Chasing Fire
Page 87

“No. Why do you say ‘likes fire’?”
Gull pulled off his shirt. “I increased my passing acquaintance with arson after Dolly.”
“Yeah, you study. It’s a thing with you.”
“I like to learn. Anyway,” he continued, dragging off his boots. “Arsonists usually fall into camps. There’s your for-profit—somebody burning property to collect insurance, say, or the torch who lights them up for a fee. That’s not this.”
“You’ve got the torching to cover up another crime. I have a passing acquaintance, too,” she reminded him as he took off his pants. “Murder’s sure as hell another crime.”
“Maybe that’s what it was with Dolly.” Naked, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower. “The accident or on purpose, the panic, the cover-up. But this, coming on top of it, when the first didn’t really work?”
He stepped under the spray, let out a long, relieved groan. “All hail the god of water.”
“Maybe it was a copycat. Somebody wanted to kill Latterly. Brakeman had motive, so did Latterly’s wife if she found out about him and Dolly. One of his congregation who felt outraged and betrayed. And they mirrored Dolly because of the connection. It’s the same motive.”
“Could be.”
She whipped back the shower curtain. “It makes the most sense.”
“In or out, Blondie.” He skimmed those feline eyes down her body. “I’d rather in.”
She whipped the curtain back closed. “The third type doesn’t play out, Gull. The firebug who gets off starting fires, watching them burn. It doesn’t play because of the murders.”
“Maybe he’s getting a twofer.”
“It’s bad enough if it’s to cover the murders. That’s plenty bad enough. What you’re thinking’s worse.”
“I know it. If the vibe I got from the cops is right, it’s something they’re thinking about, too.”
She leaned her hands on the sink, stared at her own reflection. “I don’t want it to be somebody I know.”
“You don’t know everybody, Ro.”
No, she didn’t know everybody, and was suddenly, desperately grateful she knew only a few people who connected with Dolly and Latterly.
But... what if it was one of those few?
“Dolly’s funeral. Where can they have it?” she wondered. “They couldn’t have planned on Mrs. Brakeman’s church, even before this happened.”
“Marg said they’re having the service in the funeral parlor. They don’t expect much of a crowd.”
“God.” She shut her eyes. “I hated her like a hemorrhoid, but that’s just depressing.”
He shut off the water, pulled back the curtain. “You know what you need?” He reached for a towel.
“What do I need? Gee, let me guess.”
“Gutter brain. You need a drive with the top down and an icecream cone.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, you do. We’re third load on the jump list, so we can cruise into town, find ourselves an ice-cream parlor.”
“I happen to know where one is.”
“Perfect. And you look nice. I should take my girl out for ice cream.”
“Cut that out, Gull.”
“Uh-uh.” He wrapped the towel around his waist and, still dripping, grabbed her in for a kiss.
“You’re getting me wet!”
“Sex, sex, sex. Fine, if that’s what you want.”
He managed to chase the blues away, make her laugh as she shoved him back. “I want ice cream.” Since he’d already dampened her shirt, she grabbed his face, kissed him again. “First. Get dressed, big spender. I’ll go check with Ops, make sure we’re clear for a few hours.”
* * *
Photographs of Dolly Brakeman, from birth to death, were grouped together in a smiling display. Pink roses softened with sprigs of baby’s breath flanked them. The coffin, closed, bore a blanket of girlish pink and white mums over polished gloss.
As she’d helped Irene by ordering her choice of flowers, Ella sent pink and white lilies. She noted a couple other floral offerings, and even such a sparse tribute overpowered the tiny room with scent.
Irene, pale and stark-eyed in unrelieved black, sat on the somber burgundy sofa with her sister, a woman Ella knew a little who’d come in from Billings with her husband. The man sat, stiff and grim, on a twin sofa across the narrow room with Leo.
Sacred music played softly through the speakers. No one spoke.
In her life, Ella thought, she’d never seen such a sad testament to a short life, violently ended.
Ella crossed the room, took her friend’s limp hands. “Irene.”
“The flowers look nice.”
“They do.”
“I appreciate you taking care of that for me, Ella.”
“It was no trouble at all.”
Irene’s sister nodded at Ella, then rose to sit with her husband. “The photographs are lovely. You made good choices.”
“Dolly always liked having her picture taken. Even as a baby,” she said as Ella sat down beside her, “she’d look right at the camera. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to bury my girl.”
Saying nothing—what was there to say?—Ella put her arms around Irene.
“I’ve got pictures. All I’ve got’s a lot of pictures. That one there, of Dolly and the baby, is the last one I have. My sister Carrie’s bringing the baby soon. She’s been a help to me, coming up from Billings. She’s bringing Shiloh. I know Shiloh won’t understand or remember, but I thought she should be here.”
“Of course. You know you can call me, anytime, for anything.”
“I don’t know what to do, with her things, with her clothes.”
“I’ll help you with that when you’re ready. There’s Reverend Meece now.”
Irene’s hand clutched at Ella’s. “I don’t know him. It’s good you asked him to come do the service, but—”
“He’s kind, Irene. He’ll be kind to Dolly.”
“Leo didn’t want any preacher. Not after what...” Her eyes welled again. “I can’t think about that now. I’ll go crazy if I think about that now.”