TEN

“My house is up ahead,” Maggie told Russell, and motioned to the left.

“Okay.”

Russell was a talker, but as they approached the shell of the barn, he got quiet. He slowed the car so he could get a good look. Maggie’s fingers curled into the door rest, and she squeezed tight, struggling to keep her composure. All she needed today was another grilling. Finally he passed the barn and pushed the gas pedal.

“Here!” She pointed and had never been so glad to see home sweet home in her life. “My house. Right there. That’s my drive. Just pull up even with the side of the porch.”

Maggie barely managed to control the urge to snatch the keys from his hands when he parked. She just wanted out of her car and for her baby-sitters to go away. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be that simple. Russell followed her toward the house.

When they approached the porch, Gwen began a ferocious racket. The dog rarely roused herself to bark, but she had impeccable timing. It gave Maggie a polite excuse to get rid of Russell.

“That’s my dog. It takes me ten minutes to calm her down and get someone inside, so you don’t have to see me in. I know you have work to do. People to catch. Fires to put out. Important work.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” Russell eyed the door as Gwen’s ruckus tapered off. “The chief wouldn’t be too happy with me if anything happened to you.”

“I’m okay, really. I just shouldn’t have skipped breakfast with all that’s been going on lately. I’m a nurse. I should know better than most people that poor nutrition can kill you.” She shrugged as Gwen’s frantic barking renewed, almost drowning out her voice. “Go figure.”

“Oh, I hear you. I can’t remember the last time I changed the batteries in my own smoke alarm. Maybe I’ll do that tonight.” Now he was eyeing Jim in the car. “You promise to take it easy?”

“Absolutely. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll get something to eat as soon as I let the dog out, and then I’ll veg in front of the TV. No stress.” She crossed her heart and smiled. Then she waved good-bye at Jim, who waited in the beige Ford four-door.

When Russell started down the steps, she saw his gaze wander toward the magnolias. He probably wondered at the coincidence of the barn next door to her burning down recently. He shifted his attention back to the Ford, but she knew he wanted to see that barn again.

Maggie forced herself to forget the fires for the moment, and put the key in the lock. Truth be told, she really was wobbly. If anyone had asked her what it felt like to have your life fall apart, she’d have to say exhausting. That little performance for Beau had cost her the last of her energy reserves.

When she got the door open, Gwen’s ritual began. That’s the only word that came close to describing the wolfhound’s intricate greeting. Gwen usually did a dance with her front paws as the door opened, thundered to the living room where Maggie deposited her purse and keys. Then she woofed once as a signal that it was time for a hug.

Maggie leaned over, gave her a hug and thumped her on her side. The big rib cage sounded like a kettledrum. “Girlie-girl, am I glad to see a friendly face!”

Maggie patted her hip and walked out the back door with the dog. They wandered over to the barn. The field was Gwen’s usual place of business, so to speak, and the dog didn’t need a companion to make the trip over and back. But the barn drew Maggie like a magnet. Made her wonder about fate and the future. While the wolfhound romped off, Maggie stared at the charred pickup sticks that were all that remained of the structure. A shiver hit her, a hard one that made her shoulders jerk, as if someone had walked over her grave.

Or over Sarah’s.

One stray thought and the past settled over her like a spider snaring prey. The past was ruthless. It won, and her mind snatched her backward again.

The voices woke her first. A man and a woman were yelling horrible, hurtful things at each other. In that fuzzy half-awake time before full consciousness. Maggie thought she was home with her mother again. That at any moment the guy would hit her. Sometimes the men did. Then the fight would be over, and her mother would cry.

Maggie pulled the covers over her head, wishing they’d get drunk and pass out instead. Her stomach always hurt when they fought. Sometimes her stomach hurt so bad, she’d throw up. It was starting to hurt bad.

Then she remembered that she wasn’t with Mama anymore. She was at a foster home, the best one so far. She was home with Sarah tonight. The Alastairs were gone to a fancy party. They wouldn’t be home until way past midnight, but they said they trusted their girls to know the rules. One of the rules was no friends. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else here but Sarah and her.

Sarah was always so good. That’s why they trusted her. So why was someone here? Why would she let someone in? Maggie sat up and slid out from under the covers, uncertain what to do. Mama said never come out of her room when they were fighting.

But Mama was wrong a lot.

And Mama wasn’t here.

Maggie faced it finally. Her mama wasn’t ever coming back. She’d have to start making her own rules, and this fight didn’t sound like one of Mama’s fights, so she started for the bedroom door.

Maggie’s right knee buckled as Gwen rammed the back of it with her nose, jarring her out of the past and into the present. Shaking, she leaned into Gwen as the dog sat beside her. She hated not knowing what the memories meant. None of them fit with what she knew of Sarah, or her time with the Alastairs. If her memories could be trusted—and that was a big if at this point—Sarah had not only lied about breaking the flower bowl but there had been someone else in the house that night. Someone who fought with Sarah.

Gwen whined. Time to go. She glanced at her watch. Barely eleven o’clock. She had the rest of the day to deal with the knowledge that she’d been awake the night of the fire. She could have gone downstairs. She could have done anything. The flashback had destroyed her fantasy about little Maggie being snug in her bed, asleep and blameless.

Before she reentered the kitchen, she took her shoes off by the door. There wasn’t much she could do about Gwen’s feet. That’s why she kept all the furniture covered and had come to see dust as a friend and not the enemy. It was the only way to survive a wolfhound invasion.

She grabbed a breakfast pastry and a black cherry soda out of the pantry. Soda never stayed cold long, not in a house with a broken air conditioner. So she didn’t bother to refrigerate it. Gwen sprawled on the floor next to the open back door, hoping to catch a breeze. Maggie pulled a chair out from the table with her foot and plopped down.

That’s when it caught her eye—the newspaper clipping. The one she’d burned. She could remember watching it go black as the fire raced across the page.

But there it was again. In the middle of her table. Cut out in exactly the same shape. Creased the same way.

Beau had harbored the irrational hope that he’d make a few phone calls and someone on the other end of the phone would remember the fire. He checked his watch. Just after noon. He no longer held out any hope for that scenario. There were no replies to his fax.

More than half of the departments contacted were going to have to call him back because they couldn’t find a logbook that old. Eighteen years was a long time ago, they all said, in plainly doubtful tones that didn’t bode well for his search.

Each phone call had been a repeat of the first one. Inevitably they put him on hold. So far today he’d been on hold longer than plans for a sequel to the movie E. T. The current conversation with John McCall at the Slaughter volunteer department was no exception.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” McCall said after a long pause. “I’ll have to look that up, and I’m the only one here during the day. Can you hold?”

“Not a problem.” What did another five minutes matter?

Beau heard the phone plunked down and tried not to yawn or admit, even to himself, that Maggie was wearing him out. As he waited he picked up a paper clip and methodically straightened it, wishing he could straighten out the coil of desire in his belly just as easily. He couldn’t. That coil was wound so tight, sating his physical need would loosen it only so much.

His feelings for Maggie went beyond hormones and chemistry. Her essence had settled deeply inside him—something he’d never allowed any other woman to do. But Maggie was there—a soul he’d understood and claimed the moment he saw her. He couldn’t explain it any other way. No sane man lusted after a woman as much trouble as Maggie St. John.

Or after a woman in as much trouble as Maggie St. John.

The phone crackled when McCall picked it up. “Did you say Alastair?”

“Yeah, that was it.” Beau snapped to attention and tossed the paper clip to the desk blotter. “A teenager named Sarah Alastair. The fire happened sometime the end of June. You got it?”

“We logged a call. Sad business anytime a kid dies.”

Beau had done his share of time at funerals. “Yeah, I know. You think there’d still be a case file or report somewhere?”

“Sure. Somewhere. If there was a fatality, there’d have to be a report at least. I’ll check with Ernie Tousant. If anyone can find it in the maze of files out back, he can.”

“Hey, I appreciate your help. Call when you find it, and I’ll send a man over.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll have my grandson drop it off. He’s got classes over at LSU every afternoon. You guys are probably over on St. Louis, right?”

Beau gave him the number, thanked him, and hung up. Slowly he smiled and sailed the mangled paper clip into the trash. You can run, Maggie, but you can’t hide.

“Beau!” Jim hollered from the bull pen. “Line one. You’d better take it. The guy says he’s got fire trucks rolling to his house, but he wants you there too.”

“That’s all I need today,” he mumbled. “Some politico who wants special treatment so he can speed up the insurance claim.”

Frowning now, Beau snatched up the receiver. “Grayson.”

“You get over here. And this time I want something done. Before she kills someone.” Dr. Bennett was brief and to the point. He gave his address and hung up.

Beau slammed down the phone and headed for the door. He didn’t know how much of a lead the fire trucks had on him, but whatever it was, it was too much. On his way by Jim, he passed him the piece of paper with the address.

“Get on the radio. Find out who’s rolling on this and tell that engine that I do not, repeat do not, want them to overhaul that fire before I get there. All I need is for them to get this thing under control quick and start shoveling out my evidence. Russell, you’re with me on this one. Let’s move! My evidence is burning!”

Dammit, Maggie. You should have listened. Why didn’t you listen?

The crew had barely rolled out the hose and made the hydrant connection when Beau arrived. Maybe he had a shot at some evidence. Maybe.

When a well-dressed man came charging across the street, Beau sighed. He recognized the doctor from the hospital. “Russell, can you handle that?”

“Yes, sir. I imagine I can.”

“Good. Handle it away from me. Then work the bystanders and neighbors. Dig me up a witness. You know who Bennett’s pinned this one on, so let’s see if we can place her here. I’ll get on the physical evidence.”

Russell was as good as his word; he handled Bennett. The man never got within ten feet. Beau grabbed his gear from the trunk of the car, leaving the shovel this time, but taking the camera. As it always did, the job absorbed him, forcing his emotions to the background. He worked the perimeter of the house first, looking specifically for forcible entry, shoe prints, spilled accelerant.

When he found a shoe print in the soft dirt of the side flower bed—a few inches from the edge of the walk—he wasn’t certain if it belonged to Bennett’s wife, kid, the perp or if Bennett had small feet. Right now, Beau didn’t care to whom it belonged. The print was beneath a jimmied window, and he didn’t look gift horses in the mouth. He was simply grateful that none of the smoke-eaters had trampled it.

Yet.

The day was early; they would eventually. Or they’d vent an upstairs window and chunks of falling glass would land in it. Water could destroy it. One way or another, this print was on the endangered list.

A couple of firefighters blew past him. Priority number one was the fire. First, last, and always. So he’d have to find a way to protect the print until he could cast it. They sure as hell weren’t going to tiptoe around it. Of course, if the responsibilities had been reversed, neither would he. First he took a close-up and a placement photo. Then he scanned the area.

Beau smiled. Bennett had one of those small, shiny aluminum garbage cans to supplement the city’s big blue plastic ones. Without a moment’s hesitation, Beau strode to the can and upended it, dumping garbage on the lawn.

Taking the can back to the flower bed, he flipped it upside down again and placed it over the area, careful that the print was centered in the circumference of the opening. Then he twisted the can into the ground around the impression—forming a protective dome over the print. Finally he hefted an Arkansas fieldstone from the landscaping and weighted the can down. It’d have to do.

Fifteen minutes later the fire was under control, and Beau got his first quick look inside. It was an easy call. None easier in fact. This fire was definitely of an incendiary nature.

Zippers on the stove top were always a dead give-away. When a woman was pissed off at a man, she tended to grab all of his favorite stuff, pile it on the stove, and turn on the burners. Beau had lost count of the number of zippers he’d seen on stoves.

Fire destroyed the pants, but not the zippers. Zippers just didn’t burn up completely. Even when the teeth were plastic, the tab and slide were still made out of good old metal, which was much more durable than fabric or plastic. Anytime Beau saw zipper pieces, the call was easy.

This was a classic revenge fire, and a classic woman’s fire. The Littleton woman burning her husband’s bed with him still in it was an aberration of the female pattern. In general women set smaller fires aimed at defacing property, not destroying it. Women’s fires were impulsive. That’s why he’d had Russell drive Maggie home—to give her time to think and calm down.

To avoid exactly what had happened.

Beau’s lungs began to protest the heat and lingering smoke. It was too hot to stay inside and do a thorough job. The kitchen would have to be ventilated and cooled out with fans before the arson squad could really get in. Not that there was much to do with this fire. Beau took a few shots and noted the time on the stove clock. The plastic was bubbled and scorched, but he could make out the position of the black hands. When fire cut the electricity to a stove, the built-in clock stopped, which gave an indication of when the fire might have been set.

For this fire in particular, the time line would be critical. In his mind he was doing more than gathering evidence. He was also filtering that evidence against what he knew of Maggie. The window of opportunity was tight, but she could have made it back into town to do this. However, for the first time since this dance with Maggie began, his instincts were telling him that this wasn’t her fire. Everything pointed to her, but it was wrong somehow.

The aftermath of a fire talked to Beau. Whispered to him. It always had. This one wasn’t whispering Maggie’s name. He couldn’t sense traces of anger. The fire felt cold to him, deliberate.

Regardless of your instinct, she’s still the primary suspect. Beau knew that only too well. During the last week that phrase had been engraved on his heart. It was his first cautionary thought when he woke in the morning, and his last thought at night before he surrendered to dreams. Now, he had to do his job. In arson, you worked the people, not the fire. Because the fire didn’t leave you much.

Bennett was waiting for him down by the street. The man hadn’t once tried to look inside his house to see the damage. He had vigilante justice on his mind, and his single-mindedness irritated Beau immeasurably. So did the doctor’s voice. When Bennett spoke there was always a subtle inflection that conveyed his utter contempt for mere mortals.

“Grayson, I assume that, finally, even you can grasp the implications of this fire. I want Maggie St. John arrested this afternoon. If you’d listened to me, she would have been arrested this morning and my house wouldn’t be ravaged now.”

Beau adjusted his hat, slipping it farther back on his head and decided that Maggie’s nickname for the doctor was dead-on. Beau didn’t much care for Dr. Just-Call-Me-God.

“Sir, unless Russell turned up an eye witness—” Beau paused for input; Russell shook his head—“I’ve got nothing to arrest her on.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Bennett looked incredulous. “She’s just been put on an indefinite leave of absence. She carries a grudge. She is a troublemaker, has attacked a man with a scalpel, and things go up in flames around her. What more do you need? Do your job, Grayson.”

“You know.” Beau moved closer so he could look down at Bennett. The height differential wasn’t much, but Beau suspected the doctor would hate it. “I’m really getting tired of people telling me to do my job. Let me ask you something. Can you put the match in her hand? Did you see her turn the stove on? Did anyone see her or her car in this neighborhood, skulking about your house?”

“No, sir,” Russell quickly answered for the doctor, and Beau detected a distinct note of pleasure in that response.

“Did she threaten you or your house, Doctor? In the presence of a third party?”

“No.”

“Well then, Dr. Bennett, you’ll just have to be patient like the rest of us. Last time I looked, even Louisiana’s complicated Napoleonic codes don’t allow us to hang someone on motive and bad luck. If we were allowed to do so, I’d run you in. You have an insurance policy, I bet. Your kitchen just burned down, and you found the fire. Motive, bad luck, and opportunity.”

For a long time Bennett didn’t respond. Beau could see him struggling with anger, barely suppressing it as he said, “You’re going to do nothing? Not even get a search warrant?”

“And search for what? Whoever burned down your kitchen used your stove, Doctor. Even with a shoe print, we don’t have enough for a search warrant. A shoe print doesn’t prove that person was here today. Arson is the perfect crime. If you’re lucky or good, there’s no evidence. You want some advice, Doctor? Deal with the insurance company and let us deal with the case.”

Beau took a few steps away, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, if you’ve got a safe hidden away in your kitchen pantry, don’t open it until tomorrow. They hold heat, intense heat. Just the heat in the air can cause the contents to burst into flames, and we wouldn’t want your stock certificates to go up in smoke now, would we?”

Turning to Russell, he said, “I’m going back to the office. You take over, and I’ll send Jim out when I get there. You two comb this place like it was your mama’s house.”

Without a backward glance, Beau walked away. His mood didn’t improve at the office. His eyes were killing him. He hadn’t had any sleep. Carolyn Poag had phoned him three times. He was in no mood for Carolyn Poag to read him the riot act for being mean to Maggie, and he was sure that’s what she intended. He called anyway.

“Shear Indulgence!”

He winced at the sweet, chipper tone of the receptionist. “Carolyn Poag, please. Beau Grayson returning her call.”

The phone clicked to hold in a nanosecond. Beau sighed. Been there. Done that. All day.

Carolyn didn’t keep him waiting long, and she didn’t waste time on hellos. “What did you do to Maggie? She won’t pick up the phone, and she always picks up for me. Always.”

He sighed heavily and leaned forward on his desk. As he rubbed his eyes, he realized he didn’t want to know this. Not now. Not ever. But he had no choice. He had a job to do, and if Carolyn was stupid enough to unwittingly confirm Maggie’s window of opportunity, he had to listen.

Softly he suggested, “I didn’t do anything to her. Maybe she’s not home.”

“Where else would she be?”

Beau knew exactly where Maggie could have been, but he kept silent.

“Look, Mr. Grayson, Maggie keeps her world simple. She likes it that way. She’s got the hospital, me, and that dog. The hospital fired her. She’s not here. That means she’s at home.”

“So why are you calling me? Why don’t you just go check on her and be done with it?”

“Look up stubborn in the dictionary and you’ll find her picture. If she won’t pick up the phone for me, what makes you think she’s going to answer the door?” She sounded exasperated. “Even if she wasn’t mad at me for this morning, which she sure is—trust me—I don’t think I’m who she needs to see right now.”

He heard Carolyn take a deep breath as if accepting an unpleasant truth. “I only remind her of Sarah and the fire and her guilt. Sarah was my best friend. That’s how I got to know Maggie. She doesn’t need to be reminded of that. Or any of it. Not after this morning.”

“She was fine when she left here. She needed to cool down, but she was fine.”

“You can’t actually believe that. She’s hanging on by a thread! You saw an attack the night you went to her house. She told me. And if you don’t know by now, get a clue. Maggie is a world-class master at pretending she’s okay. Look, I couldn’t call any of the nurses at the hospital because I don’t want this to get around. That leaves you. Please. She’ll have to come to the door if she thinks it’s official. I just want to know she’s all right, and that she hasn’t … done anything.”

Beau heard the subtext that Carolyn was trying so hard not to verbalize. She was worried about Maggie’s mental state. He couldn’t buy her logic. Maybe something was wrong, but it wasn’t Maggie’s emotional stability. The woman who stormed out of his office wasn’t despondent or hanging by a thread. Granted, Carolyn knew Maggie longer, but Beau wasn’t sure she knew Maggie better.

He didn’t argue the point, though. Carolyn’s concern gave him a legitimate reason to visit a suspect without a warrant. Even as he told himself that agreeing to check on Maggie was a professional responsibility, he knew it wasn’t. This was personal.