Clean Burn (11 page)

I propped my feet up on Ken’s desk. “You do still work for me, right?”

“I’ll let you know after I read the comics.” The rustle of newspaper carried over the phone. “Three new clients called. I conducted initial interviews and faxed them the contracts. We can finalize when you get back today.”

“About that,” I said, wincing in advance of Sheri’s likely reaction. “I’ll need another day.”

A few moments of silence ticked away. “Are you making progress?”

I heard the implied question – was there a shred of hope Sheri could dangle out to Mrs Madison. “I’m following leads. Give me contact information on the new clients. I can call them from here.”

I typed the names and numbers into the address book on my computer as she rattled them off. Then I spent another half hour touching base with the two women and one man looking for marital closure. I’d just finished typing in the notes when Ken returned, giving me a sour look when he saw my feet on his desk.

He shoved them off, a twinge shooting up my left leg as it dropped on the floor. “You deserted me last night.” He dragged over the visitor chair and with his thumb directed my butt into it. “What’s that on your shirt?”

I shut my laptop and stuffed it in my bag. “I dropped in at the Hangman’s Tavern last night.”

He squinted at me, obviously not too thrilled I was poking around on my own. “And?”

“Nothing new about Beck other than he unexpectedly didn’t show up for work. But one of the patrons had an interesting story. Sondra. Last name is in my notes.”

Ken settled in his chair and propped his feet up where mine had been. “Bleached blonde, brown eyes?” I nodded. “Sondra Willits. Used to be more of a social drinker before she hooked up with that boyfriend of hers.”

“You remember something about a dumpster fire a few months ago?”

“Vaguely. I think Alex wrote her up.”

“Apparently that same night she saw a kid sitting in a car outside the Hangman’s Tavern.”

His mouth tightened. “A lot of drunks drag their kids along with them.”

“Beck was there that night. I’d like to know if it matches my timeline. Or if Sondra gave a vehicle description when Alex took her report.”

He picked up the phone. “Julie, get me Alex’s report on that dumpster fire at the Hangman’s Tavern. It was about three months ago.”

“Did you call the librarian yet this morning?” I asked.

“Leslie gave me a log file listing all the websites Beck visited. He’s been on both MySpace and Facebook several times. Used a web mail site. The filtering software keeps a record of attempts to access porn sites, but he apparently kept his nose clean there.”

“What about his Facebook and MySpace friends?” I asked.

“I’d need a court order for that.”

Which the librarian should have required before handing over the list of Beck’s internet usage. But this was Greenville. I couldn’t see Leslie the librarian turning down a request from the sheriff. “When was Beck in last?”

“Last time he accessed the library’s internet was a couple of weeks ago. Leslie will keep an eye out for him, let me know if he turns up.”

I changed course. “How about Marty Denning? You know him?”

“New in town, been here about four or five months.”

“You know anything about his arrest record?”

“Domestic violence. He offered that up to me the first time I met him.” He took a swig from his coffee cup, then swallowed it with a grimace. “Denning’s been keeping out of trouble, far as I know. He works over at Arnie’s Automotive.”

“Apparently Marty also did time for arson.” I offered him the arrest report.

He scanned it. “That, he didn’t share with me.”

I shrugged. “It’s worth following up.”

Miss Sweet-as-pie appeared in the door, Alex’s report clutched to her chest. Bad enough I was in the sheriff’s inner sanctum, even worse that an interloper like me would be privy to confidential information.

When she didn’t hand it over, Ken got up and pried the papers from her clenched fingers. “Thanks, Julie.”

She lingered in the door a few moments more, a hopeful look on her face. Ken didn’t even glance her way. Her love was of the unrequited variety, then. She finally gave up, retreating from his office.

Ken scanned the report. “Sondra set that fire on December 29th.”

“That fits the time frame. It could have been Enrique in the car.”

“Or it could have been someone else’s kid.” He paged through. “Sondra mentioned a car to Alex. No real description. Just a dark four-door.”

“I don’t suppose Paul Beck drives a dark four-door.”

“Only vehicle I’ve seen him drive is a yellow hatchback.”

Another damn dead end. Since I wasn’t getting anywhere with James and Enrique, I figured I might as well meddle with Ken’s investigation. “You want company when you go talk to Marty?” I asked as I packed up my computer. “He might open up to an incendiary kindred spirit.”

Ken let me precede him from his office. “I’m headed out to have a chat with Lucy Polovko first.”

The name tickled a memory. “Loony Lucy? We used to TP her house on Halloween. She call in a complaint about kids vandalizing her place?”

“Not this time.” We climbed into the Explorer and Ken started the engine. “Alex has been checking at the local stores for purchases that might raise a red flag.”

“So what did Lucy buy?”

“A half-dozen cans of kerosene. Same as the accelerant on our first two fires.”

Greenville County was something of a multi-tiered society. Those whose homes were in or near town had all the modern conveniences – power from PG&E, county sewer lines, water provided by the irrigation district, landline telephones and trash pickup. Propane tank on the property if residents preferred it for heating and cooking. They tended to be county employees or would commute down to Sac for work. Ken and Markowitz fell into that category.

A little farther out, power and phone were still in place, but folks dug wells for water and installed septic tanks for sewer needs. They toted their trash to the dump. A few kept generators on hand in the event power went belly up in the winter. They worked out of their homes, or owned their own businesses. My childhood home fit that niche, although our phone was dicey due to occasional non-payment.

Those hardy souls who were even more isolated dropped off the power grid. There might be one or two high-tech types among them who used solar, but for the most part, they relied on daylight, lanterns and candles for illumination, generators for the few electrically powered appliances they possessed. No landlines, few cell towers. If trash got hauled at all, it might end up dumped on someone else’s property. No visible means of employment. Visits to town far and few between. That was Lucy Polovko’s world.

Back in my day, we just called her crazy. Now, a psychiatrist would probably diagnose her as schizophrenic with some obsessive compulsive disorder thrown in for good measure. Considering the neuroses I’d collected over the years, I was more inclined to give Lucy a pass than I had as a heartless adolescent.

We passed the back of beyond long before we reached Lucy’s place. I marveled at the fortitude of myself and my cohorts in crime, driving all the way out here on Saturday nights just to antagonize the local madwoman.

Just as they had at my father’s cabin, blackberries had nearly overwhelmed three sides of Lucy’s one-story frame house. She’d kept the front clear, using the space for mountains of newspapers and magazines, barrels full of crushed aluminum cans, and rusted hoes and shovels that had lost their handles. Her wreck of a pickup truck, more Bondo than white paint, was parked off to one side in a carport of berry vines.

Cats were everywhere – curled up on the piles of paper, asleep on the roof of the house, prowling the blackberries for prey. Most of them were feral, scattering as we climbed from the Ford and started toward the house.

I touched Ken’s arm and pointed to a circle of ash a distance from the house. A burn pile wasn’t remarkable out in the country. With the cooler weather of spring, plenty of folks burned their brush and trash rather than haul it out.

“Has she applied for a burn permit lately?” I asked.

“I’ll check. Although a lot of people don’t bother with a permit.”

“You don’t need six cans of kerosene to burn brush.”

Ken banged on the door. “Miss Polovko? It’s Sheriff Heinz.”

No answer. Ken pounded again. “Miss Polovko! I need to talk to you.”

I pressed my ear to the door to listen. Nothing from inside. “Truck’s here, so she can’t have gone far.”

I peered inside a window. No curtains, but the overhang of the porch shaded the interior.

Ken moved to the other window, aiming a flashlight through the glass. “Can you see anything?”

“Just more of the same. Junk to the rafters. And cats.”

I angled myself to one side, allowing a faint beam of sunlight to penetrate the glass. “That might be the kerosene.” I stepped aside to let Ken have a look.

“Looks like three cans.” He strafed the interior with his flashlight. “Where’s the rest?”

“What are you doing here?”

The imperious demand nearly sent me jumping out of my skin. Lucy Polovko bore down on us from the side of the house, long gray hair unbound and wild, shapeless dress faded from years of use. The top of her head barely came to Ken’s chest, but her steps didn’t slow as she confronted him. “Who are you? You don’t belong here.”

“It’s Sheriff Heinz, Lucy. Remember, I came out when the Carter boys egged your house?”

She glared up at him. “Did Baba Yaga send you here?”

“I just had a few questions.”

“She flew through here last night in her mortar.” Hunching, she scanned the sky. “She wants to eat my bones.”

Ken glanced over at me, exasperation clear in his face. “Lucy.” He put a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. “You bought some kerosene at the SaveMart last week.”

She shrugged off his hand, but lucidity flickered in her rheumy gaze. “For my generator. Person’s got a right to run a generator.”

“Can you show it to me?” Ken asked.

She sidled around him and opened the front door. The reek of cat urine wafted out. I took a breath of clean air before following Ken inside.

Lucy led us along a narrow corridor between ceiling-high piles of boxes, trash cans full of empty cat food cans and miscellaneous household appliances that must have worked at one time. An extension cord ran along the floor. Cats swarmed the interior, plates of kibble interspersed amongst the rubble. Passageways led to the kitchen and what might be the bedrooms, more extension cords snaking out of them. The place was a damn fire trap.

I spotted a door opposite the kitchen, crap piled high against it and blocking access. “Where does that lead?” I asked.

“Basement,” Lucy said.

Which would no doubt hold more of the same. She might have started stashing stuff there, then after she ran out of room in the basement, moved on to the rest of the house.

We reached the back door and stepped out into a blackberry cave. A generator sat a few feet from the house, three cans of kerosene and a can of gasoline beside it.

Ken hefted the three cans of kerosene in turn. “These two are full. This one’s nearly empty.”

“It’s in the tank,” Lucy said.

Ken looked over the generator, started it up. Surprisingly, considering the state of everything else in and around Lucy’s house, it kicked on without a hitch.

Lucy bristled. “You’re wasting my kerosene.”

Ken shut it off. “You shouldn’t be storing flammables in the house, Lucy.”

“Have to keep it safe from Baba Yaga. If she gets it, she’ll set my bones on fire.”

The air left my lungs. “Who’s Baba Yaga?”

“The witch,” Lucy said, her tone calm and sane. “Her house walks through here on chicken legs. She puts the skulls of her enemies on her picket fence.”

“Do you set fires to keep Baba Yaga away?” I asked.

Lucy shook her head vigorously. “Waste of time. Baba Yaga loves fire.” Her eyes grew wild. “She would dance while I burned.”

That little romp through the mad landscape of Lucy’s brain put an end to the interrogation. As if she realized she’d revealed too much, Lucy suddenly clammed up, refusing to answer any more of Ken’s questions.

We threaded our way back through the house, Lucy shutting the door on us the moment we stepped outside. I could see her in her living room, spying on us through the dirty glass.

Ken stopped at the old Chevy truck and looked through the open window at the dash. He scribbled something on his notepad.

“Taking the odometer reading?” I asked.

“Just in case.” He tucked away the notepad and we climbed into the Explorer.

“What do you think?” I asked as we pulled out.

“She’s completely unhinged, but we already knew that. She seems to be using the kerosene for a legitimate purpose.”

“You’d better get the fire marshal out before she blows herself and those cats to kingdom come.”

“Wasn’t so bad the last time I was here.” He serpentined down the back roads toward the main highway. “How about we check Paul Beck’s place again before we talk to Marty? It’s on the way.”

“Sure.” I didn’t mention I’d just been there the night before. What he didn’t know couldn’t piss him off.

Beck’s mobile home was just as unoccupied as it had been last night, the mailbox just as stuffed with junk mail. We nosed around, front and back as we had the day before with the same results.

I saw a curtain twitch on the rear door of the unit next to Beck’s. The door clattered, then with slow steps an elderly woman rolled her walker out onto the porch. “Mr Beck isn’t home,” she called out.

Ken walked around the shrubbery separating the two units. “Do you know where he is...” He glanced at her mailbox. “...Mrs Bertram?”

The old woman crept a little closer to the porch rail. “He might be off visiting his sister. He’s mentioned her a time or two.”

“Do you know where this sister lives?” Ken asked.

She thought a moment. “I’m afraid not. He might have told me, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

I moved up beside Ken. “Did he say anything about when he’d be back?”