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Karen’s phone rang while she and Jeff were watching an episode of Death in Paradise. She liked the idea of solving absurd murders in a tropical paradise.
Over the phone, Sergeant Phillips said, “We have an arson at a maintenance shed at the fairgrounds. There was a woman in there, and she’s on her way to the hospital. She’s got burns and smoke inhalation and the EMTs aren’t sure how serious it is.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“No ID yet.”
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The officer at the gate let Karen drive into the fairgrounds, and she drove over to the flashing lights. She shivered when she got out of the car, and she could see her breath. The air smelled putrid, like burning rubber. The shed that burned was bigger than she’d imagined, maybe twenty by thirty feet. It was painted white, but about a third of it was charred.
“Same as the others,” Sergeant Phillips said. “Gasoline poured through a broken window. The gas can is intact. Crime Scene guys will be here in a few minutes. Still no ID on the woman.”
“What’s in the shed?”
“A lot of tools, hoses, fan belts—stuff like that.”
“Who reported it?”
“There were 911 calls from two neighbors.”
“Well, give me their info, and I’ll go talk to them. Are there any security cameras?”
“There are. I asked the DPW guys to get me the files.”
Karen got the caller info and drove over to the aptly named Fairview Street. About a dozen people were standing together watching the fire department. Karen took their picture with her phone, held up her badge, and said, “My name is Detective Tindall. I’m looking for Richie Peretti and Alma Suarez.” Richie and Alma approached Karen and introduced themselves. “I’d like to speak to you separately, please. I’ll start with Ms. Suarez.” They walked about twenty feet away, and Karen said, “Ms. Suarez, please tell me what you saw before you called 911.”
“Please call me Alma.” She spoke with a very slight Hispanic accent. “My husband Martin and I were watching TV, and during a commercial, I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. When I walked through the dining room, I saw the fire. I called Martin to come and look, and he said it looks like a building’s on fire. That’s when I called 911.”
“Did you or your husband see anybody near the fire or at the fairgrounds?”
“No, not until the fire department showed up.”
“Is there anything else you noticed? Did you see anybody there during the day?”
“No, that’s all I saw.”
“Okay, thank you for calling 911. You may have helped save someone’s life.”
Alma’s breath caught, and she put her hand over her mouth.
“Alma, here’s my card if you think of anything else that could help me. Please send Richie over.”
Richie hadn’t seen anyone. All he saw was the fire.
Karen went back to the crowd. “There was a woman in the shed, and she was injured. She’s been taken to the hospital. Does anyone know who she might be?” Nobody answered. “Did anybody see anybody at the fairgrounds today or anytime recently?” Nobody answered. “Okay, thanks. Please talk to your kids. They may have seen somebody or something. If you think of anything else, please call me at the police station. Alma and Richie have my cards.”
Karen went back to the fairgrounds, where Chief Reyes was talking to Sergeant Phillips.
“Hey, Chief. I talked to the neighbors who are standing over there watching. None of them saw anybody. I’ll go to the hospital and see if I can talk to the victim. By the way, I saw Scarecrow skulking over there.” Scarecrow was Paula Metz, a reporter from the Greenfield Recorder. The origin of her nickname was obvious to anyone who looked at her. Chief Reyes grumbled.
“Hank Wills from the DPW is emailing us the security camera files,” said Sergeant Phillips. “I’ll meet you back at the station.”
Karen said, “Well, we know it wasn’t set by Mark Breen. He’s in jail.”