“Or it was until the Culberson fire,” I prompted, hoping I wasn’t hearing what I thought I was hearing.
“The second fire destroyed a home and a homebased business. Most of the livestock survived, and there were no fatalities. The only injury was the arsonist, and he’s expected to make a full recovery baring any complications from his burns.” A scowl cut his mouth. “Dawson warned we can’t rule out the possibility someone read about Hensarling and got inspired, but a copycat doesn’t feel right to me.”
“I agree.” The incident felt too deliberate considering the previous fire. “Plus, the odds of the Culbersons finding a scapegoat willing to torch himself within twenty-four hours are slim.” Even then, it took fanatical devotion or the promise of a fat payoff to prompt that type of sacrifice. “What do we know about the third fire?”
“The body count,” he said gruffly. “The rest we’ll learn when we get there.”
There turned out to be a grassy plot on the edge of town. I counted six industrial greenhouses, each spaced within a dozen feet of each other. A mason jar had been hand-painted on the side of the nearest one, and a cheerful green sprout pushed up through its open mouth. Bold letters spelling out Orvis Nursery filled the glass in lieu of dirt. The siding had melted like wax in some parts and warped in others from the heat, but the structures themselves appeared stable. The same couldn’t be said for the small home positioned behind the business.
Charred lumber rose like crooked fingers from the cooling ash scattered across the grassy yard. I got the impression the house had been two stories but compact, and it sat on a thick concrete slab. Firemen stood beside their engine, lights flashing, but the blaze had run its course. They were packing up to leave as we arrived.
A short woman dressed in a navy pantsuit stood about three yards away from the house with a camera in her hands. She walked around a spot on the ground, snapping pictures. The shock of red hair identified her as Jill Summers, the arson investigator for the Madison Fire Department. This was her scene.
“Ms. Summers,” Rixton greeted her. “Dawson invited us down. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Sorry to roll you guys out of bed so early, but I heard about the trouble up in Canton and thought you might want to examine the scene.” Her pale blue eyes flicked to mine. “Heard you got Chief ‘I’m Ready For My Close Up’ Timmons kicked out on his wrinkly ass.”
“He got himself booted out of office.” I drew a circle in the air. “I just painted on the bullseye.”
Summers cackled before she rubbed a hand down her face and wiped away her amusement.
“Let me walk you through what we’ve got. The house had a full basement. One corner was a solid concrete box reinforced with rebar that acted as a storm shelter or – considering the fat stack of incident reports on her ex – a safe room.” Mr. Orvis would be the prime suspect, the husband always was when the victim was his wife or kids, and his list of priors wasn’t doing him any favors. “There were two ways in or out. One through the basement, and one through the cellar doors.” She nudged a set of double doors inset into a cement frame with her boot. The heavy chains wrapping the thick handles jingled with each kick. “Ms. Orvis engaged the locking mechanism behind her once they were all in the shelter. The cellar doors aren’t warped from impact or otherwise damaged as far as we can tell.”
The chains gleamed, and the padlock linking them did too, a stark contrast to the rusted metal door they guarded. “Do we know if this was intentional?”
“It’s too early to tell,” Summers admitted, but a somber edge had entered her voice. “The bedrooms were all on the second floor. Each room had a window, but there was no emergency ladder we could find. The first floor had two exits, a front and a back door. Those must have been inaccessible to drive them down.”
“The chains and lock are both recent additions.” The new hardware bugged me, but Ms. Orvis had had four panicked kids to shepherd to safety. Mistakes would have been made, in judgement and otherwise. “Maybe Ms. Orvis forgot the exit was locked or hoped she could knock the door off its hinges.”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “Odds are good they succumbed to smoke inhalation soon after the interior locking mechanism was activated. That could explain why there was no apparent damage to the door. They might not have made it that far.”
“I don’t mean to split hairs,” Rixton began, “but if you think this was an accidental fire, then why did you call us to consult?”
Abandoning the cellar, Summers led us to a pile of debris spread out on a white cloth. “Anything look familiar?”
Rixton met my gaze over her head, his expression as tight as my pinched lips. I squatted next to the fabric and got a better look at the rusted hunk of metal, untouched by the flames. “It’s a drip torch, similar in size to those discovered at the Hensarling and Culberson fires.”
Joining me, Rixton glanced up at Summers. “Where did you find this one?”
“Outside the cellar doors. About where we were standing. I’ve got photos if you want them.”
“We’d appreciate that,” he said. “Send us copies of all you’ve got, and we’ll do the same.”
Both our arsonists had been caught red-handed, but it was too early to count this as a third incident.
“Rixton,” a tight voice called. “Boudreau. Glad you could make it.”
We stood and greeted Dawson, but he was quick to move past us to Summers. He was eyeing her like a man drowning in shark-infested waters, his gaze pleading for a hand up into her lifeboat. Clearly, the higher ups were applying pressure to find answers before a third tragedy struck Canton.
Rixton and I left the arson investigators to compare case notes while we walked the perimeter. Nothing stood out as important, but I snapped a few pictures of the area on my phone out of habit.
“Might as well check out the greenhouses while we’re here,” he said when we’d finished our circuit.
The walk didn’t take long. As far as morning commutes went, Ms. Orvis had had a good one. We left the intact buildings alone and focused on the damaged ones. Circular burns in clusters on the walls left the siding as spotted as a ladybug in places, though the worst damage had been done to the wooden tables that held inventory. Several plants were blackened or reduced to ash, withered in their plastic pots or dumped on the dirt floor as their stands collapsed.
A wash of heat swept up my nape, and I tugged at my collar. “Is it hot in here to you?”
“Half the left wall is missing,” he pointed out. “It’s no worse in here than it was outside.”
“Must be the long sleeves.” I rubbed my hands up my arms, my skin itching. “I’m roasting in here.”
“Bou-Bou.” Rixton cornered me near a stand of tomato plants. “You’re pouring sweat. You good?”
“Yeah.” I mopped my sleeve across my forehead. “I just need some air.”
He didn’t mention the breeze sweeping through the greenhouse or remind me about the missing wall. He just stepped aside and let me go without comment. I stumbled through a side door that led into a narrow alley between buildings and leaned against the ribbed wall until I could breathe again.
A hulking shadow broke from the gloom. “Luce.”
The muscles along my inner thighs quivered at the sound of his voice.
Cole flared his nostrils. “You smell…”
“Can we not revisit that conversation right now?” A gnawing hunger sparked by his proximity feasted on my bones. I fumbled within, summoning the cold place, desperate to ice this clawing need, but the heat flaring along my nerves melted away any chance of relief before I could dive in. “Don’t come any closer.” I threw out a hand to warn him away from me, and the fasteners on his bracelet glinted on my wrist. “I’m having hot flashes.” I was cramping, my core spasming, from wanting him. “What the hell is wrong with me?”