Bad to the Last Drop (12 page)

"Yeah, and why don't you try for world peace and the end to hunger while you're at it?" Pat teased. "Look, we're both tired. Let's not say anything to the sisters—I'm not quite ready to give up yet."

"Well, I
would
like to check a few things, like his bank statements, and we should check on that piece of paper you found," Deb said hopefully. "And I'll ask Marc about the drug. Otherwise, you're right. Let's give it at least until tomorrow."

Little did they know that by "tomorrow," the thought foremost in their minds wouldn't be trying to find Joe's money but saving his apartment building.

Marc and Deb awakened to the sound of sirens screaming through early morning hours. Deb thought at first that it was part of her dream, and then she heard Marc get up with a grunt of annoyance. "It's two in the morning," he grumbled. "What's going on?"

Absently, she thought it must be very cold, as the wind seemed to be blowing right through the panes of glass on their old windows.
Someday we're going to replace all these windows,
she promised herself as she pulled the comforter up close to her ears. Just as she started to drift off again, Marc spoke to her.

"Deb, those sirens are really close—might be one of our neighbors. Sure sounds close enough."

Deb opened one eye and saw Marc pull on jeans and a sweater.
That husband of mine,
she thought grumpily.
Any good storm or disaster and he wants to see it up close. Just like when the northern lights come out, everyone wants to come outside to see a fire, as if it's some natural phenomenon.

"Come on, Deb, let's go see," he persisted.

Groaning, she tumbled out of bed and pulled on her heaviest sweater and jeans right over her pj's. Grabbing all her winter gear, she ran out the door to find Marc—and was immediately engulfed in smoke so thick it was hard to see anything. As it cleared slightly, she thought it looked like the post office was on fire. Emergency vehicles lined the street. She made her way down the street, pushing past all the neighbors who also had come out, until she found Marc.

When they finally got past the fire engines and police cars—some of them, she noticed, from nearby Washburn—she saw what was on fire: Joe's apartment building. The flames were already leaping high into the air, and she feared for the safety of the surrounding building—her favorite little bakery, or even, God forbid, the Black Cat. The water that had been sprayed hung in huge icicles, causing the eerie look of a gigantic birthday cake.

When Pat's phone rang at seven in the morning, she already was sitting curled up in her chair, wrapped in her favorite afghan, reading a favorite book. The Christmas lights on the tree were twinkling in front of the still dark window and her tea cup was steaming beside her. She gazed longingly at her book as she picked up the phone so it wouldn't wake Mitchell.

"Hello?'"

"Pat? I knew you would be awake," Deb's voice said excitedly. "Have you turned on the TV or for goodness sake, have you looked down the street?"

Pat stood up and made her way toward the front window.
How could I have missed it?
Even from blocks away, the light of the fire trucks was dazzling. "What happened?"

Deb filled her in on the night's event, and concluded, "It's something I won't forget, that's for sure. I wanted to wake you but it was nearly three in the morning."

"Was anyone hurt? Did the whole building go? Never mind; I'm getting dressed right now," Pat said excitedly into the phone. "I'll meet you at the Black Cat in fifteen minutes."

As Pat and Deb stood outside the Black Cat, coffee in their hands, watching the smoldering building that had housed Joe's apartment,, someone across town was sipping his coffee and thinking about it, too.

Everything about Peter Thomas was compact. He was short, and not an ounce of extra fat clung to his body. He sported the tan of a golfer, with hair a bit longer than most military men. But then he was no ordinary army guy. His dress whites mostly hung neatly in the closet—he spent much of his time away from regulation army, which was just fine by him. His "uniform" these days consisted of jeans and a golf shirt. Gone were the black suit, tie, and dark glasses.

Taking another taste of his coffee, he turned to his partner from the CIA, Andy Ross. "Anything from Ms. Smith?" Peter asked, as he handed Ross the latest printouts on the fire.

"Nope, nothing at all since she left Nevis," the young man answered.

Andy Ross, an eager and earnest young man, was on his first field assignment, and it wasn't what he had expected. He had imagined exotic places and dangerous criminals; instead, it was this cold Midwestern winter and two middle-aged women whose meddling might just get them killed.

"Damn," said Peter—it was the closest thing to swearing that Andy had ever heard him utter. "It's been three days. What is she doing, taking a vacation down there? Nothing from Mexico either?"

"Maybe she's enjoying the sun," Andy suggested, wishing he had been the one assigned to a warm place.

"Damn," Peter said again, stretching out his legs in front of him. Worrying about her wasn't going to make her call in any sooner. Reaching for the phone, he added, "I'd better check in with the office." He did not like having to admit to losing two operatives.

"Bit early for him to be in his office, don't you think? With the time difference and all?" Andy suggested.

"You're right," Peter responded, putting the phone back in its cradle. "I'm getting tired of just sitting here. What do you say we go and get a good cup of coffee? And maybe have a chat with the two meddlers, if they are there."

"You mean ... actually talk to them? Is that smart?"

"Smarter than sitting here on our butts, waiting for calls," the older man answered with authority. "Come on. Don't worry," he added, his eyes twinkling at his young partner. "I'm a trained professional. If I can't talk them out of this silly investigation of theirs, we can always lock them in a closet until it's over." Laughing at Andy's startled face, he picked up his coat and headed for the door.

Back in the Black Cat, the locals were busy speculating about the building across the street. Although the air was filled with the scent of smoke, it didn't keep the owner from opening or the townies from showing up.

"Deb, could you and your friend take some coffees out to the firemen?" Honore, the owner suggested.

"Sure," Deb responded eagerly. "I'd be glad to do that." She nudged Pat and whispered, "Come on. Maybe we can get some info about how the fire started."

The smoke was still streaming out of the back of the building. The roof had caved in, and as the smoke hit the cold air, it was actually forming icicles in the air.
Quite pretty, in an odd sort of way,
Deb thought. As she and Pat passed out the cups to grateful firemen, they viewed the damage firsthand.

"Strange how the damage focuses on the back, isn't it?" Deb mused to one of the firemen she knew. "Was it from someone's stove or electrical?"

Taking the cup and bagel Pat handed him, the fireman replied, "Electrical? Huh! Only if there were wires in the middle of the living room rug. Oh, and someone poured gas on them."

"It was lit deliberately? Surely not!" Deb shot back.

He glanced around to see where his supervisor was. "It won't be secret for long. Let's face it; I'm no expert, and we are all volunteers, you know, but I am a carpenter, and even I can tell when a rug has been set on fire. No fire in the wall, no burned electrical plugs, no stove left on. But just don't say you heard it from me. And hey, thanks again for the coffee."

"Compliments of the Black Cat," Pat replied.

"Don't get too close," the fireman warned. As he turned, he picked up equipment to put back on the truck. "It burned so hard, there's debris all over the yard."

"Come to see the show?" a voice rang out behind them.

Startled, Pat turned around to see Bill standing right behind her.
How long has he been there?
she wondered. "Oh, it's you," Pat said, smiling. "Are you part of the volunteers?"

"Not me. Bum leg, I'm afraid. But like everyone else, I was curious to see what had happened. I hope the sisters got everything out that they wanted. Looks like there's nothing left. Well, think I'll get back in. It's just too cold outside for me. Oh, and I just remembered," he turned back to them and said pleasantly, "I've got a new show of caricatures almost ready. I thought you two might like to see them before they go up. Come on over to my studio apartment any time. It's above the beauty shop." "Sounds good," Pat replied.

Handing out the last cup of coffee, the two women walked across the street and back to the coffeehouse.

"Thanks, girls," Sam called from behind the coffee bar, as they hurried in, shivering from the cold. "Free cup on the house," he added with a smile.

Grabbing the empty cup offered, Pat went to make her selection from the pots set out in a row on the far counter. The Parisian blend smelled heavenly. Putting in the cream first she filled the coffee to the brim. As she turned to say something to Deb, she saw that they had company at their usual table—the two guys she'd noticed at the cemetery, standing apart from the crowd. And one of them, the compact older one, was smiling and waving for them to come join them.

What in the world?
Pat thought, and she hurriedly pulled off her cap and ran her fingers through her hat hair, a common winter style in the Midwest. Deb raised her eyebrows in question, and Pat nodded her head and took her cup over to greet the two men.

Suddenly, thoughts of scenes just like this from every old mystery she had ever read raced through her head. Were she and Deb in danger? No, they were surrounded by other customers. Still ... it was as if she could faintly hear an orchestra playing spooky music.
Oh, knock it off,
Pat chided herself,
this is no mystery.
And she sat down in the chair the younger man had pulled up for her.

"Sorry to take your table," the man said without introduction, "but we saw you outside handing out the coffee and just wanted to have a chat."

Pat studied the man intently. "Interesting that you not only knew this was our regular table but you seem to know who we are, too. I know I saw you at the memorial service for Joe Abramov, but I'm pretty new in town, so I don't know who you are."

The men seemed to hesitate momentarily. Then the older one said, "You might say just we're old friends of Joe's, coming to pay our last respects. Joe and I go way back."
That, at least, is true,
he thought. "When we were young, we served in 'Nam together. I'm Peter Thomas, by the way, and this is Andy Ross. Andy has had dealings with Joe more recently."

Pat turned to look at the young man. He was tall and fair and had the appearance of someone who was somewhere between uncomfortable and bored.

"Dealings?" Pat repeated.

"Not dealings, exactly," the man continued hastily. "I just mean they had met through me." Turning to Deb, he said, "I hear you are handling the estate for the family. Did Joe leave a will?"

Deb met his gaze but didn't smile. "Everyone in town knows Joe and that he didn't leave a will. Hardly left anything at all, as far as we have found. Now, of course, it'll be a bit harder, now that his apartment has burned. May I ask your interest in this?"