Lonesome Lake

by Lesley Appleton-Jones

  After she disconnected, Raines said, “We need to make sure they haven’t found a body before he arrives.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Except for a corner section of the garage and a small area of the roof, not much of the Milbournes’ handcrafted post and beam cabin had survived the flames. Three charred rafters jutted up at the cloudy sky like blackened gun barrels from a turret on a battleship. The chimney stood tall and forlorn amongst the rubble of fallen logs, sooty bathroom fixtures and twisted kitchen appliances. The scorched remains reminded Holly of a bombed-out building from World War II documentaries.

  The Fire Chief stood watching a woman who had the words, “State Fire Marshal NH Investigator” emblazoned in lime-yellow reflective lettering on the back of her jacket. A yellow Labrador sniffed the ground at her feet.

  “Hey Sully,” Holly called way too cheerfully, she thought, given her next words. “Did you find a body?”

  He turned to them. “No, but it’s arson. Libby sure has a nose for gasoline,” he said, pointing to the accelerant detection canine whose tail wagged with enthusiasm as she worked. “We haven’t found any ignition devices, but someone got real happy with the accelerant. Whoever did this wanted to make sure this place went up in a blaze. Gasoline was applied to nearly all of the exterior walls, except for the garage. Doesn’t look like accelerant was used at that end of the house.”

  “Do you think that was deliberate?” Holly asked.

  “Tough to say. Could be. Or it could be he just ran out of gas.”

  Holly mulled this over and said, “If the arsonist were in the house and wanted to make sure of a way out, the garage would make sense. And the garage door was open.”

  Raines yawned. “Only problem with that theory is the fire started outside of the building, so whoever set it wouldn’t have needed a safe exit.”

  Holly wanted to tell him she didn’t give a damn about his opinion, and to leave, but she refrained from doing so because she suspected he’d get a kick out of it. “If something happened inside the house, isn’t a professional going to start the fire inside the building to make sure all the evidence is destroyed?”

  Sully cocked his head to the side. “Yes. A professional knows that fire needs fuel. The point of origin is often basements, attics and closets. Places without fire-retardant material.”

  Holly watched the dog. “I just spoke to Charles Milbourne. He’s convinced his wife was here. You’re sure there isn’t a body in there?” she asked and filled him in on the rest of the discussion.

  Sully removed his safety helmet to rub his head. “A Porsche is worth a bundle. Someone could have set the fire to cover a robbery. Plus, if she’s driving a Porsche, the cabin was probably loaded with top quality stuff.”

  Raines asked, “But where is Mrs. Milbourne?”

  Holly shoved her hands in her pockets. It was cold and damp. “A secret rendezvous with a boyfriend could explain both the missing wife and the missing vehicle, but it doesn’t explain the fire or the open garage door.”

  “It’s a conundrum, all right,” Sully said. “What I’d like to determine is if there was a source of gasoline here at the cabin. We didn’t find any cans or even a lawnmower.”

  Holly recalled her conversation with Boonie. “The Milbournes used at least one landscaper, Gavin Parrish.” She wondered if Parrish could have been mad enough to start the fire.

  Sully nodded. “If the arsonist brought the gasoline here, we could be dealing with a more organized fire setter instead of an opportunistic one. In that case, I’m more inclined to think this was targeted versus a random act.”

  They stared at the burned ruins before Holly said, “They just renovated this place. Perhaps they’re in a hole financially and hired a pro to do an insurance job.”

  Sully shrugged. “The use of gasoline, and so liberally applied, suggests a lack of sophistication. An experienced arsonist usually has a less-is-more approach. They tend to use fuels that are available in the house and are not so easily detected. They’ll use a trace amount of accelerant and make use of trash in the basement near a furnace, or a pile of loose paper or logs stacked next to a fireplace. That type of thing.”

  Holly wanted it to be an insurance job. That would be easy. A one and done. No way would she be responsible for that. It would have nothing to do with the break-ins she hadn’t solved, but she had to ask. “What about teenagers? We’ve had several break-ins at vacation homes. All that’s missing is junk food, alcohol and small items that are easily carried. Raines found dirt bike tracks over there,” she pointed to the shrubs at the back of the property.

  Sully looked over to where she was pointing. “We could be dealing with teenagers. More than half of all arson arrests are juveniles. Adolescents tend to set fires outdoors, but they’ll target empty buildings and schools. Teens would probably lack sophistication, which is similar to our suspect.”

  Holly felt a flutter of panic. Was she responsible for the loss of this home because she hadn’t caught the offenders? If they connected the arson to the break-ins, the Chief wasn’t going to be happy. Worse, Lieutenant Gustafson would ride her harder than a pit pony and make sure her career ended up at the bottom of a mine.

  Sully added to her woes by saying, “If it is kids, you’ll know them because they’ll probably have a history of delinquent behavior.”

  Behavior such as break-ins, Holly thought.

  Raines watched the dog walk to the back of the house. “If we were just missing the Porsche, I’d buy the teen angle, but it’s a stretch to think kids went from partying in vacation cabins to setting a fire and abducting a woman in her Porsche.”

  He was right. It was an extreme escalation of criminal behavior. His words eased her concern.

  Raines ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “But it could be a kidnapping. The Milbournes appear to have money.”

  Holly looked at him as if he had a screw loose. “What? Here in North Caxton?”

  “Kidnappings have to happen somewhere.”

  “Perhaps with your circle of rich friends, Raines. But not here.”

  She saw surprise and something else flash across his face. Irritation? She couldn’t tell. She’d never been good at reading him, and since he’d returned home, it was even harder.

  “But,” he continued. “If it was a kidnapping, why would someone torch the house, which was sure to attract attention?”

  Not proud of her snide comment, Holly decided to work his theory. “If Mimi put up a fight and there was physical evidence that needed to be destroyed.”

  His half smile told her that he knew she’d offered the words as an act of contrition. Heat shot through her.

  Raines said, “But wouldn’t they start the fire inside—preferably right on top of the evidence to guarantee it was destroyed? Kidnapping is a stretch, but at this point, it’s all just speculation. Perhaps we’re dealing with something as simple as a wife catching her husband cheating on her. She wants revenge, sets the fire, panics and takes off.”

  Sully nodded. “It could fit. When women set fires, they often torch their property. They…” his words trailed off as Officer Fennis Cooper yelled out, “Sarge!”

  They turned to see him running toward them with about as much grace as a charging rhinoceros. “Chief just called,” he shouted, with even more excitement than a kid at a pool party. “A hiker found a body up at Lonesome Lake.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fennis Cooper’s red face beamed with pleasure at getting to deliver the news. He repeated his words, this time even faster. “There’s a body up at Lonesome Lake. The Chief tried to call you, Sarge, but you didn’t answer. He says the description is a match for Mimi Milbourne. And her car was found near the trailhead. Right in the Lafayette Campground parking lot.

  Holly checked her phone. No signal.

  Sully said, “But that’s forty-five minutes from here. Plus, it’s a mile hike up to the lake. What the hell was she doing up there? Was it a hiking accident?”<
br />
  Raines shook his head. “Can’t be. Wouldn’t explain the fire.”

  Fennis blurted, “The State Police claim she was murdered up at the lake.”

  They all stared at each other for a moment, processing the news before Holly instructed Fennis to go back to the street to make sure that no one entered the property.

  The buttons on Fennis’ uniform strained against the fabric as he straightened his shoulders and puffed up his chest in pride. He saluted her before double-timing it up the driveway.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Sully muttered. “If you assume the house was torched to destroy evidence, why not kill her here and leave her body in the house? Why take her up a damn mountain to do it?”

  Holly pulled her phone out of her pocket, took a couple of steps, and it began to ring. The voice on the other end barked loud enough for them all to hear. “What in tarnation is going on, Jakes?”

  Great! Just what she didn’t need right now—the Chief of Police snarling at her like a junkyard mutt.

  He didn’t give her long enough to answer. “I want to know why you told me all we were dealing with was an arson and a possible drug angle involving Beaupré. You said nothing about a damn homicide.”

  “That’s because I didn’t know about it,” Holly snapped back.

  The Chief didn’t relent. “Even the damn Mayor knows.”

  This surprised Holly. “How did he find out before me?”

  “Who the hell knows, and I don’t give a rat’s ass how he found out. He’s on the way to the station and wants a full report. He’s already moaning about how this is going to ruin the leaf-peeping season when word gets out, and I have bupkis to tell him. You know how I hate being caught with my pants down, Jakes.”

  Holly almost suggested that he go buy a new belt, but wisely gave him an update instead.

  Somewhat placated by her summary, Chief Finch lowered his voice a few decibels. “Is Raines with you?”

  A sense of foreboding oozed through her like toxic sludge. “Yes.”

  “Good. Sheriff Cleghorn is on his way over for my briefing with the Mayor. They both told me they want Raines to work this case with you.”

  “But Chief…”

  “Don’t ‘But Chief’ me, Jakes,” Fred Finch growled. “You and Raines are the best we have, and Cleghorn sure as hell doesn’t want those State boys stealing the limelight now he has his own Major Crimes unit. And I don’t need to remind you how the Mayor feels about Raines. Treats him as if he’s his son.” He took a deep breath as if he needed to prepare himself for his next words. “And the Mayor expects you to keep this all low profile. No scaring off the tourists. Understood?”

  “No way are we going to keep something of this magnitude under wraps.”

  “You think I don’t know that, Jakes? Just get in front of it. Head over to Lonesome Lake and do what you do best. Stick your nose in and get some answers and get them pronto.”

  “But I don’t have jurisdiction. The body is in the Franconia Notch State Park.”

  “I get it, Jakes. We’re smack dab in the middle of a jurisdictional nutjammer.”

  That wasn’t the real problem, she thought, and the Chief knew it. She didn’t even try to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “No way are the State Police going to let Raines sniff around the case when they find out he’s with the Sheriff’s office.” Most locals believed Sheriff Cleghorn had created the major crimes unit just to stick it to the State Police over a speeding ticket they gave his wife.

  The Chief grunted, sounding a lot like a boar searching for truffles. “Tough luck. He goes with you. Raines is the most famous cop in the country with enough charm to woo my dill pickle of a mother-in-law, and you can be a bigger pain than an abscess the size of a grapefruit when you want something. Figure it out and get me some intel.”

  It was pointless to argue. She was stuck with Raines unless she could convince him not to go with her. “Mr. Milbourne is on his way up here.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” he said and hung up.

  From the amused expressions on both Raines and Sully’s faces, it was apparent they’d overheard most of what the Chief had said. At least Raines didn’t appear bent out of shape about her comment.

  “The Chief’s a real peach,” Sully noted.

  “More like a prickly pear,” she responded, walking toward the driveway.

  Raines followed. “If you’re driving, I’ll need to drop off my truck.”

  The last thing Holly wanted was Cal Raines tagging along. No way could she handle an hour in the car alone with him. “Why don’t you call Mayor Randolph and request that you work the case back here?” she suggested, knowing his father and the Mayor had been friends. In fact, they were so close Mayor Randolph had appointed Jim Raines as the Chief of Police. Years later when Jim was shot in the line of duty, Randolph supported his sons until they graduated. If Raines wanted to, he could call his dear “Uncle Milt” and refuse to butt in on her case. To sweeten the pot, she added, “You could even talk to Milbourne when he arrives.”

  He replied, “I suppose I could.”

  Hope buzzed through her but soon fizzled at his next words.

  “But I haven’t been to Lonesome Lake for some time.”

  Holly knew him well enough to know he wasn’t about to stay put. Besides, arguing with him would only waste time. She glared at him before storming off to her car.

  ◆◆◆

  Half an hour later, Holly barreled along the Kancamagus Highway with the lights flashing and siren blaring at any car that dared to slow them down. The “Kanc,” as locals called it, was already busy with tourists. The thirty-mile stretch of road through the White Mountains offered one of the best foliage trips in the country. Today the colors were peaking, but neither Holly nor Raines so much as glanced at the blazing plumage of reds, yellows and oranges.

  Raines was on the phone with Sheriff Cleghorn. He wasn’t saying much. Just a couple of grunts interjected with a smattering of yeses and nos. When he disconnected, he said, “Jamie Bell’s alibi sort of checks out. His girlfriend thinks he was with her until Bell heard the call over the police scanner, but she’d fallen asleep. Also, Chief Finch got the green light from the State Police for us to head up to the scene. We’re to report to Lieutenant Dennis Hendricks. He’s coordinating the effort at that end. Do you know him?”

  “Some. He’s working the Nancy Taggart hit and run with Gustafson,” she said with an edge to her voice.

  Raines glanced at her. “You don’t go for him?”

  “He’s okay. Gustafson’s the problem.”

  “I hear that a lot,” Raines said, falling silent as they rapidly approached a slow-moving car that failed to pull over.

  With heavy traffic in the left lane, Holly couldn’t pass it. She drove right up to the vehicle and blasted the siren. The beige Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight swerved the wrong way into oncoming traffic. Holly groaned. Luckily, the driver regained control of the car and veered over onto the shoulder. The tires sent dust and stones flying. Holly and Raines glanced at the occupants as they passed. Two pale, ancient white-haired women glared back at them. The driver had a death grip on the steering wheel and appeared to be hauling herself up to see out of the windshield.

  Raines chuckled. “She just flipped you off.”

  “At least she didn’t have a coronary. We don’t have time to deal with that.”

  “You’re about to give me one with your driving.”

  “I could stop long enough for you to hitch a ride with the ladies. I’m sure they’d be thrilled.”

  He just grinned and then yawned. Sliding his sunglasses on, he leaned his head back against the seat. After a couple of minutes of silence, Holly glanced over at him. His black Maui Jim’s hid his eyes so she couldn’t tell if he’d fallen asleep. The smell of smoke clung to him. He hadn’t taken the time to shower and change as she had. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, but for some cosmically unfair reason, fatigue and unkemptness only enhanced his appeara
nce. She wondered how she looked after a night of no sleep. Doubtless, there were black circles under her eyes. She forced herself not to check in the rearview mirror, but at least she smelled a whole lot better than he did.

  He raised an eyebrow above the frame of his sunglasses. “What?” he asked.

  So he hadn’t been sleeping. It irked her that he’d caught her checking him out. “You look like crap.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up into his familiar half smile, which annoyed her even more. She refocused her attention on the road ahead.

  “But how do I smell?” he asked.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “That good?”

  “If you’re into sucking on chimneys.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I need coffee.”

  She scrunched up her nose and sniffed. “Not to mention a soak in the tub.”

  “No kidding.”

  After that, silence filled the car. She felt weird riding around with him again. The last time had been senior year—just the two of them in his rusty pickup. It was the night her coach dropped her from the Olympic ski team. The same night she’d made a drunken pass at him at the Prom. A flush of shame pinkened her cheeks, and she hoped he had his eyes closed.

  If the Sheriff had hired her as the head of Major Crimes—like he’d promised—instead of selecting Raines the minute he showed up in town, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She’d fought for the job, arguing that Raines didn’t have the experience, and the only reason he got the position was to help Sheriff Cleghorn get reelected. After all, Raines was Caxton’s favorite son and even had a key to the town. The successful rock star could bring in far more votes than a failed Olympian. Cleghorn hadn’t been swayed and told her something she didn’t know. Raines was an experienced investigator. While on tour with his band Acid Raines, he’d worked undercover for several major law enforcement agencies.