Out of the Ashes (11 page)

The police cruiser pulled into the driveway before I'd had a chance to work my way through this new tangle of clues. Greg got up to meet them at the door. He explained that I'd been the one who'd discovered
smoke coming from the shed, and they asked me a bunch of questions and then got me to sign a written statement.

I felt a little guilty when they asked me if there was anything else I could tell them. I knew they meant about the fire at the Taylors', but it didn't make me feel any better when I said there was nothing else, since I had a key piece of evidence under the step at my house. That reminded me that I'd meant to move the mitten to another hiding place, but I couldn't worry about that right then.

They were there for almost an hour, and Mr. Taylor still hadn't come home. Greg was surprised that his dad wasn't there and hadn't left a note or anything.

“He always leaves a message telling me where he'll be if he's going out,” Greg commented to me after the police left. “It's strange that he didn't this time.”

Strange unless he expected the house to be on fire by the time Greg got home, I thought. In that case, leaving a note would be a waste of time. Naturally, I kept that thought to myself.

“Well, I've got to get cleaned up and changed,” Greg said then. “I won't be long.”

“No rush,” I assured him, meaning it. “Do you mind if I have another look at your library while you're in the shower?”

“Of course not. Make yourself at home.”

I listened carefully as he headed upstairs and was pleased to hear several squeaks when his feet touched some of the old wooden steps. Reminding myself to stay alert so that I'd hear the same sounds when he was returning, I grabbed a book from one of the shelves and sat on the floor beside the spot that held the scrapbooks. All I'd have to do was put them back when I heard him coming and pretend to be looking through the book.

Still, my heart was pounding as I reached for the first volume of family mementos. It held a collection of cards, many of them handmade by Greg, the kind you do in school for special occasions for your parents. I flipped through it quickly and stuck it back in place, taking out another.

In the pages of the second book were pressed flowers and leaves, tiny bags of sand, and similar tokens from nature. Among these were snapshots of Greg's parents, sometimes both of them, sometimes just one or the other. Greg appeared in a few too, and each page was neatly labelled in fine script with details of the date, place, and occasion. It was like a trip through day-to-day events that had been part of the family's life: a day at the beach, a walk through the woods, and vacations they had taken.

I fared no better in the third book, finding more pictures, ticket stubs from movies or social events, napkins from restaurants, and other such souvenirs. There were now only two scrapbooks left to look through. I
glanced nervously toward the stairs, listening. To my relief I heard water running, which meant Greg must still be in the shower.

A surge of excitement ran through me when I opened the next book and found that it contained newspaper clippings. The first few were their engagement and wedding announcements, then there were some that must have been about friends or relatives of the Taylors. There was a clipping about Mr. Taylor's appointment at the university, and a few about organizations in which they were involved. I turned the pages impatiently.

“Blaze Claims Life of Local Woman.” At last! Something about the fire! I scanned through the columns, reading the story as quickly as I could. It was a pretty factual account, telling only that the fire had broken out during the night, that father and son had escaped but that Mrs. Taylor had not. It ended with a statement that the cause of the fire was under investigation.

I turned the page and the next heading leapt out at me: “Arson Suspected in Fire at Professor's Home.” The beginning of that story basically recounted some of the details in the first story, but then it went on to say that investigators believed the origin of the fire to be suspicious.

“We're not ruling anything out at this point,” the fire marshal was quoted as saying, “but evidence points toward the fire having been deliberately set.”

I drew in a deep breath, finished the rest of the story, and then looked across to the next page. The heading there read simply “Culprit Found!” As my eyes shifted to the first line in the body of the story I was stunned to see that it began with the words “Greg Taylor”.

“May I ask what you're doing, Shelby?”

The scrapbook went flying out of my hands, and I jumped to my feet and whirled around to find Mr. Taylor standing in the doorway. I'd been so intent on listening for Greg's approach that I hadn't even thought of his father. Now he stood there, his face a cold mask of politeness. In spite of that, I could see anger in his eyes.

“I was just waiting for Greg,” I stammered, feeling heat rush to my face.

He didn't answer. Instead, his eyes moved to the scrapbook, now lying open on the floor. I started to bend down to get it, but he lifted a hand up, like a little stop sign, and moved towards it himself.

Culprit Found. Greg Taylor...;
The words pounded in my head even as I tried to think of some reasonable explanation for what I'd just been discovered doing. I watched as Mr. Taylor reached for the scrapbook and looked to see what I'd been reading. He folded it closed and sat it carefully back on the shelf with the others. As he straightened up to face me again, Greg bounded down the stairs and into the room.

“Hey, you're home.” Speaking to his father, Greg's smile faded. He could see that something was wrong and naturally assumed it was about the fire on their property. “I guess Shelby filled you in on what happened.”

“Shelby,” his father told him with the calm tone of a person holding anger in check, “was otherwise occupied when I arrived.”

“Then you don't know about the fire. When Shelby got here the shed out back was just starting to burn. She put it out with snow.” Greg smiled proudly in my direction as he finished speaking.

“Our shed? Our shed was on fire?” Mr. Taylor sounded dismayed but there was no real shock in his voice.

Greg gave his father the detailed account of the fire. I glanced at Mr. Taylor's face a few times but was still too mortified to look at him for long. It was hard to tell, from quick peeks, whether he was truly startled by the news or just acting a part.

“Where were you anyway?” Greg thought to ask his dad. “There was no note or anything when I got home.”

“As a matter of fact, I was called into town suddenly. Actually, I was sent on a wild goose chase.”

“What do you mean?”

“I received a phone call from a young lady who told me you'd been hurt at work and were being taken to the hospital.” He paused, considering. “Obviously it was a ploy to get me out of the house. Now that I
think about it more, she may have been trying to disguise her voice.”

Mr. Taylor turned then and stared at me. Surely he didn't think I had made the call! It looked very much as if he did.

“Why would anyone do that?” Greg asked, missing the look his father had given me.

“Perhaps the caller wanted to make sure I was gone so she could set the fire. Or perhaps she had something else in mind, and the fire was a coincidence. Why don't you ask your friend here what she was doing when I came into the room?”

“What
were
you doing, Shelby?”

I couldn't find my voice to answer him, so his father did.

“The truth is, son, this
friend
of yours was snooping through our family scrapbooks.”

Greg looked shocked, and I couldn't help but wonder, even in my embarrassment, if it was because he was afraid of what I'd seen.

Culprit Found. Greg Taylor...;

“Now, Miss Belgarden, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with me.”

“What are you going to do to me?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“I think you already know that, Shelby. You've really left me with no choice.”

As soon as he said that, I knew Mr. Taylor had figured out that I knew Greg was the one setting fires. He was going to have to silence me to protect his son.

The scene I'd imagined only days before came rushing back at me, only it didn't seem so exciting any more. My stomach twisted in knots and a cold shudder ran through me.

There was only one thing I could do. I lifted my chin and tried to keep my voice from shaking.

“Wait! I know that you want to protect Greg, but I have it all written down. And I have evidence that proves it. If anything happens to me, you'll both be arrested.”

A stunned silence greeted my announcement, which gave me a little more courage. I swallowed hard and braced myself to make a run for it if either of them came any closer to me.

“What evidence are you talking about?” Mr. Taylor finally asked. He looked perplexed. I guess he hadn't figured on me having any actual proof.

“The missing mitten,” I said triumphantly. “I found it.”

“And this, uh, mitten, proves something, does it?”

“Well, of course it does. It proves that Greg is the one who's been setting all the fires around here.”

“
I've been setting fires
?” Greg sounded truly astonished, but I wasn't about to let that fool me. “That's ridiculous.”

“Is it? Well then, explain why your mitten was
beside the Lawfords' garage when it burned down.”

“I don't know. I don't even know who the Lawfords are! I lost the mitt when I was walking around after work one night.”

“Oh, really? Then explain why it was covered in gasoline!”

Greg stared at me as though I had suddenly grown an extra head.

“Well, I guess it would have
gas
on it because I work at a
gas
station, pumping
gas
.”

It did sound reasonable, but I wasn't in the least persuaded. There were too many things pointing to his guilt, not the least of which was Mr. Taylor's threat only moments before.

“If you're so innocent then, why was your father just about to take me somewhere and kill me?”

“Kill you?” Mr. Taylor sputtered. “Kill you? Heavens to Murgatroid! Where would you get such an idea?”

“Well, you said...;,” my voice trailed off and I stood helplessly as they looked at each other incredulously. Then I realized that he hadn't actually said he was going to kill me. I tried to remember his exact words, but everything was getting jumbled.

“All I
said
was that you were to come with me. I felt that I had no choice but to take you home after I found you trespassing so rudely on our privacy.”

I could hardly get my thoughts straight. Then I remembered the newspaper article.

“What about the clipping in the scrapbook, the one that says ‘Culprit Found'?”

“What about it?”

“I only saw the beginning, but it started off saying ‘Greg Taylor'.”

Mr. Taylor shook his head, and then he did a most unexpected thing. He began to laugh, and once he got started it seemed he wasn't going to be able to stop. His shoulders shook and tears started down his face.

When he'd calmed himself, Mr. Taylor took the scrapbook out and opened it to the article I'd mentioned. He pointed to the first sentence, and I finally got to read the rest of it.

“Greg Taylor was overcome by tears today as he spoke to news cameras after police announced the arrest of the man responsible for his mother's death.”

If ever I look back on my life and need to identify the moment that I felt like a total idiot, that will be it.

“Oh,” I said in a very small voice.

“You actually thought I was setting fires?” I could sense Greg's eyes on me as he spoke, although mine remained glued to the floor. “That I would do such a thing after my own mother died in a fire?”

“It seemed that, you know, the mitten and...;,” my voice trailed off as I began feeling more and more
foolish. Now my accusation sounded so incredibly flimsy that I could hardly believe I'd been so certain he was guilty.

“But
why
would I do such a thing? Did you ever ask yourself
that
while you were playing detective?”

I didn't even attempt to answer that one. To offer any of the theories I'd had would only serve to add to the humiliation I'd already brought on myself.

“And that's why you were looking at our scrap-books?” Mr. Taylor asked. “Because you thought Greg was involved in the fires in Little River?”

“Yes.” I looked at the floor. “I'm really sorry.”

“What you did was wrong, Shelby,” he said softly, “but at least I can understand your motivation now. I'd thought you were just being nosy. Greg and I have lost a great deal in the last year, but at least we had our privacy. Those books contain things that mean more to us than you can ever imagine. My late wife put most of them together, and their contents were never intended to be pawed through for the sake of curiosity.”

He cleared his throat and continued, “However, now that I know
why
you were looking at them, I can see that you must have felt justified, regardless of how mistaken you were.”

I think that if he'd yelled at me and thrown me out with the admonition to never come back, it would have been easier. Instead, there he was being all understanding
and kind about the whole thing. It made me feel a hundred times worse.

“I think I'd better go,” I finally said in what was barely more than a whisper.

“Now, hold on,” Mr. Taylor motioned me toward a seat in the room, “let's all just sit down and get this thing worked out. There's no need for hard feelings. And let's not forget that you probably saved our house when you put out the fire in the shed.”

I just wanted to leave. At that moment I wanted it more than anything in the world. But I wasn't about to add to my rudeness by refusing, so I sat down.