Sunset Flames_Baytown Boys

by Maryann Jordan

  Knowing there was no getting out of what needed to be done, she slammed the car door after bending to retrieve her purse. Her heeled boots crunched over the drive as she made her way toward the front door. Stopping at the bottom of the front porch, she cast her gaze over the entire structure.

  The weathered, grey, cedar boards appeared sturdy and she had to admit that the blue painted shutters gave the house a nice appeal. At least he didn’t let the place fall down around him. Stepping to the front door, she reached inside her purse for the key she had been given. Placing it in the keyhole, she tried to steady the shakiness of her hand. Steeling herself, she swung the door open and hastened inside, immediately struck by a musty scent before the overload of what her eyes were taking in hit her.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. The TV show about hoarders flooded her mind as her back hit the closed door behind her.

  Tightly shutting her eyes for a moment, she cast her mind to the last time she was here. Too many memories began to assault her, so she popped her eyes open, refusing to give the conflicting recollections a place to roost. Straightening her spine, she stepped forward, her gaze moving from one side to the other. A pathway led between all the furniture and as she moved into the living room taking up the front of the house, she realized it was not as bad as she had originally feared. There were no piles of trash, uneaten food, old pizza boxes. No rats running around. Okay…so not like the hoarders on TV. And, to her surprise, no empty whisky or beer bottles lying about.

  But what she was left with was the evidence of her father slowly collecting pieces of furniture over the years without having a place to put them. Chairs balanced on top of tables, some with a precarious perch on wooden chests. The piles of furniture reached six feet high in some places.

  She remembered his penchant for scouring yard sells and antique stores. “Gotta dig deep to find the treasure, Maddie.” Being here, in this place, the words echoed in her ears as if they had been said aloud, causing a shiver to run over her. It had been many years since she last heard his voice and it surprised her how real they sounded.

  Blowing out a breath, she walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Even though the living room was free of garbage, who knew what the kitchen would hold. A sigh of relief escaped when,once again, what she found was not disgusting, just crowded with furniture and bits and baubles. The counters were filled with antique glass jars and vases, with a small place carved out where he must have cooked and eaten. She remembered the spotless house her mother kept here. God, I’m glad Mom didn’t see this.

  A peek into the laundry room off the kitchen gave evidence to the same thing. More stuff piled on top of the dryer and the shelves. She walked back through the living room to the stairs and ascended to the second floor. She kept to the side with the railing out of necessity, considering the steps were loaded with boxes piled close to the wall. Bending over to lift the flap of one, she saw more glass and ceramic figurines.

  At the top, the narrow landing gave way to three doors. The master bedroom, a smaller bedroom and one bathroom. She stood, perfectly still, as more memories slipped through the steel doors of her heart, days of laughter giving way to days of arguing and tears. Snapping her heart shut, she moved to the open door on the right where her parents used to share a room.

  Just like downstairs, the room was piled high with boxes, furniture, antiques. There was a path from the door to the bed and to the closet, whose door stood open so she was able to see it filled with boxes. The old, maple bed was completely clear of rubble, which made her feel a tad better. No matter the state of their relationship, the sight of her father sleeping in squalor would have been too much. Instead, the bed, covered in a rose print quilt, looked very much like when her parents shared the room.

  She stepped over a table, her hand reaching out to touch the fabric, desiring to feel something soft in this house filled with hard objects. The material was worn, but clean, which shouldn’t surprise her given the state of the rest of the house—cluttered but clean—and yet she still wasn’t expecting that.

  Her gaze moved to the nightstand and, once more, she blinked in surprise. Three framed pictures stood, easily viewed, with no clutter around. One of her parents on their wedding day. One of her as a baby. And one of the three of them, in better times, their faces smiling at each other, a beach sunset in the background. That last image, of them walking on the town beach at the end of the day and watching the sunsets from the pier, shot another bolt of pain through her chest.

  Heaving a great sigh, she swallowed audibly, wondering how many more shocks she could handle. Turning, she stepped across the hall to the room that she once called her own. Opening the door, she gasped. No mess. No clutter. It was as though she had just left for school that morning and returned at the end of the day.

  The weight on her chest squeezed harder and she blinked at the sting hitting her eyes. The oak, twin-sized bed was still draped with the pink and purple bedspread she had been so excited to get when she was ten. The matching oak dresser with the tall mirror lined another wall. The pink, ruffled curtains were still on the window. Her decorating style as an early teen had been pictures of sunsets instead of boy bands and several framed photographs she had taken were still on the wall.

  Preserved. That was the only word she could come up with to describe her old room. Preserved. Like the antiques in the rest of the house. What the hell, Dad?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing. Jogging carefully down the steps, holding onto the railing so she would not trip over the accumulations, to where she left her purse by the front door, she grabbed it. Answering, she listened before saying, “Yes, I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Disconnecting, she opened the front door and looked over her shoulder before stepping outside. Knowing she would be back soon, she sighed at the amount of work that lay ahead.

  Sitting at a large, polished, cherry table, in a matching chair with a heavy, brocade cushion, Madelyn felt a sense of foolishness, considering only she and the funeral director were present. She assumed most funeral planning sessions included lots of family members, but with just the two of them the setting was a bit overkill.

  Rubbing her head, she noted his sympathetic expression, thinking how practiced it must be.

  “Mr. Melburn, let me get this straight. My father had made arrangements to be cremated and already paid for that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, his solemn countenance and deep voice filling the room. “He also had a plot in the Baytown cemetery, already paid for as well.”

  “So, all I need to do is…”

  “Just plan his memorial service.”

  She nodded, her mind numb, having no idea how to go about taking care of what Mr. Melburn seemed to think was an easy task. “I have to tell you that it’s been a number of years since I was back in Baytown,” she started slowly, choosing her words carefully. “And, I confess that my father and I were not…uh…very close.”

  She watched as he nodded in a noncommittal way, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. Continuing, she said, “So, I really don’t know of a minister here in town, or even if my father was…uh…religious…” She hated to flounder, but he leaned forward suddenly, his eyes wide as though hit with a thought.

  “Let me make some calls for you,” he said, giving off an uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “I know your father was a member of the local American Legion organization. I’m sure some of their members would be able to come up with a few ideas.”

  “American Legion?” she asked, her brow knit with question.

  “Yes, yes. The organization for veterans.”

  “Oh…uh…okay. I didn’t know…” Now, feeling even more foolish, she wondered what else she did not know about her father. And whose fault was that, Dad? Struggling to push the heavy chair back over the plush carpet, she stood, wanting nothing more than to get out of the oppressive room, with its heavy furniture, dark burgu
ndy, velvet curtains that kept out the sunshine, and the funeral director who knew almost nothing about her father but still managed to know more than she did.

  “You have my number so you can have someone call me with any ideas,” she bit out. “I’ll come back tomorrow and we can settle things.”

  He jumped to his feet, his thin hand whipping out to clasp hers. “Of course, Ms. Stevens. And please accept my humblest condolences for your loss.”

  With a curt nod, she pulled her hand from his and turned on her heel, stalking out of the funeral parlor into the sunshine. Standing for a moment, she lifted her face to the sky, the warmth finally penetrating, and sighed in relief. Sucking in the fresh air, she told herself she could do this. I can get this done and be back home in a week.

  Once inside her car, she headed down Main Street seeing a few familiar shops that had been there since the beginning of time, but mostly quaint, little, new shops and cafes, unfamiliar to her. Passing by Jillian’s Coffee Shop and Galleria, she stomped on the brakes. I’d kill for a coffee! Parking in the lot across the street, she jogged over, ready to immerse herself in a caffeine fix and spend some quality time alone.

  Stepping inside the coffee shop, Madelyn looked around in awe at the exquisite interior. The dark wood paneling and antique glass counters along the sides gave a rich ambiance under the light of the sconces on the walls. Small tables were arranged in the front and she walked toward the counter, located in the middle of the shop. At this time of day, there were only a few patrons and, after placing her order, she sat at one of the small tables along the side.

  The server brought her coffee and pastry over and Madelyn gratefully took a sip from the large cup. Closing her eyes for a moment, she savored the rich brew. She allowed her thoughts to wander away from her father’s house, his funeral, and the fact that she was all alone.

  “Hello,” a female voice spoke nearby.

  Startled, she opened her eyes, viewing a pretty blonde dressed in vibrant colors standing nearby, blue eyes staring at her, a wide smile sent her way. She immediately recognized Jillian Evans, the homecoming queen from when she was only a lowly freshman.

  Sitting up straighter, she could not help but look to each side to see if there was someone else behind her that the greeting was aimed at, before smiling in return. “Um…hello.”

  “I’m Jillian. Jillian Wilder,” the young woman introduced, her hand extended.

  Her eyes widened as they landed on the wedding ring and she remembered the former quarterback, Grant Wilder. She extended her hand in return. “Is this your coffee shop?”

  “Yes,” Jillian enthused. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “No, I’m new…uh…well, sort of new.” She observed the curiosity flashing through Jillian’s eyes, glad no more explanation was sought.

  Jillian smiled and nodded toward the empty chair at the small table. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Uh…no…sure.” Surprised at the enthusiastic woman who immediately sat down and nodded toward the barista, she tried to think of something to say. “Your shop is lovely. Really lovely.”

  “Oh, thanks. My parents turned the old store into the coffee shop and after they gave it to me, I opened the art galleria upstairs.”

  Madelyn’s eyes shot over her shoulder toward the wide, wooden stairs that cut through the middle of the shop. The carved spindles and railings were in the same wood as the paneling, adding to the dark, rich atmosphere.

  “I’ll take you up later and give you the grand tour,” Jillian offered.

  “Oh…you don’t have to—”

  “But I insist,” Jillian interrupted. “I’ve got some friends arriving and I’d love for you to meet them. After all, since you’re new in town, we need to make sure you have a proper Baytown introduction.”

  “I’ve been to Baytown before,” she explained, fiddling with her napkin. “I’m just new now…or rather new again…”

  “Well, it sounds like there’s a story behind that statement,” Jillian said, with a wink.

  Before she had a chance to refute Jillian’s assumption, the bell over the front door rang and, as she looked up, a group of women walked in. She sucked in her breath at a familiar face. Katelyn MacFarlane…I’d know that thick, black hair even after all these years. Her eyes shifted back to Jillian and she swallowed deeply as she watched her face light up. Unable to come up with a way to escape, she plastered a smile on her face as the women walked over to their table.

  Jillian jumped up from her chair, greeting, “Girls, come on over. I’m just getting to know a new friend in town. She was just telling me that she’s been here before but that’s as far as we got.”

  Madelyn stood, politely nodding as Jillian introduced each one.

  “This is my oldest friend in the world, Katelyn Harrison.”

  She quickly glanced at Katelyn’s hand and saw the wedding band before looking into her face, which was more beautiful than she remembered.

  “And this is Jade Greene, Belle Gunn, and Tori Evans.”

  Evans…there was also Mitch Evans…I wonder…startled out of her thoughts, she continued to smile as each woman greeted her, then realized they were all staring.

  Jillian laughed and said, “I’m afraid I hadn’t even gotten your name when my friends came in.”

  “I’m Madelyn…Madelyn Stevens.”

  She watched as both Katelyn and Jillian’s eyes widened and she could see the wheels turning. Letting out a sigh, she held onto her smile as she said, “I actually grew up here…well, outside of town, but I remember you. I was a couple of years behind you two,” nodding toward Katelyn and Jillian.

  “Madelyn Stevens! I remember you,” Jillian enthused, then halted as Katelyn elbowed her. Jillian twisted her head to look at Katelyn, her brow knit with surprise.

  Katelyn stepped forward, reaching to take Madelyn’s hands. “Oh, honey…I’m sorry. I just heard this morning about your dad.”

  Sucking in a shuddering breath, she blinked at the sudden rush of emotion. “Thank you,” she managed to get out before Jillian tucked her arm with hers and began ushering her up the stairs. Calling for the barista to bring all their coffees to the galleria, she led the group upstairs.

  Allowing herself to be ushered along, Madelyn’s mind raced. What have I gotten myself into?

  3

  The public safety group was so large they were unable to meet in the police station workroom, so they moved to the municipal building’s meeting room where large town meetings were held. Mildred and Mable, sisters and the police receptionists and dispatchers, hustled around to make sure the tables and chairs were in a large square so everyone could see everyone else.

  Zac sat with Mitch Evans, Baytown’s Police Chief and the other Baytown police officers, Grant Wilder, Ginny MacFarlane, Lance Greene, and Burt Tobber. He watched as others came into the room, all familiar considering the Eastern Shore of Virginia consisted of only two counties on the seventy-mile long peninsula.

  Zac looked across the tables at Hannah Freeman, the Easton Police Chief, Wyatt Newman, the Manteague Police Chief, and Dylan Hunt, Seaside Police Chief. He knew that they, along with Colt, Liam, and Mitch, met monthly to coordinate any necessary law enforcement details. Other than the annual Emergency Management meeting, this was the first time he had been to a meeting with so many others in the area.

  Within the two counties, there were about twenty small fire stations and several town police departments, as well as the two county sheriff departments. The arsonist had crossed county lines and, with numerous fires in the last six months, the emergency response teams were now meeting together.

  He nodded at the Fire Chiefs from the other stations and watched as the other law enforcement officers sat down as well.

  Colt Hudson, Sheriff of North Heron County, and Liam Sullivan, Sheriff of Accawmacke County, ran the meeting, reviewing the reports from each fire.

  “We’ve been in contact with the State Police arsonist profiler and, I
gotta tell you, there are a fuckin’ lot of arsonist types,” Colt said, shaking his head. “And within each of those types are lots of characteristics.”

  “So, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack,” Grant moaned.

  Zac sighed, wishing the law enforcement personnel might have a way to stop the arsonist before it was too late and was left for the fire departments to have to deal with the aftermath of the destruction.

  “So, far there’s been little in common with the structures,” Mitch said, looking down at the files in front of him, “other than they’ve all been empty. The fires have been set in sheds, empty garages, barns, abandoned houses.”

  “Thank God, so far they haven’t struck homes with people living in them or stores and businesses that would cause a financial hardship or loss of life,” Liam commented.

  Mitch looked over at Zac and said, “I know you’ve been a fire investigator. Any ideas?”

  Running his hand over the back of his neck, he replied, “My fire investigation days were in the Navy and that was generally confined to the ships. I need to get the training here, but with each fire station only having a couple of paid employees and relying on volunteers for our staff and firefighters and rescue workers…well, it makes it hard to find the time.” He watched the others nod in sympathy before he continued, “But what I know from the fires I worked on, it appears that the simple use of an incendiary device in a glass bottle—”

  “A Molotov cocktail?” Ginny asked, leaning around to look over at him.

  Nodding, he agreed, “Essentially. A gasoline soaked rag stuck in a bottle. The structures are old, wooden, some completely empty and some containing wood, papers, trash…things that will catch on fire easily.”

  The meeting continued for another hour as each fire station that had dealt with one of the fires gave their reports, as did the law enforcements involved. Zac grew frustrated at the lack of increased clarity with what they were dealing with. Lance leaned over and whispered, “Chill…these things aren’t discovered quickly.”