Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  What had started the blaze? A spark, an ember, an arsonist?

  I searched for my father among the curious people. I didn’t find him. “Have you seen Cary Hart?” I asked an elderly woman. She shook her head. I ran to my father’s house and pounded on the door. No one answered. “Dad!” I bellowed.

  Silence.

  Call me crazy, but I was worried. Where was he? I charged toward one of the police cars. They were empty. I saw Chief Pritchett—Cinnamon—and a couple of her deputies on the plateau below. Though Cinnamon was a well-built, athletic woman, she appeared puny standing next to her subordinates. They seemed to be entrenched in a conversation. I hailed her, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I headed toward the path that ran alongside my father’s house.

  “Miss, halt!” A skinny deputy, hanging back and managing the onlookers, aimed a finger at me. “No civilians allowed.” He put a hand on his holstered gun.

  I saluted and made a U-turn. I raced to my VW thinking if he wouldn’t allow me to go down to the crime scene, I would go up. I drove to Sylvia Gump’s sprawling house on Azalea Place. At least in one regard, the Gumps had conformed to city standards—the roof, what you could see of it, was red—and to Sylvia’s credit, she, like Ava Judge next door, had a gorgeous, well-tended garden.

  There were no fire trucks on the street, but there was a parked patrol car. Its driver was not inside; I didn’t see an officer anywhere. Taking my lead from Sylvia—if she could trespass, I could, too—I jogged to the side of the Gumps’ house and up a set of stairs.

  As I neared the rear of the house, the hideous-looking fence on the side of the porch snagged my attention and made me almost ram into a rear set of stairs. In the nick of time, I veered right and avoided catching my calf on a stair corner; however, I caught a heel on wet grass and skidded about ten feet, like when I was a girl doing Slip’N Slide. I remained on my feet, barely. I spun around and glared at that fence and then the stairs, which from this angle were quite visible. They were loaded with shoes and a collection of female-sized garden boots that would make Martha Stewart envious, if she could stand the mud and mess on them.

  Move on, Jenna!

  Past the house was yet another set of stairs heading upward toward the plateau. They seemed makeshift, like someone had stacked stones with no solid base. A gentle tremor beneath the earth might make them skid into the Gumps’ backyard. Trespasser, beware.

  Gingerly I scaled those and sprinted to the scene. When I arrived, I made a beeline for Cinnamon. Though she was wearing her standard broad-brimmed hat, she held a hand overhead to shield the morning sun from her eyes. I gazed in the direction she was peering, at the wreckage: charred bushes, ash-streaked nymph-and-satyr fountain, scorched ground. Beyond the mess stood the semidemolished brick wall. A pile of brick pieces, some broken and some intact, lay beside it, all untouched by the fire. Lola said Ava had caused that mess. Yipes. Talk about angry.

  “Cinnamon.” I hurried to her. “Chief!”

  She pivoted. Her blunt hair swung with the motion. Her expression was not welcoming. “Jenna, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Careful, guys!” Bucky Winston, a handsome firefighter with the brawn of a male weightlifter and the easy smile of a jokester, was in command of the crew. A couple of men were using rakes to move the charred bramble to one side. “Don’t tamper with the body.”

  “Body?” I yelped. I strained to look where Bucky was standing.

  Cinnamon nudged me away. “Jenna, go home,” she ordered, then revised that. “No, wait. Stay.” She squinted. “Where’s your father?”

  “I don’t know. I’m looking for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s not at home, and he’s not answering his cell phone, and I saw the fire on my morning walk, and”—I slurped in air—“who’s the victim?” I choked on the last word.

  “Sylvia Gump.”

  A man moaned. To my right. Ronald Gump, as pasty as wet clay and looking every one of his seventy-plus years, was standing near the cluster of firemen. He was dressed in flannel pajamas and leather slippers and leaning heavily on his cane. He removed the sunglasses he was wearing, rubbed a palm against one eye, and replaced the sunglasses. Poor guy.

  “What happened?” I asked Cinnamon.

  “Fire.”

  “I can see that. What was Sylvia doing there?” Was she trespassing again and putting in a fire pit or something else that required natural gas? Had her misguided efforts gone kablooey? “Did she set the blaze?”

  “She couldn’t have.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—” Cinnamon hesitated. Her chest rose and fell. “Because she was murdered.”

  “Murdered? How?”

  “Jenna, it’s not your business.”

  “What started the fire?”

  “Lighter fluid.”

  “It doesn’t look like it was ablaze for long.”

  “That’s because someone called 911 minutes after it ignited.”

  “Who?”

  Cinnamon said, “The dispatcher said she wasn’t sure. The call was untraceable.”

  “Do you think whoever killed Sylvia set the fire?” I asked. “Possibly a neighbor who didn’t want the area to go up in smoke?”

  Cinnamon seared me with a glare. “Don’t theorize.”

  Ronald moaned again. He was shaking his head; his free hand was weathering the collar of his pajamas between his thumb and forefinger. He seemed to be in total distress. He mumbled something, and I flinched. Had I heard him right? Did he utter my father’s name?

  “Cary,” Ronald said, louder this time. No mistaking the word. “Cary did this.”

  “What?” I yelped again. I was getting good at it. “Cinnamon . . . Chief,” I quickly revised. She might be my friend, but I had to show her the respect she deserved. “No way would my father—”

  “Cary killed my Sylvia.”

  I stared daggers at Ronald. “He. Did. Not. Do. This.”

  Cinnamon touched my shoulder. “Jenna, calm down.”

  “I will not calm down.” I wriggled away. “You know my father.”

  “Ronald saw him.”

  “Where?” I flailed a hand. “When?”

  “Running away from the blaze.”

  “Not possible. No way.” My heart was chugging so fast I could barely breathe.

  “You said you called your father.”

  “Yes. I didn’t reach him.”

  “Text him.”

  “If you’re so eager to find him, why don’t you text him?”

  “Jenna.”

  “Fine,” I snapped like a disgruntled teenager. Raw emotions were hard to curb, even at the ripe age of thirty. I pulled out my cell phone and typed a text to Dad: Where R U? He didn’t respond. I showed the screen of my cell phone to Cinnamon and said, “While we wait, tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  She blinked back tears, and suddenly I realized how hard she was taking this. She adored my father. He had been her mentor. At my mother’s insistence, he had rescued Cinnamon when she, speaking of bad teenage habits, was heading down a path toward juvie. “Around six A.M., Mr. Gump—”

  “Ronald—”

  “Wakened to the smell of smoke. He hobbled to the window and saw the blaze. He called the fire department, too.”

  “Too?”

  “A team had already been dispatched.”

  “Who called it in first?”

  “I told you. An anonymous caller.”

  “Let’s hear it for good citizens.”

  Cinnamon’s mouth quirked up, but there was no humor in the smile. “Mr. Gump . . . Ronald . . . saw your father fleeing in a red plaid jacket.”

  “Did he actually see Dad? Did he make out his features at that hour of the morning? Lots of people own red plaid jackets.”

  C
innamon’s nose narrowed as she drew in a breath and let it out. “Jenna, I’m on your side. I’m on your father’s side, too.”

  “Good to know.” I worked my jaw back and forth.

  “Whoever was in the jacket fled over the crest, right near your father’s house.”

  My insides drew into a knot.

  “The crew arrived,” Cinnamon continued, “and they went to work to put out the blaze. By that time, my team and I had arrived. Once the fire was out, we saw the charred remains of Sylvia.” She sighed. “Ronald told the crew your father and Sylvia argued on the telephone Sunday night. Ronald said Cary—your father—told Sylvia to burn in hell.”

  I flapped a hand. “Sylvia said it first.”

  “So you heard this exchange?”

  I blanched. Open mouth, insert foot. Dang.

  “Jenna?”

  “It was during our regular Sunday night dinner,” I said. Cinnamon had joined us a few times for our weekly meal. She was considered family. “Sylvia was throwing a loud party. Dad phoned her. She screamed at him. He was simply echoing what she said.”

  “Ronald mentioned that.”

  “Sylvia is . . . was trying to usurp this property.” I pointed at the charred area. “Lots of people in the neighborhood had a beef with her about it. In fact, all of them got together to discuss what to do about it.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Ava.” I gulped. The musty smell of damp smoldering hillside made me want to heave. I pressed down the impulse.

  “I heard your father took Sylvia on at the gas station, too.”

  “Says who?”

  “Bucky.” Cinnamon’s boyfriend, the hunky fireman. “I believe Sylvia retorted: ‘Over my dead body.’”

  I moaned. “She was buying fuel, like for a barbecue. Dad warned her not to put on another party, and she—” I glanced at the scorched area and wild, alternative scenarios scudded through my head. The lighter fluid. The propane tanks. “Maybe this isn’t what it looks like. What if Sylvia lured my father up here to goad him into doing something rash? What if she set the blaze, hoping to trap him and kill him? What if she died of smoke inhalation before he got here?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What if—” I bit my lip. In every one of the scenarios running roughshod through my brain, my father appeared guilty, because if he had come to the site and didn’t try to save Sylvia . . . argh! “It wasn’t Dad. You know he didn’t do this. He couldn’t. He’s a pacifist. He—”

  “Chief!” Bucky called. He hailed her over. “You’ve got to see this.”

  Cinnamon said to me, “Hang tight,” and traipsed through the muck to where Bucky was standing. “What?”

  He pointed.

  I stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse over one of the firemen’s shoulders, to see what they were discussing.

  Marlon Appleby, Cinnamon’s second-in-command, a man with big ears and square jaw, strode to my side. “Hey, Jenna,” he said, concern in his tone. Usually he was stern with me, but he seemed more tolerant this time. Why? Because he was dating my aunt, or because I looked like one vulnerable mess of a woman? “Sorry, but you’ll have to move back.”

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened? What evidence do you have against my father other than Ronald’s statement? How did Sylvia die? Are there footprints? Please, detective, give me something.” I tried to hold back the tears that were filling my eyes but couldn’t. Moisture dripped down my cheeks. Swell. I wasn’t merely a vulnerable mess; I was a bleary-eyed, ridiculous mess. “My father . . . he didn’t—”

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I wriggled it out and read the text: Hi, Tootsie Pop—my father’s nickname for me since I was a tween; I hated it, I had outgrown it, but what could I do, demand he stop? I continued reading: Fishing. Will call soon. Hope it’s nothing important. That was a longer message than I’d ever received from my father. He was old school and preferred analog or even the written word to digital, but Lola would have none of that. She made him promise never to leave home without his cell phone.

  I texted back: Yes, it’s important. Sylvia Gump is dead. The police think she’s been murdered. By you. Call me.

  My cell phone rang in an instant. I stabbed Accept. “Dad?”

  “What happened?” He sounded out of breath. The connection wasn’t good. It was crackly with static.

  I quickly explained.

  “How did she die?” he asked.

  “I can’t get the police to cough up any information.” I glared at Detective Appleby, who was standing stoically by my side.

  “Tell Cinnamon I was nowhere in the vicinity,” my father said. “I left for the lake well before dawn, and sunrise was at five forty-seven A.M. Fish don’t bite once the sun is up.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Hiking back to my car.”

  “Is anybody there?”

  “I went alone.”

  I huffed. “I mean, are there other fishermen?” I splayed a hand in frustration.

  “I don’t see anyone else. It’s midweek.”

  I sighed. “Dad, this doesn’t look good.”

  “It’s my word against Ronald’s.”

  “Does he have any reason to lie?”

  “Maybe he killed her.”

  I shook my head. “C’mon, have you seen Ronald Gump? He’s not a big man in the first place, and now he’s walking with a cane.”

  “I didn’t do this!” Dad barked. Stern, authoritative. Good. That meant his FBI persona was kicking into gear. “What do they have on me?”

  “As far as I know, they only have Ronald’s word that you were in the area. He saw you running away in your red plaid jacket.” The one my mother had given him on their twentieth anniversary. She had laughed and said it was so brash that it would scare off any old bear in the woods.

  Dad snorted. “Ha! That lets me off the hook. I don’t own that jacket anymore.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Lola hated it so much, she made me donate it to Goodwill.”

  “Dad, that’s great. That’s wonderful. I’m going to tell Cinnamon now.”

  “Don’t. I’ll be there soon. I’ll tell her myself.”

  Chapter 6

  A half hour later, my father pulled up in his Jeep. In my presence, he and Cinnamon discussed his whereabouts and Ronald’s account. My father reiterated what he’d told me about the plaid jacket. Cinnamon asked whether he had a Goodwill donation receipt. He was pretty sure Lola would; she didn’t throw any paper away. Once an attorney, always an attorney, he joked. Cinnamon released him on his own recognizance to fetch said receipt. Then she dismissed me.

  Needless to say, I was ticked. How could she not accept Dad’s word? She wanted proof? The nerve. I did not obey the speed limit as I drove home. Okay, I did, but I didn’t want to. I flew into the cottage and slammed the door. Poor Tigger squealed. I apologized profusely and scooped him into my arms. Once I felt his purr against my chest, my pique lessened, and I regained my composure, and I forgave Cinnamon. She was only doing her job and doing it well, like always.

  I showered to rid my body of the stink of the fire, and then I dealt with choosing an outfit. I wanted to dress in clothing that would raise my spirits. Pink or purple? Per Aunt Vera, purple-aura people are highly psychic. I could use some of that about now. On the other hand, people who have a predominant amount of purple in their aura are seen as mysterious and secretive. A pink-aura person, however, is a natural healer and sensitive to the needs of others. That kind of person hates injustice and strives to make the world a better place. I chose a hot-pink blouse, white capris, and floral sandals and appraised myself in the mirror. Not bad for a woman whose father might be going to prison.

  I fed Tigger and
ate a bite myself—toast with honey and tea; not much else sounded good. At 8:30 A.M., when I was convinced that all would be right with the world, I exited the cottage, and wouldn’t you know, a seagull screeched and nearly knocked me for a loop. In a snap, worry snaked its way back into my psyche. What if Lola didn’t have the receipt? What if Dad was slapped in prison for a crime he didn’t commit? What would it take to prove him innocent? Dang!

  By the time I arrived at The Cookbook Nook, I was worked up again. It didn’t help that word about the blaze and Sylvia Gump’s death had spread. Customers waiting for the shop to open lowered their voices to a whisper when I drew near, but I could hear what they were saying: my father might be guilty of murder.

  I pressed through the group to unlock the door and caught a glimpse of the old-fashioned jail décor rimming the doorway. Shoot! So much for whimsy. Down it would have to come.

  “We’ll be open in a few minutes,” I muttered and entered. As I shut the door, I locked eyes with my aunt Vera, who was sitting at the vintage kitchen table where we always had a culinary jigsaw puzzle going.

  She bolted to her feet but couldn’t rush to me because her heel caught in the hem of her rose-pink caftan. “Drat!” she muttered.

  I moved to help her.

  After we freed the heel, she gazed at me. Fear flickered in her eyes. “Is it true? Is your father a suspect?”

  “Oh, Jenna, you’re here!” Bailey abandoned her project of setting out wagon train–style glazed cookie jars and rushed to the two of us. She, too, was dressed in pink and white: pink skirt, white peasant blouse. “Is it true? Please say it isn’t.”

  I set Tigger on the floor and gave his rump a pat. “Go. Play.”

  “Pepper Pritchett poked her nose in a few minutes ago.” Bailey pointed out the front door. Pepper owns the beading boutique called Beaders of Paradise across the way. Her daughter is Cinnamon.