by Laura Alden
“What secret room?”
“Whichever one is most secret.” She rolled her eyes at my skeptical expression. “You think they don’t have secret rooms there?”
I let it go and asked about the rest of her day-care kids. Her subsequent description of two sick children that had been sent home contained way more information about stomach contents than I wanted to know, but it did explain why she was relatively footloose and fancy-free. Except . . .
“You should have called to make sure it was all right with me to bring Jenna and Oliver here. Did you—” I gestured at the boy next to her. Noah was clutching her hand fiercely, and I couldn’t make out whether his facial expression was one of awe or one of terror.
“Of course I did. And I tried to call you, my sweet, but there was no answer at the store, and all I got on your cell phone was an invitation to leave a message. Naturally, I assumed that you were being held prisoner by terrorists who would come after your children next, so I brought them to safety.” She beamed.
I wondered if she’d made up that story on the spur of the moment or if she’d been saving it for the appropriate occasion.
“Hey.” Marina scanned the crowd, which was now even larger. “Where’s the new guy? What’s his name, the one opened that Midwest store.”
“Lou Spezza.”
“Right. Why isn’t he here? Everyone else is.”
I looked around. If there was any business being done in Rynwood this afternoon, it wasn’t downtown. All the business owners, staff, and customers were watching the fire. The afternoon was pleasantly warm, and I had a sudden image of the citizens of Gettysburg watching the battle. Which led me to think of casualties and soldiers and generals and the effects of heat on men in heavy fire-retardant coats.
“Jenna,” I said suddenly. “I’d like you and Oliver to go get some bottled water from Mr. Jarvis’s store. As much as you can carry.” I dug into my purse. “Here’s some money. And buy some of those protein bars, too.”
She took the bills. “Can I get some potato chips?”
“One small bag. Oliver, you can get one thing, too. Everything else is for the people fighting the fire.”
“Come on, Oliver,” Jenna said. “Let’s go.”
But Oliver didn’t move. He stood still as ice, staring at the fire.
“Oliver?” Jenna asked.
I smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. Only a few months ago, that gesture had me lifting my hand only a little above my waist. Now I was beginning to think that Oliver would end up taller than my six-foot brother. “I think we might have another budding firefighter in our midst. Marina . . . ?”
She saluted. “No need to fear when Marina’s here, Cap’n. I’ll take good care of him.”
Jenna and I hurried down to Randy’s store. He was outside, leaning against a gas pump, looking disinclined to move. Once I explained what I wanted, he pushed himself off and came inside.
We hauled three shrink-wrapped packages of bottled water, a pile of protein bars, chips for Jenna and a brownie for Oliver to the counter, but when we tried to hand over cash, Randy wouldn’t take it. “No, no. It wouldn’t be right to take your money.”
“These are for my children.” I pushed the chips and brownie aside. “At least let me pay for those.”
He put the bars and the kids’ treats into a plastic bag. “Your kids are good kids. I’ll treat them just this once. But don’t say anything to anyone, okay?” He winked at Jenna.
Before I even had to prompt her, she smiled and said, “Thanks, Mr. Jarvis. I won’t tell, I promise!”
“Thanks, Randy.” I hefted two of the packages of water and the bag of snacks. “I’ll be sure to let everybody know that you donated these.”
He waved us off, and my daughter and I, laden with the supplies, staggered back down the street. When we reached Marina and the two boys, I told Jenna to stay there and slowly went forward until I was within earshot of Gus.
“Chief!” I called. Which wasn’t the smartest way to call for Gus, because both he and the fire chief turned. I hefted the water. “Fresh from Randy’s store. A donation.”
Gus came over. “Bless you, Beth. You know the fire chief, right? Beth Kennedy, Dave Lindholm. Dave, Beth.” The fire chief was cut from the same cloth as Gus: short-cropped hair that may or may not have been gray and weathered features that could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old.
We made mutual nice-to-meet-you nods and Gus said, “Here, let me take this.” He relieved me of the water. “The bag, too? What’s in . . . oh, the good ones with the chocolate-chip bits inside.” He grinned. “Do I have to share these with his guys?” He tipped his head at the fire chief.
“Yes,” Dave said. “You do. Either that, or—” The radio attached to the shoulder of his shirt squawked. He bent his head toward it. “Go ahead.”
“Better call him in,” the voice said.
Dave nodded. “I figured. Thanks, Gary.”
The muscles on Gus’s face went still. “Is that what I think it means?” he asked.
“Yes.” Dave turned to face the ruins of Dennis Halpern’s office, burned down now to short blackened walls. “There’s a good chance this was arson.”
Chapter 10
The next morning, I was in Oliver’s room, making sure he had everything he needed for the upcoming weekend visit with his father, when the phone rang. I trotted down the hall into my bedroom and picked up the cordless phone as the fourth ring started up.
My slightly breathless “Hello?” was answered by “Hey, Beth. Gus here. Can you stop by the station this morning?”
“Stop by?” All my actions from the previous eighteen hours flashed before my eyes. Had I been distracted while driving and accidentally gone over the speed limit? Run a stop sign? Maybe bringing food and drink to working firefighters was against some health code. Or . . .
“And, no, you haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “Unless you’d like to confess to something.”
“A perennial guilty conscience, that’s all.”
“Join the club.”
I hung up the phone, wondering what it was he wanted.
“Mom?” Jenna stood in the doorway. She looked over her shoulder, then came into my room and shut the door behind her. “What’s the matter with Oliver?” she asked, sitting on the edge of my bed. “He won’t play any games or laugh or anything.”
When she was younger and had a question or a problem or needed comforting, she’d curled up in the middle of the bed, wrapped up in the shaggy blanket she’d dragged out of her bedroom. When she was a little older, she’d sat with her back against the footboard, legs straight out, our feet touching. Now she sat on the edge. I supposed it was a natural progression, but there was a tug at my heart whenever she did it. How long before she didn’t sit at all? How long before she didn’t talk to me?
I sat next to her. She leaned against my shoulder, so I put my arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m not sure, sweetheart. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he doesn’t talk back.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We sat quietly for a moment. Now would have been a good time to tell her that adults don’t always have the answers, that growing bigger just means you have bigger problems, and that not even moms always know the right thing to do.
Instead, I kissed her again. “I’ll ask your father to talk to Oliver.”
She nodded. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” But she didn’t sound convinced. And for good reason. Richard was many things—smart, financially successful, able to speak in front of large audiences without breaking a sweat—but he scored slightly below average when it came to extracting confidences from his children.
I felt another tug. Evan would have been a good person for Oliver to confide in. I could just picture the two of them, their heads together over some project, Evan asking gentle yet probing questions, Oliver replying in short sentences that grew longer and longer, until eventually the dam broke and he told all.
/> I sighed. Had I done the right thing in breaking things off with Evan? At the time I’d been sure it was, but now . . . now . . .
“Time to get going.” I gave Jenna a hug and passed on the chance to tell her that being an adult can mean questioning your decisions months and years after they’d been made.
• • •
“Thanks for coming in, Beth.” Gus pushed his rolling chair back and propped his feet on the edge of a drawer.
I perched on the front edge of one of his two guest chairs. The last time I was in, they’d been a scratched-up wooden variety with brass-tipped legs and flat arms. This time they were ladder-back chairs with rattan seats and plaid cushions. Comfortable enough, but I wasn’t sure they belonged in the office of a police chief. “Where did Winnie find these?”
Gus’s wife was the uncrowned queen of garage sales. Once I’d asked her how she’d managed to find a gorgeous coffee table at the garage sale where I’d seen only infant clothing and plastic dishes. She’d laughed and said garage salers weren’t made; they were born.
Gus glanced at the chairs. “Someplace way east of town. I want the other ones back, but she says she wants to refinish them.”
He sounded a little irked, so I made a soothing remark about Winnie’s refinishing expertise, about how when she finished, the chairs would look brand-new and ready to go for another fifty years of service.
“Yeah, she’s pretty good, isn’t she?” He smiled contentedly, then chuckled. “And that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“About furniture?”
“About your instincts for people.”
I looked at him. “Instinctively, I know that you’re trying to flatter me so I agree to do whatever it is you want me to do.”
“See, you can read people like they’re open books.”
“Only if the print is large. And pictures help a lot.”
Gus looked at me, no humor in his face. Apparently, he didn’t think I was as funny as I did. “Last night the investigator called me. The fire was confirmed as arson.”
For a second, there was no air in the room to breathe. I’d spent the rest of yesterday afternoon and all of the evening trying to convince myself that an arson investigator was always called in when there was a fire. Due diligence and all that, just doing my job, sir. But to know for a fact that someone had intentionally burned a building, that someone had purposefully lit a match and set a structure ablaze . . .
Gus went on. “A cursory inspection indicates a slow accelerant. The fire had probably been started Wednesday night and took until the next afternoon to flare up hot.”
And had whoever set the fire had been watching? Waiting? Hoping? I shivered.
“You read people,” Gus said. “You watch and you listen and you make those sudden mental leaps that bring results.”
“I . . .” I didn’t know what to say.
He dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight. “There’s a firebug in our town. Maybe it has something to do with Halpern’s murder, maybe it doesn’t. Don’t do anything, but listen for me, will you, Beth? Watch. We need to get this guy. Anything you think might be helpful probably will be. Can I count on you?”
Gus was asking me for help. Pleading, really, in a very chief of police sort of way. What choice did I have?
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll do what I can.”
• • •
Friday mornings at the store were typically the second busiest morning of the week. Saturdays were the hands-down winner, but Fridays ran a close second. Why, I didn’t know, I just knew it was true.
So between the elderly customers wanting to find the perfect books for their grandchildren and to whom I was happy to sell armloads of Paddington Bear books (stuffed animal separate but often a happy accessory), the homeschooling mothers with kids in tow looking for books that explained chemistry in a way that wasn’t deadly dull, the callers checking on special orders, and the occasional wanderer-in, I didn’t have time to think about Gus and his request until almost lunchtime.
Lois heaved a monstrous sigh. “If only Sara were here.”
I looked at her. “Sara never worked on Fridays.”
“Yes, but if she had, if she did”—Lois shot me an evil glare—“my feet wouldn’t hurt so much.”
“Or, how about this?” I asked. “You could wear shoes that didn’t hurt your feet.”
From across the room, we heard Yvonne giggle. “No comments from the peanut gallery,” Lois called. Yvonne’s giggle subsided into quiet snorts.
I’d found it hard not to giggle myself. Today Lois had chosen to wear a bright pink skirt and paisley pinkish blouse. Both of which were fine, if you liked polyester, but the shoes she’d found to match the skirt were satin with a small rhinestone heart clipped on the front. The heels were tall and spiked and not made for a day of retail.
“Where did you get those, anyway?” I asked.
“Back of my closet.” She hitched herself up onto the counter and turned her feet this way and that. “Far, far in the back. They still look pretty good, don’t they? I always knew I’d get another wear out of them,” she said with smug satisfaction. “Just think of it. The shoes my sister made me wear to her wedding lasted longer than the marriage did. Say, have you heard what I heard about your PTA having a curse on it?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I’ll be in my office. Give me a yell if it gets busy.”
“Mmm.” Lois was still admiring her shoes, but Yvonne gave me a nod, so I headed to the back. “Let me know when it’s time for you to go to lunch,” I said. “I’ll come up front.”
I sat in my creaky chair, wondered if I could commission Winnie to find me a cheap, uncreaky version, pushed around a pile of catalogs, moved a pile of packing lists, moved them back. Looked at the stack of invoices. Looked away. Clicked the computer’s mouse and saw that there were twenty-three e-mails to read.
Bleah.
The whole town thought the Tarver PTA had a curse on it.
Double bleah.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
Prioritize. What needs to get done first? What matters most? Separate the superficially urgent from the truly important. Think, Beth, think . . .
Gus had said to trust my instincts. Or at least that’s what he had implied. And right now my instincts were insisting that I was missing something crucial. Par for the course, since it often took days of finger-snapping forgetfulness for me to remember to pick up a new bag of cat litter, but as bloodcurdling as the annoyance of a cat could be, it came up short next to arson. And far below murder.
The other day I’d shied away from something. It had been when I was looking at Halpern and Company’s website.
It was time to face what I’d closed my eyes to. I fired up my computer’s browser and got to work.
• • •
When I sat back from the computer screen, my back ached, my neck had a crick in it, and my stomach was shouting for attention.
I glanced at my watch. “Two o’clock?” I jumped to my feet and hurried out to find Yvonne helping a pair of customers and Lois unconcernedly rearranging the front window display.
“What happened to lunch?” I asked. “You were supposed to call me.”
She shrugged. “You had that I’m-too-focused-to-hear-you look on your face, so we left you alone. And it hasn’t been that busy since this morning. What were you doing, anyway?”
Um. “Research.” Gus hadn’t said to keep my observations to myself, but if I told Lois what I’d found, half the town could know by the end of the day, and that didn’t sound like a good idea. “Finances.”
“Finances,” Lois said flatly.
“Sure.” I cast about for something to say that she might believe. “Did you know that Albert Einstein said that the most powerful force in the universe is compound interest?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Benjamin Franklin said that an investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.”
“Good old Ben.” She smiled and shook her head. “How could a man who was so smart about so many things be so stupid about women?”
The sidebar quotes on Halpern’s pages had saved the day. “Men,” I agreed. “I’m going down to the Green Tractor to get a salad. Do you or Yvonne want anything?”
Safe and out on the sidewalk, I thought about the financial lectures I’d just sped through. Sped, because I’d turned the sound off. I hadn’t been trying to gain financial knowledge, what I’d wanted to see was the people attending the lectures.
Because whoever set that fire might have killed Dennis. And maybe, just maybe, the killer had attended Dennis’s lecture series.
Chapter 11
I stood in the small space, shivering inside my underwear. The rest of my clothes had disappeared and I could only hope that new ones would appear soon. I risked a glance down at my legs. Dimply, lumpy, and pasty white. I averted my eyes. Quickly.
What is it about women that we’re hardest on ourselves when we’re at our most vulnerable? Why can’t we be proud of the mileage on our bodies? Why, when mostly naked and exposed to harsh overhead lights that must have been designed to highlight our flaws, do we insist on a critical self-assessment?
“Here you go,” Marina called. There was a thump, and an armful of clothes appeared over the top of the dressing room door and started slithering toward the floor.
I half dove to catch them. “Men don’t even try on clothes,” I said, hanging Marina’s selections on a hook. “Why do we have to?”
“Because we care how we look and they don’t.”
“That makes men sound smart,” I muttered.
“What?”
“I said this outfit looks smart.”
“Which one?”
There were three. I rapidly sorted through the selections and chose the least of the multiple evils. The first was a leopard-print blouse and skinny white jeans. I barely even looked at that one. White jeans? How could she possibly think that someone who ran a bookstore could wear white jeans without getting them filthy by midmorning?