Besides, he wanted the chance to examine the area around the church in the light of day before anyone else could wander out there and disturb evidence he might have missed in the dark.
After tending the horses, milking the cow, and leaving the pail of milk on the back porch for Emma or one of the aunts to find, Mal grabbed the leftover oatmeal cookie he’d stashed in his coat pocket last night before the fire broke out and munched on the crumbled mess. Didn’t look too pretty after being squashed every which way, but it was sustenance enough to keep him going. Had a roll and a little ham left over from the supper box he’d bought in Seymour in his saddlebag, too, but he’d save that for later, just in case he missed breakfast while out hunting clues.
An hour later, Mal’s stomach was grumbling something fierce, but it was his mind that truly churned. He tromped through the paddock behind the station house, stomped up the back-porch steps, and pulled the kitchen door open.
“There you are, Malachi,” Aunt Bertie exclaimed. “Just in time for flapjacks with my special recipe blackberry syrup.” She winked at him, then bunched her apron up in her hand and reached for the coffeepot. “Have a seat, dear, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”
The sharp smell of the dark-roasted brew wafted toward him first, followed quickly by the fruity aroma of syrup heating in a pan of hot water on the stove. Stacks of fluffy golden-brown pancakes were no doubt waiting in the warming oven. Mal nearly groaned. He hadn’t tasted Bertie’s flapjacks in over a decade, but he remembered them. Oh, how he remembered. He’d once eaten seven in one sitting.
But as much as he would have loved to sit down and feast, he had a more urgent matter to deal with. A matter concerning the young woman placing napkins and forks at the four place settings arranged on the table.
Mal strode forward and deposited a canister in the middle of the table with a decisive thunk.
Emma eyed him askance, her nose scrunching a bit as she examined the dirt-encrusted can. “What is that?”
“Turpentine.” He held up a dusty paintbrush and plopped it onto the lid of the can. “Found that with it, too.”
Emma’s gaze jerked back to his. Her face paled slightly. “Where did you find it?”
“Tucked out of sight behind the northeast corner of the garden fence.”
The two forks she held fell to the table with a clatter. She gripped the chairback in front of her for support. “Why would he leave it behind? And by the garden, no less. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to toss it in the bushes if he didn’t want to take it with him?”
“I’m not sure he was the one who left it behind.”
Her brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”
Mal worked his jaw back and forth before answering, knowing she wasn’t going to take well to his conclusion. “I’m saying there’s a chance he has an accomplice. Here. In Harper’s Station.”
“Of all the hog swill I’ve heard in my day, that batch smells the worst, Malachi Shaw.” Aunt Henry burst through the kitchen doorway and pierced Mal with the same withering look she’d used the time she caught him in a lie about where the corn bread had disappeared to. That look had tugged so hard on his conscience, he’d spilled the whole story of taking the leftovers to his room and hiding them under his bed. She made him do dishes for a week after that. Not because he took the food and ruined her plans to have dressing that night with the baked chicken Bertie fixed, but because he’d lied to her. And drawn a colony of crumb-hunting ants into the house.
Her disapproval still made him squirm, but this time Mal held his ground. The Chandlers might not want to hear what he had to say, but he cared more about protecting their stubborn hides than offending their suffragist sensibilities.
“I wouldn’t suggest the idea, Aunt Henry, if I didn’t have good reason.” He aimed his words in the elder Chandler sister’s direction, but his eyes never left Emma’s.
“Surely, you don’t think one of my ladies . . .” She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t know them like I do. We help each other. Depend on each other. Besides, each lady took a vow when joining the community never to do another lady harm. None of them would ever . . . We’re family.”
Mal gentled his voice. “Family is no guarantee of loyalty.” He knew that better than most.
“But you saw how everyone worked together to fight the fire. Every one. Why would someone set a fire, then work tirelessly to extinguish it? It makes no sense.”
“Actually it’s pretty smart.” Mal rubbed an itchy spot on his stubble-covered chin. He really needed to shave. “Keeps others from growing suspicious.”