by Jeff Shelby
“That's very kind. Thank you.”
He nodded, but something flickered through his eyes for a moment. He cleared his throat. “So…was it a body?”
“Excuse me?”
“A body. That they found on your property?”
I thought about ignoring the question, but realized that if Walter was in the gossip circuit, he might actually put out the truth if I gave it to him. “It wasn't a body in the way that you'd normally think of it. It was more like bones that had been there for a very long time.”
He rubbed his chin and nodded. “Interesting. Did Sheriff Lewis have any idea who it might be?”
“None,” I said, not adding the fact that the sheriff had barely recognized them as bones. I decided to offer up my own theory, the one that had just hit me while sitting in his office. “Maybe it was the man you were talking about? The man who disappeared?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Eh, I doubt it. The last I heard, someone saw him down south. He did always have a fondness for Texas. Always wanted to be a cowboy, I heard. Who knows?” He thought hard for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Len might know something, though.”
“Mr. Konrath?” It was the second time his name had been brought up that day.
“Yep. He lived there an awfully long time,” he said. “Decades. He might have an explanation if the sheriff doesn’t have any other ideas.”
After witnessing Sheriff Lewis and his investigation methods, I was fairly certain he’d be coming up empty-handed in that department.
ELEVEN
I was hungry for lunch.
I walked out of the bank and shielded my eyes from the midday sun. My stomach growled. I scanned the street and spied the restaurant I’d seen earlier named The Wicked Wich. I trusted that the “t” hadn’t been left off in error and that I wouldn't run into any flying monkeys if I crossed the road and went in to grab a bite to eat.
The interior was more bar than restaurant, with a long, dark bar to my right and an array of similar colored tables and chairs to my left. The tap handles lined up like a row of soldiers behind the bar. Neon beer signs hung on the walls and a small, flattop grill sizzled at the far end of the bar. A kid with a baseball hat on backward was flipping burgers with precision and enthusiasm. The smell of grease permeated the air and my stomach growled again.
A woman about my age with short, strawberry blonde hair and a towel slung over her shoulder made her way down the bar to me as I slid onto one of the cracked leather stools. She wore a black T-shirt emblazoned with the tavern's name along with a wary smile.
“Something to drink?” she asked.
“Diet whatever,” I said.
She slid a plastic menu onto the bar in front of me, grabbed the soda gun and filled a glass with ice and diet whatever. She set the glass on a coaster next to the menu.
“Any recommendations?” I asked as I scanned the menu.
“The burgers and sandwiches are good, the salads are not. I'd recommend the fries over the cole slaw, and Mikey's cooked up a special burger this week with peanut butter and jalapenos. I'll give you a minute or two.” She walked back down the bar, to guys in jeans and T-shirts who were pointing at the TV on the wall.
I looked around. The tables were maybe a quarter full, the food covering the tabletops served in green baskets and accompanied by paper napkins. People were chatting amiably over the low din of classic rock piping out of an invisible sound system. It was the classic neighborhood bar and grill come to life, and for one small moment, I felt as though I’d been transported into a sitcom. This was the kind of thing I'd been hoping to find when I'd been looking for a small town to settle in.
The woman returned with a raised eyebrow. “Make a decision?”
I handed her the menu and pointed toward the kid at the grill. “I'll try the peanut butter and jalapeno thing with fries.”
“Adventurous,” she said, taking the menu and sliding it under the counter. “He'll be thrilled because he feels like his creations always get ignored.”
“I'm a good guinea pig for hamburgers,” I told her. “I'll try most anything.”
“You're the new owner of Konrath's farm, right?” she asked.
I stuck my straw in the soda. “It's like I'm wearing a sign. Yes, I am.”
“Happens around here,” she said, then held her hand out over the bar top. “I'm Dawn.”
We shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”
“You haven't known me that long,” she said, tugging the towel off her shoulder. “Give it time and we'll see if you still feel that way.” She sauntered off back toward the two men down the way.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through emails for a minute, ignoring ones I didn't care about, deleting ones I didn't need, and sipped from my soda. It was a little strange, sitting in a restaurant in a strange town by myself, but there was something comforting about it, too. After what seemed like 24 hours of off-and-on chaos, it was nice to just sit and not have to talk to the sheriff or think about bones.
The doors to the tavern jingled and a small giant walked through the entryway. He was in jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt, with a Nationals cap pulled tight on his round head. He had the look of a football player who'd kept on eating once he'd stopped playing. It appeared as if he hadn't shaved in a couple days and when he plopped down on the stool next to me, he let out a long sigh.
“Tough day?” I asked.
He seemed almost startled to hear my voice, as if he hadn't even seen me sitting there.
“Oh. Oh, yes, ma'am. Been trying to fix this tractor going on three days now and that thing is just giving me fits.” He pulled off his hat and his shoulders fell a bit. “And I apologize for crowding you. I wasn't even paying attention when I sat down.”
“It's no problem,” I said, smiling. “And I'm afraid I'm no help with the tractor.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, that's alright. It's just one of those things I haven't figured out yet. I only got a few days off work and was hoping to get it fixed before heading back out on the road. I’ll get it done, though. I promise.”
“You don’t have to make any promises to me.”
A sheepish smile crept onto his face. “Sorry, I just tend to whine when I'm tired.”
“I think we all do that.”
He nodded. “Maybe so.” He squinted at me for a moment. “Are you the one who bought the old Konrath place?”
“One and the same.”
“Neato,” he said, nodding some more. “I've always liked that place. Good piece of land. Mr. Konrath used to chase me off it when I would ride my bike across it. It was a great shortcut.” He smiled at the memory. “Always said he was gonna bring his shotgun the next time, but he never did.”
“Lucky for you.”
He waved a big, thick hand in the air. “Ah, Mr. Konrath was more bark than bite. He didn't mean anything by it.” He paused. “But I bet his gun was pretty big.”
I laughed. My new friend, if that’s what he was, was nice. He was like a big, friendly puppy dog, and I was thinking that I needed a big, friendly puppy dog right about then.
He held out his hand. “I'm Martin.”
I'd never met so many hand-shakers in my entire life. “I'm Rainy.”
“Rainy,” he said, nodding again. “I like that. I haven't heard that one before. Be funny if your last name was Knight. Or Day.”
“It actually is Day.”
His cheeks colored. “You're kidding me.”
“I'm not.”
The color brightened. “Oh, ma'am, I'm sorry. I was just joking and—”
“It's fine, Martin,” I said, patting his forearm. “Really. No offense taken. It is a funny name. I once told my daughter I was going to tell everyone her name was Cloudy and she threatened to stab me with a fork.”
He chuckled and his whole body shook. “Can't say I blame her.”
“Me, either.”
He started to say something else, but something changed sharply in his expression and he
sat up a little straighter.
“Martin,” Dawn said, coming up on the other side of the bar. “You're here for lunch early.”
He nodded and laid his hand over the ball cap he’d set down on the bar. “I gotta go pick up another part for the tractor.”
“Another one?” she said, scowling at him. “You just picked one up last week.”
His shoulders dropped again. “Different part.”
She grunted, then looked at me, her demeanor having gone from welcoming to Wicked Witch. I wondered if the restaurant was named with both her and the menu in mind. “Food'll be ready in a minute.”
Before I could ask for a refill on the soda, she stalked away.
“Yikes,” I said once she was out of earshot. “I think she's having a rough day.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “She...has a lot of 'em, I suppose.”
“Was nice enough when I walked in,” I explained. “I must've done something in the interim. Like sit here.”
He ran a hand over his thick blond hair and tipped his chin down. “It ain't you, Rainy. Trust me.”
“So it's everyone?”
He started to say something but quieted as a basket of food was slammed down on the counter between us. I startled in the chair and jerked away from the bar.
Dawn glared at me over the burger and fries. “Need anything else?”
I really did want more soda, but I was afraid she'd put cleaning fluid in it. “Uh, no. Thank you.”
She shifted her glare from me to Martin. “And get your butt home by six tonight. We need to talk.” She pivoted and stalked away again.
I wasn't sure how it was possible for such a large man to look so small, but Martin looked like a Munchkin at that moment.
“Is she your...?”
“Wife,” he said, nodding. “Yep. Sorry about that.”
Before I could ask him what the deal was, my phone vibrated on the counter. I didn't recognize the number, but the area code indicated it was a local number.
“Excuse me,” I said, picking up the phone.
Martin nodded. “Sure, sure.”
I tapped the phone. “Hello?”
“Rainy? This is Gunnar.”
Had I given him my number? I honestly couldn’t remember. And then it hit me. I had, right before he’d left after his initial visit. So we could talk about chickens.
I pressed the phone to my ear. “Oh. Hello. I can barely hear you.”
“I know,” he said. “You need to get home. You've got a fire.”
“A fire?” I asked, not understanding. What was a fire, and how did I have one?
“A fire,” he repeated.
“A fire? What do you mean?”
“Your bungalow is on fire!”
TWELVE
I dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, left my food untouched, and ran out of the restaurant to race back to the farm. I wasn't yet familiar with the speed limits on the country roads, but I was sure I exceeded most of them as I floored it to get back. As I crested the final hill before I reached the property, I could just make out the tips of flames beneath billowing black smoke.
The car skidded out to my right as I careened into the drive and slid next to what looked like an antique fire truck. I was confused as to why it was so far from the bungalow, but I hopped out of my car and ran past it, racing down the gravel road and toward the direction of the fire.
Gunnar was dressed only in jeans and a T-shirt, a hose in his hands that was attached to a somewhat more modern-looking truck. Two firefighters who were dressed in helmets and coats and boots stood behind him.
Doing nothing.
The bungalow was mostly hidden behind a wall of black smoke, and the heat radiating from the blaze was suffocating. I squinted into the fiery mess and stood next to the firefighters who were observing. Gunnar was moving the hose back and forth and up and down, a thick stream of water disappearing into the smoke and flames. If the heat fazed him, he didn't show it, as he inched closer to the burning structure.
Sirens pierced the air behind me and another truck pulled up alongside the one behind Gunnar. Two more men clad in fire-fighting gear jumped out, attached a bigger, thicker hose than Gunnar was using, and aimed it at the fire. When nothing came out, one of them ran back to the tanker, pulled on a lever, and the hose immediately filled, a cascade of water shooting from the mouth. The one left holding it stumbled a bit, looking overwhelmed by the power of the water. The one who'd run back to the truck caught him, righted him, then grabbed onto the hose behind him, and they pointed it directly at the fire.
The wood of the bungalow crackled and sparked as it burned, a bonfire of epic proportions. I stood there, helpless, unsure what I was supposed to do other than watch the building burn to the ground. My eyes watered, and it wasn't entirely from the smoke and heat.
Another set of tires crunched on the gravel and I turned to see Sheriff Lewis's pickup rolling in behind the trucks. He wiggled out of the driver's seat, frowned at the fire, then reached back into the cab and pulled out what looked like a CB radio mic and started talking into it.
I turned back to watch my bungalow burn.
Gradually, the flames grew smaller, less intense, replaced by thicker, blacker smoke. Gunnar and the two other men moved closer to the building, spreading out, covering as much of it with water as they could. As the flames began to die off, the smoke lifted and I was able to see what was left.
The building itself had vanished, replaced by a pile of wet, blackened ash, almost as though someone had used a dirty eraser and removed it. I could see part of the foundation and the floor, and small pieces of the exterior frame remained standing, now the color of charcoal. As the smoke drifted away, I could see the hillside behind the structure. It was almost as if it had never existed.
My bungalow was gone.
THIRTEEN
Gunnar dropped his hose and made his way over to me, his face a mask of sweat and ash, looking as though he'd just emerged from a coalmine.
“I'm sorry, Rainy,” he said. “I tried.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “Not your fault.”
He wiped at his mouth with the back of his arm, clearing his throat. “I was outside, about to head into town. I saw the smoke and then the flames. I called it in and ran as fast as I could to get over here. I started with your garden hose until the first pumper got here, but they realized it was empty.”
That explained the firefighters who were just milling around.
“When the second one got here, it was fully engulfed,” he continued, looking back to where the building had stood. “I did everything I could. I'm really sorry.”
I sighed. “Not your fault. And thank you. For trying.”
He frowned, but nodded.
Sheriff Lewis approached us. “What in tarnation happened here?”
I didn't bother to hide my irritation. “I was sort of hoping you might be able to tell me.”
He stared at the smoldering ash for a moment. “Looks like some sort of fire.”
It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to not take his pistol and shoot him in the foot.
I looked at Gunnar. “Any idea how it might've started?”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed his wet hair back. “I don't know. No storms, obviously. Dry as a drum this morning.” He paused, thinking. “You have any oily rags or anything like that out there? Things like that can catch fire.”
“I really don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “I hadn't stored anything in there, and yesterday was the first day I'd been inside since moving in. I'm not sure what was in there.” I thought about the few scattered boxes on the ground and the old dresser. Other than that, the building really had been empty. Well, except for the bones.
He turned his head and spat at the ground. “It's warm today, one of the first really warm days of the season. If there was anything combustible out there, that might've been it. But I really don't know. I'm sorry.”
&n
bsp; “Stop apologizing,” I told him. “You did more than everyone else here to try and save it.”
He frowned again, not satisfied with that answer. His gaze drifted back to where the bungalow had been.
I looked at the sheriff. “I assume there's a procedure for a fire investigation?”
Sheriff Lewis stroked his moustache. “I would assume so, yes, ma'am.”
“But let me guess,” I said, still irritated. “You don't know what it is?”
He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his khaki pants. “Been a while since we've seen something like this, ma'am. But we'll get it figured out.”
I wasn't sure if that meant he'd find out what the investigative procedure was or if he'd just come and take a few more pictures when it cooled and then hope the God of Fire would whisper to him what had happened.
“Call your insurance carrier,” Gunnar said. “Don't wait. They should respond within 24 hours. Take pictures of everything. You can probably get close enough in about an hour or so. We wetted it down pretty well, so it should cool fast. At the very least, they can start the assessment process for you.”
I nodded slowly, watching white smoke drift upward. I'd never experienced a fire before. I felt more numb than anything else. I'd barely spent any time in the bungalow and hadn't quite figured out how I was going to use it. I’d had dreams and ideas, no concrete plans, so I hadn't developed any real attachment to it.
But watching the smoke waft in the air above the charred remains, my heart hurt, and I couldn't help but think that more than a building had just gone up in flames.
FOURTEEN
Gunnar and the sheriff and the firefighters left about an hour later. Gunnar offered to stay, but I told him I'd be fine and he should go. He hesitated, then walked down the drive and across the road back to his home.
I'd gone inside, poured myself a glass of water, and downed it in one gulp.