Arson Takes a Dare: The Third Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 3) (3 page)

Keeping his hand on her shoulder, Alex turned away from her to stare at the wooded hill at the far end of the trailer park. “Do you know Stanley Blaise?”

Marisa blinked at the unexpected change of subject. She dragged her thoughts away from her brother. “Stanley Blaise? He’s one of our hospital employees, but I don’t really know him.”

“He’s an operating room technician at the hospital. Several years ago, he finished the night shift and headed for home. He was t-boned by another vehicle blocks from the hospital. Stanley regained consciousness and realized he was in Room Seven of the emergency room.”

Despite the sun’s warmth, Marisa shivered. “The ER only uses that room for the worst cases. Patients who are not expected to live, with or without medical intervention, are put in that room.”

“Stanley knew he was on the brink of death. He lost consciousness. While he was out, he had a strange experience. He was in a clearing. Towering trees surrounded him. At his feet, clear water flowed through a creek. Using strategically placed stones, Stanley crossed the water. When he arrived at the far bank, a man turned to face him.

“The man was wearing a long robe and holding a large, open book in his hands. His white hair fell past his shoulders. As his mouth curved into a gentle smile, the lines in his face deepened. ‘Welcome, Stanley.’

“People appeared around the man. Stanley realized they were dead members of his family. Shocked, he approached. They moved to surround him. As they crowded close, Stanley felt a soothing sense of security and happiness.”

“Wow,” breathed Marisa. “Stanley had a near-death experience.”

“Yes. Next, he said his best friend from high school appeared. His friend James died the night of their senior prom. He’d been drinking and driving. James had struggled with alcohol since middle school. He told Stanley the best thing about being dead was the freedom. He was finally free from the compulsion to drink. He found the happiness and comfort in death that had eluded him in life.”

Marisa thought about Stanley’s story. “You think Mosely is happy and at peace now.”

“Yes. I believe Stanley had an unexplainable experience. I also believe Mosely is in a better place. He’s free of his demons.”

“Thank you, Alex. I feel a little better. We’re nearly back to my mom’s place. Let’s finish the work.”

“We’ve come full circle.” He indicated her mother’s trailer.

“Yes, Alex. We’ve come full circle, both literally and metaphorically.”

Alex smiled, his mouth quirking up on one side. “After we finish your brother’s room, let’s go out for dinner.”

“Great idea.” Marisa quickened her pace.

“No strip clubs, though.” Alex laughed and lengthened his stride.

I’m glad he’s not mad at me.
Feeling lighter, Marisa skipped at his side.

* * * * *

Standing in the center of the room, Marisa surveyed the cleaning progress. “The bed’s cleaned off. Let’s pull off the bedding and pop it in the washer. By the time it’s cycle through the washer and dryer, we should have the room finished. We can put on the clean bedding as our finishing touch.”

“Great idea.” Alex strode to the head of the twin bed, and pulled at sheets and blankets.

Marisa tackled the foot of the bed.

They drew off the covers. Marisa gasped. The mattress was stained with a dark red substance. “Is that blood?”

“If it is, then I’d be surprised if the person who lost it walked away from this room under his own power.”

Marisa backed away to the doorway. She leaned out and called, “Mom!”

With the warm October weather, Barbara Adair was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and shorts. The cuffs of the shorts touched her bony knees. Her tiny feet were covered by white socks and fuzzy pink house shoes. Under her short, spiky hair, the same dark brown shade as Marisa’s hair but threaded with gray, her thin, wrinkled face was tear stained and creased with grief. She looked up at her daughter. “Yes, Marisa?”

Marisa pointed a shaking finger at the bed. “What happened, Mom?”

Barbara’s bloodshot green eyes filled with tears. “Your brother tried to kill himself. He cut his wrists with his hunting knife.” Her lips trembled. “The Emergency Medical Technicians couldn’t get a gurney through the trailer. One of them simply threw Mosely over his shoulder and carried him to the ambulance.” She closed her eyes and put her fingers to her trembling mouth.

Marisa slid her arm around her mother’s waist and drew her close. “Was it because of his drinking?”

Barbara shook her head. “It was because of that girl posting terrible things about Mosely on that Phiz Phase website.”

“What girl?” Marisa exchanged a puzzled glance with Alex. “What are you talking about, Mom?”

Barbara slipped out of her daughter’s embrace and walked to the cluttered corner of the room. She moved towering piles of clothes, magazines, and trash, revealing a small desk. She smacked the computer, sending piles of loose papers cascading to the matted brown carpet. “Your brother spent a lot of time online. She was stalking him and writing terrible things about him. His girlfriend Fern broke up with him because of that girl’s lies.”

Marisa was mystified. “Who are you talking about, Mom?”

“Alisa Atkins. You and your brothers went to school with her. Do you remember? She was a beautiful child, with pale skin and masses of gorgeous red hair. Under that pretty exterior, she was rotten through and through.”

Marisa sucked in a startled breath. Her horrified gaze flew to Alex.

He stepped to her side and took her hand.

Marisa sighed, enjoying the heat of Alex’s hand on her freezing one. She tried to tether her teeming emotions to the warmth of his hand. “I remember, Mom. How can I forget her? She led a pack of bloodthirsty bullies. They loved to terrify kids, including me and Mosely.”

Barbara walked to the soiled bed. “Alisa found your brother online, and she stalked him like a predator. She haunted the same chat rooms. She posted on the same forums. Alisa wrote terrible things about him.”

Marisa’s mother rubbed her forehead with nicotine-stained fingers. “Some were true. He had run-ins with the law and problems in his relationships with women.” She looked up. “But Alisa also wrote lies. She said terrible things, like he was a child molester, a racist, and beat up homeless people for fun.”

Marisa shook her head. “Mosely was far from perfect, God knows, but he wouldn’t do those things.”

“Alisa even crafted real-looking news reports, complete with photographs,” the older woman said. “Her friends helped her spread the lies throughout the internet. Mosely posted his protests and even contacted the sites, but nothing changed.”

Barbara choked, tears streaming down her face. She turned her back on the blood-stained mattress. She reached into the pocket of her shorts. She offered the folded paper to Marisa.

Marisa turned the paper over in her hand. “What’s this? And what are the splashes of brown?”

“It’s the suicide note your brother wrote. I found it after the EMTs left. He tried to kill himself because of Alisa. The doctors saved him, and he came home. But I wonder if he deliberately put himself in danger a few months ago. Did he want to be murdered? Did he manipulate events to put himself in the path of a cold-blooded killer?” Barbara buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Marisa released Alex’s hand and put her arms around her mother’s shaking body. “Mom, you’re hurting. We can comfort each other.”

Barbara raised her head and threw her shoulders back. “Comfort, hell.” She turned her ravaged face to Marisa. “We’ll join forces and track down the bitch Alisa. And we’ll make her pay.”

“I’m happy the assisted living center moved everyone to this lovely hotel after the fire instead of leaving us to fend for ourselves. It’s a beautiful building with luxurious furnishings.” Althea Flaxton admired the sunshine gleaming on the waxed wood as she slid her books on the built-in shelves.

“The Hotel Beatrice is reputed to be haunted. If a ghost stalks you in the night, you may not be so thankful.” Clay Napier hefted Althea’s old manual typewriter onto the desk and carefully centered it on the shining mahogany surface.

Althea reached for more books. “After matching wits with murderers, I’m not afraid of ghosts.” She pushed them into place, her emerald engagement ring catching the light. She turned to face her fiancée. 

“I’m sorry the firemen couldn’t douse the flames before everyone’s belongings were destroyed,” Clay said. “I know you were attached to your typewriter.” He pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his handsome face.

“Thank you for scouring the internet and finding one just like it.”
He’s my age and his face is barely lined,
Althea thought.
His body is strong and straight. And he loves me with all of his heart.
She blinked away her unexpected tears.
And I’m turning into a maudlin old woman.
“The center said the repairs will be finished in the next couple of months. Can you imagine if we’d had to rent apartments in the meantime?”

Clay laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “On the application, we’d have to disclose our previous living arrangements. Last spring, we left the Home Away From Home nursing facility after a fire closed it. Then, in the summer, the assisted living center was heavily damaged by bombs, and we had to move. I don’t think prospective landlords would be impressed by our track records.”

“They’d wonder if we’re elderly firebugs or terrorists in deep cover.” Althea shook her head.

Clay sobered, his face rearranged into compassionate lines. “Thea, I’m sorry about your estrangement from Marisa.”

Althea bent over the books to hide her spasm of pain. “I understand her anger. I took the details of her life and used them in my books. I never told her I’m an author. I betrayed her. I’m so sorry.”

Clay drew her upright and into his arms. “You need to tell her, Thea.”

A frantic knock rattled the door and echoed throughout the suite. Althea disentangled herself from Clay and moved to the door. “What on earth?” She dragged the heavy door open.

A mob of people streamed into the suite, laughing and chattering. Althea’s hand flew to her chest. “What’s going on here?”

Clay pushed through the crowd. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

Everyone stopped talking.

“What’s with the invasion?” Clay stared into the startled faces.

An elderly woman danced her way through the crowd. “I rounded up everyone in the hotel. People from the assisted living center, other guests, and the staff. I brought the party here, Clay, so everyone can see my television interview.” She waved a slim silver pointer like a magic wand, grazing several people.

Althea didn’t recognize the intruder. The woman’s body was gaunt under the stylish navy jacket and skirt. The high collar of the white blouse brushed the pointed chin. Short brown curls bounced around the pale, wrinkled face. The dark eyes sparkled with mischief.

Clay’s face cleared. “You’re Berea Kenton.”

The woman laughed happily. “Of course.”

Althea’s brows rose in disbelief. The last time she’d seen Berea Kenton, her short hair had stood up in thin white spikes, a worn pink house dress had covered the bony figure, and her face had been settled in the tragic lines set twenty years ago. “You look different.”

Berea pirouetted. “Like a million bucks?” She chortled, the happy tones echoing. “How about fifty million bucks?”

Althea exchanged a puzzled glance with Clay. She turned to the sea of faces. She sighed in relief when she recognized two former employees of the assisted living center, and before that, the nursing home. “Starla and Flora May. Do you know what’s going on?”

Flora May’s beehive hairdo bobbed in excitement. “Mrs. Kenton won the Kentucky lottery. She won fifty million dollars.” Her large frame jiggled in excitement.

Starla smiled dreamily. “Imagine, Mrs. Kenton’s a millionaire.” She clasped her thin hands in front of her. “It’s so romantic.” She sighed, her long blonde ponytail swaying.

Berea glanced at her wrist and exclaimed. “It’s nearly time for the broadcast.” She pranced her way through the crowd to Althea’s television.

The large screen flickered into life. Berea’s thin fingers eagerly flew over the remote. The sound of a commercial for cat food filled the suite. “I’m up next, everyone.”

The crowd cheered as the image of the happy cat and bowl full of cat kibble faded.

Her long brown hair smooth and her face perfectly made up, the reporter smiled professionally into the camera.

“That’s our hotel behind the reporter.” Althea reached for Clay’s hand.

“We have great news today in the Bluegrass of Kentucky. Mrs. Berea Kenton is the single winner of the fifty million dollar Kentucky lottery jackpot.” The camera angle widened to reveal Berea next to the reporter. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Kenton?”

“Twenty years ago, my daughter was brutally murdered.” Berea was solemn. “Mayla was a twenty-year-old college honor student. She was smart and beautiful, with a wonderful future ahead of her.”

The reporter’s red mouth fell open in surprise. “But—”

“It was Spring Break,” Berea continued, staring into the camera and ignoring the reporter. “Mayla was supposed to go on vacation with her father and me. She called and told us to go on without her. She said she had a stomach bug. A twenty-four hour virus was going around. She said she’d take a day to recover and join us in Florida. As she innocently slept in her own room, an arsonist set fire to the building. Mayla perished.”

The reporter sputtered. “Mrs. Kenton, the viewers want to know how you feel about winning the largest jackpot in Kentucky history.”

On the screen, Berea’s face hardened. “I’ll give the jackpot to the person whose information leads to the arrest and conviction of the murderer.”

The reporter forced a smile. “You heard it here first, folks. I’m Cara Hudson, reporting for WILY news.”

Althea pushed her way through the cheering crowd. “Berea—”

“Hold on, everyone.” Like a maestro in front of the orchestra, Berea raised her silver pointer. “That was filmed earlier today. Here’s an update to the story.”

Appearing more poised, the reporter smiled into the camera. “Berea Kenton has offered her fifty-million-dollar jackpot to the person whose information leads to the arrest and conviction of her daughter’s killer.” The camera angle widened to include the man next to her. “Lieutenant Camden, what can you tell us?”

His youthful face grim, the lieutenant shook his head. His short hair shone in the golden sunshine. His slight figure was covered by a dark suit, the pale blue shirt visible between the lapels. A thin navy tie bisected the shirt. “The case is open and will remain open until we find the killer. During the months before Miss Kenton’s death, an arsonist had targeted vacant homes in the area.”

The reporter interrupted. “Your theory is the arsonist didn’t know Mayla was in the house, correct?”

He nodded. “The previous fires had destroyed empty buildings.”

“Since the fires stopped after Mayla’s death, do you think the arsonist was overcome by a sense of guilt?” The newscaster cocked her head.

The lawman frowned. “Whether Mayla’s death was intentional or not, the outcome was the same. She died.”

The pretty reporter bared her perfect teeth. “Lieutenant, will the fabulous reward goad the police force into solving this murder?”

“That reporter is worse than Parvis Stidham.” Althea kept her voice low.

“As an online investigative reporter, Parvis digs up the most titillating aspects of the story. He doesn’t necessarily care about the newsworthiness of the information.” Clay whispered. “He also went out of his way to hurt Marisa after their personal relationship fizzled. That woman is attacking Lieutenant Camden by putting the worst possible spin on the reward.”

The lawman stared directly into the camera. “The Grayhampton Police Department revisits cold cases on a regular basis. Coincidentally, this case is on our radar. I personally spoke with Mrs. Kenton about her daughter’s death this past summer.”

The reporter’s red lips tightened in disappointment.

The lieutenant’s face took on a feral cast and his mouth thinned. “As with any case, active or cold, we’ll do our best to solve it, reward or no reward.”

Clay touched Althea’s shoulder. “Parvis Stidham found out about your secret writing career and your use of Marisa’s life in your stories. He used the information to hurt Marisa and you,” he whispered. 

Berea aimed the remote at the television, and powered it off. Her face was lit by fanatic fervor, her eyes glowing coals in her flushed face, “I’ve offered up a fortune as a reward. The case will finally be solved. Althea, I want you to write Mayla’s story. I know it will take time for you to capture all of the details of her life. By the time you finish, the killer will be in custody.”

“Berea, I’m a novelist, not a true-crime writer. I can’t help you.” Althea opened the door. “I’m happy for your great luck. However, I’m really very busy unpacking. Berea, please take your—entourage—back to your own suite.”

“I wouldn’t ask if you if I didn’t think you’d do a great job, Althea. It’s not as if we’re close friends.” As Berea leaned into Althea’s personal space, silence fell in the suite. “With your triangular face, you remind me of a small, finicky cat. The fine wrinkles in your face are like whiskers, or thin stripes. You walk among the rest of us as if you’re afraid you’ll get the pink pads on your paws dirty, with your little feline nose up in the air.”

Clay angled his body between the two women. “Berea, please—”

She bopped him on the shoulder with her silver pointer. “And you, Clay Napier. You’re so handsome, with your cleft chin and strong jaw line. You sport a few artistic lines from your angled cheekbones to your willful nose. You look like what you are… a retired secret agent.”

Althea gasped. “Berea, you’ve gone too far. I must insist you apologize to Mr. Napier this instant.”

Clay took Berea’s arm. “My dear Mrs. Kenton, please allow me to escort you back to your suite.”

“Do you two ever listen to yourselves when you’re talking?” Mrs. Kenton’s voice rose. “Althea, you always sound as if you have a stick up your ass. ‘I must insist you apologize.’ And Clay, you’re as bad as your lover. ‘Please allow me to escort you.’ Separately, you each come off as pretentious. Together, there’s a synergy effect. The pompous whole is greater than the sum of the arrogant parts.”

“Mrs. Kenton, I must insist you leave.” Clay tried to tug Berea to the door. 

“‘I must insist.’ Classic.” Like an emaciated mule, she metaphorically dug her heels in and laid her ears back. “Clay, there are whispers that you killed one of your former colleagues at the nursing home. His death was conveniently blamed on a nurse at the nursing home, an angel of death who killed patients to put them out of their misery.”

Clay hauled Berea toward the door.

The old woman’s face hardened as she tried to slap Althea with her pointer and missed. She retracted the pointer and slipped it in her pocket. “Althea, according to Parvis Stidham’s online investigative reports, you based many of your books on Marisa Adair’s life. You wrote about her terrible childhood with an alcoholic father and school bullies. You also took her private struggles with alcoholism and made them public in your books.”

“Time to go, Berea.” Clay propelled the recalcitrant Berea to the open door, leaving furrows from her shoes in the thick carpet in her wake.

Berea grasped the doorframe like a cat who didn’t want to go outside. “You gambled your relationship with Marisa to further your own career, and you lost. Why would you turn down the opportunity to legitimately use someone’s life?” She slapped at Clay’s insistent hands. “Do you get some sort of perverse satisfaction from stealing a person’s life for your books?”

“That’s enough.” Clay pried Berea’s fingers from the wooden doorframe and shoved her into the hall. “It’s time for everyone to leave.” Under his authoritative shooing, people flowed into the hall.

As the happy sounds of the excited crowd faded, only Clay, Althea, Flora May, and Starla remained in the suite.

Flora May shook her head, sending her high beehive of hair into a drunken tilt. “Last spring at the nursing home, Mrs. Kenton was confused. The only thing that kept her upright in her wheelchair was the seatbelts. She haunted the nursing home halls like a smelly ghost—”

“Ghosts don’t leave trails of urine in their wake, Flora May.” Starla wrinkled her tiny nose like a rabbit. “Remember that bedraggled doll Mrs. Kenton kept clutched to her bosom like a baby?”

Althea opened her mouth. Clay squeezed her arm. She closed it.

“The nutty old bat called the doll ‘Mayla’.”

“Flora May, you can’t refer to Mrs. Kenton as either nutty or a bat.” Starla admonished her friend. “Anyway, the newspapers jumped on the story like starved ducks on an innocent, doomed June bug. Mayla’s picture was everywhere for months.”