Playing with Fire. Rachel Lee

interior walls had been made of.

      Then she saw it.

      “Wayne? Look at this.”

      There was a small, unmistakable hole at the base of the remaining wall. Without a word, he pulled out a swab and ran it around inside the hole and dropped it in a screw-cap jar. Then, and only then, did he cuss.

      * * *

      It was midafternoon by the time they headed back to town. Charity had dozens of photos, and spent the ride tapping away at her laptop, recording impressions and ideas for her next move. When she saw the outskirts of the town approaching, she spoke for the first time. “I need to talk to Fred Buell. And you and I need to talk with some privacy.”

      He turned a corner onto Front Street. They soon passed the street where they’d had the grease fire yesterday. “My office is far from a sanctuary. Let me check in there, get your internet log-in info, then run to the diner for takeout. I’ll meet you at your house.”

      “I can’t make you coffee.”

      “I’ll pick up a couple at the diner. I can run out for more later if we need it. Anything you don’t like, foodwise?”

      “I’d love a latte, but that’s probably out of the question.”

      He chuckled. “We’re not entirely in the backwoods. I’ll get you a latte. Anything else?”

      “I’m okay with anything except wilted salads.” She closed up her computer. “Chief?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Those holes make an argument unfavorable to Fred Buell.”

      She noticed that he didn’t answer immediately. In the end, all he said was “We’ll talk to him.”

      So he was wondering now, too. She let it lie for the moment. At the station, she climbed into her own car. One of the guys in the engine bay cheerfully gave her directions to the grocery and assured her it wasn’t far.

      She headed down the narrow streets, noting how gracious some neighborhoods appeared while others looked so worn. She got the impression of a town that was barely hanging on, and it didn’t surprise her. Small towns everywhere had troubles these days. A paid-off ranch might even be a liability. She wondered what other debts Fred Buell owed, because running a cattle operation had plenty of costs attached that accrued year by year. It wasn’t always possible to keep ahead of them and support a family.

      At the grocery she bought fresh coffee and some cream and sugar just in case. She also grabbed a fruit tray that looked reasonably fresh, then hurried back to her house.

      Wayne was just pulling up out front. She turned into the driveway and climbed out with her laptop, then went around to the trunk to get her grocery bags.

      “I see you sidestepped me,” he said jokingly as he approached with his own bags and his clipboard.

      “I’m hard to corral,” she said lightly. “Actually, I decided I’m not starting another day without decent coffee.”

      He laughed and grabbed her bags by their handles so she only had to juggle her computer as she unlocked the front door. Boy, he was attractive when he smiled. She doubted that he’d be smiling for long.

      Inside, while she unpacked her few groceries, he hunted through the cupboards and set the kitchen table for them. She noticed he wasn’t saying anything, not even casual conversation, and while she wasn’t the type herself to make unnecessary talk, she began to get uneasy. Was he as disturbed as she? Or was something else going on?

      Finally they sat at the table facing one another, foam containers beside each plate, and tall lattes in heavy paper cups in front of them. A pile of napkins sat in the middle.

      “I got us steak sandwiches,” he said, “Maude’s specialty.”

      “That sounds good. Is she always such a bear?”

      Again that devastating smile. “Always. Ignore it. Everyone else does.”

      “I kind of got that impression but I thought I’d make sure.” She opened her container and found a sandwich big enough and thick enough for two, along with a mountain of fries. She moved some of the food to her plate, then took a bite of sandwich. Her eyes widened at the flavor explosion. Then she sent him off into another laugh by saying, “I didn’t know beef could taste this good!”

      “When you buy locally, someone’s reputation is on the line. This is always prime grade.”

      “I couldn’t afford it in Atlanta.”

      “Most likely not. So you were a volunteer firefighter?”

      She nodded and grabbed a napkin from the stack to wipe a dribble of juice from her chin. “For over a year. My company encouraged it when I expressed an interest in arson investigation. They thought it would be good training.”

      “Was it?”

      She regarded him across the table. His gray eyes returned her look. “Very,” she said. “It’s amazing how common small arson fires are. Just small ones, though. Nothing like what we saw today. Most are kids fooling around, looking for excitement, and most aren’t very big. It’s hard to make a big fire.”

      He nodded and swallowed. “Did you ever see a big one?”

      “Abandoned industrial building. Smart arsonist. There was enough trash in that basement to cause a huge conflagration. Three departments had to respond.”

      “Did you catch the guy?”

      “Actually, they did. He bragged about it.” She sighed. “Sixty percent of arsonists never get caught. The ones who do most often have big mouths.”

      “Which makes figuring out the psychology of an arsonist fairly difficult.” He took another bite of his sandwich, clearly a hungry man.

      “What about you? Do you ever want the excitement of being with a bigger department?” She took another bite, watching his eyes narrow in response.

      He raised one brow. “Frankly? No. Turns out I wasn’t built to be an adrenaline junkie. And I don’t enjoy some of the memories I carry with me.”

      She looked down, wondering if he had thought that question critical of him. Then she linked it back to their earlier remarks about arsonists. “I wasn’t implying anything,” she said carefully. “Sometimes I miss firefighting myself, parts of it anyway. I just wondered if the slower pace here was a good fit for you.”

      “A much better fit in some ways.” He smiled as if to let her know he hadn’t taken it wrong. “We don’t have as many fires, not nearly, but that means I don’t have to worry about my men as much. I guess it depends on your motivation in joining a department. If you want to save lives, we get plenty of opportunity to do that, especially in the winter when auto accidents are common enough. We’re often the first responders for injuries and heart attacks, too. But if you join mostly to fight fires, you might be bored.”

      And boredom, she thought, was one of the leading causes of arson among firefighters. In bigger towns and cities, a fire team got plenty of action. Not so much in rural towns. Although that could probably change drastically during wildfire season.

      “I know what you’re dancing around here,” he said. She glanced at him again, felt that instant of sexual attraction, then shoved it aside. To her surprise, he’d already eaten most of his sandwich. She looked down again at her own and figured she had dinner and maybe breakfast staring back at her.

      “You don’t have to answer,” he continued after a few beats. “I brought it up myself earlier. It’s been gnawing at me since the first fire.”

      At that she looked up. “Slow down. Because you said something when we were out at the Buell place that disturbed me. You said that fire was attempted murder. That doesn’t fit the fireman-as-arsonist profile.”

      “No?”

      She