Candy Apple Dead (7 page)

“Mostly rumor,” Karen admitted. “And I didn’t say anything because it never occurred to me that you’d take Brandon seriously. I didn’t think I needed to worry.” She stopped jiggling her foot and lanced me with a look. “I
don’t
need to worry, do I?”

I turned my attention back to the pan. “What Brandon does is his business.”

Karen scowled at me. “You’re such a bad liar. You’re dying to know. Admit it.”

“I’m mildly curious, that’s all. Maybe it would help the police figure out who set the fire.”

Snorting a laugh, Karen hopped from her stool and pulled a Diet Pepsi out of the Frigidaire. “You knowing who Brandon sleeps with is
not
going to help the police figure out what happened last night. If you want my opinion, Brandon did it. Brandon’s hurt a lot of people in Paradise, Abby. You’ll be smart to keep your guard up around him.”

“My guard is up,” I assured her. But even after she swept off to help a customer, leaving me alone, all I could think about was how different the Brandon I knew was from the Brandon everyone else was talking about.

I swept sugar crystals from the sides of my pan with a wet brush and tried to imagine Aunt Grace working at my side, watching me, cautioning patience, reminding me that cooking anything requires patience and love. This kitchen had been an almost sacred place to her, and the utensils she kept here were symbols of her religion. I still hadn’t achieved that level of Zen in the kitchen, but at least some of the panic I’d felt right after Aunt Grace’s death was disappearing.

I worked steadily, trying to keep my mind centered on what I was doing by whispering bits of candy-making advice that I remembered Aunt Grace sharing. But no matter how hard I tried to focus, I caught myself staring out the window, first expecting Brandon to come down the hill, then, as the morning wore on, hoping that he would.

By three o’clock I had six dozen shiny red-cat lollipops cooling in molds on the counter. The pleasant scent of cinnamon lingered in my hair and permeated my clothes. Just as I filled the sink and began cleaning up, the back door of Picture Perfect opened and Dooley Jorgensen stepped outside into the bright afternoon sunshine.

Dooley is a tall man in his early sixties with a slight paunch and a shock of hair that I think used to be blond. It’s pure silver now and his most recent haircut left it standing straight up on his head. His complexion is naturally ruddy, which makes him look as if he’s always short of breath. About ten years ago, he retired and came to Paradise to open a camera store.

He was a great friend to Aunt Grace, and after her first stay in the hospital began checking on her twice a day to make sure she was all right. He doesn’t need to check on me, but he has taken me under his wing anyway and crosses the narrow patch of pavement separating our stores whenever the mood strikes him. Apparently, it struck him now.

Wearing an unusually grim expression, he strode across the parking lot and let himself inside. The buttons on his shirt were being strained almost to the breaking point, and a dark stain made me suspect he’d sent someone out to pick up breakfast burritos again.

“Well,” he said, closing the door behind him, “this is quite a day isn’t it?”

“That’s an understatement.” I slid the pan, measuring cups, and utensils into the sink and jerked my head toward the refrigerator. “There’s a Coke if you want one.”

There’s always a Coke in the fridge for Dooley, but part of the game we play includes making the offer. He’d rather die than help himself without an invitation.

With a sigh so heavy it hurt
my
lungs, he found a can in the fridge and cracked it open. “I just came from talking with Nick Peretti,” he said after downing half the can. “He says they’re pretty sure they’ve got the fire out completely, so that’s good news, eh?”

Nick’s a transplant from St. Louis and the captain of our volunteer fire crew, but even with his pre-Paradise experience I don’t think he’s ever battled a blaze like the one we’d just had. “That is good news,” I agreed. “Any idea how much damage there is to the buildings on either side?”

“None, thank the good Lord.” Dooley took another long swig and let out a deeply satisfied breath. He crushed the can in his fist and lobbed it toward the garbage can. “Nick says that when they realized they couldn’t save Man About Town, they focused on keeping the rest of the block safe. Walt and Becky both suffered a little smoke damage, but their stores are structurally sound.”

Walt Neebling and Becky Trotter own the shoe store and jewelry emporium that flank Man About Town on either side, and I was happy to hear that their stores had been spared. “At least nobody else lost much,” I said. “I hope they all have good insurance.”

Dooley propped one elbow on the windowsill behind him and leaned back to get comfortable. “Walt and Becky do. I guess Brandon does, too—not that it’ll do him much good now.”

I left the pan to soak and scowled at Dooley as I stuffed unused lollipop sticks into the supply cupboard. “Don’t get too caught up in the gossip, Dooley. I know what people are saying, but I’m sure Brandon didn’t set that fire. Getting back on his feet is going to be tough enough. He doesn’t need to worry about his reputation in the process.”

When Dooley didn’t answer, I turned to find him staring at me as if I’d grown a third eye. “You haven’t heard, have you, pumpkin?”

The endearment made me nervous. Dooley doesn’t use them except on special occasions, and those occasions are almost never good. Though I suspected I really didn’t want the answer, I felt compelled to ask, “Heard what?”

His pale brows knit in consternation. “They found a body under the rubble, Abby. Whoever set that blaze is not only guilty of arson, but murder, too.”

A body. Murder. At Man About Town.

I stared at Dooley for a long time, trying to process what he’d just told me and trying even harder to make him wrong. I would have told him he was, if I’d been able to make my voice work.

“Nobody’s seen Brandon yet,” Dooley went on as if I wanted to hear more. “Folks are speculating that the body is his. But whether he’s the one who’s dead or the one who set the fire, insurance isn’t going be much good to him.”

I wanted to point a third possibility—that Brandon might be out there somewhere, whole, healthy, and innocent, but I couldn’t get those words out, either.

I just wasn’t sure which possibility frightened me more—Brandon dead, or Brandon guilty of murder.

My eyes blurred, my breath burned my lungs,
and my stomach hurt as if I’d been doing sit-ups all morning. “How soon will we know for sure?” I demanded when I could speak again.

“I wish I knew.” Kindness filled Dooley’s eyes, and he inched closer. He hovered a few feet away, looking as if he thought he needed to do something but not at all sure what that something might be. “The police have taken the body to the morgue, and I guess somebody will make an official identification. Word is that the fella they found is wearing Brandon’s ring, so I think we can probably predict what they’re going to tell us.”

I squeezed a few words out around the giant jawbreaker in my throat. “Where did you hear about the body?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot and raked those kind eyes across my face. “I’m sorry, Abby. I know you don’t want to believe it—”

“This isn’t the time to pat me on the head and try to make me feel better,” I snapped. “I need answers. Who told you? Someone who knows what they’re talking about? Or is this just the latest gossip on the street?”

Dooley’s gaze dropped to the tips of his fingers, then shot back up to lock on mine. “Sloan Williamson told me.”

Sloan is the owner/editor of the
Paradise Post
, and while those credentials don’t necessarily guarantee the man’s honesty, Sloan simply isn’t the kind of man to run wild with rumors. He wouldn’t have said anything to Dooley unless he had a source to back it up.

So did that mean that Brandon was dead? My knees buckled and I sank onto a nearby stool to keep myself off the floor.

“I wouldn’t have said anything,” Dooley said after a few minutes, “but I know you and Brandon were friendly. I didn’t want you to read about it in tonight’s special edition.”

I nodded my thanks. “Do they know who set the fire?”

“Not yet, but they’ll figure it out. It’s just a matter of time.” His pudgy face creased with concern, and he put an awkward but gentle hand on my shoulder. “You going to be okay, kid?”

I nodded again, but I don’t think either of us believed it. One after another, questions raced through my head. Had Brandon set the fire, or was someone else responsible? If he did it, what possible reason could he have had? Had he been in financial trouble? Wouldn’t I have known about it if he had?

Tears threatened, but I fought them back. Between the divorce and Aunt Grace’s death, I’d spent far too much time crying in the past year, and I hate crying. I hate that my nose gets stuffy and my eyes hurt. I hate that it leaves me feeling emotionally drained when I’m through. Breaking down hadn’t solved a single problem in my past, and it sure hadn’t made my situation better. Only hard work and determination had done that.

I focused on the questions and locked away the emotion. Why had Brandon asked me to spend the evening with him if he was planning to set his store on fire? I was sure he wouldn’t have . . . unless he was thinking of using me as an alibi. Romano’s wasn’t far from Man About Town. He could have easily excused himself to use the men’s room, slipped out the back door, started the fire, and returned to dinner with me none the wiser.

But if that’s what he’d been planning, why had he changed his mind? Why stand me up and wait until later, when nobody was around? Had he suffered an attack of conscience? Or had something else changed his mind? If
he
hadn’t set the fire, someone else had. But who would have wanted to hurt him? And why?

“I know he was here yesterday,” Dooley said, pulling me back to the moment. “I’m sure the police will know that, too. They’ll want to know what the two of you talked about.”

“He didn’t say anything unusual,” I said. “We talked about last night’s meeting and the Arts Festival, that’s all.” I rubbed my forehead with the tips of my fingers and tried to get the world to make sense again. “I almost wish he
had
said something strange. It might help me understand what’s happening.”

Acting almost relieved to hear that I didn’t know anything, Dooley patted my shoulder again. “Well, then, that’s all right. Just watch out for yourself, pumpkin. I don’t want you to be hurt by this mess.”

I managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Dooley, but I’ll be okay.” And I knew I would be eventually. Sure, I was hurting right now, but if nothing else, the past year had taught me how resilient human beings really are.

Dooley pulled me into a clumsy hug, then released me and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it. I’m here if you need me.”

“I know, Dooley. Thank you. But I’ll be okay once the shock wears off. Karen’s here, so I won’t be alone.”

He nodded, but turned back at the door. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

After Dooley let himself out, I spent a few minutes staring at the rows of lollipops and thinking about what he’d told me. I tried again to argue myself out of believing it, but Dooley wouldn’t have said a word if he didn’t believe it was true. Only a fool could have misread his concern for me.

After a long time, I tossed my apron onto the counter, left the hot kitchen, and stepped outside into the sunlight. A dark blue sky stretched between the mountains, and a light breeze had already cleared away the worst of the smoke. It was a perfect fall day, and I found myself hoping that Brandon would be around to see more days like it. Even more, I wished that I’d spent more time enjoying the ones we’d had.

I sank onto the park bench outside the door and tilted my head back so I could feel the sun on my face. Until the day she died, Aunt Grace had sworn that this bench was the perfect place to solve all of life’s problems. I don’t know if it’s that powerful, but it is a pleasant place to sit. I can see what’s happening in my little corner of the world, and the southern exposure catches the sunlight most of the time. That makes it nice in the cooler months, but the thick stand of aspen trees separating Divinity and the shops on the hill behind provides shade when I want it in the summer.

I don’t know how long I sat there alternating between the hope that Brandon was still alive and the almost overwhelming certainty that he wasn’t, before I felt a shadow pass over me. I opened my eyes just as the sound of footsteps clattering down the steep stairs leading up to Bear Hollow Road reached me.

During tourist season, those stairs are used all day and night by people walking between the downtown district and the hotels and rental condos on the hill. I rarely pay much attention to passersby then, but since we were in the middle of a lull and there was a good chance I’d know whoever was about to walk past me, I opened my eyes and squinted into the sunlight to get a look . . .