The rest of my dinner with Serenity went well. We talked about BARC and her future as second in command. When I’d exhausted all my questions, staying far away from the topic of Damian, she started in on me. Was my detective work fulfilling? How did I feel being the stand-in mother for a troubled teen? What did Nick look like? I’d never texted her a picture. An hour later, we split the check and promised to keep in touch. I hoped she would. She would need a shoulder to cry on.
Before making the drive home, I checked voicemail messages. There were two. One from Nick saying he was proud that I’d been able to track down Antoine Washington as well as to wheedle the truth out of Patel. He added that he was curious about what Patel might want to tell me. He would check in tomorrow. The second voicemail was from Max. She had news about the license plate but would wait until she spoke to me directly. There was no message from Viraj Patel.
Traffic was light heading north on 101. Even so, the glare of headlights from oncoming cars made me blink repeatedly, and I faced the truth that I was burning the candle at both ends, as my father would say. I needed sleep. I drove down Marsh Road and was nearing Middlefield when I spotted a bright orange flare to the left, followed by a lick of fire. And another. Rising higher. I rolled down my window. The smell of smoke was intense. I heard sirens.
Adrenaline surged through me. I swerved left on Middlefield and sped through the Linden Towers–era gate at James Avenue. I veered onto Heather Drive and spied a fire truck from Menlo Park Fire Protection District at the end of the street.
Don’t let it be Ilona’s house. Please let her be safe.
A slew of people on foot were racing toward the fire. I parked in front of a contemporary mansion and followed them.
When I reached Irving Avenue, I could see the blaze. It was not consuming Ilona’s house—it was destroying the left half of Viraj Patel’s home. Firemen sprayed huge arcs of water at the house and the white sedan in the driveway. An Atherton Police Department vehicle stood nearby, overhead light flashing. A uniformed officer was conversing with a fire department official.
A huddle of women stood outside the perimeter that the firemen had established. Ilona, dressed in a raincoat, flannel pajamas, and slippers was among them.
I hurried to her and nudged her elbow. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
Near one of the fire trucks, a husky fireman was questioning the silver-haired woman that I’d seen in Patel’s window the day before. She was wrapped in a pale yellow bathrobe. Her left arm hugged her body; her right hand protected her throat.
“Who’s she?” I asked.
“Mr. Patel’s fiancée, Olga,” Ilona said. “He’s inside. Dead. Isn’t that right?” she asked the lean woman standing beside her. The woman bobbed her head. “I think he was in his office,” Ilona added.
A third woman, older with jowls, said, “It was arson.”
Ilona tilted her head. “I heard it was a gas leak.”
“No, no,” the lean woman said softly. “Murder.”
Rumors could run rampant, but the last comment held a sliver of truth. Had someone killed Viraj Patel? Why? Because he’d wanted to tell me something about a debt or a threat? Had he contacted the killer and revealed his discovery, only to become the next casualty?
I felt eyes on me. I searched the crowd that had gathered. No one was staring at me. I noticed a car parked three doors down, lurking behind a truck, and saw the glow of a cigarette through the windshield. Was the person sitting in the driver’s seat watching me? With this many people around, I could approach the car and challenge whoever it was.
Ilona clutched my elbow and drew me close. “I wish Ted was here. He’s in the city. Another meeting.”
She was trembling. Afraid. She needed a friend. I didn’t budge.
An hour later, after police and news reporters had arrived on the scene and the fire was doused, teary-eyed neighbors trudged home, Ilona included. She thanked me for staying with her. I told her I’d be in touch.
Standing alone, I searched the street for the car. It was gone. I turned my gaze to Olga—Patel’s fiancée—who was sitting on a camp-style chair beside the fire truck. Earlier, I’d watched the EMTs tending to her, making sure she had enough oxygen and hadn’t inhaled smoke. I’d also observed the police questioning her. Now, another woman, very similar in look to Olga, her silver hair pulled into a tight ponytail, was standing beside her, hand on Olga’s shoulder. Her sister, I figured.
The Atherton P.D. officer spoke to Olga. She rose to her feet. The woman I believed to be her sister slung an arm around her. Together they shambled to a gold Lexus. The sister guided Olga toward the passenger side.
Although I knew it wasn’t the time to intrude, I was eager to learn more. I hurried to the women and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Olga regarded me, eyes dull, skin slack. In happier times, she would be considered a striking woman. “I know you.”
“Yes, ma’am. You saw me leaving Mrs. Isles’s house the other day. Your fiancé reached out to me earlier today about my parents’ murders. He was going to talk to the police.”
“He went. He confessed.” She sucked back a sob. “Look what good that did him.”
“He told me he had information to share. About a—”
“My sister is tired,” the other woman cut me off, curling her arm protectively around Olga. “Leave her be.”
“It’s all right,” Olga said wearily. “Miss—”
“Adams. Aspen Adams.”
“Miss Adams, Viraj was always digging and finding information. It’s gone now. His computer is melted. He was in his office when—”
“Was it arson?” I asked.
“He had lit a candle. I’m not sure why. He hated candles. The candle tipped over.”
“Ma’am, do you think he was murdered?”
“Enough,” her sister hissed at me.
Olga pressed away from her sister and met my gaze. “We don’t know yet. The police will have to investigate and do an autop—” She rested her knuckles against her lips. “An autopsy.”
“I’m a private detective,” I said, pulling a card from my purse. I offered it to her. Her sister made a dismissive sound, but Olga took it. “I’ll be glad to look into this for you. Free of charge.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I trust the police to learn the truth.” Nonetheless, Olga tucked my card into her bathrobe pocket.