Neighing with Fire: A Mystery (Colleen McCabe Series) (12 page)

“You like them?” Autumn called from a second-floor deck.

“They’re quite good,” Colleen said, taking in the dozen or so statues as she approached the house. “You did all of these?”

“Yep. I’m doing Sonny and Cher for Fawn and Chip. They love ‘I Got You Babe.’ But don’t say anything. It’s a surprise.”

She caught sight of a statue tucked to the side of the house, not yet painted and glazed. The face was familiar, but she had a hard time deciphering what celebrity it would eventually be. Maybe when the artist was finished she’d be able to tell.

“Welcome to my oasis,” Autumn said, holding open the screen door.

She was surprised to discover the interior of Autumn’s modest house looking more like an art gallery than a beach getaway. Recessed lighting shined on eggshell-white walls lined with carefully arranged portraits of music legends, politicians, actors, and poets. The paintings were vibrant, like their subjects, and the splashes of color gave the images an almost wild movement. Underscoring the gallery-like appearance were sparse furnishings—two contemporary floor lamps with white shades, a large teak coffee table surrounded by sleek beige leather chairs, and a simple bamboo rug.

“Too art gallery?” Autumn asked, observing Colleen.

“No,” she said. “It’s nice. Although I don’t feel like I can touch anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If something happens, I can just slap more paint on it,” Autumn said with an easy laugh, and disappeared through a doorway.

Colleen was pleasantly surprised by Fawn’s aunt. Maybe discussing the wedding with the woman wouldn’t be so bad after all. She followed the artist into a room that served as a combined kitchen, dining, and living room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the top of the dunes and ocean. This area was much more like what she had expected: an easel with paints faced the ocean, the dining table was covered in newspaper and modeling clay, and crystals hanging in front of windows sparkled brightly in the breeze.

“Would you like some iced tea?” Autumn asked. “I just made a pitcher.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? I didn’t flavor it with anything exotic.”

She wasn’t sure what Autumn meant by “exotic,” but it did reassure her. “Iced tea sounds great.”

Autumn hummed and poured two glasses.

“You were on TV,” Colleen said, suddenly recognizing Autumn as the artist she saw interviewed the other night as she fell asleep.

“That’s me.”

“I see you like Halloween,” Colleen said, noticing a piece of driftwood decorated with pumpkin, black cat, and ghost ornaments.

“I should have been born then,” she said with a wicked smile.

“Why? Are you a witch?” Colleen asked with a chuckle.

“According to my ex.”

“I’m sorry,” Colleen said, now embarrassed by her comment.

“Don’t be. I’ve been separated almost two years. He was the biggest mistake of my life. Went back to my maiden name. Never confuse jealousy and anger for passion,” she said, and raised her glass for emphasis.

Uncomfortable with the personal nature of their conversation, Colleen took a sip of the iced tea. It was flavored with a hint of mint—and unexpectedly delicious. She guzzled half the glass.

“I heard about the fire,” Autumn said, refilling Colleen’s glass. “Such a shame. That house had lovely views.”

“You’ve been inside?” Colleen asked.

Autumn averted eye contact and crossed to the window. “Speaking of lovely views,” she said, ignoring Colleen’s question, “I was thinking we might have the rehearsal dinner down there.” She pointed to a cozy area between the house and frontal dune.

Colleen noted tension in Autumn’s posture that hadn’t been there seconds ago. Why had her question caused such a reaction? And why had the artist refused to answer it? Had she offended her in some way? Or was it something else? She glanced around the room—now uneasy herself—and noted containers of mineral spirits, linseed oil, and turpentine in a corner by an open window—substances known for their use with paints. But they were also known for their toxic vapors and flammability. She studied Autumn staring out the window. Was it possible Fawn’s aunt was their arsonist? The instant the question popped into her head, she knew it was rash. Just because the woman was in possession of an accelerant or two didn’t mean she was a criminal. Then again, the woman had already admitted to having been at the house on at least one occasion. Stop! she scolded herself. Why are you jumping to conclusions about this woman? Sometimes paint supplies are just paint supplies. You can’t go around suspecting everyone you meet of arson or murder. Besides, the artist hardly fits the usual profile of an arsonist.

Despite knowing it was irrational to suspect the woman simply because she was in possession of art supplies, Colleen couldn’t help herself from pursuing the idea. “Do you paint in the morning?” she asked, trying to appear as if making small talk.

“Sometimes,” Autumn said.

“Is that what you were doing Sunday morning?”

“Actually,” the artist said, facing her, “I was having breakfast with a friend.”

“If you don’t mind my asking … who?” It was rather presumptuous to pose such a personal question to a stranger, but Colleen was willing to risk being rude if it was in service to public safety.

“I’m afraid that’s rather private.”

Why was everyone being so secretive lately? She studied Autumn again with a new theory. The artist was striking, with flowing auburn hair, porcelain skin, and deep blue eyes. Colleen imagined that she had attracted more than a few admirers. Perhaps she was with a man and, given the pending nature of her divorce, didn’t want anyone to know.

“Is something wrong?” Autumn asked.

Colleen’s cheeks flushed pink, realizing she had been staring at the woman. “I don’t mean to pry. I know we’ve just met, but would you mind telling me how you know about the inside of the house? It’s important.”

Autumn relaxed. “Fawn was right about your aura. Definitely pink.”

“I guess pink is my color,” she said, trying to make a joke of what had been an embarrassing occasion last summer when Fawn had done a reading.

“Antonio—Mr. Salvatore—hired me to paint a mural on one of the walls. I met him there a few weeks ago to see the space so I’d know what I’d be working with.”

“And how do you know Mr. Salvatore?”

“He’s commissioned a few works, mostly fountains or statues, for his relatives up north. He has quite an eye for art,” she said with admiration. “Any other questions, Inspector?”

Despite the friendly tone of the question, Colleen got the message. She was being nosey.

“One more,” she said. “Living up here, did you ever have any dealings with Denny Custis?”

“Thank goodness, no.”

“I take it from your reaction that you’re not a fan.”

“He has no regard for the plover nests. A few weeks ago we found one on his property and had it fenced off for protection. Somehow that fencing mysteriously disappeared.”

“You think he removed it?” Colleen asked with concern. The piping plover was an endangered species. It was against the law to disturb their nests.

“I think that man got exactly what he deserved,” she said. “And I’m not sorry to say it.”

“I see you’ve heard the news,” Colleen said. She was stunned by the intensity of Autumn’s reaction. Could it be that her suspicions about Autumn being the arsonist weren’t so crazy after all?

“You must have a lot to do,” the artist said, changing the subject and grabbing a notebook. “I’d best get to showing you what I have in mind for the ceremony.”

For the next twenty minutes, Autumn reviewed the plans for the wedding. Colleen only half listened as Autumn discussed the colors, fabrics, and something about bringing a love quote to the ceremony. It wasn’t until Autumn started discussing the flowers and bouquet that Colleen perked up. There was something about the way she spoke about the flowers that sounded familiar … like Colleen had heard the explanation of the flowers’ meanings before. Then it struck her … Pinky. He had told Colleen last summer about how his mother had run a florist shop and explained the meanings of several different flowers. Did Autumn’s relationship with Pinky go beyond art commissions? Was it possible Autumn was the person Pinky was protecting by refusing to tell Bill his whereabouts on the morning of the fire? Or was it the other way around? Was Autumn protecting Pinky?

She pushed the questions from her mind and focused on the upcoming nuptials. Autumn moved on to the attire and—much to Colleen’s relief and true to Fawn’s word—Autumn suggested Colleen wear whatever she felt suited the occasion. “This day is all about helping celebrate Fawn and Chip’s union,” she had said. “Anything that distracts us from that—such as feeling uncomfortable in a dress, for example—is unwelcome.”

She left Fawn’s aunt with her to-do list, proud that she had survived the wedding plan conference and armed with new information. She started her SUV, eager to be back at the station and in her element, and was about to pull away when Autumn came running down the stairs toward her.

“I almost forgot,” Autumn said, catching her breath, and held out her hand through the open driver’s-side window. “This is for you.”

Colleen took a small velvet pouch. “What is it?”

“Open it,” Autumn said.

She untied the pouch and out rolled a hexagon-cut pink crystal on a silver ribbon. “Thank you,” she said, stunned by the gift.

“You don’t have to wear it, but I thought you might like a little something special for the wedding.” Autumn gave her a wink, swiveled, and sashayed away.

She glanced at the necklace in her hand and then at the woman disappearing inside her home. She definitely wanted to talk to Pinky about Autumn. But that conversation would have to wait. She needed to get back to the station for the Junior Firefighter Game Day.

Chapter 11

“How can Myrtle
be in the slammer?” Nellie Byrd, Myrtle’s best friend, demanded as a miniature firefighter in turnout gear and helmet raced by dragging a hose.

“Why don’t we talk over here,” Colleen said, not wishing the tourists to overhear the conversation between her and Nellie about Myrtle being locked up.

The miniature firefighter was, in fact, a child participant in the station’s first Junior Firefighter Game Day. The game day had been Jimmy’s brainchild—a way of bringing visibility to the work they did and raising money for programs—and it was proving to be an instant success. Her men were busy selling station T-shirts, giving tours of the engines and ambulances, supervising a meet-and-greet with Sparky, and taking pictures with visitors. The kids loved meeting Sparky, but the most popular attraction was the obstacle course.

At the start of the course, a child donned turnout gear and a helmet. Then, on the signal of one of the firefighters, the child hit a wood board with a mallet across a line, crawled through a nylon mesh tunnel, ran around a series of red plastic fire hydrants, carried a hose to three foam flame cutouts on sticks, picked up a squirt gun and fired at each flame, and then climbed a step ladder to rescue a stuffed cat from a child’s basketball hoop that had been decorated like a tree. Each child finished to cheers from onlookers and received a special badge for his or her “heroic” work.

“Myrtle’s being framed,” Nellie said, marching around the perimeter of the fair to the other side where Aaron and Bobby were grilling food. “Ask Little Bobby if you don’t believe me.”

Colleen appreciated Nellie’s concern. Not only was the woman Myrtle’s best friend, but she was also a patrol specialist with the Lighthouse Wild Horse Preservation Society and understood how vital it was to the horses to have Myrtle on the job.

Bobby hung his head, having overheard Nellie’s last sentence. It must be hard having Myrtle for a mother, she thought. Bobby couldn’t escape her shenanigans … not even at the firehouse. She was reluctant to bring him into this conversation but thought he might have insight into who might want to “frame” his mother.

“You got a second, Bobby?” she asked.

Bobby set down his cooking utensils. “What is it, Chief?”

“Your mother’s been arrested,” Nellie said.

Aaron looked up from the grill, surprised.

“Brought in for questioning,” Colleen corrected, in an attempt to prevent inaccurate rumors from spreading, and motioned for Bobby and Nellie to join her a slight distance away from the crowd.

Bobby exhaled deeply. “What has she done this time?”

“Witnesses saw her arguing with Denny at Pinky’s house before the fire,” Colleen said, her voice low.

“She’s being set up,” Nellie said.

Bobby shook his head.

“Has your mother been having problems with anyone recently?” Colleen asked.

“You mean more than the usual?”

Myrtle had rubbed a lot of people—locals and visitors—the wrong way over the years. “Yes, more than usual.”

“Honestly, I try not to pay too much attention,” he said. “It’s easier that way.”

“Didn’t she tell you about how that ogre Denny Custis tried to coerce money from us at the society?” Nellie asked.

“No,” he said, concerned.

“What’s this about extortion?” Colleen asked.

Nellie stole a glance at the kids nearby taking pictures with Sparky and lowered her voice. “It started about six months ago. Denny tried to claim some of the public land in Carova as his; said that if we wanted to drive on that land we’d have to pay up.”

“Like Mother would do that,” Bobby said, and folded his arms across his chest.

“And if you didn’t pay? What then?” Colleen asked.

“I guess nothing, since we didn’t give him a dime. But I heard that one of the tour companies did and was pretty bitter about it.”

“Why would anyone pay to use public land?” Bobby asked.

It was a good question, since there apparently weren’t any consequences for not doing so.

“Rumor had it the company was allowing visitors to get closer than fifty feet to the horses to take pictures. I think Denny threatened to report them.”

“That’s blackmail,” Bobby said.

“Like Denny cared about the horses,” Colleen said.

“Exactly,” Nellie said.