It’s just so sad,” I replied. “Did you like to get pizza from here too?”

  “A slice a day.”

  “Wow, you must be Rico’s best customer.”

  “And neighbor . . . I had the auto parts store two doors down.”

  He pointed toward a section of the mall in about the center of the building.

  “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I’m Halsey by the way.”

  “Brandon,” he said, and extended his tattooed hand.

  “Were you here yesterday when it started?”

  “Me? No, Sundays are really slow and besides the barrels were bitchin’.”

  I assumed he was talking about surfing since he punctuated his statement by making the shaka sign with his thumb and little finger. I gave him a knowing nod, hoping to convince him that I was a fellow wave rider and fervent studier of the tide charts.

  “Are you going to re-build? I mean once everything is settled with insurance.”

  “Nah, I inherited this business from my grandfather. He lived nearby and worked the store until he dropped.”

  What a quaint way of remembering him . . .

  “By the time I got it, the store was well on its way towards tanking. Nobody tinkers with their own cars anymore, and if you do need something the chains like Pep Boys can sell parts much cheaper and still make a profit.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t have a fighting chance.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, at the beginning I tried everything to get it back up and going. Promos, sales, demos, the whole nine. Mostly I’d get old geezers coming in to shoot the sh–”—he paused—“the breeze.”

  I knew it, deep down Brandon had some manners buried.

  He slipped under the tape and headed into his store.

  “Is it safe for you to be going in there?”

  “The fire’s all out, and I just gotta look for one thing. I’ll be fine, Halsey.”

  I wondered what he thought would have survived the fire since even the pizza oven burned. I was tempted to follow him in, but I hadn’t been invited to join him in the charred mess, and I certainly didn’t want to run into any fire inspectors.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Curses, Inspector Mason.

  I hadn’t noticed the fire department van pull up, and now I had some ’splaining to do.

  “I’m on my way to a client meeting.” I pointed down the street to a small office building. “What are you doing here?”

  “This area is restricted and dangerous . . . can’t you see the tape?”

  “My dog and I are standing outside the tape, but you might want to tell the owner of the auto parts store. He just went in to retrieve something.”

  Mason took off after Brandon. I felt a pang of guilt telling on him, but the inspector would have seen Brandon anyway. I knew that I should move on now, but I really wanted to ask Mason about the Brunos and try to convince him that they could not have started the fire. I wasn’t sure how he’d take the information about Bardot’s advanced olfactory sense, but it was certainly worth a try. Moments later he returned to the sidewalk.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, there was no one in there.”

  “That’s odd, he introduced himself, his name is Brandon, and I watched him go in there. Could he have left out the back?”

  “He could, but why would he? The front is clear, but there is lots of debris blocking the back. He’d have to climb over it to get out through the small opening.”

  “Brandon told me that he was a surfer. Maybe he went that way for the challenge.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t want you to see what he was taking out of there, Halsey.”

  Mason eyed me while processing this information. He struck me as an intrinsically suspicious guy. My guess is that on Halloween when kids come to his door, he takes his time weighing the options of “Trick” or “Treat” before committing.

  “Are you done with Rico and Isabella now? Have you ruled them out as arson suspects?”

  “We haven’t even declared the fire as being arson, let alone compiled a list of suspects. These are meticulous investigations that fol
low strict protocol and require time to conduct. Which is why you need to stay clear of this and let us do our jobs.”

  He said this with a conviction that left no wiggle room, so Bardot and I turned our backs to Mason and headed on down the street.

  * * *

  Liza Gilhooly Commercial Real Estate was on the ground floor of a three-story building. Photos of commercial buildings for sale and their specs peeked out the window at me from a ledge. It was fairly dark inside. I figured that I was standing in front of the only source of natural light for the space. I was about to turn around and head home when the glass and metal-framed door opened partway, triggering a cheery tea bell attached to the door closer at the top. A woman’s head popped out; this was my week to be surprised by women’s heads popping up, I guess. Hopefully, this one wasn’t as nutty as “Whac-A-Mole” Marisol.

  “Hi! Come on in, I’m Liza. And bring this beautiful blondie with you. I’m sure I can scare up a dog cookie somewhere.”

  Bardot didn’t need to be asked twice and practically dragged me into the office.

  “Please, have a seat,” Liza Gilhooly directed me. “Give me a sec to find those biscuits.”

  I had a chance to study the Realtor while she opened and closed drawers and moved stacks of papers around to locate a tasty biscuit. I’m going to peg her at around sixty. Her dyed blond hair was loosely held atop her head with a pair of chopsticks, and she moved with surprising agility in a turquoise, bell-bottomed pantsuit. Her makeup brought out her pleasant features, and I tried to imagine her as a two-episode love interest on The Six Million Dollar Man in her day.

  “Aha! Here we go.”

  She produced two faded bone-shaped items that looked like they had been there since the Nixon administration. Bardot didn’t mind and after chomping gave Liza her most genial smile.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m Halsey. I actually live nearby on Rose Avenue.”

  “Liza Gilhooly, and this is—?”

  “Bardot, as in Brigitte.”

  Bardot performed a tail-wagging twirl to show off her superstar-ness.

  “So what sort of business do you run, Halsey, and how much space are you going to need?”