Heating Up (21 page)

“Is it gonna be a chick flick?”

“Probably.” She stood up and he watched her wipe the dust off her butt.

“I'm in.”

Dana made a bowl of popcorn and Aidan got through
Bridesmaids
thanks to Melissa McCarthy. They must've fallen asleep on the couch because he was awakened at two in the morning by the ring of his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Get dressed; we've got another one,” Captain Johnson said.

“Suspicious?” Aidan felt Dana stirring in his arms.

“Oh yeah.”

“What?” she asked as he clicked off the call.

“Another suspicious fire. I've got to go.” Out of habit, he was primed for an argument.

“Okay,” she said. “You'll be careful, right?”

“I always am.” He kissed her. “Sorry to wake you; go back to sleep.”

In the time it took Aidan to get to the Bun Boy, firefighters had completely contained the blaze. He was startled to see an ambulance on site. He nudged his chin at the captain in question.

“The damned fire nearly took out one of our guys. The needle fairies say Duke's okay, but they're taking him to Plumas District Hospital for observation.”

“Jesus.” Aidan scrubbed a hand through his hair as he watched a paramedic shut the back doors of the bus on Duke and zoom off with their lights flashing.

“The idiot doesn't know what he's doing half the time, but this wasn't his fault. That fire burned fast and hot as hell.”

“Accelerant?”

“That would be my guess, but you'll know better than me. It looks like it started in the supply closet.”

Aidan went to check it out, bumping into Rhys on the way. “Sounds like we have ourselves another one.”

“Yep,” Rhys said, “and I sure as hell don't like it. This is the last thing we need in a dry, hot summer.”

“Roger that.”

Rhys and Aidan started for the building as a car came screeching into the parking lot. Donna jumped out even before the vehicle came to a complete halt. A man Aidan presumed was Trevor Thurston, Donna's husband, grabbed her arm.

“What the hell happened to my drive-through?” she bellowed.

“Welcome to crazy town.” Rhys shook his head.

Aidan suppressed a grin and changed direction, hoping to head Donna off at the pass. He needed to keep the scene clear.

Trevor stuck out his hand to Aidan. “You know what happened yet?”

“Too soon.” He watched Trevor closely. “Anything you know?”

“When I left at closing time, the place didn't look like that.” Donna pointed at the charred remains of a storage room attached to the side of the building. “I need to get in there to assess the rest of the damage.”

“Not yet,” Aidan said. “Let me have a look and I'll get you in there as soon as possible. That room”—he motioned at the burned-out shed—“was it accessible from the outside?”

“Yes. It had a door on the outside and we kept a padlock on it,” Donna responded.

“What did you keep in there?”

“Cleaning supplies, mops, buckets, rags, nothing too exciting.”

“Okay, let me check it out. Wait here.”

He walked across the parking lot to the Bun Boy building, where the police department had set up klieg lights. Sloane was probably here somewhere. The closer he got, the stronger the scent of disinfectant became. Pine oil, which was highly combustible, had a flashpoint at or above 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

As a couple of firefighters checked for hot spots, Rhys circled the wreckage and sidled up to Aidan. “It feels different than the last one.”

“This one was more organized.” Aidan crouched down and shone his flashlight on the ground. “He came through here and went straight to the storage shed.”

Rhys examined the dirt. “I don't see any footprints.”

“He dragged them clean.” Aidan directed Rhys's attention toward a big tree branch on the ground. No burn marks.

He put on a pair of latex gloves, collected the branch, and used it to sweep the ground near the spot where he'd been hunkered down. “See?” The marks were identical. Aidan walked a few feet away. “But here we have tread marks that look similar to the footprints we got at the sporting goods store.”

With Rhys's help, they photographed the impressions next to a ruler and marked the area so Aidan could make casts of the prints. Afterward, he made his way to the burned-out hull of the unit.

“He knew pine oil was in here and used it as his accelerant,” Aidan told Rhys.

“You keep saying
he
. How do you know our suspect isn't a woman?”

“Arson is predominantly committed by males,” Aidan said, searching through the debris for the lock Donna had told him about.

Eureka. He found the metal padlock lying in a pile of ash and rubble. “Can someone move that light closer?”

Rhys went and did it himself while Aidan studied the lock under a flashlight. It had been slit open, probably with bolt cutters.

“Whoever did this came prepared,” Rhys said, clearly coming to the same conclusion as Aidan.

“Is it common knowledge what the Thurstons store in this space?” he asked Rhys.

“I don't know about common knowledge, but all it would take is someone to be standing around when an employee opened it. At one time or another half the young adult population in Nugget has worked here.”

“And you definitely don't like Trevor for this?” To Aidan, he was the only one with a financial motive because he owned both buildings.

“Stranger things have happened, but I don't see it. This is his wife's pride and joy.”

Except the equipment was old and in many instances outdated. Aidan had noticed that right off when he'd done his inspection. With enough insurance money she could go state-of-the-art. Aidan walked around the rest of the building, Rhys following. Other than the storage-unit side of the restaurant, there didn't appear to be much damage.

“Who made the 9-1-1 call?” Other than the inn, which was across the green, and the apartment above the Ponderosa, the square was dead after eleven o'clock.

“Anonymous.” Rhys sighed. “We're trying to trace it.”

Aidan would bet money their firebug made the call on a burner and tossed it.

“Hey.” Sloane came trotting up. “Come see what I found in the Dumpster.”

Aidan hadn't seen his sister since the Fourth of July and wanted to give her a hug. Probably not a good idea because they were working the case together. They followed her, and all three of them climbed up on the trash bin and flashed their lights inside. On top sat a work shirt that looked vaguely familiar.

Rhys hopped down, found a branch, and fished the shirt out of the garbage, careful not to touch it without gloves. Aidan, who still wore his latex, took it off Rhys's hands. A patch across the front pocket read “Rigsby Electrical.”

D
ana had already showered and dressed and was in the kitchen making coffee when Aidan slipped into the house. He'd been gone all night and much of the morning. She heard him come through the door and greeted him in the living room.

“How did it go?” His eyes were bloodshot, he smelled like smoke, and he was so delectable she couldn't believe she'd been in his arms just a short while ago.

“Not too good. Duke, one of our guys, suffered smoke inhalation and had to be taken to the hospital.”

“I saw that in Harlee's story. Will he be okay?”

“Yeah. But it could've been bad.”

“It could've been you,” she said, the thought making her queasy.

“Nah.” He pulled her into his arms. “Duke's not the sharpest tool in the shed, and he's a show-off. I'm not saying it doesn't happen to the best firefighters, but in this situation it could've been avoided.”

He stopped talking and stared at her with a goofy smile on his lips.

“What?”

“It's just nice of you to be concerned. Don't take this the wrong way, but it sort of reminded me of my mother and father. He'd come home after a big fire and she'd get on his case about the dangers of his job and then they'd wind up kissing.”

He lowered his mouth to hers and gave her a big smooch while her heart expanded as big as the moon. She and Aidan were just so easy. Everything about him, about them being together, felt natural, like they fit.

“You off to work?” he asked, his hands playing casually at her hips.

“Don't change the subject. Do you know who set this one?”

He let out a breath. “I smell coffee.”

She nodded. He definitely looked as if he could use a cup . . . or two. “It should be ready.”

They went in the kitchen together, and Dana motioned for him to sit. She poured them each a mug, set them on the table, and got the cream out of the fridge.

“You know, don't you?”

Aidan left his coffee black and took a long sip. “Maybe, but something about it is off.”

“Like what?”

“Like we found some damning evidence at the scene.” He squinted his eyes and shook his head. “Too easy, if you ask me.”

“What did you find? Harlee didn't have anything about evidence in her story. Only that the Bun Boy would be up and running in a few days, according to the Thurstons.”

“That's because Harlee doesn't know about the evidence.” He gave Dana a pointed look.

“Your secret is safe with me. I love this stuff . . . not that someone got hurt; I hate that. Or that the Bun Boy was damaged . . . but it's like
CSI
.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. “I've got to take a shower.” He sniffed himself and let out a low whistle.

“You're not planning to tell me?”

“Nope.” He drained the coffee and got to his feet.

“Come on.” She pouted, but he was unmovable.

“What are we doing tonight?”

And there went her heart again. No games, no waiting by the phone, no second guessing, just easy. This was what it was supposed to be like.

“The other day Harlee and Darla asked me to have drinks with them at the Ponderosa. But that's early . . . around five. After that you and I could go bowling. Or you could meet us for drinks.”

“No drinks until we catch whoever is setting these fires,” he said, and she guessed he was permanently on call. “But bowling sounds good. We could have dinner first.”

“Perfect,” she said, her belly quivering. They were like a real couple. A good couple. “So you're still not going to tell me, are you?”

“Come here.” He crooked his finger at her and she got out of her chair. In her ear he hesitated for a second and then whispered, “You look hot in that dress.”

She swatted his arm playfully. “You're bad.”

“Nah, I'm good.” He grabbed her in a fireman's hold and started to carry her into the bedroom while she pounded on his back.

“Aidan, I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. Put me down.”

“You sure you can't be late?”

“I've never been late in my life.”

He snorted and placed her on her feet. “Organized and punctual. Call me from the Ponderosa when you're ready for dinner.”

“I will.” She straightened out her dress, one of Harlee's hand-me-downs. Uh-oh. “What if Harlee asks about the case?”

“Tell her what you know.” He laughed and took off for the shower.

Dana washed out her cup, sighed when she saw Aidan's in the sink, and washed that one too. On her way out the door, she grabbed her briefcase and took a few seconds to air out her car. Not even ten a.m. and it was stifling. Unable to help herself, she swung by the square to check out the Bun Boy.

The damage didn't look too bad. It was worse than the sporting goods store, though. A few people had gathered on the sidewalk to gawk, but there weren't many people out at this time on a Sunday. She noticed Owen milling around and unrolled her window.

“What do you know?” she asked him, feeling a little more outgoing than her usual self.

“You're the one with the inside track. What does your hot-shot fire investigator tell you?”

“Nada. He's by the books.”

“Well, ever since he showed up, we've been having a lot of fires, starting with yours, missy. Seems like quite a coincidence, if you ask me.”

“Aidan didn't set those fires,” she said.

“How do you know?”

Because she'd burned her own house down, and as for the others . . . “I was with him when he got the calls.”

“Convenient alibi, don't you think?” He tracked her with a gimlet eye.

The man was nuts. When he spied Dink, the mayor, walking into the barbershop, he headed after him.

She backed out of her parking spot, giving the Bun Boy one last, longing look. A week without curly fries was like a week without sunshine.

Her clients were waiting in their car when she got to the office. She unlocked the door, immediately switched on the AC, and waved to them to come in. The Arnolds were a nice-looking couple, probably in their early forties. Mr. Arnold was a pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon and his wife a social worker. They had three teenagers, and if anyone needed a vacation home, it was them.

“How was your night at the Lumber Baron?” Dana asked.

“It's such a pretty place . . . usually so tranquil,” Mrs. Arnold said. They'd stayed there a few times. “But we had some excitement last night.”

“The fire,” Dana said, and thought,
terrific!
Nothing said charming country town like arson.

“Do you know how it started?” Mr. Arnold asked.

“No idea. But I know they're investigating.”

“According to the
Nugget Tribune
, it was the second fire in a week,” he said.

“It's very unusual for this town. It's probably kids . . . summer vacation. . . boredom. I have lots to show you today, including a turnkey cabin on the river that we just listed.”

That caught Mrs. Arnold's attention. “That sounds nice. Are we seeing that one first?”

“We can if you like.” Dana handed the couple a file. “The places we're seeing are all in there. I'd like us to swing by Sierra Heights afterward, just so you can make comparisons. Anyone need to use the bathroom before we go?”

Three hours later, she was ready to pull her hair out of her head. The Arnolds were truly lovely people, but they suffered from paralysis by analysis. Instead of leading with their hearts, they broke everything down into pros and cons. Would this house appreciate more than that house? They loved having views of the river, but they worried about flooding. What if they eventually wanted a pool; where would they put it? And the list went on.

She looked at her watch. They wanted to be on the road by two. Dana thought they had just enough time to swing by Sierra Heights, wanting it to be their last impression of the day. She cruised through the security kiosk, which, as usual, had no security. The Arnolds didn't comment on it, which, given how much they'd scrutinized everything else, gave Dana hope.

“It really is lovely.” Mrs. Arnold sat in the backseat, gazing out the window.

“I was at a party here the other night. The host is a chef and he made pizzas in the outdoor oven, poolside.”

“How does it work with the golf course again? Residents have priority?” Mr. Arnold asked.

“Mm-hmm.” It's not like it was difficult to get a tee time. This was Nugget. “Would you like to see a few of the models again?”

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” he said.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Dana and the Arnolds sat in her office drawing up an offer. Aidan was right; she really was on a roll.

* * *

“You have anything to eat around here?” Sloane stuck her head in Aidan's refrigerator.

He maneuvered her away and reached in for a package of bacon. “I'll make you a BLT.”

“Really? Okay.”

“It'll be generic compared to Brady's. But beggars can't be choosers.”

She dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and glanced around the room. “Dana's a neat freak, isn't she?”

“What makes you think I'm not the clean one?”

“Uh . . . like I've known you my whole life. You're a slob. So what's her deal? She's kind of glommed on to you like a puppy.”

“We like each other. What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I think it's great that you have someone to pass the time with until you figure out your shit. But don't go breaking her heart. She's not as resilient as Sue.”

He thought Dana was pretty resilient, but she definitely wasn't Sue. “What shit am I supposed to be figuring out?”

“Why you let someone like Sue get away.”

“Maybe it was all part of the grand scheme.” He pulled a frying pan out of the cupboard, put it over a medium flame, and filled it with strips of bacon.

“So you could meet Dana?” She let out a snort of laughter.

“What's funny about that, Sloane?”

“She's so not your type. A: She's got a stick up her ass. B: She's lived here longer than I have and doesn't have any friends. And C: She's an introvert and you're the life of the party. Now, Sue was your type. Fun, social, outgoing. We loved Sue.”

“So I've heard.” Aidan turned the bacon. “Do me a favor, stay out of my love life.”

Sloane held up her hands in surrender. “I was just trying to help and save a woman from getting hurt. Everyone can see she's enthralled with you. After Griffin dumped her for—”

“That's enough. You don't know the first thing about it.”

“What are you saying?”

Aidan reached up for a cutting board to slice the tomato. “What I'm saying is, maybe I'm crazy about her.”

Sloane narrowed her eyes at him like he was delusional. “Not more crazy about her than you were about Sue.”

No,
the rest of you
were crazy about Sue
. “Leave it alone, Sloane. It's my business; worry about your own love life. What's going on with the wedding?”

“Brady still wants to do it in September. I think it's crazy. There's no way we can pull something like that off in two months, and I want a dream wedding with all the frills and flounces. I know it's girlie, but it's what I want.”

“Then wait,” he said, spreading mayo on a couple of slices of bread and filling them with bacon, lettuce, and tomato.

“Then we'd have to wait a full year. Any later than September it starts getting cold around here.”

Aidan lifted his shoulder. What did he know about weddings?

“Let's talk about the case,” she said.

He cut her sandwich on a diagonal—the way she used to eat it as a kid—grabbed a bag of chips, a couple of sodas, and sat down to eat. “Not much to talk about until we hear back on the shirt from forensics. I'm betting that shirt was nowhere near a fire . . . that it was tossed in that Dumpster before the Bun Boy was lit up.”

“You don't like Rigsby for this?”

“Of everyone we're looking at, he fits the profile best. He was pissed off about me taking his fireworks. According to Rhys, he's got anger issues . . . again, consistent with an arsonist. And he's not the kind of guy who likes to answer to the man, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” Sloane bit into her sandwich and washed it down with a swig of cola. “It's hot in here.”

Brady got up and opened the kitchen door, leaving the screen closed. “Better?”

“Yeah; you have a nice breeze. So it sounds like Rigsby could easily be our guy. Why are you skeptical?”

“Because even a half-wit doesn't leave his shirt at the scene, and believe me, I've seen it all. People who've left fingerprints, dropped matchbooks, even business cards. But this is too . . . pat.”

“Okay, then who would want to set him up?”

Aidan leaned over the table and ruffled Sloane's hair. It was fun doing this with his little sister. The family hadn't been too pleased when she'd run off to Los Angeles to become a cop. The McBrides were firefighters. But despite the trouble she'd had there—and it had been considerable—she was top-notch at her job. Tough as nails, his girlie sister.

“I got the impression Clay McCreedy hates Rigsby's guts. You know why?”

Sloane grabbed the bag of chips away from Aidan. “You're a hog. According to town gossip, Rigsby spread stories about Clay's first wife cheating on him with the developer of Sierra Heights.”