Trial by Fire (10 page)

“But it didn’t turn out that way, huh?”

“Uh-uh. The team had a big debate on whether to accept the money or not. Some people
wanted to take it because it would guarantee that we’d win the prize. Some people
didn’t want it because it came from Mr. Goran. We couldn’t agree, so we voted on
it.”

“And?”

“
I
voted to keep it. So did three other members of the team. Only two people voted
against it.”

“Majority rules.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “But when the grand totals raised by each team were announced,
ours was a hundred dollars short. We came second by nearly fifty dollars.”

“What happened to Mr. Goran’s money?”

Charlie’s expression soured. “A funny thing,” he said. “It vanished. I asked our
team treasurer, who, by the way, was one of the two people who voted against taking
Mr. Goran’s money, but…Once the winner was
announced, nobody on my team cared anymore,
not even the ones who voted with me. But that’s not the whole story.” Shame crept
into his face again. “When I got the donation from Mr. Goran, he was really nice
to me. He invited me in for tea. He asked about my family and told me about his.
He seemed like a good guy. I told people that.” He stared down at the ground. “Anyway,
he offered me a job. He said he needed another pair of hands.” He glanced at me.
“I wanted to take it. He was paying more than I could make at a fast-food place or
working retail. Those are the only places that hire kids. But I had to ask my folks.”

“And they said no?”

“Not exactly.” He crumpled the napkin he’d been holding. “They said it was too bad
the way everyone was acting about Mr. Goran, but if I wanted to take the job, it
was okay with them. They also told me that it might not be easy for me if I did.
My mom grew up here. She was the most worried. She said people here have a certain
way of looking at things and that it’s hard for them to change. Once they made up
their minds that Mr. Goran stole Clyde’s place, they would never accept him. I knew
she didn’t want me to work for him. My dad said I should follow my conscience.”

Again I waited. There were some things that couldn’t be rushed—that
shouldn’t
be
rushed.

“So I didn’t take it,” Charlie said.

“Mr. Goran must have been disappointed.”

He hung his head. “I guess.”

He
guessed
? “What did he say when you told him?”

“I never did.” He refused to look at me. I assumed if he didn’t hear back from me
that he’s figured it out. And I was ashamed, you know? I wanted the job, but I didn’t
take it because I was afraid of what kids would think and how much I’d get hassled.
I didn’t tell anyone besides my parents that he’d offered to hire me. I don’t think
they told anyone either.”

Once again I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say. Charlie knew what
he’d done and what he wished he
had
done. He didn’t need me to tell him.

“The worst thing,” Charlie said, “was that I started avoiding him. Once I saw him
coming down the street and I crossed to the other side. I didn’t think he’d noticed
me. But when I glanced back, he was looking at me. You should have seen the look
on his face. He was so sad, like he thought I was the same as everyone else.” His
eyes were watery. “He was right.”

NINE

We sat in silence.

“Everybody does things they regret, Charlie,” I said finally. “All you can do is
apologize—”

“If I ever get the chance.”

“I bet the next time something like that comes up, you’ll act differently.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced. But he felt so bad about what he’d done that I
knew I was right. Next time, he’d act in a way that made him feel better, not worse.

“You want to talk to my cousin Rick?” he asked.

I’d never even heard of his cousin Rick. “Do I?”

“He’s a member of the volunteer fire department. He responded to the fire at Mr.
Goran’s place. He knows as much as anyone about what happened that night.”

In that case, I definitely wanted to talk to him.

Rick Grenier was in his mid-twenties. He lived in an apartment above a used-book-and-music
store and worked as a garage mechanic. According to Charlie, he had applied to a
firefighter program at community college.

“He wants to get a job with a big-city fire department,” Charlie said.

Rick’s program didn’t start until after Christmas, so in the meantime he was working
and saving as much money as he could. We found him tinkering with an old truck that
had clearly seen better days. He was happy to take a break, especially when Charlie
handed him a frosty soda. He appraised me as he took a gulp.

“You’re that girl,” he said. “You gave a buddy of mine quite a scare when he saw
you lying on the ground. He thought you were dead. So, how can I help you?”

“I want to know about the fire.”

Rick polished off his soda, crumpled the can and tossed it into a recycling bin.
“There’s not much to tell. By the time we got there, we knew we weren’t going to
be able to save the barn. It was too far gone. But his animals—he had a cow and a
couple of goats—were safe in a pasture across the road. Right there, I was suspicious.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was nighttime, and the animals were outside. Plus the owner, Goran, hadn’t called
the fire department. That might make a person think the fire wasn’t meant to be
put out.”

That it had been set intentionally, he meant.

“But Mr. Goran was trapped inside the barn,” I said.

“Yeah, but what was he doing in there in the first place? And how did he get trapped?”

“But you saw he
was
trapped, right?”

“Not at first. When we first got there, we didn’t see anyone. Well, except you. We
were dousing the barn to keep the fire from spreading. Then, as soon as water hit
the barn, someone screamed. I hate to say it, but you know what I thought? I thought
Goran outsmarted himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know about the auction?”

I nodded.

“So you know that there was a lot of resentment against him. Some people didn’t
hesitate to show how they felt. Goran complained a couple of times about intruders.
Twice he caught kids trying to sneak into his barn—once while he was in it. So he
put padlocks on the inside of three of the doors, and he locks those up at night.
He rigged the main door so that if you go in, it closes automatically, locking you
in unless you happen to have a key for it or one of the padlocks, and it gives him
a chance to call the cops.” He shook his head. “The whole rig-up is totally against
the fire code, by the way, and for good reason.”

No wonder I’d had so much trouble with the door.

“He must have forgotten his keys when he saw the fire,” I said.

“Maybe. Or maybe he dropped them when things went wrong, and he panicked.”

He most certainly panicked, I thought.

“Fire is tricky,” Rick said. “A person may think he’s figured out all the angles,
but then the fire gets out of
control. In a barn full of hay and wood and feed, that’s
practically guaranteed to happen. The person panics and runs, maybe he trips—I don’t
know. But the fire is out of control, and the person—Goran, in this case—is too scared
to think straight. He’s lucky to be alive. But I hear it’s still touch and go.”

“How do they know for sure that it’s arson?”

“You mean, how did the fire marshal make that determination? He found the source
of the fire. It was kerosene from one of those old-fashioned lanterns, and—I’m no
expert, I’m just telling you what I heard—it was deliberately smashed right next
to some bales of hay. Right next to it was a flashlight. Plus, there’s been some
talk about him needing money. Apparently he applied for a loan at the bank. Put that
together with what I already told you, and you get arson.”

I couldn’t imagine Mr. Goran lighting a kerosene lamp, certainly not in a wooden
barn, under any circumstances, not even if he needed money for some reason.

“You said kids snuck into his barn. Do you know who?” I asked.

“All I heard was kids.” Rick shook his head. “A lot of people around here don’t like
Goran, even though they never got to know him. That’s one reason I want
to get away
from here. People get so stuck in seeing things one way and thinking if that’s the
way it’s always been, then that’s the way it should stay. It’s like they live in
the past.”

“How does the fire marshal know it was Mr. Goran and not someone else who started
the fire?”

“The fire marshal determines how the fire started, not who started it. The
who
is
up to the cops. You’d have to talk to them.”

“What is that heavenly smell?” Aunt Ginny asked when she walked through the door
that night.

“Just supper,” I called from the kitchen. I opened the oven door to baste what was
inside.

“You didn’t!” Aunt Ginny’s voice was so piercing that I almost dropped my basting
spoon. “You did! Oh my god, those are my favorite!”

Compared to most people, I’m a good cook. Compared to Aunt Ginny, I’m like the chef
of a five-star restaurant. I have many specialties. But Aunt Ginny’s favorite is
the oven-roasted ribs with spiced rice, homemade creamy coleslaw and homemade biscuits
that
George (the drummer in Jimmy’s band) taught me to make. You need the biscuits
to sop up the extra sauce.

“It’ll be ready in twenty minutes, Aunt Ginny. You have time for a shower.”

She was back in the kitchen nineteen minutes later, declaring that she was famished.
I put the food on the table—a heaping plate for her and a smaller serving for myself.
She dug in with gusto.

“That was the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” she declared after a second helping. “I
think I’m going to explode.” She sat back in her chair and smiled contentedly—for
about a minute. “Is there dessert?”

“There’s ice cream.” It had mostly melted on the way home, but it should have firmed
up again in the freezer by now.

“No pie?” Aunt Ginny sounded disappointed.

“Sorry.”

She pouted. “Okay. I’ll have ice cream.”

I scooped a couple of balls into a dish and slid it in front of her.

“Aunt Ginny, did you read the police report on the arson investigation?”

“No. I haven’t been able to get my hands on it. Why?” I cleared the plates while
she ate her dessert.

“Just wondering.”

She put down her spoon—a bad sign. Aunt Ginny may have wished for pie, but she loves
ice cream. “I know you, Riley. I also know when I’m being softened up by your cooking.
Why are you so interested in that report?”

“No special reason.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t believe me. “Spit it out, kiddo.”

I sat down again. “Everyone assumes it was Mr. Goran who started the fire in his
barn.”

Aunt Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“A lot of people around here don’t like him, and at least one of your colleagues
is related to Ted Winters—well, to his wife. Mr. Winters claims that Mr. Goran stole
the farm, and there are a lot of people who believe him.”

“Brian Shears is a patrol officer, not an investigator. He has nothing to do with
the arson investigation.”

“Who handled that? Who decided that Mr. Goran was the perpetrator?”

“It’s Josh’s case.”

“Is Josh related to Ted Winters in any way?”

“Not that I know of. If he was, presumably he wouldn’t be on the case.”

“Presumably?”

“It’s a small town, Riley. Being related shouldn’t make a difference to a good detective.”

“How do you know how good a detective is?”

“By how well he or she does the job—”Aunt Ginny sat back in her chair. “Oh no you
don’t.”

“No I don’t what?”

“I just got here, Riley. They’re nowhere near finished hazing me yet. There’s no
way I’m going to make things any worse right now, which means there’s no way I’m
going to start second-guessing my own boss before I earn his respect and trust. I
worked hard to get this job. Once I get over this initiation period, I’ll be fine.
And if I do a good job here, I’ll be able to move to a larger police service. I don’t
want to mess this up. And I sure don’t want you to mess it up for me.”

“But what if Mr. Goran isn’t the arsonist?”

“It’s not my case, Riley. There’s no way I’m getting involved. Not unless you have
something solid, which you don’t and you are not going to have, ever, because
you’re
not getting involved either.”

“But what if it wasn’t him? It could have been one of his enemies, like Mr. Winters.
He hates Mr. Goran.”

“I said proof, not conjecture. I can’t afford to be seen as a flake or, worse, as
an overly competitive
female who strolls in and right away starts telling everyone
else how to do their job. Understand?”

The make-her-favorite-supper bribe wasn’t working nearly as well as I’d hoped.

“Do you, Riley?”

“Yes.” But I didn’t. I mean, what’s more important—what other people think or the
truth? Personally, I was on truth’s side and didn’t care what other people thought,
especially if it turned out that one or more of them were the real arsonists.