“That was a crock of bull,” Jack said, with more vehemence than he usually expressed. He had walked in the front door from the beach while I was picking up the living room in anticipation of tomorrow’s guest.
“You think he was lying?”
“I think Tina’s story about ‘Uncle Bill’ was a fairy tale. She was looking for something all right, but it wasn’t ‘Uncle Bill.’ ”
“It didn’t even have to be a man,” I said. “If a body had been washed up on the beach at the right time, she would have known it was the person she was looking for. But there’s no record of a drowning.”
“Or a fight, or a fatal fire. Maybe her father was cheating on her mother and he came out here and was never seen again.”
“Maybe it was her mother. We don’t know anything about her family.”
“Whatever else she lied about, I have to believe the time element was true. She wouldn’t say something happened fifteen years ago if it happened five years ago. So we have to start with that. What was Ken Buckley doing fifteen years ago, and how is he tied into this?”
“He wasn’t fire chief then, I’m sure of that. But he was a fireman.”
“And he was here in Blue Harbor so he was a better source of information for Tina than Springer. And the older firemen, like the two guys we talked to yesterday afternoon. We don’t have much time, Chris. This is Thursday night.”
“I haven’t wanted to think about that. These two weeks have just flown.”
“Well, Eddie’s become a swimmer. That’s something.”
“It is something. Jack, do you suppose they have records of old fires at the firehouse?”
“They have to be somewhere, either there or at the municipal building next door. What time is Sister Joseph coming?”
“When she gets here. She’ll call before she gets on the ferry.”
“That’ll give us half an hour’s warning. But one of us’ll have to stay home.”
I smiled. “We’ll flip a coin in the morning.”
“Sounds like equal opportunity to me.”
I’m not sure who won the toss, but at nine the next morning I dashed over to the firehouse. Firemen of all ages and their wives were assembling in preparation for a march to the ferry. The man named Fred had settled into a card game with another man I hadn’t met.
“Chris Brooks, right?” Fred said, as I walked over.
“You have a good memory. I need some help I’m sure you can give me.” I felt embarrassed flattering him so openly, but he gave me a big smile.
“At your service.” He put his cards down on the table and got up, introduced me to Mike, who put his cards down, too, and rose just far enough to shake my hand. Both men were wearing black ties and black armbands.
“Have there been any fatal fires in Blue Harbor as long as you’ve been here?”
“Never had one in the history of the town,” Mike called from the table, where he had lit a cigar.
“Any fires where people required hospitalization?”
Fred said there hadn’t been. Once someone had burned a hand badly enough to require medical attention, but that was the worst he could remember.
“Are there records of the fires you’ve been called out on?”
“In the chief’s office. Very good records. Want to see them? They’re open to the public. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
We went into a small office, and I remembered that when we first came to the firehouse with Eddie and met Buckley, he had walked out of that room. There were file cabinets, a desk, a telephone, and some shelves built into the wall that displayed models of old fire engines and little lead firemen in uniforms from long ago.
On the walls were photographs of Ken Buckley with various well-known people, including former Governor Cuomo of New York and former Mayor Koch of New York City. Arranged along one wall were framed pictures of former fire chiefs in Blue Harbor, including a couple of pictures of Chief La Coste. There were also pictures dating back to before the Second World War of the Blue Harbor Fire Department members standing in front of their trucks.
“Like a museum, isn’t it?” Fred said.
“I’m very impressed. You must be a great bunch of people. Do the models belong to the fire department or to Ken Buckley?”
“A little of both. He said he’d leave them all to us in his will. But who knows if he got to put it in? A man doesn’t expect to die at such a young age.”
I agreed with him and asked him to show me the records of past fires. There weren’t many, even small ones. If the fire department had disappeared for weeks on end, no one would have noticed. I found the fire where the man needed medical attention for his hand. That was the only fire that year.
I went back in time, glancing at the records. It took no time to reach the Great Fire of Blue Harbor. At that point, I took out my notebook and wrote down everything that seemed relevant, including the names of the homeowners, the addresses, the descriptions of the damage.
“Were you involved in the big fire fifteen years ago?” I asked Fred.
“Oh, yeah. Never forget that. It was the end of the summer. We got the call and we ran. By the time we got there, I could see there wasn’t much we could save. It was a one-story frame and it was a real worker. We hadda wet down the houses on either side to make sure the fire didn’t spread. I been a summer fireman for twenty-five years and nothing ever came close to that in my experience.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Thank God, everyone got outta there safe and sound.” He rapped his knuckles on the wooden desk.
“What happened to the people who lived there?”
“Oh, they moved.”
“Where?”
He frowned. “I don’t remember, but west of here, one of the bigger towns. You’ll find them in the book. But they can’t tell you nothin’. They weren’t there.”
“If they weren’t there, how did the fire start?”
He shrugged. “Read what it says. That file’s got all your answers.”
“You must have had help from the towns east and west of here.”
“We did. A fire like that, one company can’t handle it. Like with the Buckley house. All the towns around here, we have mutual-aid agreements with all the other towns. We get a big one, we call a multiple alarm and the other companies respond. And we go if they call. You can’t ever have too many firefighters at the scene of a real working fire.”
“Was Chief La Coste at that fire?”
“Bernie? You know how old he was fifteen years ago? Seventy-seven. He’s been inactive longer’n I’ve been here.”
“But I bet he came to see it.”
“Bernie wouldn’t miss a fire. But I was too busy fighting that fire to see who was there.”
“I suppose there was a big insurance claim.”
“You got me. I don’t know anything about that.”
“Was Ken at that fire?”
“I would guess so.”
“Fred?” a woman’s voice called.
“Hey, sorry. That’s my wife. We must be going down to the ferry now. I gotta close up the office.”
“Thanks very much, Fred.” I walked out of the office, and he locked the door as he closed it.
There was a large group now, and the men had put their ties on and were all wearing black armbands. They were as somber a group as I had ever seen. I ducked out of the firehouse as they were assembling into a marching group.
At home, Jack assured me there had been no phone calls.
“I have one to make,” I said. “I have to think who can help me. Mel’s probably back at school by now. I’ll have to call Arnold. He always knows the answer to everything.”
Arnold Gold, attorney-at-law, had become a surrogate father to me since I met him during my first murder investigation three years ago this summer. He is also my occasional part-time employer and as good a friend as I have ever had. I dialed his number at work in downtown Manhattan and a familiar voice answered. When I gave her my name, she switched me to Arnold.
“Haven’t heard your happy voice for a while. How’s my surrogate grandson?”
“Thriving. Arnold, I have to keep this line free because I’m expecting a phone call. I need a quick piece of information.”
“You’re not going to tell me you’re looking for a killer on your vacation?”
“Possibly a double killer, possibly two killers.”
“On Fire Island? New York’s great vacation spot?”
“Afraid so. Do you have an almanac handy? Or some reference book that’ll tell me what day of the week a fifteen-year-old date was?”
“I do indeed, if I can just put my hands on it. What’s your date?”
I gave it to him.
“Early September. Ah. Here it is. Just a second. I’m going to put the phone down.”
I waited impatiently, wanting both to get off the phone and to find out what he would tell me. I didn’t want Joseph to miss her chance to call from the other side of the bay.
“Here it is. It’s a Monday. The first Monday in September.”
“So that would be Labor Day.”
“Every year I can remember. Does that make you happy?”
“Happy isn’t the word for it. I’ll call you when I have a minute. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You owe me a story, Chrissie.”
“You’ll get it. Love to Harriet.” I hung up.
What were the chances of the two biggest fires in Blue Harbor taking place on Labor Day? Not very great, I thought, unless they were connected.