Trial by Fire (13 page)

Clyde Winters was buried behind a sturdy brick Presbyterian church at the west end
of town, nearly five miles from Ted Winters’s farm. And when I say the end of town,
I mean the very end, past the last of the houses, with nothing around it but fields
and stands of trees—windbreaks, for the most part. If Ted Winters had been at the
cemetery the night of the fire, his truck would have been parked nearby. But would
anyone have seen it way out here? Could anyone confirm where he’d been?

I circled the church and walked into the cemetery, where I wandered among the headstones.
Some of them dated to the time of the town’s settlement over 150 years ago. Among
the older stones were little ones laid flat on the ground, marking the resting places
of babies and small children who never had the chance to grow up. Those stones made
me sad.

“Can I help you?” a voice asked.

A grizzled and sunbaked old man squinted at me from under the brim of a straw hat.
He was holding the handles of a wheelbarrow that contained a rake, a hoe and a shovel.

“I’m looking for Clyde Winters’ grave.”

The man released his grip on the wheelbarrow handles and studied me before answering.
“You’re not one of Clyde’s grandchildren.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then if you don’t mind my asking, what do you want with his grave?”

“I’m new in town,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about Mr. Winters. I live next door
to his old farm.”

“The Carter house.” The old man nodded. “Hank Carter was a good friend of mine. A
good poker player. If he had a tell, I never found it.”

I knew all about tells. The guys in Jimmy’s band and the roadies played poker regularly.
They were always looking for each other’s tells, those little gestures or rituals
that could tip off other players to a person’s hand.

“I didn’t know Alison had sold that house,” the old man said.

“We’re renting it.”

The old man rubbed his chin. “Clyde, now he was a terrible poker player. You could
read his face like you could read a book, not that you’d ever convince him of that.
He thought he had a solid poker face. He never
understood why he lost as often as
he did. Good thing he was a better farmer than he was a card player. His grave’s
in the back, under that big oak.” He nodded at a massive tree in the distance with
strong, broad branches. “All the Winters are buried back there. Have been since the
town was founded. I’m heading back that way. I’ll show you.”

He gripped the wheelbarrow handles, and I fell into step beside him. As we walked,
he told me about some of the local notables who were buried in the cemetery. Most
had been early settlers, and it was interesting to hear about them and how they had
died. A cholera epidemic back in the 1800s had claimed a lot of lives, as had terrible
accidents and childhood diseases easily preventable today. At one time, an alarming
number of women died in childbirth. But that changed as the decades passed.

“Here we are,” he said when we reached the very back of the cemetery. The enormous
oak was surrounded by a small white-picket fence. All the gravestones inside bore
the name Winters. Clyde’s was the largest and newest.

I looked around. There was nothing but field and forest as far as I could see. Both
the church and
road were invisible from here, obstructed by trees, a mausoleum and
some high hedges. There was a gravel road on the other side of the wrought-iron fence
that surrounded the cemetery, and the fence had a gate in it about eleven yards from
the oak tree. There was no lock on the gate.

“Where does that road go?” I asked.

“Up to a concession road. If you go far enough, up to the highway.”

“Do funeral processions come in this way?”

“Processions come in through the front gates. It’s prettier. More dignified. That
gate there is for equipment trucks. People don’t want to see them coming in the
front. Some visitors come in that way too—folks whose loved ones are at rest back
here in the shade.” He looked up at the branches of the majestic tree. “When I go,
I want to be planted under a tree so it’s nice and cool for whoever comes to visit.
Of course, that’s assuming there’s anyone left who will want to come and visit. Me
and Emma, we never did have any kids. So it’s Emma, and then I guess it’s no one.”
He sighed. “Well, I have to get back to work. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Does anyone come to visit Mr. Winters?”

“Sure. His son. His grandson.”

“Do they come often?”

“Often enough, I guess. Ted—that’s the son—is here regular.”

I pretended to study Clyde Winters’ stone. “My grandpa is buried in Texas,” I said.
That was true. “I always visit him on his birthday.” That part wasn’t. I hadn’t been
to Jimmy’s grave since the funeral. All of a sudden I wished I could go there now.
I wished I could talk to him. More than that—my heart ached with missing him.

“Well, I don’t know if Clyde’s son or grandson does that.”

“His birthday was two weeks ago,” I said, reading the stone. Just as Charlie’s cousin
Rick had said, the fire had happened on Clyde Winters’ seventy-fifth birthday. Was
that what had prompted it? Had Ted or Mike or both of them thought about Clyde on
that significant anniversary, nursed their grudge against Mr. Goran and decided to
take action?

“Did you see Mr. Winters here?” I asked the old man. “Or his son Mike?”

“If they were, I don’t suppose I’d know. I’m not back here every day. And Ted, he
has a habit of coming in through that gate there.”

That was interesting. So even if he had been here the night of the fire, it was probable
that no one had seen him come or go or knew how long he’d been here.

If
he had been here.

I was on my way back into town when I passed a park filled with kids. The smaller
ones were doing crafts at picnic tables under the supervision of a couple of camp
counselors. I recognized one of them: Madison. Nearby, boys were kicking around a
soccer ball. Mike and his friends. I was hoping to speed by unnoticed, but Mike saw
me and called to me.

“Yo, new girl, wait up!” He jogged toward me. He was smiling, which is what confused
me. I thought maybe he was going to apologize. I guess I also thought that if he
did, I might get him to talk to me.

I got off my bike and waited.

Mike was smiling broadly when he reached me. That should have tipped me off. Should
have—but didn’t. He stretched out a hand. That confused me. I thought he wanted to
shake and make up. Stupid,
huh? Instead, he pushed me. My bike and I both fell, me
on top of it.

“Hey!” I said.

“You better smarten up and stay away from those…” He used a name that if Jimmy had
ever heard me say it, he would have washed my mouth out with soap. He could be old-school
that way. “Or there’ll be more of that for you.”

“I can have you charged with assault.” My voice shook with rage.

“That guy tried to kill my dad last night. I wish we had capital punishment in this
country. I wish they could give him the needle.”

I struggled to my feet. My knees were skinned. So were the palms of my hands. Mike’s
friends had drifted off the playing field and over to Mike and were now watching
me. The little kids doing crafts at the picnic tables had all turned to see what
the “big kids” were doing. Madison got up from one of the tables and started toward
us too, but the other counselor, who looked older, called her back. Madison swung
around reluctantly and sat down again, but she kept glancing in my direction.

“
If
Aram hurt your dad—and I’m not saying he did—but
if
he did, maybe it’s because
your father burned down his father’s barn and left Aram’s father inside to die.”

“What? What are you talking about? My father didn’t start that fire. And anyway,
it isn’t
his
barn. He stole it. He stole the farm from my grandfather.”

He was so angry he was trembling. It made it hard for me to shake the feeling I’d
had almost since meeting him.

“Were you there that night too, Mike?” I asked. “Did you help your dad? Did the two
of you burn down the barn to teach him a lesson? Were you hoping to scare him away?”

Mike glowered at me. He didn’t answer.

“Fine,” I said.

I bent to pick up my bike. The front fender was dented.

“But just so you know, my aunt is a cop—not a patrol officer, like your uncle, but
a detective. When she reopens this case”—on the day that Satan hands out ice skates
in hell—“she’s going to want to talk to you and your father. So I hope you have a
good alibi.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I was with my friends.”

I glanced at the lineup behind him. A couple of them would have made bad poker players,
just like Mike’s grandfather. They couldn’t hide their surprise.

“Great.” I was looking at them, not Mike, when I spoke. “So when my aunt questions
those friends, that’s what they’ll say, even if it means perjuring themselves, right?”
I zeroed in on the two who’d been caught off guard by Mike’s claim. “So, were you
with Mike that night?”

Mike glanced at them.

“You don’t have to talk to her,” he said. “She’s not a cop. She’s no one.” He spun
around and marched back to the playing field. His friends followed him, some a little
slower than others. The two who had looked surprised glanced back over their shoulders
at me.

TWELVE

According to Aunt Ginny, people aren’t always what they seem. Everybody is hiding
something, big or little. Everybody tells lies, even if they’re little white ones.
Everybody is a potential suspect until they’re eliminated from the list. Every smile
might be hiding black thoughts and even blacker action. Aunt Ginny has what Jimmy
would have called a cynical view of the world.

Jimmy also said that people aren’t always what they seem. But his take was different.
He believed that most people are doing the best they can under circumstances that
other people don’t necessarily
understand. Maybe the person walking down the street
ahead of you has just lost a loved one or got bad news. Maybe the store clerk is
surly because his wife has just left him, or the ill-humored lady who almost hit
your car has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. In other words, you should
be kind to everyone you meet, because everyone is carrying some sort of burden. Why
not be someone who gives them a smile or a kind word, who puts a little sunshine
in their lives? They probably have all the storm clouds they need. No one needs any
more of those. Or, as Jimmy often said,
the world doesn’t need any more horses’ asses
.

I preferred Jimmy’s outlook. I also preferred to trust my own judgment.

There was no way someone who had worked so hard for his farm would intentionally
burn down the barn, especially after what had happened to his father’s farm. It made
no sense to me to think otherwise. It followed logically that someone else must
have done it. I had a couple of motivated suspects. But I was the only person who
didn’t think the arson case was as good as closed and all that remained was to see
if the so-called arsonist lived or died. How was I going
to prove that I was right?
How was I going to turn the finger of blame away from Mr. Goran and point it at the
real culprit?

My head was spinning. I didn’t know where to start.

Jimmy’s voice again:
Start at the beginning
.

Once upon a time there was a fire that was set intentionally.

Who set the fire?

There weren’t many possibilities. I counted two, in three different scenarios—Ted
Winters alone, Mike Winters alone, or Ted and Mike Winters together.

Ted had no real alibi for the night of the fire and didn’t hear what Rick had heard
as soon as he arrived—what I had heard before either of them got there—Mr. Goran
in the barn, hammering and screaming, trying to get out. But Ted Winters couldn’t
tell me anything. He was in the hospital.

Mike Winters might or might not have an alibi and for sure wouldn’t talk to me. Nor
would his friends, although they might talk to the police if they were forced to.
But that wasn’t likely to happen
anytime soon. Who did I know who knew Mike and might
be able to tell me things about him that I didn’t know?