“Sheriff!” she squeaked, this time managing to free herself. “Any suspects as to who started the arson? Did anyone see anything?”
“You think I’m investigating?” he hotly returned. “I’ve had only one thing on my mind and that was your safety!”
“Jake Marple,” she blurted. “Now a fire. Both at Devil’s Advocate!” she listed, thinking out loud. “Where’s Adelaide? This has to be about her, it has to! Someone is going after all of the things she holds dear!”
Though she strongly voiced her hunch, Rick was ushering her over to an ambulance that was parked on the far side of the firetruck.
“Would you give her some oxygen?” he asked the medic. “Check her out? She was up there for quite awhile.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but the medic was already helping her to sit in the ambulance, his stethoscope ready, an oxygen tank nearby.
Conor stood near her and watched as the medic held a plastic cup over her nose and mouth, pure oxygen flowing directly into her lungs.
Rachel took a few deep breaths then lowered the mask and told him, “Your brother’s with Adelaide, right?”
Conor was on it, his cell phone in hand. He paced away as he placed the call to Dean.
“Lie back,” the medic kindly instructed and for some reason Rachel obeyed.
As she rested her head down on the pillow, lying back on the gurney and breathing in the purest form of oxygen this side of Yellowstone, she suddenly remembered the banker’s box.
“Conor!”
He put his hand on her thigh and angled over her.
“My research. We left it in the alley.”
“I’m on it.”
As he rushed off to retrieve the months-worth of evidence she’d compiled, she closed her eyes and listened to the chaotic sounds of the fire department battling a raging fire that wouldn’t quit.
***
It was hours before firefighters had the blaze under control, another forty-five minutes before the flames were completely out. Devil’s Advocate had been reduced to a black, charred skeleton of what it had once been. Burnt rubble and shattered glass.
Rachel sat, exhausted yet wired with adrenaline that refused to recede from her veins, on the living room couch of Conor’s modest cabin. She’d tried to argue that she could go back to her previous apartment above Libations for the night. Jack Quagmire wouldn’t have minded. It wasn’t as though he’d already rented the place out. But Conor had insisted that she stay with him.
She could tell he suspected that the fire hadn’t been about Adelaide or attacking all that she held dear. It was written all over his face that he feared the destructive blaze had been set to trap her. But it was ridiculous and illogical. No one wanted her dead. Which was probably why Conor hadn’t once voiced that very concern.
She felt comfortable in his cabin, she’d give him that much. Since it was tucked out in the wilderness away from the heart of town and close to Yellowstone it was safe and quiet, and best of all cool. The living room was decorated as she might have expected. Rounded, log siding. Mounted deer on the walls. Minimalist in its rustic charm.
Conor entered from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands, which he placed on the glazed, wooden coffee table in front of her, and joined her on the couch.
“Dean’s been with Adelaide Marple since she closed up shop. Her cottage is on the southeast side of the Fist, probably a mile south of Evergreen Road. They moved over to his cabin next door,” he explained, “as soon as they got word of the fire.”
“How long were we up there?” she asked, but was really asking herself, trying to figure out the timeline. “Adelaide let you in. I chatted briefly with her when I got back. We weren’t up there for longer than twenty minutes.”
“Whoever started the fire had to have set it right after she locked up and left with Dean,” he supplied.
“The alarm didn’t go off,” she said, and then she thought back to the night she’d discovered Jake bleeding to death in the shop. “The alarm hadn’t gone off the night that Jake came in either.”
“Couldn’t Jake have had a key and the alarm code?” Conor suggested.
“Perhaps, but why would the arsonist have the same means to get into the store?” she questioned.
Conor didn’t have an answer and neither did she.
“Someone has it in for her,” she stated.
“Or you.”
She’d known he’d been thinking it, but it still didn’t make sense. “Who?” she challenged. “And why?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But I can’t help but wonder if they intended for it to look like you’d killed Jake.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” he countered. “You found him. He died in your arms.”
“There’s no motive.”
“You also have a key and the code to the alarm,” he pointed out.
“Which you think makes it look like I could’ve started the fire?” she asked, incredulous at the suggestion.
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
“None of this makes sense if it isn’t linked to Adelaide. What about that ex-husband of hers?”
Conor explained, “Dean is in the midst of tracking him down. The guy lives in Montana, but according to Dean, Adelaide hasn’t been able to reach him.”
Rachel took a thoughtful sip of her tea then returned the mug to the coffee table.
“I’d like to know if anyone took out an insurance policy on Jake,” she mentioned. “And I’d like to know who the beneficiary is on the souvenir shop’s insurance.”
“Wouldn’t that have to be Adelaide?” he asked.
“I would think so,” she said, locking eyes with him.
“You don’t think…”
When Rachel lifted her eyebrows and held his gaze, Conor registered what she was thinking.
He asked, “You think Adelaide could’ve done all this?”
“If I was leading the investigation,” she said frankly, “Adelaide Marple would be my prime suspect and Harry would be my second.”
“You think she killed her own son?”
Conor looked horrified, which only told her that he wasn’t used to the grim, unemotional work of investigating senseless crimes.
“My brother has been with Adelaide,” he reminded her.
“I don’t think women like Adelaide get their hands dirty,” she maintained. “But that doesn’t mean they’re innocent.”
“You think she hired someone to set the fire?”
“I think that when it comes to exploring potential motives, no one is exempt,” she told him straightforwardly. “And those who are closest to the victims have to be investigated first. It’s the cardinal rule of inquiry.”
Conor looked disturbed and drew in a long breath, leaned back on the couch, and took Rachel’s hand in his.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this, a man to hold her hand. It had been years since she’d made any real effort to date, and those had obviously been failed and foolhardy attempts. Rachel had made the mistake of getting secretly involved with another cop back in the day. It had ended badly and nearly tarnished her then unsteady reputation. When it had ended, she vowed to never again date within the station. She’d made a few attempts with guys she’d met in Libations, but nothing had ever grown into something real. No one had held her hand. No one had offered her the simple comfort of showing that they were there for her. She’d never felt connected to any of those guys. No one had ever surprised her with air conditioners, determined to make her life more comfortable with such a sweet gesture.
She laced her fingers with his and suddenly felt the weight of all that they’d been through that evening. Hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion, she felt like she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer, and Conor must have been able to tell, because the next thing she knew, he was walking her into his bedroom, pulling the covers back, and helping her to take off her sneakers.
&nb
sp; When she stripped down to her panties and tee-shirt, having wriggled her bra off, she climbed in and was asleep the second her head hit the pillow.
***
“Is that the new look?”
“Shut it, Friendly,” she said dryly without looking at Eddie as she swung the stationhouse door open and stepped inside.
“I’m only kidding around!” he called out after her as he stepped on the cigarette he’d been smoking and followed in after her.
Rachel knew what she looked like. She’d woken up with Conor’s arms around her and had no choice. She’d had to wear the same jean shorts and tee-shirt. Her police uniforms had gone up in the blaze that had become her new apartment.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Eddie offered, but she didn’t slow down. She was heading straight for the sheriff’s office and had every intention of slamming the door shut in Eddie’s face if he dared follow her. “I’m on the arson investigation,” he told her, unrelenting. “I’m going to catch whoever did it.”
“Good for you.”
When she reached Rick’s office, she threw the door closed as soon as she stepped inside, but Eddie caught it and actually had the audacity to follow her in.
She stared at Eddie, appalled at his persistence, and said, “Do you mind?”
But Eddie didn’t address or even look at her. “Sheriff, I’d like Clancy to assist me on the arson investigation.”
“You would what?” she blurted, astounded.
Rick looked forlorn, like a defeated heap sitting on the business side of his desk.
“You okay, Sheriff?” she asked him.
But his response was aimed at Friendly. “She can’t work the arson. Victims can’t work their own crimes.”
“I wasn’t the targeted victim,” she found herself saying, not that she was vying to work with Friendly.
“Call it collateral damage,” Rick allowed. “You still can’t work the case.”
“Well, I’m going to need help on it,” Friendly maintained. “The fire chief confirmed that it was no accident.”
“Of course, it was no accident,” Rachel groaned.
“An accelerant was used,” he informed the sheriff.
“Excuse me,” she gaped at Friendly, “but I’d like to speak with the sheriff privately.”
Eddie studied her as though she’d just sprouted a second head, but he didn’t leave them.
“Clancy,” said Rick, “I want you to take the day off. Recuperate. Figure out your living situation.”
“Sir, I’d like to be assigned to the Marple murder—”
“No can do, Clancy. You’re considered a witness to that case.”
“Victim! Witness!” she complained. “I’m an investigator and clearly,” she gestured to Eddie who refused to leave, “this department needs me!”
“That’s an order, Clancy!” he barked then began coughing something fierce. It looked like he was coming down with something. He was pale and seemed drained of energy. “Talk to Sheila about getting some uniforms. I assume yours were destroyed in the fire.”
Rachel just stood there, gaping at him like she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Go, Clancy!”
She sucked in a deep, dignified breath, and turned for the door. As she left, Eddie grinned at her, smug as all hell. She’d like to punch him in the nose, but tempered her emotions as she found the station receptionist to see about getting new uniforms.
When all was said and done, after speaking with Sheila and also reporting her police issued firearms as destroyed in the fire as well, she found Conor in his idling pickup truck.
“Sheriff gave me the day,” she told him. “I’m going see if I can’t find Jack, maybe pick up a few things in Jackson Hole. Get settled.”
Conor killed the engine and as Rachel rested her arms on the open window of his truck, he said, “I think you should stay with me.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “Plus, I’d like to question Adelaide. It might help that I’m not suited up in my dress blues.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Conor—”
“I’m serious, Rachel.”
“You can’t babysit me,” she objected.
“I’m not trying to,” he returned, but she didn’t believe him.
Call it babysitting or being a bodyguard, either way she wouldn’t like being carted around, which would only impede her efforts.
“You haven’t eaten,” he pointed out.
She glared at him.
“What? You think that’s babysitting, that I’d like to make sure you actually eat something?”
“That’s exactly what I think it is.”
Of course, her stomach betrayed her. She could feel it grumbling and rumbling as if the very suggestion of breakfast had made her hungry.
She opened the passenger’s side door of his pickup truck, climbed in, and asserted, “I want to talk to Adelaide. Food can wait.”
Chapter Nine
CONOR
Adelaide looked small and bewildered, as though the trauma of her prized souvenir shop having gone up in flames had aged her by at least twenty years. She was seated at the Formica table in the sunny kitchen of her cottage, Dean beside her, Rachel and Conor standing.
Rachel was still wearing the tiny jean shorts and loose-fitting tee-shirt that was all she had to her name, wardrobe-wise. Long, toned legs. A flat, taut stomach that her shirt barely covered. Her wavy, chocolate brown hair spilled over her shoulders. She made casual look gorgeous and the intensity of her pointed gaze, those big, brown eyes of hers, only added to the complexity of her beauty.
If they hadn’t been so exhausted and—admittedly horrified—as a result of the fire last night, Conor would’ve liked to have done a whole lot more than simply hold her in bed. But he’d been more than satisfied to be able to do just that. Waking up next to her with the morning sun warming them had felt good. So good, and he knew she thought so as well. Why she was fighting him about staying with him at his cabin, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out.
“Walk me through the timeline last night,” Rachel asked once it seemed Adelaide had collected herself well enough to answer questions. “When, exactly, did you lock up and head out?”
Dean answered for her. “Had to have been at a few minutes after nine.”
Conor tried to shoot Dean a warning look so that his brother would let Adelaide answer Rachel’s questions, but Dean was fixed on the older woman.
“Do you remember setting the alarm?”
“I set it,” she said in a small voice, but a wash of doubt came over her. She looked at Dean. “I set the alarm, didn’t I?”
“I was getting my truck,” he said.
Adelaide angled her confusion up at Rachel and said, “I’m pretty sure I set the alarm. I’ve been in a fog since Jake—”
She couldn’t finish the statement. She was suddenly overcome with emotion at the thought that her son, her one and only child had been robbed of this world.
The look on Rachel’s face seemed neutral, without skepticism, but also without pity. She was in cop mode, functioning from a side of herself that Conor rarely saw.
“But you locked the door?” she questioned.
“I definitely locked the door,” the older woman insisted.
“Can you tell me everyone who has a key and the alarm code?”
It took Adelaide a moment to wrack her brain, which Conor took as a bad sign. How many people could possibly have a way to get into the souvenir shop?
“Well, let’s see,” she began in a shaky tone. “There was my son, Jake. And you, Rachel,” she listed, starting with the most obvious people. “Peggy, my salesgirl does as well, because she locks up sometimes.”
Conor was keen to hear her mention her ex-husband, but she never did.
“Oh, and there’s Rick.”
“Why would the sheriff have a key and the alarm code?” Rachel asked.
“Well, he’s right next door,” she said as if th
at would clear everything up.
Dean coaxed more information out of her. “In what instance would Rick need all that?”
“In the past, Peggy has accidentally set off the alarm. She got flustered. This was awhile back when she first started and I was in Jackson Hole. It was a real mess. The whole town heard the alarm blaring. Very embarrassing for poor Peggy. So, I decided that Rick should have the code. That way, if it ever happened again, he could disarm it quickly.”
“I see,” said Rachel. “And I can assume that Delilah had the key and code as well?”
“She certainly did,” Adelaide confirmed as it dawned on her. “I guess I never got the key back from her.”
Conor turned his back to them so that he could speak quietly in Rachel’s ear. “Dante could’ve gotten his hands on that key. He could’ve gotten the alarm code from Delilah as well.”
Rachel nodded in agreement as he faced Adelaide and Dean again.
“So, I take it,” Rachel went on, “that Rick keeps the key at the station.”
“I would assume so,” said Adelaide.
“Which means that anyone at the station could’ve gotten their hands on it,” she murmured to herself, thinking out loud.
Rachel thought about that as the older woman watched her with worried eyes. Then she pulled out a chair and sat across from Adelaide.
“I have to ask you,” she began, this time she spoke in a soft compassionate tone. “Did you have a life insurance policy on Jake?”
“No, of course not,” she said, immediately cross at the suggestion. “Why would I? He was barely an adult and in excellent health. There would’ve been no need.”
“I agree,” she allowed. “Do you happen to know if your ex-husband did?”
“I can’t even get ahold of Harry!”
Dean interjected to update Rachel, “He hasn’t returned any of her calls. I put a call in to the nearest police station up there in Montana. The deputy I spoke with said that Harry had become a shut-in but that he’d go on out and let me know if he was home.”
“You think Harry is responsible?” Adelaide asked, horrified.
“I’m just exploring all possibilities,” she assured the older woman. “Try not to read too much into it.”
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