Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  “What about the cause of the fire?" Harold asked. "Arson is Gwen’s pet idea."

  "From all appearances it was caused by a construction heater," Hugh said.

  "That’s what I thought," Harold said. "Those heaters ought to be illegal."

  "What about," Hugh asked,” the idea floating around that the DaSilva boys might be setting the fires?"

  "It’s possible," Harold said. "Kids are responsible for a lot of arsons."

  “So you didn’t agree with Gwen that the fires are connected and deliberate and that it’s someone more purposeful than kids messing with matches?” Hugh leaned back and stretched his legs. They reached halfway across the cramped private room, all the way to the front of my chair. We could have played footsie if we’d wanted.

  “Connected? Deliberate? I think we’re getting all het up over a bunch of foolishness.” Harold stared at the television instead of making eye contact with me.

  “It was foolish not to call in the Fire Marshal before someone ended up dead,” I said. Harold’s heart monitor beeped faster again, and Hugh knocked my foot with one of his big boots. It was like being kicked under the table when you were a kid because you admired your grandma’s ability to grow a mustache.

  “I think Gwen means the Fire Marshal’s office is always happy to assist when arson is suspected. I’m sure you would have taken us up on the offer if it seemed necessary, right Chief?” Hugh kept his hoof within striking distance as I squirmed in my chair.

  “Darn right, I would’ve.” Harold tugged his sheet higher and shrank back into his pillows. “I’d never’ve let it go on if I thought anyone would get hurt.” Bernadette bustled in and glared.

  "This here’s a sick man," she said. "I don't know what you’re thinking pestering him with questions."

  "Don't fret," Harold said. "I could use the distraction."

  "You need rest," Bernadette said. "I want you out this instant.” Hugh stood, looking sheepish. I knew enough to hustle out of there. Bernadette’s not someone to cross once she's made up her mind. Harold wouldn't be answering any more questions today.

  "Good luck with the surgery," I said. "I'll be thinking of you."

  “Just give a holler," said Harold, “if you’ve got more questions.” Bernadette herded us out the door and stood in the threshold, blocking any attempts at re-entry.

  "Don't even think about it." she said. "The doctor said any more stress could set him off again."

  What I wanted to know was, what set him off in the first place?

  Six

  Snow had piled up while we were in the hospital. Hugh drove well under the speed limit to keep the truck on the greasy road. Small flakes clustered together tightly and reduced visibility to a few feet. The weather report sounded grim. Six inches on the ground, and they were predicting snow all night.

  “How far do you have to go to get home?” I asked, wondering if he would need a place to hole up for the night.

  “Just over in Langley, about five miles off the pike. It usually would take me about twenty-five minutes.” Hugh kept his eyes on the road and his grip firm. He drove like a native, steady and resigned to taking as long as it needed in order to get there in one piece.

  “Are you near the Peppermint Patch?” I’d spent too many hours and far too many dollars wandering through the area’s largest garden center. Peter used to complain about the cost until I put in vegetable and herb gardens. Our grocery bill was halved, and he loved eating the produce.

  “I’m only a couple of miles from there. That’s my favorite nursery. Do you shop there?”

  “I’m their best customer. I can’t get out of there with less than a trunk full of plants every time I visit.”

  “I’d have guessed you garden.” Hugh slid his eyes from the road for just a second to glance at me. My stomach fluttered. I told myself I was hungry.

  “What gave it away? My stooped back or my blisters?”

  “Gardeners are caretakers. From what I’ve picked up around town, you fit the bill.”

  “Someone’s been filling your ears with enough rot to fill your compost bin. I don’t take care of anyone. I live alone. I’m cranky. I don’t like dogs. Or cats. Well, except the hairless ones. They’re kind of cute.”

  “So you’ve got something against hair?” Hugh took one hand off the wheel and stroked his full red beard. “I’ve been thinking of shaving this off.” My stomach flipped and rolled like a load of wash. I wished we’d hurry up and get back to the village so I could get out of the truck. I never was good at flirtatious banter, not even when Peter and I started dating in college, and it wasn’t like I’d been practicing in the intervening years.

  “From the looks of the weather you’d be better off saving your shearing till spring.” I concentrated on the road. The snow was mesmerizing. Hugh put both hands back on the wheel and changed the subject. The state plows hadn’t made it this far north yet, and the road had completely vanished beneath the snow. The only guide was a faint track from the last vehicle that had traveled this way.

  “Harold’s heart monitor didn’t sound too happy when we asked about the fires, did it?” Hugh asked.

  “You noticed that too? I don’t say he’s lying, but something is stressing him, and I don’t think it’s that he isn’t running the investigation.”

  Hugh slowed even more and pulled onto the exit ramp. We were three miles from the village, and the road had worsened. Bill Lambert would be up all night with his crew of five guys plowing and laying down salt and sand as fast as they were able.

  Rounding the corner, Hugh slammed on the brakes. Another truck was sliding into a skid. About twenty feet in front of us it fishtailed and then circled completely around before broadsiding Hugh’s side of the truck. The force of the impact shoved us off the road and into a snow bank where we were well and truly stuck. I felt my seatbelt tighten up as my body lurched into it with all its weight. My head tried to keep on going. Fortunately it was still attached to my neck.

  “Gwen, are you hurt?” Hugh leaned toward me. “Are you all right?”

  “Just scared. How about you?” My hands were shaking, but I felt nothing but relief.

  “I cracked my head on the door, but it’s not damaged.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “I’ll check.” Hugh released his seatbelt and tried shoving his door open. It groaned but wedged shut.

  “The impact must have jammed it,” I said. “Let’s try my side. “ I pushed open the passenger door and slid off the seat into a snow bank. The cold and wet seeped through my trousers as high as the middle of my thighs. Hugh landed behind me with a decided height advantage. The snow barely reached his knees.

  “Why don’t you climb back into the truck and try to keep warm? I’ll holler if I need help.”

  “No way. I wouldn’t hear you over the wind.” Snow scoured my face and dove into my ears. I pulled up the hood of my parka and waddled up the slope with as much dignity as I could muster. Hugh outpaced me, and I soon lost sight of him as the snow swirled between us. I followed his tracks, which filled up almost faster than I could trace them. I heard him yelling down into another ditch on the opposite side of the road.

  “Hey, buddy, are you hurt?” I heard him shouting. I squinted and could just make out another figure standing. I waded toward them and got a better look at the other driver. He was a skinny guy, not much taller than my own five feet three inches. I probably outweighed him by forty pounds. Compared to Hugh he looked like a hobbit and a scared one, at that. His brown eyes darted back and forth between us and the road.

  “Please, I drive for boss,” he said. He was shaking, and I didn’t think it was just the cold.

  “I’d like to see your driver’s license and registration.” Hugh tucked his flashlight under his arm, then flashed his badge. The skinny guy took one look and lifted up like he was part of the Rapture. He was gone before either of us could say another word.

  “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.” H
ugh stood trying to follow the fugitive with his flashlight beam. Bits of snow clung to his beard as the wind tried to tear off pieces of his nose and ears.

  “I hope he doesn’t die of exposure. That guy didn’t look built for this weather.” I tugged on the drawstring of my hood to block out more of the storm.

  “Some days I hate working with the public. Let’s look in his truck for a registration.” Hugh pointed his flashlight beam down the hill. I lost my footing and slid down the slope. Hugh tromped down toward the other truck. It was even more damaged than Hugh’s. The front end was crumpled, and it was lodged down a much steeper embankment. We slid off the road. This guy slid off a cliff.

  “He was lucky to walk away from this.” Hugh leaned in and checked for the registration under the visor and in the glove box. Slamming it shut, he pulled something large draped in a granny square afghan across the truck seat. I peered around him and watched him unwrap it. Even in the meager light I recognized the outline of the giant wooden hand that had sat on top of the museum’s clock tower, the one everyone had thought had burned along with the rest of the tower.

  “What are the chances of two of those hands being in the same village?” I asked.

  “About as good as us being able to drive my truck the rest of the way back to your house. Do you know who he was?”

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?” Hugh scowled into the dark. From the tone of his voice, I got the feeling his patience was running thin.

  “I’ve never met him. I’ve never even seen him.”

  “How many families in Winslow Falls have an accent?” Hugh pointed the beam in my direction, like a low-budget interrogation technique.

  “As far as I know, just one.”

  “That guy looked enough like the DaSilvas to be related, don’t you think?”

  “I think that’s like saying every redhead in Langley must be related to you.”

  “Every redhead in Langley is related to me. There are about three dozen of us. People wear sunglasses to Sunday dinner to cut down on the glare.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking. How do you fit three dozen redheads built on the same scale as Hugh around a table? Maybe they rented the Odd Fellows Hall.

  “Why don’t we argue about this more after we’ve gotten out of the storm? My face is stiffening up.” I thought about the scarf I forgot on the bench in my mudroom and gave myself a mental kick in the pants.

  “How far is it back to your house?”

  “About two miles by road. In the growing season we could shave off half that by cutting cross lots, but with all the snow on the ground it’ll be easier to stick to the road, especially carrying that hand.”

  “No one is going to steal the hand.”

  “Someone already stole the hand. I’ll carry it.” I reached in and dragged the thing toward me. It was a lot heavier than I’d imagined it would be, but I’d already opened my big mouth. I reached round it with both arms and started up the hill.

  “You’re going to give yourself a hernia,” Hugh called after me.

  “No, I won’t. I’m just going to throw out my back. It’ll be fine.” I heard Hugh laughing as I kept on trudging. It was hard work, but it warmed me up. By the time I reached the top I was sweating. I laid the hand on its afghan, tied two corners in a knot, and started dragging it like a sled.

  “This is crazy. I’ve got my cell phone in the truck. I’m going to call Ray about the accident. Maybe he’ll give us a ride.”

  “Don’t count on it. Tell him about the hand while you’re at it.” I shoved the hand off the road and hunkered down on it to wait. I probably should have worried that someone would come along and run me over, but I was so cold and miserable I was thinking dead would be a nice change of pace. A couple of minutes later Hugh thumped down next to me.

  “No signal. We’d better get moving. It isn’t going to get easier as it gets later.” Hugh stood and swung the hand onto one shoulder then took off breaking trail through the snow drifting into the road. I followed, too grateful for the help to think of anything feminist to say.

  Twenty minutes later I felt rumbling underfoot and turned to see a town plow heading toward us.

  “Hugh! Let’s flag it down!” I yelled, trying to make him hear me over the wind. We were on the wrong side of the road. The plow was bearing down on us, and we weren’t going to have time to cross to the other side. A wall of snow plastered me before Bill saw us and slammed on his brakes. He hopped down out of the plow and hurried toward me.

  “What the hell are you two doing out here?” Bill pulled his baseball cap off his head and brushed me off the best he could. And I thought I was miserable before. Snow caked my face. Hugh had gotten some of the plow’s spray also. Fortunately for him he was tall enough that it didn’t quite reach his face.

  “We were returning from visiting Harold and were run off the road by another driver. My truck’s in the ditch, and my cell phone didn’t work.”

  “What’re ya carrying?” Bill pointed to the hand.

  “Evidence. Is there room in your truck for all of us?”

  Bill nodded, and with a complete disregard for personal space we all squeezed into the truck. There have been many times I’ve been grateful for plows but never more than that night. Squashed up against Hugh, the hand bumping against my leg, I wondered about the skinny guy and whether someone would find his picked-clean skeleton in the spring.

  Seven

  Bill dropped us at my house. The driveway was impassable, and the snow had drifted so much you couldn’t see the porch steps. Once again Hugh broke a trail and I followed. Lights were on in the kitchen, and Augusta had flipped on the porch light, too. Hugh reached the mudroom door and stood there waiting

  “Go on in, I never lock it until I go to bed,” I said. I followed and almost cried at feeling the warmth of the woodstove drifting down into the mudroom. Hugh stood there dripping all over the flagstone floor.

  “Peel off your wet things, and we’ll dry them by the stove.” I shucked my boots while tugging off my mittens. I wanted to strip to the skin and toast myself like a marshmallow in front of the woodstove, but considering the present company, I decided to slip into my flannel pajamas instead. I gathered soggy clothes and climbed the steps up into the kitchen.

  Soup was bubbling away on the stove. I lifted the lid on a kettle and inhaled deeply. Clam chowder, my least favorite food on the planet. I longed for the cheeseburger I hadn’t gotten at lunch time.

  “I wondered if you were ever going to turn up.” Augusta appeared in the doorway wearing an elegant, silky blue robe and matching nightgown. Blonde tendrils of hair had escaped the artful pile on her head, but her makeup was flawless. If I’d felt bad about my appearance before, it was nothing compared to how I felt now. Augusta-the-bombshell made me look like something salvaged from a shipwreck. Any second now, Hugh would lope through the door and see us side by side.

  “I was in a car accident. With a mystery man.” I contemplated how long it would be before she noticed I was shedding clumps of snow.

  “A mystery man? Was he cute?”

  “Somehow that didn’t seem important at the time. I was trying to tell if he was hurt, but between the howling wind and his accent, it was hard to understand him.”

  “An accent. Yum. I hope you brought him back with you. I expect he needs warming up.” Augusta’s last two husbands had deep, rumbling accents.

  “He ran off into the storm. You’re out of luck.”

  “Something smells delicious.” Hugh emerged from the mudroom, completely distracting my sister. A real man beat a mystery one every time, even one without an accent.

  “Maybe I’m still lucky, after all.” Augusta fluffed her hair and batted her prosthetic eyelashes at Hugh. “I keep hearing about an investigator down at the store, but no one mentioned you were so handsome.”

  Hugh stared at her, the corners of his mustache twitching. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but handsome’s never
been one of them.” I studied Hugh and contemplated that. He wasn’t classically handsome, but Augusta made a good point. Even though his height and hair were the most striking things about him, the rest of him was worth looking at. His eyebrows, as expressive as a Schnauzer’s, sheltered inky blue eyes. The parts of his lips that peeked out through his facial hair were generous. His chest was about as wide as a barn door.

  “Don’t be modest. Every man looks good in a uniform.” Augusta licked her lips and took a step toward him. It was time to intervene. Another twenty seconds and Augusta would be slurping Hugh up along with the chowder.

  “He’s not in uniform, and he ought not stay in what he’s wearing since he’s soaked to the bone. Why don’t you dish up some dinner while I find him some clothes?” Augusta winked at Hugh and began pulling soup bowls from the cupboard.

  I hurried upstairs to Josh’s bedroom. He still kept clothing in the drawers for his visits home from college. Rummaging produced some sweatpants that would be knickers on Hugh but would at least be drier than what he was wearing. I grabbed a tee shirt and an Irish fisherman’s sweater I’d knitted one Christmas for Josh that he had been polite enough to wear once. It had taken months to complete and was monstrously oversized. It appeared to be a perfect fit for Hugh. I added a pair of hand-knit socks to the pile and decided it was the best I could do.

  “I found you some things,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Where should I change?” I pointed toward the bathroom. When he came out, I burst out laughing. Augusta worked hard not to.

  “You look like a Revolutionary War re-enactor,” I said, pointing to his high-rise pant legs. “The sweater fits, though.”

  “It’s warm, too.” Hugh ran his hand over a sleeve. I’ve made a lot of sweaters, and they never ended up the way I planned. The sleeves would be too long for the intended recipient or the body too short. A couple of years ago I started knitting the sweater I felt like making, then figured out who to give it to once it was done. From the way it fit, I’d been making this one for Hugh.