Playing with Fire (8 page)

When he turned around, he was struck all over again by an incomprehensible fact—he still wanted her. The irony was perfect. Fate was probably rolling on the floor with laughter. Probably talking to Mother Nature and snickering, “Have you heard the one about the arson investigator and the pyromaniac?”

Rubbing her arms, Maggie tossed a question at him. “Why’d you have to play this game? Why couldn’t you have just said you had the test back when you knocked on the door?”

Because you wouldn’t have let me in. Because I wanted to kiss you first. Because I’m a fool.

Beau couldn’t say any of that. He could barely admit
to himself that he’d put an investigation in jeopardy because he was thinking with hormones. He’d never done that before. Never
ever
come close to being this stupid.

“I didn’t mention the polygraph because it’s not admissible, and after I came inside … I thought you had enough to deal with.”

Instantly her eyes narrowed. “Enough to deal with? Grayson, I don’t need you or anyone else looking after me.

“You need a lawyer. You’re facing an arson charge.”

“I’m not facing anything. You can’t arrest me. You don’t have any evidence. You just said that a polygraph isn’t admissible. You can’t even mention it in court. You haven’t got anything.”

“Yet.”

“Then why don’t you come back when you do? Be sure and wear a coat because hell will be freezing over.”

Beau snatched up the towel he’d dropped on a stack of books and handed it to her on the way to the door. When she took it, he didn’t let go. He leaned over the dog to whisper a warning. “I’ll leave, but I’m watching you, Maggie. I don’t want to see so much as a match go up in smoke if you’re in the vicinity. You got it?”

He felt the change in Gwendolyn before he heard the soft rumble of displeasure. Maggie did nothing to calm the wolfhound. “She doesn’t like your tone of voice either.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” he said softly, easing away. When he reached the archway to the vestibule, he took out one of the cards with his home number written on it and tossed it on a chair. “Who’s going to take care of her when you’re in jail?”

Maggie held her ground until the door clicked shut behind him. Then all her toughness evaporated, and her knees gave out. Gwendolyn joined her on the floor, putting her big head on Maggie’s thigh. The long tail thumped twice on the floor, and big brown eyes looked up to promise her it would be okay.

But all Maggie could see were dark, intense eyes that would haunt her for a long time.

No harm done.

Beau stood in the doorway of his office and gestured for Russell. The man was a clown, but a smart clown and eminently suited for this task. He handed him a copy of Maggie’s statement.

“Run this over to the hospital for me, and don’t come back without Ms. St. John’s signature. Better have someone over there witness it too.”

“Say it ain’t so, Beau,” he begged as he took the statement. “Tell me she’s not our girl.”

Shaking his head at the pretended anguish on Russell’s face, Beau outlined it. “She’s the primary, but the charge won’t stick. Not without hard evidence. So we’re going through the motions on this one and closing it up. I cleared your visit with a Dr. Bennett. They’re advising her you’re on the way and to afford you any and all cooperation.”

“Okay, boss,” he agreed, but turned back before he’d gone two paces. “I thought you took care of this yesterday.”

“I got tied up at the Littleton trial.”

Russell rolled his eyes at the mention of the case.
“Riddle me this, Beau. If a woman’s pissed at you for fooling around,
and
she tells you that she’s going to set your bed on fire,
and
she’s sprinkling gasoline on the covers, are you gonna get out of that bed?”

“He didn’t believe her.”

With a snort, Russell said, “Game, set, and
match
to Mrs. Littleton.”

“Game, set, and match,” Beau echoed flatly, and flicked his eyes at the envelope. “She’s waiting.”

“I’m on it.”

As Russell left, Beau closed his office door. “So am I.”

A singed newspaper corner lay in the middle of his desk pad. He studied it as he rounded his desk and sank into the chair. It wasn’t much to go on. Just a printed date on one side, a page number on the other. For all he knew this was a parish newspaper announcement of her first communion, baptism, spelling bee victory, letter to the editor—He stopped. The possibilities were endless.

But he had a date. He’d start with the bigger papers and work his way backward through the surrounding parishes. Eighteen years ago something newsworthy happened in Maggie’s life. Or the life of someone she cared about. All he had to do was figure out where and what.

What memory did you burn up, Maggie May?

“Then just quit, Maggie.”

The succinct advice was accompanied by the sizzle of frying bacon and the tap of Andrea Poag’s fork as she scooted the meat around the skillet. Tonight was Carolyn’s
late night at the shop and her charming redheaded daughter’s turn to cook. Unfortunately Andrea knew how to make only one thing—breakfast for dinner.

Maggie decided the girl would make some lucky man a wonderful widow. The cholesterol would kill him.

“Really,” Andrea urged when Maggie didn’t respond. “Quit. It’s not like you own the place and have to work there whether you want to or not. You can get another job.”

Maggie groaned and pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. God help her! For a second there Andrea had made sense. She was actually listening to career advice from a seventeen-year-old. A seventeen-year-old who’d lost two jobs because she couldn’t remember to ask, “You want fries with that?”

“Mmm,” Carolyn murmured as she strolled into the messy kitchen, tossing her keys into the junk bowl on the counter. “Breakfast for dinner. Good choice. Ooh, look what we have here! A mutt rug!”

Gwen jumped up, wagging and probably sending a shower of dog hair into the food, but no one cared. Carolyn’s place was a second home to the wolfhound. The front closet held a spare dog bowl for Gwen and a spare uniform for Maggie.

“Woof.”

Capitulating in the face of such canine enthusiasm, Carolyn greeted the dog first. She ruffled the tuffs of hair on Gwen’s muzzle and scratched her behind the greyhoundlike ears before she spoke to the people. “I’m beat, but willing to debate. So what’s the topic of discussion tonight?”

Before Maggie could answer, Andrea rushed to clarify
the situation. “I think Maggie should quit the hospital. She and Dr. Bennett got into another one of those big nasty fights. He’s doping up a patient so the lady will be less trouble. Maggie refused to give her any more.
And
the doc’s still mad at Maggie for making a fuss over that lady he
wouldn’t
dope up for pain last week.” Andrea cocked her head. “I hate inconsistent guys, don’t you?”

Instantly Maggie thought of Beau, before and after the kiss. A classic example of the incomprehensible male. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do too.”

“Anyway,” Andrea continued as she arranged canned biscuits in a round aluminum pan, “Bennett is so stupid, he thinks Maggie burnt up that closet. He made her talk to the police again.”

“Sign a statement,” Maggie corrected as Carolyn’s troubled gaze flew to her.

Andrea put the biscuits in the oven and swung her long red hair out of her face. The kitchen was a wreck, but Andrea didn’t have a speck on her. Planting her hands on her hips, she delivered her pièce de résistance. “Mom, he made her sign it in his office where he could
watch
her and brought in her friends to embarrass her.”

“Witnesses to the signature,” Maggie corrected again. “And they were more like enemies than friends. It was sort of a play staged as grist for the rumor mill.”

“You okay?” Carolyn asked hesitantly as she laid out silverware on the table, setting a third place without even asking. Her brow furrowed as she waited, and it was clear that she didn’t believe anyone could be okay about this.

“Do I have a choice?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah.” Andrea beat the eggs one last whip and poured them into another skillet. “You can quit.”

“I can’t quit.” Maggie retrieved the grape jelly and butter dish from the refrigerator. “He wins if I quit.”

“So let him win,” Carolyn suggested, and took the jelly. She widened her eyes in silent warning, directing a meaningful gaze at Maggie, who was beginning to wish she’d toughed it out alone last night instead of calling for support. If she wasn’t mistaken, support was about to turn into a lecture.

Right on cue, Carolyn took the butter dish and added, “Maggie, you don’t need the stress. Not right now.”

Because Andrea was listening to every word, Carolyn’s eyes implied what she was obviously dying to—but couldn’t—say aloud.
Not when the pressure is screwing up your head.

Maggie clenched her teeth. Lovely. Her best friend was suddenly adding flashbacks to job stress and coming up with an equation for fragile mental health. Well, thank God she’d edited Beau’s kiss from last night’s fiasco. Carolyn would have a field day with that embarrassing bit of trivia.

“Mom’s right,” Andrea said as she juggled skillets and biscuits and eggs.

Carolyn gasped and pressed her hands to her bosom. “Oh, my Lord. Get the camera. Take a picture. I want to immortalize this moment! Mom is right!”

Laughing, Andrea stuck her tongue out at her mother and then turned her attention to Maggie. “If you don’t quit, Maggie, that man is going to find a way to make your life miserable. He told you to watch your step! Does he have to draw you a picture? He reminds me of Mrs. Demarco. She decided she didn’t want this guy in my
advanced trig class so she started setting him up, picking on him until—”

A sharp whistle split the air. As much as Maggie loved Andrea, this wasn’t helping. When she took her fingers out of her mouth, she stared at both mother and daughter, making sure she had their complete attention. “Hey, it’s my life we’re discussing. Do I get to say anything?”

“No.” They answered in unison, laughing. Then Andrea said, “Besides dinner’s— Telephone! It’s probably for me!”

Andrea was out of the room before the second ring, leaving the older women to gape at the speed that could be obtained by a teenager in search of privacy.

“Oh, my!” Maggie grinned. “I guess that leaves the cooking to us.”

“It appears it’s every man for himself now. Andrea will just have to eat it cold.” Carolyn began sorting through Andrea’s mess and ferrying food to the table, but her busy hands and casual tone didn’t camouflage the concern in her next question. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? You can help me clean up.”

“Hiding isn’t going to make them go away,” Maggie said bluntly, knowing exactly what Carolyn was trying to do—protect her from the past, from the flashbacks. Her friend’s maternal instincts had kicked into overdrive. “You can’t make this one better with popcorn and old movies.”

Carolyn stopped fussing with dinner and gave her a hard look. “I wish I could.”

“So do I.” Maggie sat down at the table, thankful that she at least had Andrea and Carolyn to get her through this mess. She didn’t need Beau Grayson, and
Gwendolyn didn’t have to worry about who was going to buy dog chow when her owner was in the hoosegow.

Maggie battled her way out of the covers. The clock said one-oh-four. She hadn’t had a nightmare. It was more like a twilight-mare, a bad dream waiting to be born, drifting in as she drifted off.

Since getting home from Carolyn’s, she’d paced the floor, read about visiting Ireland on pennies a day, fed the dog, cursed Beau Grayson, and fought sleep. Tired had seeped into her bones days ago. Exhaustion was oozing rapidly into every pore.

Nudging Gwen awake, she padded across to the balcony doors and opened them. She didn’t bother with a robe. Her nearest neighbor would have to use a telescope to catch her half-naked. The night was cool on her skin. The breeze blew the cobwebs away. But only for an instant.

Then the scent of wood smoke reached her nostrils.

Maggie froze. No. Not again. Not tonight. Even as she tried to deny what her heart knew, she scanned the surrounding area. When she saw the smoke rising above the magnolias, Maggie felt the blood drain from her face.

A feeling of powerlessness swept over her, throwing her backward in time to the aftermath of another fire, to another time she felt helpless. She saw Mrs. Alastair, Sarah’s mom, coming out of the house. Two firemen were supporting her, almost dragging her away as if she didn’t belong there. She was crying and carrying that glass bowl as if it were the Holy Grail. As if it were the only thing left untouched in a blackened world.

Every hair on the back of Maggie’s neck stood up. Her gut lurched. Sarah had said she broke that bowl. But why would Sarah lie?
Why?

She staggered back inside, away from the smell of smoke carried on the night air. Foolishly she closed the doors and locked them behind her as if that would protect her or make the fire go away. Strangely there were no thoughts of the past, only of the present and the future. Of how this would look. Of who she’d have to call.

The first call was easy. She dialed emergency dispatch, who would in turn rouse the cavalry—the volunteer fire department covering the area. The second call was harder. If she’d had any other choice she wouldn’t have made it. But she didn’t have another choice. Beau would find out. And when he did, she’d looked guilty as sin.

So she went downstairs, checked the business card pinned to the cork board beside the phone, and dialed.

“What?” Beau’s voice was rough with sleep, not quite clear—as if the receiver was tucked under his chin. “This better be good.”

Swallowing her pride, Maggie said, “I need your help.”

Beau cut his lights and coasted to a stop at the edge of the road. The field beside Maggie’s house looked like a scene from a fugitive movie. A floodlight and headlights were trained on the burned-out skeleton of the barn. A number of firefighters milled around, too pumped on adrenaline to go home yet—even though the fire was dampened down.