by Gayle Wilson
It took a fraction of a second too long for Cade to realize that his deputy meant the information about the lack of footprints. That would be bad news, he knew. Blythe had been convinced someone was standing here watching her house burn.
And waiting while her daughter ran toward him.
“Let me know if you find anything,” he called after the departing deputy, who was making his way toward his patrol car.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Deliberately ignoring Blythe’s approach, Cade watched as Doug folded his lanky frame into the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the deputy’s suggestion that he was attracted to her. More likely it was the reality of that—something he had just been forced to acknowledge. For whatever reason, Cade found he wasn’t prepared to deal with the reality of her right now.
“Sheriff Jackson?”
There weren’t many people in Crenshaw who called Cade by his title. Or by his last name, for that matter. When you’d grown up in a town this size, no matter what you achieved in life or how far you traveled before you came home, you were always going to be known by your first name.
“Ms. Wyndham,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
She continued to walk toward him, but her eyes had followed the gesture before they came back to his. Her cheeks were reddened by the cold, giving her skin a flush of color it hadn’t had last night. He would bet that, as fair as she was, any change in temperature or the slightest exertion would cause that same heightened color.
“Did you find his prints back there?” Her gaze swept the line of trees behind him. When he didn’t answer, it focused again on his face. “You didn’t, did you?”
Underlying her obvious disappointment was something Cade couldn’t quite read. Anticipation that he hadn’t believed her?
“The ground’s covered with dead leaves and pine straw. We’re going to take casts of a few areas, just to see what turns up, but as of right now—”
“You haven’t found anything.”
“Nothing conclusive. You hear anybody outside last night?”
“Before the fire?” She shook her head, her eyes again examining the trees. “We were both asleep. Probably more soundly than I would have been otherwise.”
“Ma’am?”
She looked at him, her blue eyes seeming to evaluate whether or not she could trust him. Apparently he passed whatever standard she’d applied.
“Maddie hasn’t slept well since we’ve been here. At first I thought it was just the move. The unfamiliarity of the house. But the longer we lived here, the worse they got.”
“They?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before she answered. “Night terrors. Those are very severe nightmares, by the way,” she explained when he didn’t respond. “And they look exactly like what the name implies.”
An instinct developed by the ten years he’d spent in this job kicked in. There was something else going on here, something she wasn’t telling him. He could feel it in his gut.
Her little girl looked too young and innocent to have set this fire, but troubled kids could be amazingly precocious. And damn devious. Devious enough that not even their parents suspected what was going on. Not until it was too late.
“She’s had a pretty tough year,” he said aloud.
Blythe nodded. “I told myself that. The psychologist I took her to said the same thing. And maybe if those were all—”
She stopped, looking like a suspect who’d realized she’d said too much. When that happened, nobody could take back the words that had let the cat out of the bag. Neither could she.
“There’s something else? Something besides the nightmares?”
She shook her head. Her lips had tightened, as if she were determined not to let herself say anything more.
That was one of those involuntary physiological reactions that were almost impossible to control, which meant there was definitely something else. And if it had anything to do with what had happened here last night, letting her get away with guarding a secret was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
“Ms. Wyndham, it’s going to be impossible for me to get to the bottom of this if you keep things from me.”
The color he’d noticed along her cheekbones deepened. Her mouth flattened even more before she opened it again. “I’ve heard noises.”
Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. And he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “What kind of noises? Somebody prowling around outside? Trying to break in?”
“If they’re trying to break in—” she began, and then once more stopped herself.
“Ma’am?”
“Please stop calling me that. My name is Blythe.”
He couldn’t tell whether she was annoyed because she no longer considered herself to be part of the regional tradition that demanded he use that form of address. Or annoyed because she thought he ought to remember her and believed he didn’t. Whichever it was, how he referred to her wasn’t the issue on the table right now, so he ignored her objection.
“If they’re trying to get in?” he repeated.
She shook her head, her eyes focusing again on the woods behind him. When she turned to look at him, her chin went up fractionally, as if she were daring him not to believe her.
“There’s a tapping. On an upstairs window in Maddie’s room.”
Again, not what he’d been expecting. “A window on the second floor?”
“Actually the window we climbed out of last night. The one above the addition. The screened porch. What was the screened porch,” she corrected. “And before you say anything, I checked for branches. A loose shutter. For anything that could be in a position to hit the glass. Believe me, there was literally nothing up there that was close enough to touch it.”
“Then…what do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. The first few times I heard it, I assumed it was one of the things I just mentioned. The last time, it was storming. I was carrying a flashlight because I was afraid the power might go out. I heard the tapping from downstairs and then again after I got to Maddie’s bedroom. It had grown louder, but when I looked out the window—”
This time he waited through the pause, recognizing that whatever she was about to tell him now was at the heart of her reluctance. Was that when she’d seen the figure in the woods, rather than last night? Or maybe there had never been anyone in the woods. Maybe she had gotten so spooked living out here by herself—
“When I looked out, there was nothing there,” she finished softly, interrupting his speculation. “I could hear the sound. It was right in front of me. I could even see the glass tremble, so I should have been able to see whatever was striking it, but…” She shook her head, her eyes not focused on anything in the present. “Even when I shined the light on that particular pane, there was nothing out there.”
“Are you saying…?” He stopped, unsure what she was saying.
“I’m saying that on more than one occasion I heard a tapping on one of the windows in my daughter’s bedroom when there was nothing there to cause it.”
“Nothing you saw,” he corrected gently.
“I’m not crazy. And I don’t believe in ghosts. At least…” She hesitated, seeming to gather her composure. “Look, I know how this sounds. Believe me, I’ve told myself everything you’re thinking right now. But there was nothing out there. No trees. No shutters. No animal.”
“And you’re sure the noise wasn’t coming from the attic—”
“Squirrels in the attic,” she said with a laugh. “Or bats. No, Sheriff Jackson, whatever I heard wasn’t in the attic. It was right outside—”
“Cade.”
“I’m sorry?” She seemed genuinely confused by the interruption.
Why shouldn’t she be? He was. What the hell did he think he was doing?
“You asked me to call you Blythe. I thought I’d return the request.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She shook her head again, apparently in disbelief
this time. “I’m sorry?”
He was making a fool of himself. Whatever had happened out here, she clearly believed something strange had been going on. And it was his job to get to the bottom of whatever it was, even if that turned out to be nothing more than an overactive imagination.
“What do you think it was?” he asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“I don’t know. Maybe whatever sets off Maddie’s terrors. Something…Something I can’t explain.”
“And that’s what you were trying to do when you came to the office. To find out why there might be something…strange about this house.”
“If you’d seen my daughter as I have, paralyzed with fear, screaming hysterically night after night, you’d pursue any avenue to try to get to the bottom of what was going on. Even one as ridiculous as that.”
“As ridiculous as thinking the house might be haunted?”
“I did. At least I was beginning to. Enough to try to investigate the possibility anyway.”
“And?” Maybe the past tense she’d switched to was related to the fire, but maybe there was something else that changed her mind.
“Doc Etheridge says there’s no reason to believe the Wrights aren’t resting easy in their graves. Neither of them suffered a violent death. And according to him, neither passed away inside the house.” She turned, looking toward the ruin. “I suppose whatever was going on out here is academic now.”
If she’d imagined a tapping on her daughter’s window, maybe she’d also imagined the figure in the woods. As of yet, there was no physical evidence to prove its existence. And with what she’d just told him—
“By the way,” she said, “I had hoped there might be a little more professionalism in your department.”
“What does that mean?”
“The kid at the front desk that day…Would his last name be Spencer?”
“Jerrod? What about him?”
“His mother informed the Women’s Aid Society that you’d given me permission to review the files of Sarah Comstock’s murder. According to her and Ada Pringle, I’m planning to write an exposé about the case. Of course, in order to do that, I’ll have to solve it first. I can’t help wondering if that possibility might be making someone nervous.”
“The possibility of you solving the Comstock murder?”
Cade hadn’t meant that to sound mocking. He just wasn’t sure where this was going. All he knew for certain was that he’d have Jerrod’s hide as soon as he got back to the office.
“Yeah, that took me by surprise, too,” she said, laughing again. “But still…I can’t help but wonder if it might have something to do with this.” She turned to look at the burned-out shell of the house.
For a long moment neither of them said anything. Cade was trying to process what she’d just suggested. To examine the idea from a law-enforcement standpoint. Motive? Or more small-town gossip?
“You will let me know what the fire marshal says.”
Her eyes had returned to his face, he realized. No longer focused on what had once been her home.
“As soon as we know something, I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be at my grandmother’s.” She remembered as soon as she said it that he would know that since he was the one who’d taken her there. Her cheeks colored again. “For the time being.”
“You’re thinking about looking for another place?”
There wasn’t much rental property in town. Or near it. None Cade believed she would be willing to live in. Still, he could put out the word that she was in the market.
“Actually, I’m thinking about going back to Boston.”
He wasn’t surprised. Although she’d grown up here, she had obviously forgotten what small-town life was like. Or wanted to forget.
“Is that where you lived before?”
She nodded. “This hasn’t quite worked out like I anticipated.”
“Your grandmother will be happy to have you as long as you need to stay. You know that.”
“I know. Until I can figure out what to do, you know where to reach me.” She looked again the still-smoking pile of rubble before she turned and started back toward Miz Ruth’s big car, her hands in the pockets of her jacket and her eyes on the ground in front of her.
Whatever pleasant memories Blythe Wyndham had once had of Crenshaw, they’d been replaced by strange sounds in the night, shadowy figures and a fire that might or might not have been arson. It wasn’t as if anyone could blame her if she wanted to cut her losses and run away, but Cade found himself hoping like hell that she wouldn’t.
11
“N ot much doubt about it. Signs of accelerant use are clear, particularly in this area.”
The investigator from the fire marshal’s office pivoted on the balls of his feet to look up at Cade. The guy had been squatting over an area of the burned-out shell that Cade believed, based on his knowledge of other homes from this era in the area, had been either the living or dining room.
“Probably broke a window and then tossed the stuff on whatever was in here,” the investigator went on. “Doesn’t look like there was much furniture in the room.”
“I doubt this family had much.”
“Well, they got less now. Once he got the fire started, wooden structure like this, it would have gone up in a matter of minutes. You say everybody got out?”
“A mother and her four-year-old daughter. They crawled out a second-story window and onto the roof of the addition.”
“Maybe the door was closed down here. That might have contained the fire long enough for them to hear the alarm and get out. Dodged a bullet, if you ask me.”
“So if whoever set this knew there were people inside…”
“If he knew, he wasn’t worried about whether or not they got out.”
Or didn’t intend for them to. Given the scenario the inspector had laid out, the fact that Blythe and her daughter had escaped seemed almost a miracle. And gave credibility to her claim that she’d seen someone watching the house burn.
“What’s the chance he’d hang around to see what happened?”
“Excellent to one hundred percent,” the inspector said, pushing to his feet. “What’s the fun of setting something off if you don’t get to see it go up?”
“The woman who lives here claims someone was standing at the edge of the woods in the back.”
“Should be a great view of the house from there. She’s probably right.”
Cade felt like a bastard for having doubted her. And it made him wonder how much of the other things Blythe had said he should take seriously.
“You think he might have been hanging around before? Watching the family, maybe from those same woods? Doing little things to frighten them?”
“An arsonist doesn’t get off watching people. Or frightening them. He gets his jollies watching stuff burn. If this guy’s getting them from something else, that’s your area of expertise more than mine. Wouldn’t take a genius to do what he did here. All it would take is a general lack of concern about being caught and a total lack of concern about whoever was inside the house going up with it.”
“What if that’s what he wanted? What if seeing the house burn was secondary?”
“Then, like I said, what you’ve got on your hands, Sheriff Jackson, isn’t arson. It’s attempted murder.”
“Could have been somebody from the high school out parking. I’m not saying that what we got is conclusive, but as much as me and Phillip could follow them, those tracks led into the woods and in the direction of the Wright place.”
“You cast ’em?”
“Tire tracks and prints. Like I said, though—”
“I heard what you said. Go on back over to the Wright house and see what you can find there.”
“You got it.”
Doug’s distaste for the job he’d been given had apparently been erased by the possibility that the tracks they’d found on the road behind the woods might be important. He was more than wi
lling now to try to find matching prints at the house.
“And keep everybody away from there until you get through.”
“I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
The comment reminded Cade that he had promised to let Blythe know what the investigator had discovered. That was something he wasn’t looking forward to, despite the fact it vindicated her impression of last night.
There had been a note in her voice when she’d talked about leaving Crenshaw that had let him know she was on the edge of despair. Even though the information he needed to give her would validate what she thought she’d seen, it couldn’t possibly be construed as good news.
He flipped open the case of his cell and realized he didn’t have Miz Ruth’s number. He could call information or he could backtrack a couple of miles and go by the Mitchell house. Considering the nature of the information he had to convey, it would undoubtedly be better delivered in person.
Maybe there were other things that had happened before the fire that Blythe hadn’t thought to tell him. Something besides the noises and the nightmares.
He hadn’t asked if she’d seen anybody hanging around the place or noticed anyone in town acting strangely. Women were usually intuitive. She might have some idea who felt strongly enough about her—
To burn her house down over her head? To risk her life and the life of her daughter?
Any way he cut it, this was an act that went beyond arson. That was simply a place to start.
Delores answered the door, ushering him in as if he were an expected guest. “Miz Blythe’s in the kitchen with her grandmother. You come on back, Mr. Cade, and I’ll cut you a piece of cake. Make some fresh coffee to go with it, unless you’d favor some sweet milk.”
“Nothing thanks, Delores. Do you think you could ask Ms. Wyndham to come out here?”
“Something you don’t want Miz Ruth to hear?”
“It might be easier.”
“Lord, I swear I don’t know how much more that child can bear.” Delores’s words floated back to him as she made her way down the dark hall toward the back of the house.