Authors: Debra Dixon
“What’s the file going to tell you?” she asked softly.
“I won’t know until I look at it.”
Maggie knew. Or at least she was afraid of what the file would tell him. If Beau found out that she had been a fire starter as a child, he’d doubt her again. He’d wonder if she was telling the truth. He’d wonder about everything. In sixty seconds she’d go from victim to culprit.
She didn’t imagine Beau gave second chances. Her mama was right. You couldn’t lie to a man like Beau.
Numbly, Maggie realized she couldn’t tell him the truth either. All she could do was hope that he wouldn’t find out.
Russell was the only one manning the office when they arrived. He raised an eyebrow at Maggie’s presence but didn’t comment beyond extending a greeting. “Hey, boss. Ms. St. John.”
“Hello.” Her smile was only an imitation of the one she’d dazzled him with a few days ago.
Beau hung back and let Maggie enter his office alone. Then he turned to Russell. “I’m expecting a file from—”
Holding it out, Russell said, “Right here. Figured it was important so I was about to lock it up in the cabinet until tomorrow.” He tossed his keys on his desk and handed the sealed envelope to Beau. “I didn’t want to trust the new cleaning crew, and I wasn’t certain when or if you were coming back.”
Beau ignored Russell’s subtle hint to be filled in on Maggie’s situation. “I might need you to pull some overtime and watch Maggie for me. Can you hang here for a while?”
“No problem. I’m shuffling papers and waiting for some lab results from Bennett’s fire anyway.”
“What for? The lab isn’t going to give you same day turnaround.”
“Didn’t you tell me to work this case like it was my mama’s house? I thought you did,” he said when Beau acknowledged the order with a nod. “So I offered the lab your firstborn child if they’d call me by five-thirty.”
Beau laughed for the first time in what felt like days. “I knew I could count on you, Russ.”
“Well … since you’re in such a good mood, I might oughta tell you.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “What I actually promised Lola—you know the one, single, classy, tall, long, dark hair—was more along the lines of a stud service. I told her she could be the
mother
of your firstborn child.”
Beau smiled as he shifted his eyes to Maggie, who waited in his office. “Sorry, Russ, I don’t think I can make good on that commitment of yours.”
“Guess I could sacrifice and cover for you. It’ll be a strain … I hope.” Then all the good-natured teasing went out of Russell’s voice. “You be careful, Beau.”
“I always am,” he promised, and headed for his office. Russell had either the good sense or the good manners not to call him a liar.
When Beau closed the door, Maggie looked up at him, as quiet and pale as she’d been since leaving her house. Then her gaze darted warily to the file.
“Is that it?” she asked, indicating the envelope.
“Afraid so.” Beau sat down at his desk and broke the seal, pausing for a second. “You could wait with Russell if you want. I can come out for you if I have a question.”
She answered with a little head shake. “I’d rather stay here. I’m fine.”
Beau had serious doubts about that, but, like Russell, had the good sense and the good manners not to call her a liar to her face. He also knew there was a core of strength in Maggie. She wouldn’t fold, but if she did, she’d deny it with her last breath. So Beau let her stay.
Inside the envelope were two folders, including the coroner’s file. He leaned back in his chair and angled the folder so Maggie wouldn’t see the scene or autopsy photos. Sarah wasn’t burned, but Beau didn’t think Maggie needed any fuel for the survivor’s guilt she carried around.
Ignoring the obvious conclusion—that the fire was accidental—he worked the evidence as a crime. Even so, on the first pass through the files, he had no choice but to agree with the fire crew’s determination. This looked like a grease fire gone bad. Pure accident. He couldn’t honestly say he would have called it any differently.
So he started again and did it by the numbers.
The residence was securely locked. There was no sign Sarah had been drinking or using drugs. Point of origin was the stove. Potato peelings were in the disposal and a knife was on the counter. A black cast-iron skillet on the back burner corroborated the theory that Sarah had gotten the munchies and decided to make some fries.
The burn pattern suggested an accelerant, but a small box fan on the kitchen counter explained the fire path into the hallway and front of the house. Summer in Louisiana was notoriously hot; hot enough to justify having every fan in the house turned on. Sarah must have gone
to the living room to wait for the grease to heat and fallen asleep in the chair.
Beau frowned. The fan literally blew death toward her.
The smoke detector in the hallway near the kitchen was missing a battery—tragically common in fire fatalities. Beau saw it every day. People hated to mess with constant alarms from cooking mishaps so they disabled the detector. The Alastairs admitted removing the battery occasionally and couldn’t be positive about when or if it was replaced the last time.
Beau imagined their guilt surpassed Maggie’s.
The autopsy proved Sarah was alive during the fire. The coroner found evidence of smoke inhalation on the trachea, as well as the obvious soot trails from her nostrils and around her mouth, which were observed by the firefighters. She had one contusion on her head, which was consistent with a fall, and the fall itself was easily explained by disorientation.
Burning plastic produced incredibly toxic gases, but even something as common as carbon monoxide would have been enough to impair Sarah’s judgment. Beau guessed she woke up about the same time Maggie did—when the upstairs alarm went off. But the smoke and the fumes, blown straight at her by the fan, had already slowed her responses and signed her death warrant.
When he came up dry the second time, Beau gave it one last shot, searching only for the unusual. Something small, something missed eighteen years ago because the evidence overwhelmingly pointed to accidental origin. The third time was the charm. He found the inconsistency as he looked at the scene photo of Sarah. She was
fully clothed in a skirt, ruffled blouse, and black dress shoes.
Bingo.
The fire happened after midnight. Yet Sarah hadn’t changed into shorts or a gown. It was hot enough for a fan, but Sarah still had on dress shoes. Dress shoes meant panty hose; at least they did eighteen years ago. Panty hose would have been too damn hot to wear if she didn’t have to.
And why was she cooking in a ruffled blouse? Nobody cooked french fries in the middle of a hot summer night wearing panty hose and ruffles. Whoever peeled those potatoes wasn’t Sarah.
Satisfied, he closed the folder and centered his attention on the woman who waited so solemnly for his pronouncement. To him the file was a necessary tool, a way to keep her safe. To Maggie the file was the loaded gun in a game of Russian roulette. Waiting for his reaction had probably shredded her last nerve. And all for nothing.
Whatever secret she harbored, he hadn’t found it in the reports. He wished that he had, so he could deal with it and tell her it didn’t matter. But he couldn’t; she wasn’t ready to believe in love. Worse, she wasn’t ready to believe in him.
He could, at least, give her absolution for an old sin and put her heart at rest. “I’ve looked at it all, and it wasn’t your fault, Maggie.”
In one long shudder, Maggie let go of the guilt she’d been holding on to for eighteen years, and then the monster in her soul grabbed back the joy as he said, “I’d gamble my badge on it.”
“Gamble? Then you don’t know for certain.”
“Oh, I know for certain.” He leaned forward, confidence radiating like an aura. “I
know
whoever peeled those potatoes put the peelings carefully in the garbage disposal. I
know
the ten-year-old Maggie St. John wasn’t any neater than the grown-up Maggie St. John. I
know
the skillet was set on the back eye of the stove, too far back for most kids. I
know
Sarah wasn’t cooking—not in ruffles and heels at midnight. I can’t prove any of those things, but I know all of them. Someone very carefully set this fire, Maggie. It was no accident.”
And it wasn’t her fault.
Over the years she’d lost count of how many times she’d recited the litany, but she’d never really believed it. Until now. As relief seeped into her bones, she felt as if she’d dodged a bullet.
There was one more to dodge, she reminded herself. Beau didn’t know how fascinated she had been with fire or that three foster homes had given up on her before the Alastairs.
He had no idea why guilt had so easily maintained a grip on her all these years. Until he did, that bullet was still out there. Waiting to blow away his belief in her.
“Maggie, what I know and what I can prove are separate issues. You’re going to have to help me with the proof.”
Wiping her eyes to clear away the moisture before any of it leaked down her face, she asked, “How?”
“I need to rattle some cages. So, I need names. Who were Sarah’s boyfriends?”
“I don’t know any names.”
“You lived with her.” The obvious fact felt like an
accusation. “Surely you’d remember who she dated if you gave it a little thought.”
“I can’t remember who
I
dated, Beau,” she countered. “She hardly brought them in, and I wasn’t taking notes when she did. I was a kid. None of them paid any attention to me. I didn’t hear a name that night. All I remember is being scared. I don’t even know if he was young or old. Or even a boyfriend!”
Beau leaned back in his chair, his answer definite. “Young and a boyfriend. He got angry. He shoved her. She fell and hit her head. The kid panicked and set the fire to cover it up.”
“If you can see the holes in the evidence so quickly, why didn’t they? Why didn’t they investigate when it would have done some good?”
“Because the fire crew … the coroner … her parents never knew anyone was there that night, Maggie. That crucial fact was locked in your head. The volunteers looked around and saw all the signs of an accidental fire. It was an easy call. One that’s made every day. I might have done the same thing. The coroner wasn’t looking for foul play. There was no reason to look. Even the contusion on Sarah’s head was consistent with a fall caused by disorientation during the fire.”
“But if you’re right,” Maggie said softly, “she didn’t fall at all. He pushed her and then set the fire to cover it up.”
“Happens all the time. Fire is the most popular way to hide a crime—it burns the evidence.”
“But he screwed up. I survived.”
“That’s where he got lucky. You got out, but your
memory was shot to hell. You couldn’t place him at the scene. He was safe.”
“He still is. I can’t identify him.”
“But he thinks you can. That’s why you’re in trouble. People like the past to stay buried.”
“I know.” The agreement slipped away from her like a sigh. The last thing she wanted anyone to dredge up was her past.
Beau lifted the phone and spun it around to face her. When he punched the speaker button, the hum of a dial tone filled the room. “I think we need to call Carolyn and get those names from the appointment book. While we’re at it, let’s see if she knows who was on Sarah’s dance card.”
Quickly, to keep Beau from noticing the way her hand shook, Maggie pressed the numbers and waited through three long rings that jangled her already shot nerves. She got Carolyn instead of the receptionist. “Hi, it’s me.”
“Maggie! My God where have you been?”
“Look, Caro—”
“I’ve been calling all day! Are you okay?”
“I’m on the speaker phone in Beau Grayson’s office.”
“Oh my God! Why are you there? He was just supposed to check on you! Do you—?”
“
Carolyn
, listen to me,” Maggie ordered, cutting her off as gently as she could. “I’m fine. But I need your help. I want to know who was in the shop when I came in last Friday.”
“Why?” Surprise was evident in the question.
Maggie glanced over at Beau, who nodded his permission. “I need to know if there was anyone in the shop
who grew up with you and Sarah. Someone who would have paid particular attention when I came in talking about Sarah and the fire.”
“People like that are in here all the time, and they all love gossip. You know that. What’s going on? What’s this for?”
Beau shook his head, so Maggie stalled. “It’s too complicated to go into on the phone, Carolyn. Just trust me. Can you just check the book now?”
“Yeah, but you’ll have to wait a minute. I have to go get it from the reception desk.” When she got back, Maggie heard the sound of flipping pages. “Friday, right? Always a busy day. People want their hair done for date night and parties and whatnot. What time were you here?”
Beau interrupted. “Check the whole day. Give me all the names. The shampoo girl could have told one of the afternoon appointments that Maggie created a scene.”
“Okay.” Carolyn began to call them off. When she was done, she said, “That’s all of them.”
“Did any of them have any special connection to Sarah or her circle of friends?” Beau asked. “We’ll start with those.”
“Yeah.” Carolyn gave him two names and added, “Nadine Garner is married to the snake Sarah dated in high school. You probably know him or at least know of him. He’s Webb Garner.”
“State Senator Garner?” Beau’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yep. Who knew the sleaze was going to grow up to be respectable? Sarah’s parents didn’t like him much. He and—” Carolyn hesitated and then said, “He and Sarah
broke up the day of the fire. Sarah thought he was sleeping with Nadine. Guess that was true, huh?”
Beau’s and Maggie’s eyes met in silent agreement. Infidelity would explain a bitter fight.
“Was Sarah dating anyone else around that time?” Beau asked.
“Not that I remember. Not anyone serious.”
“Okay, that’ll do for now, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone,” he told her. “I wouldn’t want to cause unnecessary concern among your clients.”