Partners in Crime (26 page)

As long as Jane could remember the entryway had been a splintered pine door on one rusty iron hinge. They weren’t within twenty feet of the place before she noticed the heavy steel door, the steel locks. “Eureka,” she said softly, trudging through the woods at a faster pace.

Now that she bothered to look, she could see the new power box on the side of the building. Richard had had electricity and running water brought to the small, seemingly ramshackle structure, and the new roof was made of rustic-looking cedar shakes. Nice and inflammable, Jane thought.

Sandy stood there surveying the building. “Don’t bother asking me to pick the locks,” he said. “That time at Technocracies was merely a fluke.”

“That’s what I thought.” She made a halfhearted attempt at forcing the door, then stepped back. “We’ll head back to the store and get some kerosene.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Have you bothered looking down? Someone’s been here recently. Someone with large feet and expensive boots, the kind you get at upscale New Jersey malls, not the Newfield General Store. I can think of only one other person left alive who has any stake in this place, and that’s Stephen Tremaine. If we don’t burn it now he’s going to win, and I’m damned if I’m going to let him. I’ll do it with you or without you, but I’m going to do it.”

He just stared at the building for a long, contemplative moment. “I guess you do it with me,” he said finally. “I just hope we can find me some better shoes at your general store.”

She moved fast, flinging her arms around his neck and smiling up at him. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft in the morning air.

“Anytime,” he said, the wary expression almost leaving his eyes. “That’s what you hired me for.”

You
’
re crazy to do this,
Sandy told himself as he circled the old building, splashing kerosene against the foundations. Arson was a felony, and it would take all his powers of persuasion to get her off. Hell, he was aiding and abetting—maybe he wouldn’t even be able to defend her, he’d be standing trial alongside her.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t own the place—she was Richard Dexter’s sole heir. And it wasn’t as if she was going to make an insurance claim. The blaze would provide no danger to other structures—the slowly melting snow would keep the fire from spreading, and the nearest structure was an old white farmhouse barely visible through the woods. A young widow lived there with her twin sons, Jane said. Doubtless they kept her too busy to even look out her windows, much less notice a suspicious fire.

Jane was staring at the wooden roof of the icehouse, biting her lower lip as she pondered how best to use her five gallons of liquid. He wished he could be the one to bite her lower lip, and not spend his time worrying about her criminal tendencies. He ended up pouring the last of his kerosene around the window frame, stepped back, and waited for Jane.

The icehouse was set into a hillside. Jane had climbed up the bank and bathed the entire rooftop with kerosene. It was already soaked with melted snow, and Sandy had grave doubts about the inflammability of the whole thing. If he was lucky it would simply refuse to ignite, and Jane would have to consider more reasonable alternatives.

She jumped back, rubbing her hands against her jean-covered thighs, and stared at the structure. It was midafternoon by then, already well past full sunlight, and the area stank of kerosene.

“Got a match?” she inquired cheerfully.

Sandy reached in his pocket, handed her the box of kitchen matches, and stepped back. Directly into a solid figure.

He whirled around, only to look into a pair of chilly brown eyes. The man in front of him looked like a cross between a Vermont hermit and an aging hippie, with a bald pate, long stringy brown hair hanging to his shoulders, a full beard, and wire-rimmed glasses with a Band-Aid securing one corner. He was wearing well-aged denims, and the expression on his face was extremely disgruntled.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Sandy turned to Jane. She was staring at the apparition, open-mouthed, the lit match burning her fingers.

Sandy turned back to the newcomer. “Richard Dexter, I presume?”

S
andy stood there, waiting for Jane to fling herself in her brother’s arms in joy and relief, but she did no such thing and merely stood, staring, in shock.

And then she turned to Sandy. “You knew!” Her voice was richly accusing.

He shook his head. “Of course, I didn’t. I won’t say I didn’t consider the possibility though.”

“And you didn’t say a word.”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he said in what he felt was his most reasonable voice. Jane, however, wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable.

Fortunately Richard distracted her. “What in hell are you doing with the kerosene, Jane?” he demanded in righteous indignation. “Do you realize the years of work you were about to burn?”

“What the hell would it matter to you—you’re dead!” she shot back.

Richard Dexter appeared only slightly abashed. “I’m
sorry if you were upset at the thought of my death. We were
never particularly close.”

“Never particularly close?” Jane echoed, her voice a furious shriek in the chilly air. “I thought you’d been murdered.”

“So did Stephen Tremaine,” said Richard with satisfaction.

Jane’s fury died abruptly. “Did he try to kill you, Richard?”

“Oh, probably not,” Richard said with an airy wave of his hand. “Stephen’s not quite that cold-blooded. I think he only intended to incapacitate me a little. He knew I never drove fast—I think he figured I’d get a little banged up and not pay any attention to his Salambian schemes. Little did he know I’d already spiked his guns.”

“He knows now,” Sandy said. “Do you have the missing part of the formula?”

Richard stared at him out of disgruntled brown eyes that were eerily akin to Jane’s at her most distrustful. “Who is he?” he asked his sister. “And what was he doing setting fire to my laboratory?”

Jane turned to look at him and Sandy had the uncomfortable feeling she was considering him from a fresh viewpoint. “Oh, him,” she said dismissingly, “he’s my lawyer.”

“Some lawyer,” Richard snorted as Sandy swallowed a choked laugh. “Does he make a practice of committing arson?”

“Only with the woman I love,” Sandy said smoothly, noting with pleasure Jane’s look of complete shock. He left it at that, deliberately. If she didn’t know he was in love with her, if she hadn’t caught on to that very apparent fact, he’d have to explain it in more intimate detail later. Next time they got a few moments alone, with or without a sleeping bag beneath them.

“Put the matches away, Jane,” Richard said sternly, and Jane meekly complied. “Come back to the house with me and we can talk about our mutual godfather. Any chance you can leave
him
behind?”

“
Him
is Sandy Caldicott,” Jane said, her meekness gone. “And he goes where I go.”

“Can you trust him?” Richard demanded, and Sandy found himself holding his breath, waiting for the all-important answer.

“More than I trust you, my dear departed brother,” she snapped back, and if it wasn’t quite the declaration Sandy had in mind, it would do for now.

Richard headed off toward the woods, his narrow shoulders slightly hunched, his long stringy hair floating in the wind. “Where are you going?” Jane demanded. “The house is back the other way.”

“Not that house,” Richard said loftily. “I haven’t been to the old cottage in weeks. It’s too cold to stay there in October.” He didn’t bother to slow his deliberate pace through the snow.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sandy murmured. “We managed to heat it up last night.”

Jane tried to glare at him, and failed miserably. “What did you mean by that?” she asked in a low voice, making no effort to follow her brother’s lanky figure.

“Well, what with the fireplace and the selected use of body heat...”

“I’m not talking about that,” she said stubbornly. “Why did you tell Richard I’m the woman you love?”

She wasn’t about to move until he said something. On impulse he reached down, scooped up a handful of fresh snow and advanced on her.

She looked at him warily, standing her ground when he reached her. “Not down my neck,” she warned.

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Very gently he placed some of the icy whiteness against her mouth. And then he followed it with his own, dissolving the crystals between them, and her mouth was cold and delicious and hot and melting as her arms wrapped around him.

“You’re as bad as your sister,” Richard’s disapproving voice floated back to them. “Come along now. I haven’t got all day.”

Reluctantly Sandy released her. “Exactly where are we going?” he questioned, taking Jane’s hand and following Richard through the woods.

“Who knows? Richard’s not going to explain until he’s good and ready. If we want answers we’ll have to follow him. Besides, we’ve got a little problem.”

“Which is?”

“Richard said he hasn’t been back to Nana’s cottage in weeks. There were fresh footprints on the steps, remember? If it wasn’t Richard it has to be...”

“Don’t say Uncle Stephen,” he warned.

“I was going to say Tremaine.” She glared at him. “I wish you wouldn’t...”

“What the hell is that?” Sandy demanded, interrupting her mid-tirade. They’d come through the other side of the woods and were approaching a brightly lit farmhouse. In the twilight he could see signs of dereliction, of a badly needed paint job and a roof in need of repair. Hanging from a hook on the front porch was what appeared to be the body of a hobo. Two small hooligans were dancing around the grisly figure, whooping wildly. Richard walked past them without seeming to notice them, disappearing into the house without a backward glance.

Even Jane looked momentarily startled at the macabre apparition. “It’s a Guy Fawkes,” she said. “I’d forgotten it was almost Halloween. Around here they stuff old clothes with dead leaves and leave them around—on front lawns, rooftops, hanging from trees. They’re creepy but basically harmless—it’s an interesting ethnological phenomenon.”

“That doesn’t explain the two demons.” They’d reached the sagging porch by then, and he was relieved to see that it was indeed a dummy hanging from a noose. The two demons, on closer inspection turned out to be two red-headed boys so exact that they could only be twins. They were approximately six years old and making enough noise for a score of children as they danced around their macabre plaything.

Jane smiled at them cheerfully enough, unmoved by their bloodthirsty demeanor, and headed toward the door, Sandy in tow. He knew his own smile was more of the sickly variety, but at least he had the immediate and happy certainty that Jane would be a great mother. Only someone who truly loved children could have reacted to those two monsters with such unaffected friendliness.

As night had fallen, the temperature had also dropped, and while they had attempted to dress for it, the warmth of the house was welcome. They followed the noise and light down the narrow hallway to a huge old kitchen. A woman stood at the sink, watching their approach with friendly interest.

Richard was already slumped down at the table, drinking coffee, completely immersed in an issue of
Organic Gardening,
and his introductions were cursory at best. “This is my sister,” he announced, leaving it at that.

The woman, a hefty, dark-haired lady in her late thirties with a smile as warm as the wood cook stove, held out a rough, work-worn hand and cast a cheerfully disparaging look at Richard’s preoccupied figure. “Not much for the social graces, is he?” she said with an unexpected Southern accent. “But I guess you know that better than I do. I’m Hazel Dexter, and those are my two boys out there, Derek and Erik. You must be Jane.”

Jane managed a weak smile. “Dexter?”

“We were married last month,” Richard roused himself long enough to answer. “Figured I’d let you know once I decided what to do about Tremaine.”

Jane glared at her brother, dropped Hazel’s polite hand and pulled her into her arms to give her a hug. “Welcome to the family,” she said. “I’m not sure if you got the better part of the deal.”

“Oh, Richard and I get along just fine. And the boys mind him, which is more than I can say for me. They just ride roughshod over me.”

“Really?” Jane said faintly. “I never pictured Richard as much of a disciplinarian.”

“Self-defense,” Richard said cryptically, not raising his eyes.

“Are you Jane’s husband?”

Richard raised his head to that. “Yes, what happened to your husband, Jane? Doesn’t he mind you running around with an arsonist?”

“I’ve been divorced for more than a year, Richard,” she said patiently. “I told you at the time.”

“I can’t remember every little detail of my sisters’ lives,” he said loftily, putting down his magazine. “Come and sit down and tell me what Stephen Tremaine’s been doing since my unfortunate demise.”

Jane seated herself in one of the pressed-oak chairs and took a mug of coffee from Hazel’s hands. “Apart from trying to find the missing part of the formula?”

“He’ll never do that,” Richard said smugly. “I’ve got it up here.”

“For your information, Dexter, we think Tremaine’s up here, too,” Sandy said. His instincts had been right, he didn’t like Richard Dexter one tiny bit, and the more he saw of him with his sister the more he wanted to smash his teeth in. He was doubly grateful for his own cup of coffee. Not only did it warm his chilled hands but it kept him from knocking Richard off his chair.

For once Richard showed some consternation. “You idiot,” he said to Jane. “You must have led him up here. If it weren’t for you...”

Sandy set the coffee down and advanced on the soon-to-be-unfortunate Richard Dexter. “Your sister has been busting her buns trying to keep Stephen Tremaine from soiling your stained legacy,” he said in a light voice. “I’d suggest you show a little gratitude for all she’s done for your sake.”

“I don’t see that she’s done that much,” Richard said in a snooty voice, then backed down hastily as he recognized the menace in Sandy’s eyes. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, Jane,” he added. “But I could have taken care of it myself.”