Trial by Fire (5 page)

Aunt Ginny and I had driven through town on our first day here. The place looked
pretty small. My only other visits had been to the hardware store and the hospital
on the outskirts of town. This trip confirmed my first impression. The mostly commercial
main street was exactly twelve blocks long. The side streets had businesses for the
first block and then quickly gave way to churches and houses. According to Aunt Ginny,
more than two-thirds of the people in Moorebridge County lived in more rural areas,
either on farms or in houses spaced out on the highway or
on the roads leading to
and from the other towns—villages, really—in the area.

But for a small place, there were a lot of people on the street, probably because
it was summer and because Moorebridge was on a large lake with long sandy beaches
that attracted tourists. Also, school was out, so there were lots of kids hanging
around with seemingly nothing to do. I smiled as I passed them, but hardly anyone
smiled back. Maybe they were surly locals. Or maybe they were bored city kids on
vacation.

I spotted a supermarket on the main road just west of town and made a note to go
back there later to buy some fruit and veggies. But first I went to the post office,
which was a small counter at the rear of the pharmacy. The clerk said it would take
three days at the most to get the package to IT. I sauntered down the main street
and bought a local newspaper, which I took to a coffee shop—the Sip ’n’ Bite.

The place was packed with people enjoying snacks or beverages and some conversation.
I found a vacant table and sat down, then leafed through the paper for news about
the arson case. There was nothing.

A waitress came over. “What’ll it be, honey?”

“Iced tea, please.”

She frowned as she peered down at me. “Hey, you’re that girl, aren’t you?”

“What girl?”

“The one whose picture was in the paper last week. The girl who called the fire department.”

“My picture was in the paper?”

“Sure.” She tucked her order pad into her apron pocket and strode across the café
to a bulletin board beside the cash register. From where I was sitting, I could see
that it had a section for items for sale and another for upcoming events. News articles
were tacked in one corner. The waitress removed one and brought it back to me.

“See?” She held it out. Sure enough, there was a picture of me from last year, when
I’d figured out where the money from an old robbery was hidden. “It says you got
hurt trying to rescue that Goran fella.”

“He’s our next-door neighbor.”

“Well, he’s lucky it’s you who lives beside him and not a lot of other folks around
here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sharon, order up!” someone barked. My waitress—Sharon, apparently—shouted that
she was coming.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy with your tea,” she said, flashing me a smile.

I read the article while I waited. It was from the local paper, and it didn’t tell
me anything I didn’t already know. Sharon brought my iced tea, took the article from
me and reposted it on the bulletin board. I sat back and sipped my tea. I couldn’t
help overhearing the people around me.

“If he lives, he’ll clear out for sure.” That came from a middle-aged woman at the
next table. Was she talking about Mr. Goran?

“If he lives, that will just get Ted more riled up,” said her companion, another
middle-aged woman.

The first woman caught me listening and fixed me with a stern look. “Can I help you
with something?” Her tone made it clear that helping me was the last thing she intended
to do.

I shook my head and turned back to my newspaper, my cheeks burning. The two women
lowered their voices. I finished my iced tea quickly and took my bill to the cash
register. While I waited for Sharon to appear, I glanced at the bulletin board. All
the newspaper articles that had been tacked up had to do with Mr. Goran. The oldest
one, yellowed and curling at
the corners, was headed
Foreign owner buys Winters farm
at auction.
Another much smaller one was from the weekly crime roundup:
Vandalism
at local farm.
Someone had scrawled under it,
Not enough.
Not enough what? Not enough
vandalism? There were several articles about the fire besides the one with my picture.

“Looks like the fire was big news,” I said when Sharon came out of the kitchen, wiping
her hands on her apron.

“Let’s just say people have an interest.” She took my money. “Don’t let anyone give
you a hard time for what you did. It’s not your fault you live next door.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but another cry of “Order’s up” sent her scurrying
away.

I spotted a florist shop—Carol’s Flowers for All Occasions—on a side street, and
I went inside.

“Can I help you?” A woman in a green apron appeared from the back room in response
to a jingling bell above the door. The rose-shaped pin on her apron bib identified
her as Carol.

“I want some flowers, but I’m not sure what to get.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“It’s for someone in the hospital.”

“Happy occasion? Hopeful occasion? Sad occasion?”

Happy occasion? In a
hospital
?

“Did she just have a baby?” Carol asked, reading my mind. “Or is it someone recovering
from an operation? Or someone who got bad news?”

I wasn’t even sure Mr. Goran was going to know the flowers were there, but I decided
to stay hopeful, because I hoped he was going to be okay. Carol showed me a selection
of bright, long-lasting flowers. After I made my selection, she asked if I wanted
them delivered or if I preferred to take them myself.

“I’ll take them myself.” While she wrapped the flowers, I asked if she knew Mr. Goran.

“The man who burned down his own barn?” She shook her head. “He never came in here.
Are the flowers for him?”

“He’s my next-door neighbor.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding as if I had just answered an important question. “I thought
I recognized you. You’re the girl from the paper. Well, he’s lucky to have you for
a neighbor.”

That was the second time I had heard that today. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head as if she was sorry she had spoken.

“My aunt and I are new in town,” I told her. “Is there something wrong with Mr. Goran?”

“Well…” She glanced around, even though we were alone. “As I said, I don’t know him.
But I guess you could say he hasn’t made himself popular. I’ve lived here for ten
years, and by and large the people are nice. But there are plenty of them who, if
they’d been in your shoes that night, might not have made that call.”

She had to be kidding. “Why not?”

The bell above the door jingled. Two women came in. Carol handed me my flowers and
said she hoped my friend would get better soon.

I put the flowers in my bike’s carrier basket and rode to the hospital, where a nurse
told me that Mr. Goran wasn’t allowed any visitors.

“Can you make sure he gets these?” I asked, holding out my bouquet.

The nurse took them and smelled them. “They’re pretty,” she said. “They’ll look lovely
beside the plant he received.”

“Someone else sent something?” I was glad to hear that. It meant that not everyone
felt the way Carol had been hinting they did.

“Not sent. Dropped off,” the nurse said. “Too bad she didn’t include a card so I
could tell him who they’re from.”

“So he’s awake now?”

“I’m afraid not. His son is in with him now.”

I was glad to hear that too. I left my name so that when the time came, the nurse
could tell Mr. Goran I’d been there.

Before heading home, I stopped by the supermarket I’d spotted on my way into town.
The cashier at the checkout was a flaming redhead (dyed, I think), about my age.
Her name tag read
Ashleigh
.

“You live here in town?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She punched in a code for a container of strawberries. “What about you? Tourist?”

“New kid in town.”

She glanced up from her scanner. “Where from?”

I told her.

“Poor you,” she said. “For being dragged here, I mean. I can’t wait to graduate high
school so I can leave.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

She snorted. “Spoken like someone who wasn’t born here in Tinytown.” She punched
in codes for cantaloupe, grapes and apples. “I guess you’ll be going to Lyle, huh?”

“Lyle?”

“L.S. Murcheson Comprehensive. The high school. The
L
stands for Lyle. He was, like,
the first mayor here or something.”

She rang up my tomatoes, cucumber, peppers and lettuce and told me the grand total.
I dug out the grocery money Aunt Ginny had left me.

“You know, if you want good local veggies, you should try the market on Wednesdays
and Saturdays at the beach.”

“Market?”

“It’s a combination flea market and farmers’ market. Everything there is picked the
same day, and it tastes a lot better than the imported stuff this place stocks. But
don’t tell anyone I said so.” She grinned at me.

“Thanks for the tip.”

“What’s your name?”

“Riley.”

“Riley.” I guess she approved, because she smiled. “There’s a beach party every Saturday
night. The kids around here all go. You interested? I mean, you’re going to have
to meet the local dweebs sooner or later. You might as well get the lay of the land
before school starts. You can come with me. I get off at nine on Saturday.”

“Okay. Sure.” Why not?

“Meet me here.” She grinned and started to ring in another order.

FIVE

The doorbell rang while I was making a salad to go with supper. It was Aram, holding
a basket filled with vegetables.

“These are from my father’s farm,” he said. “To thank you.”

“Thank me? What for?”

“For the flowers. And for calling the fire department the night of the fire.”

Someone must have told him.

“While I was waiting to see my father, I picked up an old newspaper. You were in
it.”

Oh.

“If it hadn’t been for you, he might have died in that barn.”

“I just did what anyone would have done in my place.”

He gave me an odd look but didn’t say anything more about the fire. Instead he said,
“Where would you like me to put this?”

“I can take it.”

He shook his head. “It’s heavy.”

“Okay. You can put it in the kitchen.” I led the way.

He set the basket down on the kitchen counter. “There is so much produce ripening
in the fields and gardens. I don’t know what to do with it. At least this lot won’t
go to waste.”

“What was your father going to do with it?”

“I’ve been looking at what records I can find. As far as I can see, he trucks most
of it into the city. There are farmers’ markets in different locations every day
of the week. But I don’t want to be away every day. I want to be here until I know
if he will recover. Still, I hate the idea of things going to waste. Maybe I’ve spent
too much time in third-world countries.”

“Why don’t you sell some of it at the market in Moorebridge?” I told him what Ashleigh
had told me. “If you want, I can see about getting a table.”

Aram hesitated. “I don’t know anything about selling vegetables. I wouldn’t even
know how much to charge.”

“I can find out for you. And I can see about getting a stall. I can do the selling
too.” It wasn’t as if I had a million other things on my agenda.

“I couldn’t ask you to do so much. You’re still recovering from that night yourself.”

“You don’t have to ask me. I’m volunteering. I want to help. I like your father.”

He flashed a smile that changed his whole face from sour to sweet.

“Okay.”

I rode back into town the next day to make arrangements for the market, but I wasn’t
sure where to start, so I dropped by the local newspaper office. Someone there would
know for sure. The woman behind the counter—she turned out to be the publisher—was
a
great source of information. She told me where to go to reserve a stall (the municipal
building), how much it cost (nothing), and even how much business the typical stall
did (
If it’s a sunny day and your produce is good, you’ll probably sell out by closing,
which is two o’clock
). From there, it was easy. I went to the municipal building
to apply for and receive a stall number and a license to have with me on market day
in case an inspector showed up. I went back to the grocery store to check out how
much their produce was so that I had something to go by when pricing Mr. Goran’s
vegetables. I went to a dollar store and bought price stickers, paper bags and some
markers. Then I headed home. Well, actually, I headed for Mr. Goran’s farm.