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“WHERE IS SHE?” A crisp breeze toyed with Peter’s hair and rustled the leaves of the young tree beside him. Standing in the back of Dad’s full-sized truck parked on the curb, one foot propped up on a wheel well, he visually inspected the front yard and the older split-level house. Brice’s house. It sat on a corner lot, separated by a chain link fence from a hillbilly house on the next street over.
He sighed though he had no reason to feel disappointment. It would’ve been nice, but he hadn’t really expected to see her here. She’d probably taken off for a friend’s house an hour before the Fire Starters said they’d come over. Did she have friends? She was new to the area. Where’d she move from anyway?
Well, whatever . . . she might not’ve gone anywhere. In fact, she might’ve been inside right now, peering out at the Fire Starters milling around the front yard. Maybe even looking at him.
Something inside Peter stirred.
While she probably hated the attention, a part of her might’ve been thankful to have the Fire Starters’ help.
The Fire Starters . . . how many? Two, four, six . . . Peter’s gaze latched onto the burnt tree with eerie black limbs that reached like claws toward the clear blue sky, and he stopped counting.
A pensive mood had settled upon all of them when they’d first viewed the unnerving scene. Now playful voices carried. Three boys walked by with shovels, heading for the black tree. Charred grass surrounded it in an uneven circle. The scumbags who’d done all this had even uprooted the mums that had grown near the house and scattered their clumpy yellow flowers everywhere. Bits of trash formed a trail through another part of the yard, leading toward the garage. Another trail, less obvious—little two-inch circles spaced a few feet apart—ran through the grass, but those could’ve been caused by the kids and one of their toys, like a pogo stick or something. And the garage . . .
Peter’s jaw tensed. Angry black letters stretched across the weathered white garage door, spelling hateful words that made anger creep up in Peter. Who would call her those things? What did they know? Just because she was different . . .
“Maybe it’ll look even better than before. Most importantly, we want you to know we care.” Father Carston’s voice and his message of consolation rose above the din. He stood on the front porch with Brice’s foster mother, Mrs. Escott, a rounded middle-aged woman in jeans, pullover sweater, and a ponytail. A toddler flopped and flailed around her feet. For the past fifteen minutes, Father and Mrs. Escott had been talking. In the window behind them, images flashed on a big TV in the living room, half-drawn curtains moved, and two little faces popped into and out of view. Yellow light shone in an upstairs window. Blinds covered another bedroom window. And a third window was entirely dark. Hers?
“If you don’t have anything to do, you can help pick up trash.” Yanking a black garbage bag from a box, Phoebe stomped to two other girls who looked a bit lost. Sounding and acting like a boss, she swung out an arm full of bracelets and pointed to the trail of trash and to a bulging garbage bag at the end of the driveway. The creeps had dumped out the family’s garbage cans. It looked like someone had picked up some of it already—Brice had probably even helped—but they’d probably waited until after filing an official police report. Who could blame them? The foster parents had their hands full with three preschool-age foster children.
Peter glanced at the upstairs bedroom windows again, his gaze lingering on the darkest one.
“Oh, careful,” a girl said, snagging Peter’s attention.
Caitlyn bounced by with Kiara and another girl, Kiara lugging a folded card table, the other girl a case of water. Caitlyn cradled three plates of cookies covered with tinfoil, maybe more than she should try to carry. At the meeting last night, the girls had suggested bringing snacks, thinking it would ensure more people came to help.
“Two, four, six, eight . . .” Peter finished counting this time: about a dozen Fire Starters had come to help. Where was Roland? He hadn’t changed his mind, had he? Peter still needed to convince Roland to find the dorkwads who’d done this. Sure, Peter could investigate on his own, but he didn’t want Brice to find out. Better for Roland to do it.
“Peter, snap out of it.” Dad’s low voice and urgent tone unsettled Peter. “You’re supposed to be unloading everything. We need that tree.” Standing between the trailer with the stump grinder and the open tailgate, Dad waved a hand. Then he dragged a coiled hose off the back of the truck bed and handed it to Dominic. “Everyone’s working but you.”
Peter slid his foot from the wheel well and turned to the tree Dad had picked up today, a Japanese Tree Lilac. A bunch of stuff blocked it in: wet and smelly bags of mulch and fertilizer, flats of pansies, containers of spring-blooming bulbs, paint remover, and several yard tools. Once Father Carston had told Dad the plan, Dad had stopped by Brice’s foster parents’ house to see what kind of tree they’d like. Guess they wanted something ornamental to replace whatever ornamental thing that black skeleton of a tree had been.
“Lift the tree on up over the side.” A breeze tousling his dirty-blond hair and work gloves hanging from a pocket, Dad walked around the side of the truck to where he could almost reach the tree.
Stepping in the few inches of space he found between things, Peter grabbed each side of the eighteen-inch diameter bucket that held the tree and hoisted it up. With a grunt and a bit of effort, he lugged the fifty-or-so-pound bucket toward Dad’s waiting hands.
“Easy now.” Dad grabbed the bucket from Peter and swung it to the ground, making it look light. “I’ll carry it over,” he said to four boys who had come to help. “We’ll need to chop off the limbs of the old tree before we dig it up, load ’em in the back of the truck. And, you two . . .” He pointed to Fred and another kid. “Make sure the new hole is twice as wide . . .”
For the next few minutes, Peter handed things to Dad, who handed things to various kids and gave instructions for where to place them and what jobs needed done.
As Peter handed the last items to Dad—a box of scrapers and rags—car doors slammed. Peter turned to see a group of girls exiting a blue sedan two driveways down. The sedan took off.
Where was Roland? He better not have changed his mind about helping. Wait! Peter did a double take.
The Wests’ silver Lexus rolled down the street, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. Finally!
Peter thumped across the empty truck bed, put a hand to the side, and jumped out. Dad continued rattling off instructions to the three boys that walked with him toward the burnt tree in the middle of the front yard. Two kids had started digging around it. Caitlyn squatted by the card table Kiara had set up, picking up things from the grass. Cookies?
Peter shook his head and turned away. Roland and Keefe strolled down the sidewalk. Wait, if I want Roland to help investigate, all I have to do is— “Hey, Caitlyn!”
She popped up, grabbed a plate of cookies, and scurried toward Peter, brushing one hand on her denim skirt.
Dumbfounded, Peter squinted at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
A smile on her face, she lifted the plate with both hands and brought the chocolate-chip cookies up to his nose. “Isn’t that why you called me over here?”
“No.” He pushed the plate back. “I want to ask you something. Besides, I totally saw you pick cookies up off the ground and put ’em back on the plate.”
“They only landed on the grass. I’m sure it’s clean. It’s nature.”
“Right.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Do dogs and squirrels have bathrooms?”
She tilted her head to one side, apparently not getting it. Then her gaze shifted, her eyes opened wide, and she sucked in a breath.
Still a dozen steps away, Roland and Keefe drew near, walking in step and carrying that calm, cool, and collected West boy air about them. Even though Keefe now seemed supercharged with the faith, he still had something of his twin’s pompous demeanor.
Caitlyn whispered something to herself. Then one hand lifted from the plate of cookies—which then tilted—and her hand shot to her hair.
Peter laughed. “Don’t worry. He likes you just the way you are.”
As if unaware he’d caught her primping, she gave him a funny look and returned her hand to the plate.
Peter shouted to Roland and Keefe, “Hey, there you are. Better late than never, huh?”
Keefe’s gaze dropped to his watch. Roland’s shifted to Caitlyn. Caitlyn dipped her head and offered the plate of cookies.
“No, thanks.” Keefe scanned the yard.
“Looking for Father?” Peter said, just as unsuspecting Roland took a cookie. “He’s on the front porch, talking to the family, well, the mom, anyways, and a toddler, but not . . .” Peter breathed. He shouldn’t say Brice’s name. Keefe might suspect he liked her. They probably wouldn’t even see her this evening. She’d probably taken off.
Keefe nodded and strode toward Father. Peter found himself peering past Roland at a strip of trees between houses. Brice could be anywhere.
“So, what did you want me for?” Caitlyn tapped Peter’s leg with her sneaker. “You said you wanted to ask me something.”
“Oh, yeah. So, it’s pretty rotten what someone did here, right?” He wanted to ease into the subject matter, making sure he got Caitlyn on his side. Because if he had her, he’d have Roland. And Roland could crack this case.
Caitlyn glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of the burnt tree. “Right. That’s why we’re here. Shouldn’t you be helping your dad with the tree?”
Wielding pruning shears and gesturing while he spoke, Dad babbled on to three teens about how deep they’d need to dig the hole for the new tree. Always the teacher. A pile of black branches lay on the ground, the tree now almost stripped clean.
“Yeah. I’ll help in a minute.” Peter glanced at Roland and returned his attention to Caitlyn. “But first, we need to talk. We’re gonna clean all this up, make it better than ever, but don’t you still wanna know who did this?”
Caitlyn shrugged. “I guess so. Someone should be held responsible and not think they can get away with something so mean.”
“Exactly.” Peter folded his arms and grinned at Roland.
Roland remained stone-faced, apparently having no clue he was about to fall into Peter’s trap.
“So, I think we should investigate.” Peter slapped his palms together, showing his readiness.
“Didn’t Father say the police were investigating,” Caitlyn said, “like, they might even question us?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m sure they’ve got other priorities. And you know we’re on their suspect list, right? So, I think we should solve it first, before they even consider laying the blame on us.”
Roland bobbed his head—nodding in agreement?—and he made a sweeping gaze of their surroundings—planning the investigation? When he stopped nodding and looking around, he turned to Peter. “What’s your plan?”
“Gotcha. Now you’ll do it because of—”
Roland shot a hostile glare, and Peter shut up. They both knew the reason he agreed to help now. Caitlyn.
“I was already going to help.” He gave a sulky look.
“Yeah, right.”
“Right.”
“What do we do first?” Caitlyn whispered, leaning toward Peter.
“I don’t know. Ask Roland. He’s our chief investigator.”
“Me?” His eyebrows climbed up his forehead.
“You know you’re the most qualified.”
“Yeah,” Caitlyn whispered, looking a bit awestruck. “You found that thief in Arizona, right?”
Roland and Caitlyn looked into each other’s eyes, Roland with his mouth hanging open as if he’d forgotten how to speak.
“That’s right.” Peter shoved Roland to snap him out of it. “So, what’s our plan?”
Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, Roland scanned their surroundings again. Then he looked at Caitlyn. “We should thoroughly investigate the yard, check every inch of grass—”
Peter slapped Caitlyn’s arm, jarring the plate of cookies. “Caitlyn can do that. In fact, didn’t I see you checking the grass already?”
She glared and tried to kick him, but he hopped back. “Well, I did see something in the grass that you probably didn’t even notice.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that? Cookie crumbs?”
“No, circles. They’re here and there, in little double rows.” No longer appearing fazed by Peter’s mocking, she pointed toward a section of grass.
Roland looked where she pointed.
“I saw ’em,” Peter said. “The kids probably made them.”
“We’ll make a note of it anyway. It’s a good observation.” Roland turned to Peter. “Now you figure out how they started the fire. They didn’t just take a lighter to that tree.”
The thrill of adventure making him a bit giddy, Peter nodded. “Right! Like for the annual camping trip, when we ignite our massive tepee of branches, we always use some kind of fuel.”
“Okay, let’s do it.” Roland turned to go.
“Wait a sec.” Peter grabbed his arm. “And what are you going to do?”
“Someone needs to poke around the backyard and stuff.”
“And stuff?” Red flags popped up in Peter’s mind. What would Brice think of them digging around? Maybe she already knew who’d done it, and she didn’t want the world to know. “I mean, we want to investigate, but we don’t want anyone to know we’re trying to, you know, investigate. We’ve gotta use cloak-and-dagger tactics. Understand?”
The hint of a smile played on Roland’s lips. “Don’t worry. I can move around unseen.”
“Yeah, if anybody can . . .” Peter glanced at Roland’s leg. Before he’d broken it, he could sneak up on anyone, but now with his limp, Peter always heard him coming. “You sure you’re able to resume stealth mode?”
The slant of Roland’s eyebrows showed he took offense. “I got it.”
“We should probably try to help clean up while we’re at it,” Caitlyn said.
“Or at least look like we’re helping, right?” Peter grinned at her. “Put the cookies down and you can dig through the mums, pretend you’re replanting them.”
Caitlyn smacked his arm and turned away with the plate of cookies. Roland took off too, his limp less obvious.
Peter shuffled toward the tree, assessing the growing stack of black branches and the charred tree trunk two boys dug around.
A few feet away, Dad crouched by the hole for the new tree. “It’s helpful to prune off dead roots,” he said to the two kids with him. Then he said something about slicing through the root ball, and he jerked his face to Peter. “Hey, Peter!”
Before Peter could reply, he glimpsed the scorched grass and the pattern he hadn’t noticed before. A strip of burnt grass stretched out from the rest of the singed grass. Which probably meant—
“Peter, we’re going to need that stump grinder unloaded.”
“What?” Anxious to investigate and share his thoughts with Roland, Peter ran a hand through his hair. “But I’ve got to—” He flung a hand out, pointing anywhere but here.
Dad threw a “do it now” look.
Peter sighed. “Yeah, all right.”
Half an hour or so later, they’d ground the stump down and filled the hole. Keefe and two others had planted the Japanese Tree Lilac a few feet away and created a three-inch ring of soil around the edges of the root zone. Now Keefe watered it with the hose while Fred ripped open the mulch bags.
“Hey, Peter.” Dad wiped down the stump grinder. He’d sprayed it with the hose before giving the hose to Keefe.
“Yeah?” Feeling grimy from head to toe, Peter brushed sawdust off his hands. How much more would Dad have him do? He needed to talk to Roland and Caitlyn and see if they discovered anything.
“Take that fertilizer.” Dad pointed. “And go see where Mrs. Escott wants you to put it. They won’t need it for a month.”
“Yeah, okay.” Peter hoisted the bag up and lugged it under one arm toward the house.
Caitlyn and Kiara, both on their knees, arranged pansies in the flowerbed along the front of the house. They’d raked smooth the dirt between the rhododendron bushes. Another girl bagged up damaged plants and the plastic containers that had held the flowers. A kid with a bulging black bag picked up something, probably the last traces of garbage. Everything was coming together. They’d probably be done in half an hour.
Peter climbed the steps to the empty front porch. The TV still flickered in the living room and a figure moved past. Might’ve been Mrs. Escott. Might’ve been . . .
Heartbeat kicking up, he set the mulch at his feet and pounded on the door.
A second later, the door creaked open. Mrs. Escott pushed open the storm door and smiled. “Peter, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” How did she know his name? Dad might’ve mentioned it. Any chance Brice did? Peter forced his thoughts back to business. “Hey, so, my dad says you’ll need to fertilize the tree in a month. So, he got this.” He lifted the bag to show her. “Where do you want me to put it?”
“Anywhere in the garage is fine, somewhere off to the side. Oh, wait.” She peeked outside in the direction of the garage. Phoebe and another girl, both wearing yellow rubber gloves, scrubbed the last of the graffiti off the garage door. “There’s a gate along the side.” She pointed. “Go around to the back door of the garage.”
“Okey dokey. I mean, yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Escott smiled. “Okey dokey.”
Peter followed the sidewalk to the driveway, a sharp odor of mineral-spirits filling the air. A can of paint remover sat at the edge of the driveway. He’d drop off the fertilizer and find Roland.
“Hey, Peter!”
Peter jumped and turned, giving Caitlyn an irritated glare. “Don’t sneak up behind me like that.”
“Did I scare you?” With hands behind her back and an elfish grin, she looked pleased with the idea.
Standing slouched so he could rest the bag on the ground, Peter exhaled and rolled his eyes. “What’s up?”
“Look what I found.” She brought one hand forward and dangled a beaded bracelet up at eye level.
“Hey.” A whispered voice came from behind Peter, making the hair on his neck stand on end.
He spun around, the bag of fertilizer slipping from his grip.
Roland stood behind him, sporting the hint of a grin.
“Hey, yourself. So where’ve you been?” Peter glanced around but saw no one near enough to overhear them. “Find anything?”
“Yeah, I did. You?”
“I did too,” Caitlyn said, again lifting the bracelet.
Looking mesmerized, Roland stared at the bracelet. Or maybe at her. The setting sun created long shadows from houses and trees, but she stood between shadows and a beam of golden sunlight made her green eyes sparkle and her hair glow like orange flames.
“Okay, lemme see.” Peter snatched the bracelet and nudged Caitlyn into a shadow. The bracelet was made of glass starbursts and polished wood beads in different colors: birch-like yellow, orangish maple or oak, cherry red, some kind of black wood, bluish gray, and chocolate brown . . . maybe walnut.
“It’s pretty in the sunlight.” She snatched it back and stepped into the light again. “So, what do we do next? We should talk to the neighbors. Someone might’ve seen something. And maybe we can learn something from kids at school.”
Roland stared at her again, his mouth half open.
“Caitlyn, you’re distracting someone, and we don’t want to draw attention.” Peter grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the shadows. “So where’d you find it?”
“Over there.” She twisted around and pointed toward the porch. “It was hanging from the lattice around the porch, like maybe it had fallen from the railing or something.”
“On the garage side?” Roland asked, back in detective mode.
She nodded.
“Ah, it’s probably one of the foster kids.” Peter reached for it.
Caitlyn turned so he couldn’t get it and slid it over her hand. “This isn’t a little kid’s bracelet.” She admired it on her skinny wrist. Roland admired it too.
“Well, anyway, you told me to figure out how they started the fire.” Peter shifted to block Roland’s view of Caitlyn and get him back on track. “And I’d say they used gasoline. A trail of scorched grass comes off the bigger circle of black grass, and it’s pretty wide. So, unless I had a flaming arrow or something to throw at it from a distance, I’d make a little trail of gasoline that led away from the gasoline-soaked tree. Then I’d toss a burning stick onto the end of the trail. And I’d run like heck. They could’ve used kerosene or lighter fluid or something but gasoline’s so fumy, you know, with its vapor density and low flash point, so it would really burst in every direction. And like I said, the burned trail is pretty wide . . .”
“Who cares?” Caitlyn sighed. “Is this a chemistry lesson?”
“No, he’s right,” Roland said. “I mean, not about vapor density and all that, but he’s right about them using gas.”
“And how do you know?” Peter folded his arms and lifted a brow.
“Found a gas can in the woods over there.” Roland threw a glance over his shoulder, without indicating anywhere in particular.
“Where is it?”
“I tossed it in the trunk of the Lexus.”
“Why?” Caitlyn said.
Roland shrugged. “Maybe we’ll find out whose it is. The Escotts didn’t mention anyone taking anything, so one of the punks probably brought it.”
“Hmm, yeah.” Peter grinned, glad to have Roland on the case. They had something to go on now. Maybe two somethings. “Let me have the bracelet. I’ll see if it’s Brice’s.”
“Okay, well, I have to get back to work.” Caitlyn handed him the bracelet and drew flowered gardening gloves from the pocket of her denim skirt. “We’re planting flowers. Either of you want to help?”
“Not me.” Peter lifted the fertilizer bag. “I need to get this in the garage.” He opened the gate and left Roland and Caitlyn staring at each other.
A sidewalk ran along the garage, leading to a cement slab with a grill and white wicker patio furniture. Plastic green and yellow toys lay scattered in a well-manicured fenced-in lawn, most of them near a swing set, slide, tree-house combo.
Peter found the back door of the garage and turned the knob. A crack of light ran along the bottom of the big garage door, and a bit of light came from the door he’d just opened. Unable to make out much inside the garage, he found a light switch.
Florescent lights flickered on, revealing one car in a two-car garage, a worn yellow BMX bike with a low seat and high handle bars, and organized clutter all along the walls: a pile of shoes, metal shelves with ratty cardboard boxes, a can of WD-40 and spray bottles of cleaners, stacks of green plastic planters, an old wooden toy box with a crooked lid, and a long metal toolbox in an otherwise empty corner.
Maybe he could shove the toolbox further down and make room for the fertilizer. A combination lock hung from the front of the toolbox and someone had scraped initials on the lid. B.A.M.
Peter’s heart shimmied in his chest. Was it Brice’s toolbox?
A sound came from outside, snagging his attention. The rattle of a chain-link fence. Quick footfalls. Then a flash of blond hair and a figure appeared in the doorway: Brice Maddox in over-sized jeans and a sweatshirt with an image of a coiled rattlesnake, her hair tousled, her face flushed . . .
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Two steps in, Brice stopped in her tracks and her eyes narrowed at Peter. “Whatdya doing in here?”
“Uh, I’m . . .” Peter lifted the bag of fertilizer. “Fertilizer.”
Still with an unfriendly look, she gave him a crooked grin. “You’re fertilizer?”
“Uh, no. I’m not.” Heat spreading from head to toe, he shook his head. He was such a dork around her. “I’m not fertilizer. But you’ll need to fertilize the new tree in a month so we . . .” His mouth hung open for one full second while he debated what to say next. “And I wanted to put it somewhere, so I asked your . . . uh . . .”
“Foster mother?”
“Right.” He breathed. Cool sweat gathered on his neck. “She said to put it in here, out of the way.”
“Lean it against the corner.” She flicked her index finger at the corner nearest him. Then she seemed to study him for a second. “So, you’re with the Catholic youth group, huh?”
“Um . . .” If he said yes, would that impact his chances with her? What was he thinking? All his friends, and especially Keefe West, would probably walk on coals rather than deny their faith for a girl. “Yeah, I am. We all felt pretty bad about, you know, what happened—”
“You guys about done here?”
“Uh, yeah. Probably half an hour. Got the old tree out, new tree in. Just gotta paint the garage door and spread some mulch.” Was she asking because she wanted to help? Or was she annoyed to find them still here? Was he improving his chances with her? Or blowing it?
Without another word, Brice stomped up three cement steps to the side door of the house. She yanked it open, slipped inside, and slammed it behind her.
Peter blew out a breath, his body relaxing. He wiped the sweat from his neck and combed a hand through his hair. Okay, he’d have to see where he stood with her tomorrow. Maybe he’d ask her about the bracelet. He wasn’t giving up.
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