They were about to dive into a fresh round of arguing when Clate returned from the studio with Piper's shawl. He slipped it over her shoulders. Her brothers and father noticed the intimacy of the gesture, but said nothing; Hannah was looking on with satisfaction. If her prediction did come true, Piper knew, she'd take the credit. If it didn't, she'd find some way to take herself off the hook. Clate sat next to her on the bench, and she sank against his shoulder. She didn't care about the future right now, didn't care what her family might think.
The fire fighters finished their work. Piper got a lecture on the dangers of creosote buildup from Ernie, who told her she needed to have her chimney cleaned regularly and avoid burning green wood. In his opinion, she was damned lucky that the house was salvageable. Most of the damage was limited to the second floor and the roof.
"What if the fire was set?" Piper asked, in full hearing range of her father, Andrew, Benjamin, and Clate.
Ernie frowned. "How?"
"I don't know how. I'm not an arsonist."
"Piper, damn it—"
"Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically, if the fire was set, it was set. It was a hell of a hot fire. Chimney's like a damned blast furnace. There might be traces of a starter left, but who knows? Be tough to find." He eyed her, sarcasm creeping in. "You want me to call in the FBI?"
She clutched the shawl under her breasts. "That's not funny."
Ernie straightened, squaring his shoulders as he returned to his professional demeanor. "You've had a rough day, Piper. This thing looks like an accident. Let's leave it at that."
The phone call, she thought. She'd received it right before the fire. Had he known she'd just lit a fire that would catch the starter in the chimney? Had he been out there in the woods across the road somewhere, watching? She could feel her stomach lurching, her whole body trembling. Suddenly it all seemed so complicated to try to explain to Ernie, to anyone. What could he do without a suspect, evidence, even a good reason for the calls? What would he say if she started yammering about buried treasure?
"You're probably right." She had to talk through chattering teeth. "Tell the guys thanks, okay? They saved my house."
After the police and fire departments left, the Macintosh men decided to go in and check out Piper's house, urging her to go over to date's to get cleaned up. Their abrupt change in attitude toward him took Piper by surprise. Clate seemed hardly to notice.
"Your clothes'll probably be ruined from smoke damage," her father said.
"I can call Liddy," Benjamin said, "and have her bring over a couple outfits."
Piper readied a smile, but it didn't quite come off. "Thanks."
She and Clate walked down along the path, and the closer they got to the marsh, the clearer and cleaner the air. Except for the odors clinging to her clothes, her hair, her skin, the acrid smells of the fire had dissipated. She concentrated on the ordinary sounds of the birds and the sea. Clate was a solid, silent presence next to her.
But as they went through the break in the privet, she turned to him. "Something's on your mind."
"It'll keep."
The shawl had dropped down her shoulders; the walk, the air, had helped steady her. "It's okay, Clate, I've done all the falling apart I'm going to do today."
He started up the path and she caught up with him. He glanced at her. "All right. What didn't you tell the police chief?"
"Ernie? You noticed?" A stupid question. Clate was a man who noticed everything; it probably had been a means of survival. He was an observer, someone who'd learned, probably early on, to protect himself by watching, seeing beneath the surface. She sighed. "I received another phone call right before the fire. It just seemed too much to go into."
"Did the caller mention the fire?"
She repeated his exact words, then asked, "Do you think my father and brothers saw I was holding back?"
He gave a small smile. "They don't look at you the same way I do."
She smiled back, and for the first time in hours, she felt composed and almost calm, never mind that her house had just about burned down.
* * *
Chapter 15
Clate had a pot of hot tea ready when Piper joined him in the kitchen after her shower. She'd put on his flannel robe, and if her house hadn't just caught on fire, he'd have carried her right back upstairs. But her sister-in-law was on her way with clothes, and her father and brothers with their report on how her house had fared, and who the hell knew about Hannah. So Clate tore his gaze from her milky, fresh-scrubbed throat and poured the tea.
"Honey in mine, please," she mumbled.
"I don't have honey."
"Sugar, then."
She slid onto a chair at his wobbly, antique kitchen table and stared out the window. It was a long, slow June day, dusk coming late. Gulls arced in the evening sky. She'd stopped shaking, he noticed, but now she was fighting tears. He was watching for signs she was slipping into shock. It wasn't every day even Piper Macintosh tried to put out a chimney fire.
"You can cry, you know." He placed her tea in front of her; he'd used one of Hannah's pretty cups and saucers from the dining room. "Might release some tension."
Her jaw set. "I wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction."
"The bastard wouldn't know."
"I'd know."