Night Scents (33 page)

Andrew joined them. "She's lucky. Looks as if there's minimal fire damage, some water damage. Closing the dampers on the downstairs fireplaces helped. It was a dumb thing to do, but it helped."

"Andrew's right, Piper." Her father's expression was grave. "You could have passed out from smoke inhalation and ended up getting carted out of here on a board."

"Any one of you would have done the same thing."

Hannah patted her hand. "Not I. If the Frye house had ever caught fire, I'd have let it burn to the ground. I might have even poured some gasoline on it." She smiled at her family's look of shock. "Well, why not?"

"Because it's illegal, for one thing," Andrew said.

"A pristine, historic house like that, Hannah." Benjamin shook his head. "It's a beauty."

She sniffed. "You never lived there."

Andrew dropped down onto the picnic table and said, half amiably, half seriously, "Don't give Jackson here any ammunition, in case he decides to put in that resort."

Clate took the half-hearted jibe in stride. "I'd invite you all over to my pristine, historic house, but I know you Macintoshes like to stay in the thick of things."

"Well, someone should bring Piper a blanket or a shawl," Hannah said. "She's freezing."

Piper stiffened to keep herself from shaking and shivering. "I'll be fine."

Everyone ignored her. "I've got a blanket in the truck," Benjamin said.

She sighed in resignation. "There's a shawl in my studio. It's closer."

"I'll get it," Clate said, and moved off. In Piper's estimation, he looked as calm and in control as he would if he hadn't just pulled a woman off a burning house.

When he was out of earshot, Piper frowned at her two brothers. "I can't believe you two would think he could do something like this."

Andrew looked mystified. "Like what? You're the one who didn't get her chimney properly cleaned."

"I did, too. Someone set that fire, I tell you. I
felt
it."

He groaned. Benjamin held his temper in check, and their father said, "Piper, be careful. You don't want to start flinging unwarranted accusations of arson. A chimney fire's not that easy to set. It could have been an accident."

"It wasn't an accident."

Hannah had shrunk down into the bench, her brows drawn together in concentrated thought, her green eyes as clear and bright and vivid as Piper had ever seen them. It was the same sort of expression she'd had when she first mentioned her father's treasure.

"Piper's right." At first, the men didn't hear her. Then she raised her chin and drew her own handwoven shawl about her thin shoulders and repeated herself in a louder, stronger voice. "Piper's right. It wasn't an accident. Someone set the fire."

Andrew snorted. "Well, hell, let's just go find Ernie and tell him. He'll take your word for it, Hannah. Let's get Stan Carlucci to vouch for you."

"You needn't be nasty," Hannah said airily.

"You want to see nasty, Hannah? Walk over there and tell Ernie you've divined that someone set Piper's chimney on fire." Andrew was red hot himself now. Nothing drove him crazier than the people he loved not heeding his version of common sense. "People are asking enough questions about you as it is."

"Phooey. I stopped caring what people thought of me in 1935 when this town practically ran out of money and decided to blame me." She pursed her lips. "It was arson."

"Pop, you talk to her."

"What? Me? Aunt Hannah hasn't had to account for her actions to anyone in eighty years. She's not going to listen to me."

She smiled. "Your father did spoil me."

"Yes, he did."

"Maybe someone stuck something up in the chimney," Piper said, "and when I built a regular, ordinary fire in the kitchen, it caught fire, set whatever creosote was there on fire, and—"

"And who the hell would stick jellied gas or napalm or God knows what up in your chimney?" Andrew asked derisively. "He'd have had to get up on your roof or get inside and stick it up your chimney, which wouldn't be easy, and in case you haven't noticed, you live out on an isolated road. You come and go as you please. Clate comes and goes as he pleases. Who would risk being seen?"

Piper jumped up in a rush of impatience. "I don't know who. If I did, I'd be trying to run him down with my car right now. I am
trying
to go through proper channels."

"A day late there," Benjamin said mildly.

She supposed he had a point. "Well, at least we all know now it wasn't Hannah, don't we?"

Hannah perked up at this prospect. "Are you implying I can't climb up on a roof?"

They were about to dive into a fresh round of arguing when Clate returned from the studio with Piper's shawl. He slipped it over her shoulders. Her brothers and father noticed the intimacy of the gesture, but said nothing; Hannah was looking on with satisfaction. If her prediction did come true, Piper knew, she'd take the credit. If it didn't, she'd find some way to take herself off the hook. Clate sat next to her on the bench, and she sank against his shoulder. She didn't care about the future right now, didn't care what her family might think.

The fire fighters finished their work. Piper got a lecture on the dangers of creosote buildup from Ernie, who told her she needed to have her chimney cleaned regularly and avoid burning green wood. In his opinion, she was damned lucky that the house was salvageable. Most of the damage was limited to the second floor and the roof.

"What if the fire was set?" Piper asked, in full hearing range of her father, Andrew, Benjamin, and Clate.

Ernie frowned. "How?"

"I don't know how. I'm not an arsonist."

"Piper, damn it—"

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically, if the fire was set, it was set. It was a hell of a hot fire. Chimney's like a damned blast furnace. There might be traces of a starter left, but who knows? Be tough to find." He eyed her, sarcasm creeping in. "You want me to call in the FBI?"

She clutched the shawl under her breasts. "That's not funny."

Ernie straightened, squaring his shoulders as he returned to his professional demeanor. "You've had a rough day, Piper. This thing looks like an accident. Let's leave it at that."

The phone call, she thought. She'd received it right before the fire. Had he known she'd just lit a fire that would catch the starter in the chimney? Had he been out there in the woods across the road somewhere, watching? She could feel her stomach lurching, her whole body trembling. Suddenly it all seemed so complicated to try to explain to Ernie, to anyone. What could he do without a suspect, evidence, even a good reason for the calls? What would he say if she started yammering about buried treasure?

"You're probably right." She had to talk through chattering teeth. "Tell the guys thanks, okay? They saved my house."

After the police and fire departments left, the Macintosh men decided to go in and check out Piper's house, urging her to go over to date's to get cleaned up. Their abrupt change in attitude toward him took Piper by surprise. Clate seemed hardly to notice.

"Your clothes'll probably be ruined from smoke damage," her father said.

"I can call Liddy," Benjamin said, "and have her bring over a couple outfits."

Piper readied a smile, but it didn't quite come off. "Thanks."

She and Clate walked down along the path, and the closer they got to the marsh, the clearer and cleaner the air. Except for the odors clinging to her clothes, her hair, her skin, the acrid smells of the fire had dissipated. She concentrated on the ordinary sounds of the birds and the sea. Clate was a solid, silent presence next to her.

But as they went through the break in the privet, she turned to him. "Something's on your mind."

"It'll keep."

The shawl had dropped down her shoulders; the walk, the air, had helped steady her. "It's okay, Clate, I've done all the falling apart I'm going to do today."

He started up the path and she caught up with him. He glanced at her. "All right. What didn't you tell the police chief?"

"Ernie? You noticed?" A stupid question. Clate was a man who noticed everything; it probably had been a means of survival. He was an observer, someone who'd learned, probably early on, to protect himself by watching, seeing beneath the surface. She sighed. "I received another phone call right before the fire. It just seemed too much to go into."

"Did the caller mention the fire?"

She repeated his exact words, then asked, "Do you think my father and brothers saw I was holding back?"

He gave a small smile. "They don't look at you the same way I do."

She smiled back, and for the first time in hours, she felt composed and almost calm, never mind that her house had just about burned down.

Chapter 15

Clate had a pot of hot tea ready when Piper joined him in the kitchen after her shower. She'd put on his flannel robe, and if her house hadn't just caught on fire, he'd have carried her right back upstairs. But her sister-in-law was on her way with clothes, and her father and brothers with their report on how her house had fared, and who the hell knew about Hannah. So Clate tore his gaze from her milky, fresh-scrubbed throat and poured the tea.

"Honey in mine, please," she mumbled.

"I don't have honey."

"Sugar, then."

She slid onto a chair at his wobbly, antique kitchen table and stared out the window. It was a long, slow June day, dusk coming late. Gulls arced in the evening sky. She'd stopped shaking, he noticed, but now she was fighting tears. He was watching for signs she was slipping into shock. It wasn't every day even Piper Macintosh tried to put out a chimney fire.

"You can cry, you know." He placed her tea in front of her; he'd used one of Hannah's pretty cups and saucers from the dining room. "Might release some tension."

Her jaw set. "I wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction."

"The bastard wouldn't know."

"I'd know."

A woman of a certain integrity. She'd trespass and swipe valerian root from her neighbor's garden, she'd withhold critical information from her family, but she was honest with her emotions. Brutally so at times.

Clate touched her damp hair, kissed her softly on the cheek. "Drink your tea. I'll make another pot. I'm expecting a Macintosh onslaught at any moment."

Her eyes—green, clear, determined—focused on him, and a smile tried to work its way through to him, but didn't quite get there. "Better make coffee, too. My brothers aren't tea drinkers."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

He got coffee out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter, then raked a hand through his hair, his back still to Piper. She deserved to know. The calls, the strange goings-on with treasure and poisons and missing herbs and now possible arson—he couldn't not tell her about his conversation with Hannah.

He filled the carafe to his coffeemaker with water, debating. No. Piper wouldn't prefer to sit quietly and drink her tea when there was information to be had. He was doing her no service by holding back.

He poured the water into the coffeemaker, then turned to her. "Hannah stopped by earlier. Remember when I told you I had the feeling she was holding back on you?"