Trick Or Treat Murder. Leslie Meier

fingernail.

      “People want to know what happened and I want to tell them,” said Ted, turning to face Pulaski. “So, Chief, what’s the story?”

      “I haven’t finished the report yet,” he answered affably. “Soon as I do you can pick up a copy at the station.”

      “Thanks.” Ted surveyed the scene. “Mind if I take a few pictures?”

      “I guess that’ll be all right. Stay clear of the debris, okay?”

      “Sure.”

      Ted walked off a short way and pulled his camera out of the worn bag that hung from his shoulder. He busied himself screwing on a lens and adjusting the exposure while keeping one ear cocked. He wasn’t above a little discreet eavesdropping.

      “Damn reporters,” he heard Crowley mutter.

      “Better get used to it,” advised Pulaski. “This is gonna be a big story, soon as somebody figures out we’ve had four fires in four months.”

      Ted looked through the viewfinder and stepped a little closer to the two chiefs.

      “He’s late.” Crowley consulted his watch. “Girl in his office said he’d be here at nine.”

      “Here he is,” announced Pulaski, nodding as an official blue van pulled into the driveway. Neat white letters on the side and back read FIRE MARSHAL.

      Ted whistled softly to himself, pulled out his notebook, and joined the two chiefs in greeting the newcomer.

      “Mike Rogers, assistant fire marshal,” he said with a grin, extending his hand. Rogers was a friendly fellow.

      “Ted Stillings, Pennysaver Press,” said Ted, shouldering his way between Crowley and Pulaski and grasping his hand. “Have you got Sparky with you?” Ted knew all about Sparky, the accelerant-sniffing dog, from the frequent press releases issued by the state fire marshal’s office.

      “Sure do. He’s right here.”

      Rogers opened the back door of the van and released the dog, a youthful black Labrador, from his portable wire kennel. Sparky gave an enormous yawn, stretched, shook himself, and waited patiently while his leash was fastened. Then, walking smartly beside his handler, he went to work.

      “This dog’s been trained to identify more than a hundred different accelerants?” asked Ted, pointedly ignoring Crowley’s disapproving glare.

      “That’s right. He went to a special school in Michigan. I went too. We work as a team.”

      “Is that right?” asked Ted, scribbling away in his notebook. “Where does Sparky live?”

      “He lives with me. He’s part of the family. When I go to work, he goes, too.”

      “Is he a good pet?”

      “He’s great. My kids love him,” said Rogers, pausing at the edge of the debris and scratching the dog’s neck. “Okay, the way we do this is we sweep the site in a systematic way, working from the outside in. Don’t follow me, Ted. There may be hot spots and I don’t want to disturb any evidence.”

      “So what made you call in the fire marshal, Chief?” Ted threw out the question in a deliberately offhand manner as he peered through the viewfinder. “Is there something suspicious about this fire?”

      Crowley and Pulaski exchanged glances.

      “It was a very fast, very hot fire. The house was completely engaged in a matter of minutes. That doesn’t happen unless there are multiple points of origin.” Pulaski took off his peaked cap and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief.

      “You mean arson?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Crowley, have you got any suspects?” There was a slight challenge in Ted’s tone.

      “No comment.” Crowley’s attention was on the dog, who had assumed a classic pointing position. “There?” he called.

      “Yup,” said Rogers, squatting down and opening a toolbox. As they watched he took a sample of the burned material and carefully placed it in a jar.

      Sparky indicated the presence of accelerant in three more locations along what had been the outside wall of the house. Once he began investigating the inside, however, he didn’t seem to find anything. The man and the dog worked slowly, stepping gingerly among the blackened boards and other charred remains. Ted had plenty of time to get some dramatic photos of Sparky in action.

      Rogers spoke softly to the dog, encouraging him and keeping his mind on his task. They had reached the far side of the house, behind the chimney, when the dog began whining and scratching frantically at the rubble.

      “What’s he found?” shouted Pulaski, hurrying over. “More accelerant?”

      “No.” Rogers shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve got some human remains here.”

      “A body?” Crowley was doubtful. “This is just a summer place. Nobody’s here after Labor Day.”

      “He only does this when he finds a body,” said Rogers. He glanced at the dog who was standing rigid and shivering.

      “There is no body here,” insisted Crowley. “I don’t see a body. There’s nothing but ashes.”

      “It was a hot fire,” Rogers reminded him. “There’s probably teeth, bone fragments, maybe even jewelry. I’ll have to call in specialists from the medical examiner’s office. Meanwhile, let’s get this area secured and covered with a tarp.”

      “Winchell,” Crowley yelled to a young officer who was standing nearby. “Find Carter. Get on this right away.”

      “Okay, Chief,” he said, setting off across the yard at a trot.

      “I think we’re about done here,” said Rogers, gently tugging at Sparky’s leash and leading the trembling dog back to the van. “Good boy.” He stroked the animal behind his ears. Sparky gave him a look of doggy adoration and licked his hand.

      “What happens now?” Ted asked the chief. But before Crowley could tell Ted to mind his own business he was interrupted by Winchell.

      “Chief, Carter’s found a car behind that shed. A BMW.”

      “Damn,” said the chief. The last thing he wanted was a homicide.

      “You, Stillings.” He stabbed a fat finger at Ted’s chest. “I want you out of here.” He cocked his thumb. “Now.”

      “Okay, okay,” said Ted, holding his hands up. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

      He started off toward his car, and Pulaski joined him, walking companionably alongside. Unlike the police chief, Pulaski understood the value of a good working relationship with the local media.

      “Check at the station, Ted. We’ll be scheduling a press conference this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

      “Thanks.”

      “No problem.” He paused. “I have something to say.” Ted got out his pad, and when he was ready, Pulaski continued. “I hate arson. Every time my men go out to fight a fire, they put themselves at risk. Every time. And now we’ve got a death. Somebody died in this fire.

      “This is my pledge to the people of Tinker’s Cove: I’m going to catch this bastard. But I need help. Anybody sees any suspicious activity, especially around a vacant building, call us. Call right away. Arson’s hard to prove, unless the perpetrator is caught in the act. Got that?”

      “Got it.”

      Humming softly to himself, Ted got behind the wheel of his car. He was already rearranging the front page in his mind. Scratch the photo of the jack-o’-lantern, put the “Healthy Holiday Treats” interview with the school dietitian on page five, move “Officer Culpepper’s