"It's okay. It's gonna be okay," he soothed.
"Charlie!" Drake's voice came out of the confusion from a distance.
My head snapped up, eyes searching for him. Ron turned around. "Over here," he shouted.
My numb body got shifted from one hug to the other. "Oh, God, Charlie, are you okay, babe?" His voice shook as he practically squeezed the breath out of me.
"Mmmff," I said from the depth of his chest.
"Sorry."
He held me at arm's length, watching my face intently. I assured myself that he was all right, but my attention was quickly drawn to the house.
Flames had begun to rise from the roof at the back corner, above our bedroom. A second truck had arrived and the men were in the process of raising the ladder to take aim over the top of the house. The original team stretched their hoses around to the back yard and were working on it from that angle. I didn't want to look but couldn't manage to tear my eyes away from the action. I became dimly aware that Ron had taken Gram inside.
We sank down to sit on Elsa's front porch to watch our home go up in flames.
Chapter 28
I awoke beside Drake in a strange room and the night's terror came back. The firemen finally declaring the fire out sometime around eleven, their stern instructions that we were not to try to enter until the investigators came tomorrow, and Gram practically dead from exhaustion, insisting that we sleep in her guest room that night. I moaned and Drake reached an arm around my waist.
Part of me wanted to roll back over and go to sleep again, and part of me wanted to run home and confirm that none of it had really happened. I couldn't make either scenario happen. My eyes stayed wide open.
I could only imagine what lay ahead. I already knew that many of the shrubs and flowerbeds had been damaged by trampling boots and heavy hoses. But the house—I only knew that the outside walls still stood. Beyond that, the inside could be anything. And my active mind could envision only the worst. My childhood home, all my mother's lovely furniture, china, and keepsakes . . . Hot tears stung my eyes.
"Sweetheart?" Drake's sleepy voice queried. "What are you doing awake so early?"
I sniffed loudly.
"Hey, it's gonna be okay," he soothed. "Want to go over there now? Look around?"
I nodded. Not knowing what we'd find was far worse than just getting it over with.
"Okay, then," he said, "let's put our clothes back on and just go see."
We each rolled to our edges of the bed. We'd come over with literally the clothes on our backs, so there'd be no choosing of wardrobe today and no brushing of teeth. We'd have to work out that part real soon.
Rusty stood with his nose pasted to the crack in the door, his tail slowly waving back and forth. His ears perked up and he turned his head to one side then the other, making me think that Elsa must be up and making little sounds around the house.
I pulled on my T-shirt and jeans, yesterday's socks and shoes, and the wool sweater Gram had placed around my shoulders last night. Grabbed Rusty's collar so he wouldn't charge through the house until I could be certain Gram was up. He lunged when I opened the bedroom door and, seeing that hers was open already, I let him go.
"C'mon, kid," I said softly. "Let's go out back."
He paused a moment on the back porch, realizing that his own territory waited next door. As the dog raced through the hedge to find his own sacred places, I followed slowly.
My kitchen door gaped open, the frame smeared smoky black. The bedroom windows were broken out, revealing nothing but charred black and the roof was gone over that corner of the house. Under the kitchen window, the last of the autumn chrysanthemums lay trampled and broken, smashed by heavy boots. I bent to retrieve one purple blossom that struggled on a crooked stem. A tear slipped heavily to my cheek.
"It's gonna be okay, sweetheart," Drake said, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
I leaned into him. "Why?" I wailed. "How and why did this happen?"
He stroked my hair. "I don't know, hon. I just don't know."
I took a deep breath and tucked the purple flower into his shirt pocket. "I want to go inside and look around. Maybe it's not as bad as we think."
"The fireman told you not to," he cautioned.
I headed for the back door, pulling out of his grasp.
"Charlie, what if the floor caves in? What if the ceiling gives way?" He followed me to the porch. "Don't touch anything," he said resignedly. "They'll be coming to investigate, you know."
I spun around. "I just want to see if there's anything left."
A little sigh escaped him. "Okay. But I'm coming with you."
Mud coated the kitchen floor and the walls were gray with a filmy haze. I wanted to reach for the light switch, but realized that would be futile. They would have cut the power to the house to prevent a spark.
"This doesn't look too bad," Drake said. "A good cleanup will do wonders here." He sounded like he was working hard to be optimistic.
The dining room hardwood floors were in worse shape than the kitchen tile. Puddles of water stood in places and muddy tracks crossed back and forth across the room. The table and chairs had been shoved roughly against the front wall, clearing a path from the kitchen to the living room. Mother's china cabinet was still intact and the dishes appeared unharmed, although the glass fronted doors were hazy with gray. Then it began to get worse.
Heavy fire hoses had been dragged through the front door, which had been hacked open with axes. My white linen sofa showed wide tracks where hoses were dragged over the back of it on the way to the bedrooms. The hallway was charred and the three bedrooms and two baths were gone.
"Looks like the fire started back here, probably in our bedroom," Drake said. "It's in the worst shape." We stopped at the entrance to the hall, not trusting the floor beyond that point.
The walls that once defined the master bedroom, master bath, and guest room were gone. Charred studs were all that remained of the guest bath off the hallway, and the third bedroom which had served as our office was only a shell. All the windows on the north side of the house had burst or been broken out. Frigid water dripped from the remaining rafters and the entire place smelled like damp charcoal.
"What a mess," I moaned, rubbing my temples. The fanatically orderly person inside me screamed at me to do something. But the carnage at this end of the house was too much to contemplate.
Drake took my hand. "Don't you get any ideas about cleaning this up just yet," he teased. "I know you want to."
My mouth tried a little smile—he was trying to lighten up the situation after all—but I couldn't quite manage it.
"I'm sure an investigator will come out soon. They won't be happy if you go moving things around."
"I know," I grudged. "And I better call the insurance company. Maybe some of the forty years worth of premiums that have been paid on this place will finally pay off."
"C'mon," he said, "let's get some breakfast."
I tried to close the front door, which hung crookedly now, but it wouldn't have made any difference. The door frame was nothing but splinters anyway. I did retrieve my purse from the coat rack by the front door. Flipped through my wallet, which still had cash and credit cards intact. I had a feeling we'd be needing those real soon.
We retraced our steps through the kitchen, where we found Rusty waiting at the porch, whining softly.
"Oh, you poor guy," I said. I sat down and slipped my arms around his neck. "You're upset about this too."
He squiggled out of my grasp, slurped his pink tongue up the side of my face, and scampered toward the hedge. It doesn't take too long to make everything all better for a dog.
Ron's car sat at the curb; he was just making his way up the front walk.
"We're over here," I called out.
He crossed the battered lawn and took me into a giant bear hug, released me, and shook hands with Drake. He looked like he'd probably awakened as early as we did. His shirt wasn't tucked in and his hair
stuck out in little tufts around the edge of his hat, like he'd stuck the Stetson on without combing his hair first.
"Have you been inside yet?" he asked.
We briefed him on what we'd found.
"I'd like to take a look before the other investigators get here," he said. "You have any ideas on what started it?"
Truthfully, I hadn't even gotten that far.
"The blueprints! Oh, God, what happened to them?" My mind searched frantically. I'd come from Elsa's with them in hand, put Rusty in the Jeep, then went to get my car keys. Where were the plans?
Drake and Ron were staring at me like I'd started speaking Japanese.
"There were some blueprints," I explained. "I found them among Dad's papers and I was about to come to the office and show them to you, Ron." My eyes darted around, trying to get my brain to engage. "I never made it into the house—that's when I discovered the fire."
I retraced my steps from the previous afternoon, looking on the ground around trees and shrubs. When I got to the Jeep, where I'd put Rusty when the fire broke out, I spotted them on the dash. I must've tossed them there when I opened the car door and completely forgotten them all night. I hugged them to my chest.
What if someone had set the fire, hoping to destroy these? The thought overtook me like an avalanche.
Chapter 29
Numbness can only last so long and then a person has to move into action. The four of us sat around Elsa's kitchen table, where she'd fixed us a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, while Rusty waited expectantly to catch whatever morsels might fall his way.
"So, what do you think they mean?" I asked. I'd briefed Ron and Drake on my find, and we now had the plans spread out on the table.
"Well, it's obviously part of the plan for that fancy missile system they were working on at the time," Ron observed. "But it certainly isn't all of it."
"I'd guess that this is a portion of the guidance system," Drake offered. "From what I remember of my Navy experience in ordnance, it looks like this first page shows the guidance system for the missile, then the second page is the detailed schematic for one of the phases. See how this section," he indicated the plan on page two, "would fit right here." He flipped the large pages back to page one and indicated where the other section would go.
We all stretched to see what he meant. Ron nodded, "I think you're right."
"Well, it really doesn't matter what it is at this point, does it?" I said. "I mean, whatever it is, the real question is why did Dad hide these in the bottom of a box of personal stuff, and why are they important enough to someone today to kill for?"
"Yeah," Ron agreed, "it has been fifteen years since the plane crash. The cold war is over. The Soviets are no more."
"It makes sense that someone within Sandia might have wanted to sell the technology to the enemy, but that reason certainly isn't valid today. And why would Dad have these?" I asked.
Unless Larry Sanchez's dying words were literally true. That my father was a spy. I told the group that I'd only picked up that little tidbit yesterday.
"No way!" Ron exploded. "I can't remember meeting anyone, anyplace, who was more straight-forward and honest than Dad. I mean, I was twenty-one at the time he died and I can remember him getting after me for fudging a job application. I'd come by the house here on my way to an interview and he saw the application laying on the table. Chewed my butt for listing my job experience as more than what I really had.
"Does that sound to you like the same guy would then turn around and sell his country's secrets? No way."
"Well, maybe Larry meant to say that Dad knew who the spy people were," I suggested. For some reason I felt defensive of Larry Sanchez too.
"Whatever." Ron said it grudgingly. "Either way, like you said earlier, how can all this matter now?"
"Right. There's someone around today who very much wants all this to stay buried. Someone who thought they were safe once that plane went down in the mountains."
"Probably thought the plans were on board with Dad," Ron added. "And his little notebook—normally it would have been with him."
"And the trouble started when I found the notebook and began asking questions about the notes in there." I thought of the little leather-bound book, which I'd already verified was still tucked safely away in my purse. If an arsonist truly had come into the house yesterday and set the fire, he was within a few feet of the notebook. If he'd only taken the time to look. A chill crept up my arms.
Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to slip into place. Whoever had broken into the house the first time had taken my little spiral notebook. Maybe they knew it was mine and were hoping I'd made notes about my investigation. Then again, maybe they'd been told to look for a little notebook and they thought they were getting Dad's. If the thief was not a Sandia employee, but had been hired by one, he wouldn't know exactly what he was looking for. He may have decided the fire was the way to wipe out all the evidence at once, without having to come back and search for little pieces here and there. My mind spun with the implications and variations.
"Well, on to more practical matters," Drake interrupted. "We have to figure out where we'll be living for awhile now, and unless we plan to wear these same clothes forever, I'd say we have some shopping to do."
I rested my forehead on the palm of my hand. I didn't even want to think about it.
"Remember, I have that film job lined up for tomorrow and I may be out late," Drake said, "so it seems like we're going to have to address this pretty soon."
He was right. All the talking and speculating wasn't solving the case and it wasn't getting our personal situation resolved either.
"Let me put in a call to the insurance company. And I wish I knew when the fire investigator will come. I'd like to be here to see what they find out," I said.
"You can plan on staying here," Elsa piped up. She'd been so quiet, I'd practically forgotten her presence. I hoped we weren't endangering her by saying too much.
"Oh, Gram, that's a wonderful offer," I said, "but it could be months. I have no idea how long it will be before we can be back in our house."
"That's all right," she said readily. "You know I can stand a lot of you."
It was true that she'd taken me in for three years after my parent's deaths, but that stay hadn't included a large dog and my lover. Having three of us around for several months might be pushing the envelope. And our love life might not include much spark when staying in the room next to my almost-grandmother. Not to mention that our mere presence might put her life on the line.
"Let's all think about it," I suggested. "There might be a way that would be less disruptive to your life."
Twenty minutes later, I'd secured an appointment with the insurance adjuster for three p.m., a locksmith and a carpenter would be there sometime during the day to board up and make the place secure, and I'd attempted to brush through my long hair with the pocket-sized hairbrush from my purse. If I didn't get hold of a toothbrush soon, things would become desperate.
We opted to leave my Jeep in the driveway and take Drake's truck for a shopping trip. Rusty would stay at Elsa's, although the look he gave me clearly indicated that he didn't want to be left behind.
A quick stop at Osco netted us basic toiletries and I made use of the toothbrush and toothpaste in their ladies' room before I even paid for them. At the mall, we went our separate ways for wardrobes. Looking through the racks, I came upon items that would remind me of a favorite sweater or blouse that were now gone and a flash of sadness would hit me. However, fashion slave that I'm not, two hours later I had enough basic items of clothing to get through a few days. I met Drake, as planned, at the fountain in the center of the mall and we settled in at Chelsea Street Pub for a late lunch.
A margarita helped lighten my mood, and things were going well until we pulled into our driveway to find two vehicles parked out front with the fire department's logo and the words Arson Investigation Unit.
Chapter 30
&n
bsp; We'd no sooner stepped out of the truck than a third car cruised slowly by, U-turning at the end of the block, and coming to a stop behind us, blocking our driveway.
"I'll go check out the guys inside," Drake volunteered. "This new one must be your insurance adjuster."
I waited beside the truck while the man gathered his tools—a metal clipboard with a cover and a stack of forms. He had red-blonde hair generously sprinkled with gray, sparse on top, and a matching beard. His gray pinstripe suit had seen a long day, with wrinkles in the pants, light smudges at the knees, and a tomatoey-looking food stain on the pale yellow tie. He introduced himself as Don Cannon.
His handshake was firm but distracted, like he just wanted to get this over with so he could settle into his sweats and a ball game. Much the same way I was feeling right about now.
His handy clipboard already appeared to contain my policy information, so we didn't have to cover any of the basics. I led him through the front door and he began rapidly making notes, starting with the notation that the front door and frame would have to be replaced.
"Let's start with the little stuff and move on to the worst of it later," he suggested.
I took him to the kitchen and dining room, where the costs involved would be mainly for cleanup.
"The worst damage is to the bedrooms and baths," I told him. "They're pretty much destroyed."
"How did the fire start?" he queried.
"I don't know. I wasn't home at the time."
He raised a reddish eyebrow and wrote that down.
"Since the damage was in the bedroom areas, I'm assuming there were some valuables destroyed," he said. "I'll need receipts and appraisals for any jewelry, furs, guns, computers, etcetera."
Receipts? Those little scraps of paper that were probably in the drawers of the desk that was now burned to a crisp? Great. I could see my life becoming instantly complicated.
Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 17