Murder Hooks a Mermaid (19 page)

I’d been angry when I went upstairs because of my phone conversation with Peter. And before talking to Peter, I’d sent Julie home early. No, before talking to Peter I’d checked the locks and set the alarm. I remembered looking at the two green lights just before the phone rang.

Confident I wouldn’t meet anyone at the bottom of the stairs, I ran down the rest of the flight. I glanced in the direction of the alarm control box. Two green lights, exactly as I’d left it. It was set and hadn’t been tripped.

That left two problems: a squawking parrot and a screaming car alarm. The car alarm could wait. The few neighbors who could hear it would just have to understand.

Setting the baseball bat on the counter, I flipped on the light switch and ran across the shop to Bluebeard. He huddled in the back of his cage, clearly distressed.

At the sight of me he came to the front of the cage, but didn’t come out. There was a flash of recognition in his
eyes, and an almost-human intelligence, followed by a single, clear word.

“Fire.”

I looked around the shop. I had both smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, and I’d just changed the batteries on both. Just like the alarm controls, unblinking green lights assured me there was no problem in the shop.

“Fire,” Bluebeard repeated. His fear and panic receded, but his insistence increased. “Nasty pirates. Fire!”

The car alarm continued its rhythmic blaring, and my brain finally cleared enough to assemble the pieces.

Car. Alarm. Fire.

I ran for the back door. Leaving the baseball bat where I’d set it down, I wrenched a fire extinguisher off the wall of the storage area before I opened the door.

Fire boiled in the interior of the Civic. Glass was gone from the windows on the driver’s side. Flames licked the empty window frames and curled around the edges toward the roof.

I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and unhooked the nozzle. I didn’t want to get too close, but I needed to aim at the base of the flames, as I’d been taught.

I moved a step closer. Heat pushed at me like a giant hand, holding me back. I heard the windows on the far side shatter from the heat, thankful I was out of the path of the flying glass.

A couple loud pops came from inside the car. Something exploding, but I didn’t stop to wonder what.

I squeezed the trigger and tried to direct the cloud of chemicals through the window to the source of the flame.

Black smoke was starting to pour from the broken windows, making it difficult to aim the chemical flow.

Not that it mattered. The extinguisher emptied in a matter of seconds, the contents completely inadequate against the growing flames.

I moved back, driven away by the heat and flames. The phone in my pocket bumped against my leg, reminding me it was there.

I dropped the extinguisher, fished out the phone, hit the emergency call button, and waited for the 911 dispatcher to answer.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“My car’s on fire!”

“What is your location?” The dispatcher’s voice was calm, as though she got these kinds of calls every day. Which she probably did.

I wasn’t quite as calm. “Southern Treasures!” I shouted.

“Do you have the address, ma’am?” the unflappable voice asked.

I babbled for a few seconds, then blurted out the street number.

“I’ve dispatched the fire department,” she replied. “Can you tell me about the fire?”

The sound of breaking glass came from the far side of the car as another window shattered.

“It’s inside the car,” I said. “In the passenger part. Some of the windows were already broken when I found it, and another one just broke. There’s a lot of smoke. Really dark, black smoke.”

“All right,” she said. “Is there anything close to the fire? Anything it might spread to?”

I whipped my head around, looking to see what was close to the car. The trash cans were a few feet from the front bumper, against the wall of the building, but the heat was too intense. I wouldn’t be able to move them.

“It’s close to the building, and the trash cans are next to it, but I don’t think I can get close enough to move them.”

“Don’t try to,” she said. “I just need to tell the crew what to expect. We don’t want you to do anything that might get you hurt. Just wait for the fire crew.”

I nodded, then was struck by the futility of the gesture. “I understand. I’ll wait.”

The dispatcher continued talking, asking me questions that barely registered. I think I answered her, but I had no idea what I said.

The smoke grew darker and denser, billowing out the windows in the glow of the flames and disappearing against the darkness of the night sky. The acrid stench of melting plastic stung my nose and brought tears to my eyes.

After minutes that felt like an eternity, I heard the wail of a siren approaching.

“I hear them,” I told the dispatcher.

The fire truck turned the corner two blocks away, its strobing lights bathing the parked cars in flashes of red and blue.

The siren cut off abruptly as the truck slowed in the middle of the street behind the flaming Civic.

I looked back at the car just in time to see the front tire catch fire, the flames circling the wheel and disappearing behind the fender.

Four men in heavy turnouts and helmets bolted from the truck. One of them grabbed the nozzle of a hose, pulling it toward the car. Another one manned a valve on the truck.

The men called back and forth as they maneuvered the hose into place. At the first man’s signal, the valve opened and water poured onto the flames through the broken-out passenger window.

I heard the hiss of water hitting the flames. Steam billowed out, mixing with the black smoke.

The firefighter played the stream of water over the side of the car, alternating between the front and back windows. The flames fought back, leaping up again as soon as the water stream moved away.

A third man approached the hood and tried to trigger the release, without success. After several tries he took a pry bar to one side of the hood, levering the edge up so his partner could direct the stream of water under the hood.

Steam rolled out from under the hood. The flames retreated from the tires and pulled back from the window frames.

The firefighter continued pouring water into the car from all angles. In the windows. Under the hood. Into the wheel wells. Underneath the car.

The smoke slowed, and steam continued to boil out of the windows, but not as heavily as before.

After several minutes, the flames died down. The water poured into the car from the hose and leaked back out under the doors without turning into steam.

The men visibly relaxed, a signal the fire was under control. The flow to the hose slowed and then stopped.

And I finally got a good look at the destruction the fire had caused.

There wasn’t much left of my Civic.

The tires had melted off the rims. All the windows
were broken. The paint had blackened and bubbled, its original color lost under a layer of ashes and a sheen of oily smoke.

Two of the men began winding up the hose, reeling it back onto the truck, and the other two approached me.

As they drew near, I suddenly became aware I was standing behind my shop barefoot, in my pajamas and robe, with a serious case of bedhead.

I straightened my robe, pulling it close around me and tugging the belt tighter. I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling it back from my face and twisting it into a loose knot at the base of my neck.

The first man wore a helmet that identified him as Clark. I assumed it was his last name. Behind him, the other man’s helmet read “Robinson.”

It took a moment for the name to register.

Robinson.
Jake
Robinson. My neighbor and maybe-kinda boyfriend. And I was standing here in my pajamas.

It made no sense. What was Jake doing in fireman turnouts, helping put out the fire in my car? I had to be mistaken; it must be some other Robinson.

“Are you okay, Glory?” he asked, concerned.

No, it was Jake all right.

“Uh, yeah. I think so,” I replied, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face. “I’m not hurt.”

“This was your car?” Clark asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“As much as I know,” I said. I told him a noise woke me up, I came downstairs and found the burning car. I didn’t mention that the noise was Bluebeard, or that he’d blamed it on the “nasty pirates.”

One, it wouldn’t help figure out why my car caught fire. And two, he wouldn’t believe me.

I might tell Jake later, in private, since he already knew Bluebeard’s secret. Once he explained what he was doing here. But it wasn’t something I wanted to put in the middle of the fire investigation.

Clark asked me a few more questions, but I couldn’t give him any useful answers. He told me a police officer would be by in the morning to take a report, in case I remembered anything else. After about five minutes, he abandoned me and went to check on the two firefighters who were stowing the hoses and packing up their gear.

Once we were alone, Jake moved in protectively. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I said I was,” I snapped. “But what are you doing here? And why are you wearing that getup?”

“This?” Jake waved at the bulky turnouts. The heavily insulated jacket and baggy-looking pants disguised his lean, muscular build. His helmet hung low, completely covering his dark hair. Only his deep blue eyes below the flipped-up face shield were visible.

“Uh, yeah. That.”

Now that the fire was out, I felt a cold predawn breeze swirl against my legs. I shivered and wrapped my arms around me. I tucked my hands inside my sleeves, trying to fend off the chill that ran up my spine.

“I’m not so sure you’re okay,” Jake said. “I think we need to get you inside where it’s warm.”

“It was quite warm out here until just a few minutes ago,” I joked, but Jake didn’t see the humor.

To tell the truth, neither did I, but I wasn’t going to give in to the panic that clawed at my throat and roiled my stomach.

Chapter 23

IT TOOK ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES FOR THE FIRE
fighters to clean up and repack all their gear.

Jake insisted I go inside and get out of the cold and wet while they worked. It didn’t take a lot to persuade me.

I checked on Bluebeard and found him in his cage, refusing to come out, even for his favorite shredded-wheat biscuit. He no longer appeared frightened or agitated, but he did seem withdrawn. I decided to let him have some recovery time and went upstairs.

I took an instant shower, letting the hot water warm me and relax the knots in my shoulders, but I didn’t linger. I was back downstairs—this time dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and wearing shoes—before the firefighters finished their work.

I stepped out into my parking area, trying not to look at the blackened wreck that used to be my poor Civic. I carried
a fresh pot of coffee and a stack of disposable cups from the stash in the back of the store.

Clark shook his head, but Jake and the other two—their helmets were labeled “Morris” and “Baker”—gladly accepted the steaming cups.

“I have to ride back to the station and pick up my car,” Jake said between sips, “but I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes to check on you.”

“Really, I’ll be fine,” I protested.

“I’m sure you will,” he answered. “But I’m coming back to check anyway.”

I started to protest, but I saw the determination in his eyes. It wouldn’t do me any good to continue to argue.

“Besides,” he said, sensing my hesitation, “you’re already showered and dressed. You’re not going to get any more sleep tonight, and I thought you might be glad of some company.”

When I didn’t argue, he headed for the fire truck. “Fifteen minutes,” he called back over his shoulder.

I went back inside, locking the door behind me and resetting the alarms. I flipped on one bank of lights, pushing back the darkness in the shop.

I went to check on Bluebeard again and found him sitting in the back corner of his cage, but this time he let me coax him out.

He hopped onto my arm and leaned against my chest with his head tucked under my chin.

I could feel him relax as I stroked his head and fed him bits of shredded-wheat biscuit. I wished I could calm down as easily.

My heart had slowed its racing as the adrenaline drained from my body, but I was still stressed out. Jake was
probably right about me needing company; I was still jumping at every noise, and imagining what might be outside in the dark.

“How did you know about the fire?” I asked Bluebeard, not expecting an answer and not getting one.

Frustration built along with the silence. If he knew something—if Uncle Louis knew something—why didn’t he tell me?

Questions about Uncle Louis ran circles in my brain, providing a distraction from the imagined monsters outside.

At first I had thought there was something holding him here and once we could fix whatever it was he could move on. That was the way it worked in the movies and on television, after all. But now I knew, because he’d told me, that he didn’t want to move on. He wanted to stay in Southern Treasures with me.

I didn’t know why he came back to Keyhole Bay after his stint in the army. Didn’t know why he never married. Didn’t know why he left Peter and me the shop, or why he left me the larger share. Didn’t know why he wanted to hang around.

I wanted to know the whys of Uncle Louis’s life, but even though I accepted that he lived in the shop, I couldn’t get answers from him.

I couldn’t stay still. I started pacing through the shop, Bluebeard riding on my arm as I prowled between the displays. Occasionally I’d spot something out of place and put it back where it belonged. But mostly I paced.

I didn’t, however, go anywhere near the storeroom. I couldn’t bring myself to face the back door or the destruction that lay beyond it.

I started back down the rabbit hole of terrors coming out
of the dark. The image of the smoking remains of the Civic came back to me with an emotional ferocity that hollowed my stomach and made my breath catch.