Chet Mosler, the county arson investigator, was already at the Frankens house when she arrived. He was a tall, thin man with a long jaw, a lanky frame, and a heavy sense of humor. She’d worked with him before and was pleased at how good he was. A fireman, waiting to make sure hot spots were completely out, gave them hard hats and masks. “Be careful,” he said.
She intended to. The front door was open, and when she and the arson investigator went inside, the temperature seemed to drop. That made it pretty damn cold inside, and damp. It smelled of burnt wood and soggy plaster and melted materials. A dark slime covered everything.
Straight ahead was what was left of the staircase to the second floor, on the right was the living room, and on the left the dining room. The kitchen was behind the dining room. She had been to fire scenes before, but had forgotten the bleak devastation fire left in its wake.
Blackened boards were everywhere, like debris smashed against the rocks of a seawall. Some lay as if thrown across the nearest skeletons of chairs and couch frames, or against the walls. Remains of furniture lay in black piles. Wires dangled from walls and ceilings, pipes protruded from walls at odd angles. The window frames and the stairs were trimmed with black icicles, like black Christmas tree trimming.
People in hard hats with clipboards were everywhere, poking into debris and taking measurements, collecting evidence and scratching through the black ice on the heaps of cloth.
Dr. Fisher spotted Mosler and came up with his hand outstretched. “Hello, Chet, Susan. Sad mess, this.” He nodded at the chaos all around, then pointed at what had been the kitchen.
“Arson?”
“Yeah,” Mosler said. “The fire was stronger in the back of the house. They think it started on that rear glassed-in porch. Probably why nobody saw anything until too late. Have you looked at the body?”
“Not yet,” Fisher said. “I’ve been waiting for them to say it’s safe.”
Susan was all for safety. She flexed her cold toes inside her boots and shoved bandaged hands inside her pockets. The stench and the gloom and the sadness inside the burned shell of a house were the epitome of misery.
A fireman picked his way through the mess over to them and looked up. “It’s okay now. Keep the hard hats on and try not to shake anything. The whole structure is apt to collapse into the basement.”
Great. Just what she wanted to hear. Nothing like waiting for the floor to fall in to make you comfortable.
Mosler went first, then Susan, then Fisher moved across the shaky floor. The wooden cabinets in the kitchen were gone, a melted glob of what must be countertop hung next to the sink, the refrigerator door was open, contents black and melted. Shattered dishes from upper cabinets lay on the buckled floor.
She stuck as close as she could to the crumbling walls. The glassed-in porch behind was completely gone, ceiling burned away, wall between it and the kitchen nothing but a few jagged black boards. The floor was a gaping black hole. A ladder angled down into the blackness below. Glass and grit crunched beneath their feet. Her jaw tightened and her chest felt like the next breath might break something inside it.
Gunny had been pulled from class when the body was found sprawled in a doorway. One look and he started retching.
“Give me the camera,” Susan said, knowing he wouldn’t. Armed muggers would be turned down. With her bandaged hands, it was just as well. She couldn’t click anyway.
He shook his head and started clicking. The victim was in the doorway of what had been the glassed-in porch. Clothed, though the fire had burned too much away to determine whether male or female. She assumed Pauline Frankens. It lay on one side with the forearms high and bent, like a fighter. Typical of fire victims. The heat cooked the arms, causing the muscles to contract. Clumps of burned flesh hung on the bones. The hands were black stumps. The face was grotesque, lips gone, teeth exposed in a ghastly grin, nose gone. A bit of muscle on the cheekbones. Eye sockets with eyeballs like a Halloween joke. Hair gone, top of the head missing.
Susan’s stomach contracted. The coffee she’d had to keep awake did not sit well. Through the open ceiling, she saw a pearl-gray sky.
“My take on it,” Mosler drawled, “would be, victim came running from the dining room, or headed to the kitchen and got caught. Shot maybe, or bashed on the head. Or just caught in the fire.”
Susan didn’t have a take on it, she went with the expert, and wanted to get out of this relic of a house and the misery it held.
“I’ll need to poke around another hour or so, then it’s all yours.” Mosler ambled off.
Dr. Fisher studied the body. Susan tucked her hands in her armpits, trying to bring some warmth into them, and stared out at the backyard. A sparrow and a cardinal hopped around on the bird feeder hanging from a scorched tree.
“There’s smoke around the nostrils,” Dr. Fisher said, “and in the nose and throat.”
That meant the victim was still alive when the fire caught her. Susan hugged herself.
He turned the body and indicated the cherry-red color. “The lividity suggests carbon monoxide in the blood.”
She took a shallow breath, trying not to think it could be her he was studying.
He pressed a finger against a white spot that appeared in the red muscle. “Blanching,” he said. “Means lividity isn’t fixed. That white spot only appears for a few hours after lividity first develops.”
She didn’t watch anymore, just stood at the open porch wall trying to breathe fresh air. Every breath hurt, smelled of charred wood and death.
The paramedics loaded the body and carried it along the shaking floor out to the waiting ambulance. She went to the kitchen to find Mosler. The devastation there was worse than anywhere else. The roof was mostly gone and cold wind swirled through.
“This was a hot one,” Mosler said. “See that deformed pipe?”
She nodded.
“Copper. It takes over eleven hundred degrees centigrade to melt copper like that.”
“How did it start?”
He nodded at the propane tank against the far wall. “Found two of those so far.”
“Arson,” she said.
“Either that or this old lady wanted to stock up on propane. Porch area was stacked with highly burnable stuff too. Books and papers. Don’t know why people do it. ‘Course, in this case, it wouldn’t matter. But all that junk just helped the arsonist.”
Mosler shot her a look. “You could go, if you like,” he said dryly. “Anything interesting turns up, I’ll include it in my report and see you get a copy.”
She had never figured him out. She didn’t know if he had a sense of humor that was beyond her understanding or if he was making snide remarks about her intelligence, but she decided he was right in that she could go now. She went.
32
It wasn’t until two o’clock on Tuesday afternoon that Susan was able to see Roy Dandermadden. Ida Ruth was still holding on, much to the amazement of her physicians.
“Should you be out in this cold?” he said. “I heard you were in the hospital. How are you?” He unlatched the storm door and invited her in, tucking the tails of his white shirt into his tan corduroy pants.
“I’m fine, thank you.” The bandages on her hands had been replaced by small gauze squares, but her throat still hurt and she tended to have coughing fits if she talked much.
“A few questions.” She sat on the couch and got out her notebook.
He looked startled at her raspy low voice. “You sure you should be doing this?”
“Despite the way I sound, I’m fine,” she said. “Where were you on Wednesday of last week?”
“You mean when my mother got hurt.”
A basset hound lumbered in, long ears flopping, and spread himself by Dandermadden’s chair. Dandermadden reached down to pat the dog’s side. “You asking for an alibi? You think I loosened that railing hoping my mother would fall?”
“Somebody loosened it.”
“I was right here.”
“Pretty much, I think. In the morning the girls and I went out to find their mom’s Christmas present.”
“In the afternoon?” She coughed.
“I was working on some shelves I’m putting up in the garage.”
“Anyone else home?” Her throat was getting more sore and more hoarse.
“Only Harvey, here.” The dog raised its head and thumped its tail. “My wife was at work and the girls out with their friends. When Lillian got off, they all went to a movie. I stayed home and watched television.”
“Where is your wife now?”
“At work. She’ll be back directly.”
“What did you watch, Mr. Dandermadden?”
“Uh—an old movie. It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“You watched a movie at home rather than go to see one with your wife and daughters?” She swallowed to keep from coughing.
“Any law against it?”
He was beginning to get a wee bit angry with her. “No, Mr. Dandermadden, no law against it. Anyone call while they were gone? Come by? No? What time did they get back?”
“Close to midnight, I think. They went for pizza afterwards. My youngest one, Jo, she loves pizza. Gets her mom to take her every chance she gets.”
“Does your mother have any enemies?” She spoke softly, trying to ward off the coughing fit she knew was coming.
“Enemies?” He bent down and rubbed the dog’s ear tip between two fingers. “She has a sharp tongue, and some people maybe get irritated, but enemies?” He shook his head.
“Are you her heir?” She knew his anger was getting stronger, but he held on to it.
“Yes.”
“Other relatives?”
“She has a brother. They haven’t spoken in years. He pissed her off somehow.”
“She ever get angry with you?”
Roy looked at her. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, and yes, she got angry at me, but never so mad she wouldn’t speak to me.”
Who would be at her beck and call if she didn’t speak to him? “Who else benefits from her death?”
The dog yelped, gave Dandermadden a dirty look, and paced off. “The church.”
When she started coughing, she thanked him, told him to call if he thought of anything that might help, and left. In the pickup, she got the motor going, turned the heater higher, and searched through her shoulder bag for a cough drop. Roy Dandermadden, she mused, was guilty of something. The majority of suspects were guilty of something, but not necessarily the crime being investigated. Maybe his wife was tired of waiting for the old woman to die. Maybe he had an expensive girlfriend.
* * *
Roy held the newspaper open to the sports section, not reading, just trying to ignore Lillian’s voice coming from the kitchen, where she was putting away groceries. She went on about how much easier it would be for Mandy to go to Stanford if they had money. They wouldn’t have to worry about where every penny was going to come from.
“Maybe we could even take a vacation, Roy. You and I. How long has it been since we were anywhere together? Just the two of us without the kids.”
Roy shook the page as he turned it. If asked, he couldn’t even say how the Kansas City Chiefs were doing.
“Jo’s always wanted to go to Disneyland—”
“For God’s sake, the woman isn’t even dead yet!” He flung down the paper and stomped into the bedroom.
A few minutes later, Lillian heard the car back out of the driveway. Leaning forward, she pressed an arm against her stomach to hold in the pain. He was seeing someone. She knew it. She didn’t know who, but she knew there was someone.
Well, he couldn’t just walk all over her. She’d pack up the girls and go as far away as she could get.
It’d been stupid of her to go on and on like she had. It wasn’t even Christian. Roy was right; the poor woman wasn’t dead yet, and she was his mother, after all. It’s just that she was always so critical. No matter how much time he spent there, mowing the lawn, shoveling the driveway, cleaning the gutters, mending screens, painting window frames. She was never satisfied. He spent more time keeping her place fixed up than he did this one.
Lillian thought, bad as it sounded, it would be a relief when Ida Ruth passed. When he got back, she’d apologize. She’d been insensitive and she wanted him to know she was sorry.
* * *
Roy gripped the steering wheel to keep from pounding his fist on it. Where was his brain, calling Cindy from the bedroom? Lillian could have walked in. One of the girls could have picked up the extension. Thank God, Harley was working tonight.
What if somebody saw him sneaking over there? It’d be all over town, for God’s certain sure. Lillian going on and on about Mom and him seeing her out there lying on the cement all night in the freezing cold. He just hadn’t been able to stand Lillian’s voice anymore.
He parked right in front of Cindy’s house. That way they could say they had classwork to discuss. He walked as slow as the cold and his beating heart would allow him. She was waiting to let him in, and he enfolded her in a hug. She winced. He leaned back to take a good look at her.
“Cindy?”
She covered her face with both hands. “Don’t look at me. I know I look awful.”
He pried her hands away. “Did Harley hit you again?”
“No. He never hit me. I told you, I fell. I’m a lot better now. Oh, Roy, it’s so good to see you.” She snuggled gingerly against him.
“I had to see you. Just for a few minutes. I know I shouldn’t have come, but I couldn’t stay away.” He drew her closer to the light and looked carefully at her yellowing bruises. “If Harley ever hits you again, I’ll kill him.”
“Roy, I told you. I fell. Just forget it.” She twined her fingers around his and started to pull him toward the bedroom.
“We can’t,” he said. “It’s too risky. I’m sorry I came.”
She pressed a finger against his lips. “Never say that. At least you can hold me.”
He did so, gently.
“How’s your mother?” she asked when she drew back.
“Still the same. I can’t talk about that.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He stayed less than an hour, and when he left, he felt worse than when he’d come. If Mom died— If that woman cop found out about Cindy— Oh, hell, he’d just given her a motive.
* * *
Jo had put the receiver back very slowly and quietly. Dad was talking to Cindy? Cindy Wakefield the English teacher?
There was one way to find out. Telling her mom she was going to ride her bike over to the library, Jo wheeled it from the garage and swung on as it rolled down the driveway.
Even with her gloves on, her hands were cold. She wanted snow for Christmas. She wanted a lot of things this Christmas. Mom and Dad to stop fighting. Or whatever you could call it. They didn’t exactly fight. They hardly spoke to each other, and when they did it was in such a polite voice, more polite than even you’d talk to a stranger.
She’d known something was going on with her mom and dad for a long time. She didn’t think Mandy knew. Mandy was so busy looking at herself in the mirror and talking to her friends about going to Stanford that Jo could puke. Nothing else entered Mandy’s head these days. Jo would be glad when she left. At least Jo wouldn’t have to hear about it all the time.
She wished she could talk to Zach. Not that he could tell her what to do, but at least he’d be someone to be with and tell things to. She was worried about him. He was acting all spaced and weirded out.
Mrs. Wakefield lived on Cedar Street. From the end of the block, Jo could see her dad’s car parked in front. What would happen if she just went right up to the door and knocked?
For one thing, her dad would be really mad at her. And what if they were—you know, in bed or something? She crossed the street and rode up on the sidewalk, then decided she wasn’t the one doing anything wrong and went right out into
the street just like she had every right to do. A better idea popped to mind. She pedaled to the far end of the block and left the bicycle propped against a tree trunk. Going through backyards from house to house, she got to the Wakefield house and hid in the bushes by the front porch.
The stupid bushes were dusty and had sharp things that pricked her jacket and stuck her right through the legs of her jeans. She felt cramped and cold, and she was going to sneeze. How long could she stay here? Her nose was starting to run and she couldn’t find a tissue. What were they doing in there anyway? Never mind that, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Just when she thought she couldn’t stay another second, the door opened. Scooting farther back, she pasted herself against the house. Her father and Mrs. Wakefield stood in the doorway. Over his shoulder— Jo gasped. Mrs. Wakefield’s face was all purple and yellowish green. Like somebody had beat her up. Dad? No. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t!
Jo bit her lip and crouched down as she peered through the shrubbery and watched her dad walk, slow and kind of dejected, like he was really tired or discouraged, out to his car.
When he drove away, Jo stayed where she was a little longer, just in case Mrs. Wakefield was watching out a window or something, and then set off after her bicycle.
She started pedaling. Everything was going wrong in her life. Zach was looking over his shoulder all the time like something was chasing him. Mom was all tight and snappy. Mandy was dreamy about leaving for California. Dad was unhappy all the time. She couldn’t talk to Mandy or her mom and especially not her dad, but maybe she could talk to Zach.
She rode all the way to his house. When she asked for Zach his mother smiled at her. “Hi, Jo. He’s up in his room. Go on up.”
He was sitting at his computer with his back to her. She came up behind him and whispered, “Hi.”
He jumped twenty feet in the air, looked like he wanted to punch her, and tapped a key on the keyboard to make what was on the screen disappear. “Don’t sneak up on me,” he hissed.
“You want to go to my house and play Scream on my computer?”
“Can’t. I have to go see a guy.”
A Cold Christmas Page 18