Out of the Ashes (10 page)

“My hands are freezing,” I said, rubbing them together and blowing on them. “I wish I'd thought to bring my gloves.”

“I think I have some mittens with me,” he said
right away, digging in his pockets to check. “Yup. Here they are.”

It was the same pair he'd had on when we were building the snow sculpture at Christmas. I reached for them, but he was holding one open and slipped them onto my hands one at a time.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling almost guilty that he was being so nice when I was just trying to get evidence on him.

“Hey, these are the mitts that caused the argument with you and Betts,” I laughed as if I was just remembering it. “It was kind of a silly thing to fight about.”

“I didn't fight with Betts,” he said, looking genuinely surprised. “Not agreeing with someone isn't the same thing as fighting.”

“Sounded like a fight to me,” I said, then realized I was getting off track. Before he could answer I added, “But I guess you're right, it was really just a difference of opinion.”

He took a sideways glance at me to see if I was being sarcastic but must have been satisfied that I meant it because he said no more on the subject. We chatted as we walked and I tried to focus on what was being said even though I was trying to think of another way to bring up the mittens without it looking deliberate.

When we got to his house and I peeled them off I got my chance.

“Thanks, they were really warm. It's neat that your dad made them, too. Does he knit very much?”

“Not a whole lot. He says it's relaxing, kind of takes his mind off things when pressure builds.” Greg smiled a bit sheepishly. “I tried it a few times but I couldn't really get the knack.”

“Well, I think it's nice that he made you these.” I paused, wondering if I was pushing it too far. “Has he made you other things?”

“A few.” Greg leaned to unlace his boots and hauled them off. “Well, let's have a look at those books.”

Disappointed that I hadn't been able to get him to mention the blue mittens, I followed him into a room where bookcases had been erected against every wall. It was amazing, like having a library right there in the house. I noticed that there were photo albums on the bottom of one shelf, and beside them a small pile of scrapbooks. If only I could have some time alone in the room I could look through them to see if there were any news clippings from the fire that killed Mrs. Taylor.

“This is my section,” Greg said, waving toward one full wall of books. “Just have a look and help yourself to anything you want.”

He sank into one of the three oversized chairs in the room as I stood peering at row after row of titles. After a moment, Mr. Taylor came along.

“Why hello, Shelby.” He smiled and nodded. “I thought I heard voices in here.”

“Hi, Mr. Taylor. Greg is lending me some books.”

“Excellent,” he perched on the arm of a chair. “It's a chilly night out there, would you young people like something warm to drink?”

“Oh, Shelby, you have to try my dad's hot chocolate!” Greg stood. “It's the best.”

I said that would be great, pushing down feelings of guilt that they were being so nice. What would they think of me when they found out the real reason I was there?

Mr. Taylor disappeared into the kitchen, and after I'd picked out a couple of books we joined him there. He set three big steaming mugs on the table. They smelled heavenly.

I took a sip and couldn't help exclaiming that it was indeed the best hot chocolate I'd ever tasted. There was a plate of cookies too, and they were delicious as well. As I was eating my second cookie I commented on the interesting flavour, something that came through the dates and cinnamon with a slight nutty taste.

“Flax seed,” Greg's dad told me. “I like to make up my own recipes, like these cookies, and put in healthy things like flax.”

“You're awfully talented,” I smiled at Mr. Taylor. “Why, Greg tells me that you even knit. I wore the mittens
you made on the way here and they were lovely and warm. Interesting pattern too.”

He beamed at the compliment. “I've made four pairs in that pattern, two each for Greg and me. They tend to be warmer than what you buy in the stores.”

“Actually, I only have one pair now, Dad,” Greg commented as he bit into a cookie. “I lost a mitt from the blue pair the other night.”

My heart did a little flip-flop then. Now I knew for sure that it was Greg who had been wearing the mitten I found near the Lawfords' fire.

In spite of everything that was going on, I was asleep almost as soon as my head landed on the pillow that night. The next thing I knew, Mom was nudging me and telling me to get up.

“Whaaa?” I couldn't quite get the whole word out.

“You're wanted on the phone.” She smiled and ran her hand over my forehead. “Do you want me to tell him to call later?”

I squinted at my alarm clock and saw that it was after eleven o'clock in the morning. Mumbling that I was awake, I slid out of bed and headed groggily for the kitchen.

“Hello?” Did you ever notice that when you answer the phone, it always sounds more like a question than a greeting? It's almost as if you're not necessarily going to be happy to find out who's on the other end of the line.

“Good morning.” It was Greg. “Am I waking you?”

“Yeah, but it's okay. I didn't mean to sleep so late.”

“Well, sorry about that. Anyway, what are you doing later?”

I hesitated, wondering if Nick might reschedule our date at the theatre for that evening. He hadn't said how long his aunt was going to be staying, but it was probably more than just one night. There was no sense losing a chance to dig up more clues.

“Nothing much. Why?”

“I'm at work right now, but I get off at two o'clock this afternoon. I thought you might like to hang out later on.”

The thought of the scrapbooks on the shelf at his place flashed into my head. I sure wanted to get a look at them.

“Well, you'll have to go home to change after work, right?”

“Yeah, that won't take long though.”

“Why don't I meet you there around three? We can decide if we want to go anywhere else then.”

“Sounds great.” His voice was really happy. “I'll see you then.”

After I hung up the phone I showered, dressed, and had a bagel with strawberry cream cheese. While I ate I tried to think of some way I could get a look at the scrapbooks.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and when I looked up I saw Betts standing there. The expression on her face told me something was wrong.

I'd no sooner let her in than she burst into tears.

“Graham and I are through!” she wailed, throwing her arms around me. “He's nothing but a big jerk and I hate him.”

Her remark seemed kind of at odds with the tears. After all, if she really hated him, there'd be no reason to be crying over their breakup.

“What happened?” I asked, patting her shoulder with my free hand. The other hand still held a piece of bagel, and the way her shoulders were heaving I was sure she was going to get cream cheese on herself. I held it as far from her as I could as I led her to the table and got her into a chair.

“He said I'm suffocating him,” she sniffed loudly, “and he needs his space.”

“Well, in that case, you're right. He's definitely a jerk. You're better off without him.”

“But I like him so much!” she howled, contradicting what she'd said less than a minute ago. “How could he do this to me?”

“Guys are weird, Betts, you know that. Sometimes they break up with girls because they like them too much and they can't handle it.”

“You think he broke up with me because he likes
me a lot?” The idea seemed to interest her, and it looked for a few seconds as if she might stop crying.

I nodded emphatically. “I bet that's it all right. He probably got scared by his own emotions. Mom told me how that can happen. Something about commitment phobia.”

“Commitment phobia,” Betts repeated slowly. She sniffed again. “But what do I do about it? If he's scared to like me, he's never going to go out with me again.”

“Not necessarily.” I tried to remember the details of some of the talks Mom and I had had about relationships. “I think that if you handle it right, he'll end up being more interested in you in the long run.”

“How?”

“Uh, let me see. Don't call him, don't go out of your way to talk to him, pretend you couldn't care less. And never let him see that you're sad or upset.”

She looked doubtful, but at least she wasn't crying anymore. “I'll try it,” she said, lifting her chin. Then she added, “You're lucky, you know.”

“How come?”

“‘Cause your mom talks to you about stuff like this. My mother hardly ever has time to talk about anything. She's always too busy.”

I felt good about that. After Betts left I went to look for Mom to tell her I was going to Greg's for a while. I thought I might like to give her a hug too.

I checked through the house and found her just coming out of her darkroom. I told her about my plans for the day, and then noticed that she had just hung some new pictures up. They looked pretty good.

“Can I see these?” I asked, pointing to the wall where clips held them in place.

“Sure. I was getting some nature shots the other day, but I don't think I quite captured what I wanted to.”

I stepped into the room and peered at the glossy black and white pictures. There was one of a squirrel sitting on a branch, its eyes bright and alert.

“This one's really good,” I commented as my eyes travelled along the others. My gaze stopped suddenly as I spied a picture of myself walking away from the school.

“Hey! That's me.” “

Goodness, how did that happen? I must have mistaken you for a raccoon or something.”

“Mom!” Her jokes were pretty dumb sometimes, but I'd usually laugh anyway because of the way she'd giggle when she told one.

“I have quite a few pictures of you that you didn't know were being taken. I like them a lot because they're so natural.”

“Can I see the rest of them?” I was surprised and naturally curious.

“They're here, in this folder.” She hauled open a filing cabinet drawer and pulled out one of the pale yellow
folders nestled inside, passing it to me. “Be sure to put them all back when you're through.”

Then she headed toward the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “I'm off to Ethel's place now. I told her I'd be there by two o'clock, but it never hurts to be early.”

Ethel is a neighbor of ours who has multiple sclerosis. Mom helps her with her housework once a week, just out of kindness. That's what my mom is like.

I opened the folder and was about to start looking through it when something in what she'd just said jogged in my brain.

It never hurts to be early.

What if I showed up at Greg's place at two instead of three? I could pretend I'd gotten the times mixed up and then just ask his dad if I could look at more of the books while I waited for him. It was perfect.

I stuck the file back into place and hurried to my room to get ready. If I walked quickly, I could be there well before Greg got home.

It was five minutes after two when I reached their house. I figured that still gave me enough time to at least get a quick look at the scrapbooks, since it would take Greg twenty minutes to walk home from Broderick's. But when I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I went around the back of the house, just in case Mr. Taylor was outside, but there was no sign of him.

That was when I noticed a thin curl of smoke coming from the far side of their storage shed.

I ran around the shed to get a better look and saw that flames were just starting to lick the outside of the building. I scooped snow on it frantically to smother the flames before they got out of hand. They sizzled and sputtered for a few moments and then went out.

Looking around, I noticed that the snow had been stirred up and there were pine needles laying in it here and there. I followed the trail it created out to the street where a broken bough lay discarded. Whoever had been there had taken care to cover their tracks.

I was still standing there when I saw Greg coming along the street. He raised his arm in a wave and called my name cheerily.

As he got closer, I blurted out what I'd just discovered and we went together to examine the damage to the building. It was minimal, a few scorched areas where the flames had begun to burn before I'd put the fire out.

“Thank goodness you were here,” Greg said solemnly. “That building is pretty close to the house, and there's a breeze blowing this way. It wouldn't have taken much for the house to catch too.”

“It would be awful to lose your house for the second time,” I commented.

He looked hard at me then, and I blushed when I realized what I'd just said. He'd never mentioned anything
about the fire that had claimed his mother's life, so it had to be obvious to him that I'd been listening to the town gossip.

“Yes, for the second time.” His eyes bored into me and for a second I felt afraid, although I wasn't really sure why. It felt as though he was looking for something that I didn't want him to find.

We went into the house then, and Greg called the police to report the fire. While we waited for them to arrive I mulled over some perplexing questions. The big one, of course, was who had set the Taylor's shed on fire? It couldn't have been Greg, since he was nowhere near when it happened. And where was Mr. Taylor? Was it possible that he knew Greg was responsible for the other fires? He might have heard the rumours that centred on him and figured that if the police were watching him, they'd soon realize that the culprit was actually Greg. Could have set his own building on fire in order to draw suspicion away from his son?