Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (31 page)

Fredric stood fully and turned so Jordan's hand would fall from his arm. “Nope, this is your party. I just wanted to toast your success.”

Jordan shrugged. “I just wanted to buy Susanna's cousin's friend a drink.”

Fredric touched Jordan's shoulder. “It's the intention that counts. Congratulations.” He followed Thor to the bar, paid, said good night.

Thor handed him a couple of business cards. “Two good salmon charters.”

“Thanks.” Fredric took them and headed for the door. Nearly there, he turned to the table. “G'night, everybody.”

“Noel!” Kyra, pajama-clad and barefooted, rushed down the stairs, S&W revolver in hand. “What's happening?!”

“I don't know. Asleep in the kitchen, huge noise—”

“In your room?”

“Open, or close the smoke in there—?”

“Quick. Water, whatever buckets, the dishpan—”

They ran to the kitchen, found three mixing bowls, the compost bucket, dishpan. Turned on the water. So slow. So slow.

Noel to the bathroom, remembering a metal wastebasket, yes! Set it in the bathtub, turned both faucets, more water, faster—come on! He grabbed a towel and soaked it, wastebasket full; he grabbed it, fumbled off the faucets, pushed the bedroom door open, towel over his face. Smoke roiled out, he leapt aside, then into the bedroom!

Curtains and bedding, burning. Large patches of smoke. He tossed his load of water at the flaming bed and instantly noted it was raining from the ceiling. Kyra now behind him with a mixing bowl in each hand, water onto the curtains. Noel back to the bathroom, wiping his face with the towel and draping it over his shoulders, refilling the waste basket and Kyra's compost bucket. Now the mixing bowls, back and forth. Fill, throw, everything dripping. His container spilled puddles as he ran down the hall, Kyra lunging toward him, back to the bedroom. She had swung open a window and the smoke was thinning as it got sucked out into the night. And the rain continued—a sprinkler system! He poured water onto a smoldering stuffed chair and looked around. More water into his open suitcase, his extra T-shirt, socks and jockey shorts charred. Little local flame centers and he poured water on half of them, beat at the others with his wet towel till they were out.

He stepped back and surveyed the damage, water still sprinkling from the ceiling. Whatever genius had installed the ceiling sprinklers saved the house—however the fire had started, it hadn't gotten hot enough to spread to the wood or the walls. The mattress and bedding were gone, and the curtains.

Kyra came back with more water and glanced about. “How the hell did this start?”

“Dunno—I was asleep in the kitchen—”

“Good thing or you might've got burned—”

“But how? Spontaneous combustion?”

“Ha ha.” She walked over to the window. “I remember I saw this.”

“What?”

“When I shoved open the window, I thought there was a hole in it. Yep,” she touched a shard of glass, “someone must have thrown in whatever started the fire.”

“The noise I heard. Not an empty threat, then.” He stared at her. “I can't believe it. Somebody attacking us—?”

“Looks that way.”

He sighed. “Call the fire department, the Sheriff.” He stared into his sodden suitcase. “Guess I need some new underwear.” A thought occurred to him and he stepped quickly over to the closet, opened it, and let out a sigh of relief. On hangers, an extra pair of slacks and a shirt, his jacket, runners. “Good thing I'm so neat.” He sniffed at them. “They'll air out.” He opened his suitcase. “Oh, damn!” He pulled out the sodden underwear. Beneath it, his cell phone. He turned it on, waited. Yes, a signal. More relief. “You have the Sheriff's business card?”

“Slow down. You're bouncing all over the place.”

“I am?” He shrugged his shoulders in small exaggerated lurches. “Yeah, maybe. I could've been in the room, you know.” More shrugging. “I think maybe that vodka-tonic saved my life. If I hadn't fallen asleep out there . . .” He shoved the phone into his pocket.

“I'll go find that card.” Kyra went up to her room.

Noel evaluated the bedroom again. Probably he should just get out of here, not contaminate the crime scene. Except all that water had done it already. Well, leave it to the Sheriff. Back to the kitchen. On the table, incongruously, Kyra's pistol. He picked up his tipped glass, then tore off some paper towels to dry the spilled drink.

Kyra back down the stairs, changed from pajamas to jeans and a blouse, was already talking on her phone. “Okay,” she said, and closed it up. “He'll be here soon. We should stay out of your bedroom.”

“Right.” He sat at the table behind his still-open computer and tapped the space bar. What had he been reading about? Didn't matter. Now the important issue was, what would they tell Coltrane about the phone threat? Probably the truth. And about the case they'd finished working on? That'd bring in Peter, and Jordan Beck. Or tell him nothing about their work? Which would create the same difficulties for Coltrane as Larry had, tying the hands of the investigators. Or the same as Peter had for them. He said this to Kyra.

“A quandary.” She clicked her tongue.

But Noel had already decided. “No, we better tell him. Especially since we concluded that Beck didn't plagiarize.”

“Fine by me.” She thought about it and let out a giggle. “I'm just trying to imagine the Sheriff's reaction. It does sound absurd, a threat and a firebomb to drive us away from a case of academic plagiarism.”

“Oh god, Kyra!” Noel stood up quickly. “We have to tell Peter about this; he's responsible for the house.” He called, glanced at the time. 12:35. Peter answered. “Hi, it's Noel and I know it's late and . . . Oh, glad you weren't asleep. Listen, there's been a fire here . . .” He explained it all. Peter would be right over. He closed his phone and then his computer. No need to tell the world about the complex materials he'd been reading.

Sheriff Coltrane arrived first, followed minutes later by the Undersheriff, Charlie Taunton, nearly bald, short, bushy eyebrows, handlebar mustache, solid shoulders, wearing a black T-shirt, white jeans and sandals without socks. A fireplug of a man. “Charlie, you better take a look at the bedroom.”

“You want me to hear out these two first?”

“I'll do that. Just get a good sense of the room and the fire. Look carefully for any piece of an incendiary device.”

“Gotcha.” Taunton headed off for the bedroom. To Noel, his
Gotcha
sounded like,
Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs.

Coltrane said to Noel and Kyra, “What can you tell me?”

Noel explained: he'd been asleep at the kitchen table, the explosion—

Sheriff Coltrane said, “Hold on, step back a minute. Now, before you fell asleep, did anything seem strange or different to you?”

Sure, a Dream Visualizer. “Like what?”

“You hear or see anything unusual?”

Noel thought. “No.”

“Any sense of how long you were asleep at the table?”

He'd looked at his watch: quarter to twelve. He'd called Peter at 12:35. Maybe fifteen minutes to get the fire out? “Maybe half an hour.”

“You, Kyra? Anything strange?”

She shook her head. “I was out five minutes after I went upstairs, around 10:30.”

“Okay.” Turning back to Noel: “So you woke up and heard the explosion?”

“No. I think the explosion woke me.” He elaborated his and Kyra's actions.

A loud knock on the door, then it swung inward and Peter Langley stepped through. He strode toward them. “Noel—thank god you're okay.”

“We're fine, Peter.”

“I should've taken you more seriously. It's maybe my fault that this happened.”

Sheriff Coltrane said, “Who are you and what's your fault?”

“Oh, sorry. Peter Langley—I teach at Morsely. I'm responsible for Noel's and Kyra's presence; I hired them for an investigation, and I—”

“Wait a minute. You hired these two?”

“Yes, and then they were threatened with harm if they didn't stop poking around.”

Coltrane shifted his gaze from Noel to Kyra. “You were threatened? You get lots of threats?”

Noel caught Kyra's eye. “No,” she said, “we don't get threats.”

“So wasn't getting a threat in fact strange or different?”

“You were talking about just before the explosion,” Noel said.

“Who threatened you?”

“A voice on the telephone.”

“Saying what?”

“To get off the case. Leave the island or someone I care for gets hurt.”

“The case Professor Langley hired you to look into?”

“Yes,” said Kyra.

“What's the case about?”

Noel looked at Peter, who said to Coltrane, “Can this remain confidential?”

“Depends what
this
is.”

“A sensitive case in the English Department. Which is now no longer an issue.”

“I suppose if it's not an issue, there's no reason to broadcast it.”

Peter described his concern that a student had plagiarized a thesis. “But Noel and Kyra convinced me he likely hadn't, and I've just talked to him this evening, and now I'm certain he didn't. And—Oh, damn!”

“What?” Kyra and Coltrane simultaneously.

“Maybe someone started the fire because they thought you were still on the case because of my conversation with—the student. Noel, I'm sorry—”

“Hang on.” The Sheriff held up both hands, palms toward Peter. “Let's take things one at a time. Noel, when did the threatening call come in?”

“Mid afternoon, maybe 3:00 or 3:30.”

“And Professor Langley, when did you speak to the student?”

“Around midnight. We met accidentally at Thor's.”

“How long you talk for?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes.”

“So the student was with you at the time of the fire. And unless you saw him tell someone right then to attack Mr. Franklin—”

“You're right. Thank you.”

The Undersheriff stuck his head out of the burned bedroom. “Marc, you wanna take a look at this.”

The Sheriff stood up. “Don't go way, I'll be right back.” He headed for the bedroom.

“So,” Noel said to Peter, “what made you so convinced Beck didn't plagiarize?”

Peter explained about the woman friend who'd served as editor. “And here's a small world for you—she's Larry Rossini's daughter.”

“Ah,” said Noel, and Kyra, “Oh.” They both noted the Undersheriff head out the front door.

“Actually, Beck's worried about her. He'd been in regular touch with her for the last few months, till about three weeks ago. Hasn't been able to contact her, doesn't know where she's gone to. I said I'd go with him tomorrow to speak with Larry.”

Three quick thoughts in Kyra's mind: inevitable that someone would find Susanna's absence strange; Beck should be kept out of this; use this concern about Susanna to convince Rossini to let Kyra and Noel investigate more openly.

A quick major thought came to Noel: connect the dots! Only an investigation into a crime as large as kidnapping was worth making threats about and throwing a firebomb into a house. But that had happened before they took on the case. It made no sense.

Kyra said, “Listen, Peter. If you want to help assuage Beck's disquiet about Susanna, keep him out of it. Go talk to Larry by yourself. No, we'll go with you.”

Peter wrinkled his brow. “Well, uhm, sure. But why not bring Jordan?”

“Might upset Larry.”

“By doing what?”

“Peter,” Noel came in, “you'll have to trust us on this.”

“But I don't understand—”

The Sheriff returned. “What don't you understand?”

Peter shook his head. “Not important.”

Coltrane looked at them, then shrugged. “We're going to cordon off that bedroom.”