Nine

By Tuesday morning, Anita began to wonder why she hadn’t heard from Regan. Not that she really cared, or did she? Tyler had asked about him at breakfast, reminding her about soccer practice and Regan’s assurance that he planned to be there. Certainly her concerns centered on her son. He’d be crushed if Regan decided to stop his involvement with the Big Brother program.

I just want everything to be right for Tyler. Nothing else. Regan had his friendlier moments. Once he climbed down off his high horse, he could be fun. After all, Tyler adored him.

With a shrug, she settled into the morning’s routine: returning phone calls, scheduling field trips, and checking over the cook’s budget for snacks.

Anita paused to take a long look outside the eight-foot-long window of her office. A day had crept into view as brilliant as she could remember. Oak trees, older than the town, feathered green against a cloudless blue sky. Their branches waved lightly in the lambent light as if welcoming her to join them. White impatiens nestled in the oaks’ shade, lifting their faces to take refuge from the sun’s fast approaching heat. A paintbrush assortment of black-eyed Susans, bright blue salvia, and pink mums bloomed against the backdrop of a white picket fence lining the front walk of the school. The color contrast sent tingles to her toes in a mixture of awe and admiration, as though God had labored over His creation like an artist deliberately brushing colors on a canvas.

Here I am giving God credit for His handiwork while I’m mad at Him. Oh, God, I know how beautiful Your creation is, but taking Vince and plaguing Tyler with nightmares is cruel. Why? What have I done—or my son—to deserve this misery?

Anita blinked and turned her attention to the paperwork on her desk. Someday she needed to deal with all these things, but not today. Only on Sundays did the overwhelming desire to once more draw near to God tug at her heart.

The phone rang, jarring her from her musing. She shivered and hastily picked it up on the second ring.

“Hi, Anita. It’s Regan. Is this a good time?”

She felt her burdens fade in light of his call. “Now is fine. What’s going on in the world of our fire marshal?”

He chuckled—the familiar low mirth that seemed to originate in his toes. “The same paperwork and occasional inspection. I wanted to make sure it was okay to pick up Tyler for soccer practice this evening.”

She detected a slight chill in his voice. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Just busy here today.”

“Oh, okay. Well, you can pick him up the same time as last week. I know he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Good. Me too. Do you mind if we catch dinner?”

“No problem. Hey, what if I have dessert when you get back?”

“That sounds great.” His voice inched more enthusiastic.

“What about an Italian wedding cake?” Now why did I suggest that?

“What. . .are you proposing?” He chuckled again, and she smiled through her humiliation.

“A cake, Mr. Moore. It’s a creamy white concoction.”

“Ah. I thought you had something else in mind, a little more permanent. I’ve never been proposed to. Sounds interesting.”

Anita felt her face burn. I walked into this round.

Regan laughed again. “Do I have the lady speechless?”

“No, I’m simply thinking.” The phone indicated another call. “Got to run, the other line is ringing.”

“Saved by the bell, huh? I’ll see you later. Wouldn’t miss your cake for the world.”

Anita replaced the receiver, so glad no one else occupied the front office. She could almost hear Susan teasing her about the caller who reddened her face.

For a moment, she dared to prop her elbow on the desk and rest her chin on her hand. She rather liked Regan Moore in a peculiar sort of way. A twinge of alarm raced through her at this realization. How many times did she have to tell herself a relationship did not fit into her carefully laid plans? A friend, he’s simply a friend.

After school, she picked up Tyler at her mother’s and made a quick stop at the grocery. She didn’t have buttermilk, coconut, pecans, or cream cheese for the cake and frosting.

“Need a cart, Mom?” Tyler asked. “I can push it.”

She hesitated. “Probably so. We just need four things, but you know me when I get around food.”

“And we’re both a little hungry, so you might want to buy more stuff.”

My sweet little rascal. “So what kind of snack would you like? I could get us some bananas.”

“How about grapes?”

Anita smiled. “Green ones? Those that don’t have seeds?”

“Sure, Mom. Can I pick them out?”

She guided him to the fruit section where the scent of oranges caused her stomach to growl. She tossed a couple of the huge navel beauties into a plastic bag and set them in the cart. While she perused the fresh produce, the sound of thunder accompanied by a waterfall indicated the vegetables were receiving their timely shower—all designed to keep them garden fresh and appetizing. Her gaze moved to the tomatoes where droplets of water sent a silent message of, “Buy me; I’m home grown.” She did.

Together, Anita and Tyler moved on to collect the ingredients for the cake, ending up in the dairy section.

“B-u-t-t-e-r-m-i-l-k,” Tyler spelled, holding the quart container in his hand. He peered up at her, obviously confused. “What kind of milk is this? Yellow?”

“No, Honey.” She hugged his shoulders and planted a kiss on his upturned nose. “Buttermilk is the type of milk left after butter is churned. Your granddad used to love it.”

“Would I?” His serious look nearly made her laugh.

“I doubt it. You have to develop a taste for it.”

“Like yogurt?”

If you only knew. “Something like that.”

“Anita Todd?”

She whirled around at the sound of her name. Instantly the blood rushed from her face and her stomach churned. Craig Harringer.

❧

Regan read through a suspected arson case. Ordinarily, he stuck to his job, conducting inspections for fire code violations and administrating and enforcing the fire code for the state of Oklahoma. In larger cities, his position also utilized an aide, but not in Sweetwell. Here he did it all.

This case piqued his interest because it involved a prominent family in the community—the Harringers—and he wasn’t so sure the blaze had been accidental.

His approach to fires had always been suspicious and cautious until a cause had been established. Whether the fire originated from an electrical malfunction, a careless cigarette, or kids playing with matches, every one had a cause. Period. Regan needed to put this blaze into one of three categories: accidental, an act of God, or incendiary.

No matter how many times he pushed the memory of his wife and daughter into the back of his mind or prayed for God to take away the horror of finding their charred bodies, fire was his enemy. He believed the memory of his wife and daughter kept him committed to fire safety—a way of preventing others from suffering through the loss of life. By concentrating on those worthwhile thoughts, he could see how God uses sorrow for good. Others could be helped, taught, and instructed about fire prevention and thereby escape tragedy. The arsonist who fell under Regan’s scrutiny had better be ready to run.

Glancing through the first-in firefighter’s report, Regan read the answers to the standard questions. A policeman had reported the blaze while patrolling the area around eleven o’clock. Neither the officer nor first-arriving firefighter saw anyone near the warehouse or while they battled the blaze. Thick, black smoke poured from the building, leaving the impression that the area housed large quantities of consumer packaged flammable liquids—turpentine, lacquer thinner, and paint solvent—in metal gallon containers. This must be the origin.

Monday night’s blaze would not be an easy fire to determine the cause, and oddly enough, neither the burglar nor the fire alarm systems had sounded a warning. Regan reread a note on the final firefighter’s report—office window broken and a crowbar found inside. Looked like forced entry. He could kick himself for not seeing this earlier. In his mind, it definitely spelled arson.

Regan had mixed feelings about Jacob and Doris Harringer, somewhere between pity and total frustration. They supported the community and gave freely to various charities, but Regan wouldn’t give a wooden nickel for Craig, their only son. The incident at Good Hope Christian Day School cemented his opinion.

Jacob owned the now burned warehouse complex outside of town—one of his many investments. Everything had been constructed according to the building code. Farther down the report, Regan read that six months ago Craig had been given ownership to the building, and the construction was handsomely insured. This sounds even worse.

Craig had a record with the police department long enough to name a cell after him. He’d always been a hothead in his teens and had never grown up, just gotten worse. Jacob’s money kept him in alcohol and drugs, then went on to pay legal fees so Craig wouldn’t have to sit in jail. Hence the problem: Craig seldom if ever faced the consequences of his actions. The elder Harringer mistook love for providing his son everything he demanded.

The town thought Craig had finally grown up when he married Rhonda, a great lady who moved to Sweetwell without prior knowledge of Craig’s past.

He got drunk and beat her a few times, but when she called the police and filed charges, Jacob again bailed his son out of trouble. Rhonda and Craig tried for reconciliation when she became pregnant, but his change of heart didn’t last once their little girl made it to eight months old. He must have grown tired of Rhonda, because he filed for divorce based on mental anguish. Jacob’s money paid for a fancy lawyer out of Tulsa in an effort to gain custody of Leesa, but the courts denied Craig those privileges when he lost his temper in front of the judge. A series of assaults on Rhonda pulled the plug on any visitation at all.

What puzzled Regan was why Craig might have started the warehouse fire. He didn’t need money. Jacob held the purse strings, but he’d never refused his son—although at the last trial when Rhonda had showed up with a broken arm and a bruised face, Jacob had walked out and left his son to face the consequences. When the judge gave him ninety days, Craig served two weeks. Jacob couldn’t handle knowing his son was behind bars.

Regan stole a quick look at his watch. He had plenty of time this afternoon to do a little investigating of his own before heading to Tyler’s soccer practice. The thought of Anita and her energetic son were all the more reason to nail Craig with an arsonist charge. The man shouldn’t have threatened Anita, her staff, or any of those children at Good Hope School.

Regan drove to the site about a half-mile out of town and parked his Jeep beside the ruins of Harringer’s Warehouse. Snatching up his hand-held recorder, camera, and a small bag with a few tools, he stuffed them into a backpack and headed for what was left of the building. Although the fire had originated in the area housing the flammable liquids, he needed to determine the exact cause.

Regan knew this initial investigation would be limited to recording his essential findings and photographing. He had a lot of work ahead of him, some of which could be done when a deputy from the office of the State Fire Marshal’s office assigned to Sweetwell arrived on Thursday. Usually this type of work concluded quickly, but not in the case of arson.

❧

“What do you want?” Anita asked Craig. She sensed Tyler right beside her, and her stomach curdled. “Honey, why don’t you get us some vanilla ice cream to go with the cake tonight? You know which brand.”

He scampered off to the frozen food aisle. At that point, she didn’t care if he came back with a dozen ice-cream containers.

Narrowing her gaze at Craig, she repeated her question.

“Do I need a reason?” His half smile more closely resembled a sneer. “Aren’t we friends?”

“Not exactly. Look, I have things to do.” Anita scrutinized his designer jeans and expensive pullover. Those clothes didn’t mask the man beneath—the violence she knew could erupt at any given moment. To think her initial impression of him centered on his charm and good looks.

“I won’t forget you wouldn’t let me have my daughter,” he said in a low voice.

Anita refused to cower to his threats. She glanced around her at the rows of yogurt, butter, and milk on one side and the various cheeses on the other. An older couple stopped for milk and argued over skim or two percent. Can’t you see I need help!

“I don’t have to listen to your threats,” she said, loud enough for the couple to hear. Instead of intervening, they moved on down the aisle, obviously thinking they’d interrupted a marital quarrel. Anita started to push the cart past Craig, but he grabbed it.

“You’ll regret calling the police that day,” he uttered barely above a whisper. “I don’t take kindly to folks interfering with my business.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t regret what I did, and I’d do it again. Maybe the next time you’ll sit in jail a little longer.”

He nodded, and scorn covered every inch of his face. “Nice looking boy you have there, Mrs. Todd.”