Читать книгу The Arsonist - Mary Burton - Страница 8

Darcy spent the next half hour unpacking and changing into a cotton T-shirt, jeans and running shoes. She itched to go out for a long run before reviewing her notes on Nero, but it was already past three in the afternoon and the dinner crowd would be arriving at five o’clock.

As she brushed her hair up into a ponytail, she glanced around her old bedroom. Her mother had taken down her posters and painted over the purple. Her brass daybed was still there, but the black-and-white comforter was gone and in its place a green quilt and lots of pillows. Her mother’s sewing machine sat in the corner next to a white glider and footstool.

Her mother had done a good job of erasing any signs that her daughter had ever lived in this house. None of this would have bothered Darcy, if not for Trevor’s shrine in the diner.

“And why do you care?” Darcy mumbled as she tightened the rubber band around the thick handful of hair. “This is just a temporary stop. Deal with it.”

She started down the back staircase that led to the kitchen. As she approached the last step, she heard a man singing “When the Saints Come Marching In.” The voice was deep, the tone so off-key it made her smile.

Darcy found a stocky man standing in front of the stove stirring a pot of chili. He wore a white cook’s uniform with the sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. A rawhide strip held back thinning gray hair in a tight ponytail.

“Hey,” she said. Her mother had told her the tavern had a new cook. His name was George Paris.

George didn’t look up. “What did you do to my kitchen?” Each word was coated in a thick Alabama accent.

Darcy glanced around and seeing no signs of her mother assumed the comment was directed at her.

“Saved it.”

“It took me a half hour just to clean the flour out of the burner.”

The chili smelled good and she remembered she’d not eaten since breakfast. “You’re lucky to have a burner or a job for that matter. If I hadn’t shown up, Mom would have torched the place.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he tossed a handful of chili powder into the pot. If he’d worked here six months, he knew her mother could be a bit scattered at times. “Then I owe you my thanks. Unemployment doesn’t suit me so well.”

She snagged an apple from a bowl of fruit on the island. “Me either.”

He studied her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Your mother said you are the new waitress.”

“That’s right.” She bit into the apple.

“You don’t look like your mother or Trevor.”

The apple tasted tart. “I take after my father.”

Eyeing her one last second, he turned back to his chili. “You can start making the dinner salads. Lettuce, two tomatoes, cucumber and three red onion rings.”

“I know the drill. I’ve made a million of those in my past life here.” Holding the apple in her teeth she washed and dried her hands. She took another bite of apple set it aside and crossed to the refrigerator. She pulled out a bag of precut lettuce, a box of cherry tomatoes, a cucumber and red onions. She set it all down on the island.

“Remember, only three slices of cucumber per plate,” he said.

She set the apple aside. “Tomatoes on the left, cucumbers in the middle, onions on the right. I remember.” She grabbed a stack of plates from the shelf on the wall above the sink and started to line them up assembly line fashion. She hated having to deal with this mundane stuff while knowing Nero could be alive, but for now she had to make like a waitress so no one would suspect her motives.

“Where is Trevor? Shouldn’t he be here now?” she asked.

He crushed a handful of dried red pepper flakes in his hand then dumped them into the pot. “He called your mother and said that he’ll be back by five o’clock.”

She noted a hint of irritation in his voice. “Trevor likes to play it fast and loose. Deadlines don’t get to him. Used to irritate his football coaches no end.”

“Then he is in the wrong business.” George sounded annoyed. “Restaurants are nothing but deadlines.”

“Mom says the business is doing well.” She kept her voice neutral, but she was fishing. Natural curiosity had been one of the reasons she’d become a reporter.

George shrugged. “I don’t think about things like that as long as I get paid on time.”

“Which you do?” She figured she had a right to know how Trevor ran the place.

“Most times.”

Frowning, she tore into the lettuce. She’d hoped when Trevor had taken over the restaurant that he’d grow up and become more responsible.

Let it go, Darcy. This gig was strictly a stepping-stone to her Pulitzer. “And Mom is where?”

“She is rolling the napkins and checking the bar.”

“Okay.” Darcy set out thirty plates on the center island. As she started to lay torn lettuce leaves on each, a truck pulled up in the back alley.

George wiped his hands on his apron and glanced out the screened door. “It’s about time Thompsons got here. We are just about out of everything.” He went to the door and waved. “Hey, Harvey. You can bring our order right in. We’ve got to get those chickens started if they’re going to be ready on time.”

Harvey Thompson, a tall thin man in his mid-fifties, came in the back door, with only a clipboard in his hand. He glanced over at Darcy. “Hey, Darcy, when did you get back in town?”

She grinned. “Just today.”

“You look good. You lose weight?”

She smiled. “Sure did. Twenty pounds this last year. Thanks for noticing.”

George looked impatient. “Harvey, you can start unloading any time.”

But the man hesitated. “I’m going to need a check from Trevor.”

“What do you mean—we have to pay C.O.D., Harvey? You always bill us,” George said.

Harvey’s face turned red. “You’re behind.”

George muttered a curse. “I’m a cook, not a bookkeeper. I shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things when I got a roomful of customers showing up in less than two hours. Wait right here.” He stormed into the dining room in search of Darcy’s mother.

Harvey glanced awkwardly at Darcy. “I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But my boss said no cash, no delivery.”

“Trevor that far behind?” Darcy said.

Before Harvey could answer, George returned with Mrs. Sampson. “Tell Mrs. S. what you just told me.”

Harvey’s face reddened as he addressed Mrs. Sampson. “I’m going to need cash on delivery today, Jan. No money, no food.”

Her mother’s laugh had an edge. “That can’t be right, Harvey. I know Trevor just sent you in a check last week.”

“It bounced,” Harvey said in a low voice.

“It didn’t bounce,” Mrs. Sampson said. “I made a huge deposit only last week into the account.”

Harvey shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. All I know is no cash, no delivery.”

Her mother looked flustered and embarrassed now. “This has to be a mistake.”

Darcy stepped forward. “How much would you need today to make your delivery?”

“If it were anybody else, I’d need it all. But seeing as it’s y’all, I’ll take a thousand. I figure this is just a paperwork glitch.”

Her mother had never been one to handle the business end of the diner. Her father had while he was alive, and since his death, Trevor had.

“I don’t keep that kind of money in my personal account,” Mrs. Sampson said.

“I can bring the order back tomorrow,” Harvey said.

“We need today’s order or we won’t be able to open tonight,” George said.

“Don’t know what to say,” Harvey said. He looked as if he’d just endured root canal work.

The last thing Darcy wanted was to be drawn further into tavern business. She only had twelve hundred in her checking account and most of that was earmarked for her credit card bill, which was due at the end of next week. Since she’d dropped the twenty pounds this year, she’d splurged on new clothes—a lot of new clothes.

But high interest rates and minimum payments aside, if the Varsity went down, so would her cover. “I can go to the bank and pull the cash out of my account. I’m going to need to be paid back by Monday, Mom.”

Mrs. Sampson looked relieved. “Trevor will pay you back as soon as he gets here.”

Darcy nodded. “Harvey, go ahead and start unloading. I’ll be back with the cash in five minutes.”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

Despite her mother’s assurance, she felt as if she’d just stepped in quicksand. She got her purse and headed out the back alley, this time looking both ways.

Once Harvey was paid, Darcy, George and her mother focused on prepping for the dinner crowd. The Varsity didn’t have any other staff so the pace was quick and the work more physically challenging than she remembered. Still, despite a few dropped plates, she, George and her mother were ready by the time five o’clock rolled around. There was still no sign of Trevor.

Oddly enough, before her mother flipped the Closed sign to Open she felt as jittery as when she’d turned in her first article. So much was riding on her getting information from Gannon on Nero.

Thoughts of Nero vanished when the customers started arriving right at five. Within an hour, the diner was buzzing. All fifteen booths were filled and she and her mother ran from table to table taking orders, refilling drinks and serving entrées. To her surprise, she remembered more and more as the evening progressed. She’d forgotten how good she was at working this place.

She thought about Motorcycle Man. If he saw her in action now, he’d be eating his words.

By eight o’clock, most of the regulars were sitting at the bar. There was Chief Wheeler, the town’s fire chief who was in his late forties. Chief’s hair was thinning and he’d grown paunchy in the last six years. Next to him sat a friend of hers from high school, Larry White, a tall, lean truck driver who worked for a wholesale electronics distributor.

“So your mom says you got canned,” Larry said to Darcy.

For the sake of the Nero investigation she wanted to downplay her reporting background. Folks had a way of clamming up when they knew a reporter, even a supposedly ex-reporter, was around. “Hey, do me a favor guys and drop the subject. Kinda touchy.”

Larry and the chief nodded thoughtfully.

“Will do. Been fired myself a couple of times,” Larry said. He sipped his cola. “It bites.”

“We can keep a secret,” the chief said.

“Thanks.”

Minutes later, a tall, lean man walked into the tavern. In his forties, he was very athletic and had thick blonde hair. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses. He took a seat beside Larry and held out a smooth hand to the trucker who took it immediately. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain, Nathan,” Larry said. “Nathan, I’d like you to meet Darcy Sampson. Her family’s owned the Varsity for years and she’s back working at her old job.”

Nathan smiled at Darcy. “Pleasure.”

His gaze possessed an intensity that made her believe for an instant that she was the only person in the room. There was no denying he was a very attractive man. She sucked in her stomach. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Sure thing,” she said. She sounded cool, but for some reason he jumbled her nerves. Cup. Coffeepot. Pour. She poured him a cup and set it in front of him. “Cream? Sugar?”

The faint lines at his temples deepened when he smiled. “No thanks.” He sipped his coffee. “Good. So, you just start?”

“Tonight’s my first night.” Darcy felt herself blushing. “So, Chief, how did your day go?”

The chief grimaced. “We had one hell of a fire.”

Nathan’s face was blank. “I’ve been at the construction site all day. What’s the scoop?”

The chief leaned forward. “The Super 8 burned to the ground. Worst fire I’ve seen in years. Started in a storage closet and then quickly spread to the building’s roof. We evacuated the motel and put our hoses on the fire. But the damn thing wouldn’t go out. Within thirty minutes, the motel was burned to the ground.”

Darcy’s heart started to pound in her chest. The fire likely had nothing to do with Nero, but it was strange that the chief had battled an intense fire the day she arrived to investigate a serial arsonist.

Nathan sipped his coffee. “Do you know what started it?”

The chief shook his head. “Don’t know. We got the arson boys from Roanoke coming in tomorrow.”

Darcy lingered.

“You think someone set the fire on purpose?” Larry asked.

“No, I doubt it. Likely someone did something stupid,” the chief said. “They’ll have a report for us in a couple of days.”

Larry pulled a toothpick from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Bet it was teen gangs.”

Chief Wheeler laughed. “Larry you got teen gangs on the brain since you saw that 20/20 show last month.”

George rang a bell, which told Darcy another order was up. Swallowing an oath, she picked up the order and took the plates to table number six. By the time she’d gotten them ketchup and refilled their colas, the men at the bar were talking about another fire.

Darcy topped up the chief’s drink. “You get a lot of fires in the area?”

The chief shrugged. “Not many as a rule.”

Darcy held up the pitcher of cola. “Like a refill, Larry?”

“Not yet,” he said smiling.

“So how do you like Preston Springs so far, Nathan?” She wanted to stay in on this conversation without being too obvious.

Nathan sipped his coffee. “Love it.”

She held up the coffeepot. “So you’re working on the condo project off I-81?”

He held up his cup. “That’s right.”

She refilled it. Given time, she’d crack this Nero case. There was a story here and she could feel it in her bones. “Long hours?”

He nodded his thanks. “Always.”

George rang his bell and Darcy had to abandon her conversation and serve another customer.

Given time. Who was she kidding? She barely had time to pee.

It was nine o’clock before Darcy could pull her head above water again to think. Nathan, the chief and Larry had left and there was still no sign of Trevor.

Her feet ached from running from table to table. If her brother had been here, she’d have had more time to talk to the chief, maybe find out something about Michael Gannon. But Trevor was nowhere in sight.

At nine forty-five, she’d not had a break and was starving. She’d eaten three large handfuls of the cocktail nuts—a good four hundred calories by her way of thinking. At the rate she was going, she’d weigh two hundred pounds before she got back to D.C. When the guy at table seven sent his order back for the third time, she vowed to skin Trevor alive when he did arrive.

At ten, the crowd had turned over several times. Folks looking for a meal had long cleared out. Most were now there for drinks.

At ten-fifteen, the front door opened and to her great relief, Trevor strolled in. Everyone at the bar and the booths waved him a greeting as he flashed his million-dollar smile. Trevor, tall and muscular with thick brown hair, kissed his mother, who beamed up at him from her current post at the cash register, and then strolled over to the bar as if he had all the time in the world.

When he spotted Darcy, his grin widened. “Mom said you were back.”

“Man, it’s about time you got here,” she said as she stuck a lime in a Gin Fizz and handed it to a customer at the bar.

He studied her trim figure. “You’ve lost weight.”

That compliment was her Achilles’ heel and she immediately started to thaw. “Yeah.”

Trevor opened his arms wide. “Is that the nicest thing you can say to your baby brother?”

Darcy really wanted to stay mad at Trevor. He’d left her in the lurch for most of the evening. But there was something about Trevor and his natural charm. She couldn’t stay mad at him.

She stepped into his arms and hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her and squeezed her tight against him. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but in all honesty, she’d never felt more welcome than she did at this moment.

Since her breakup with Stephen, there’d been no one to hug or comfort her or tell her that everything was going to be all right after a bad day. Trevor’s hug made up for all of that. For just a split second, she felt safe, secure and loved. And for that she could forgive him almost anything.

Darcy choked back the tears crowding her throat and pulled back. “It’s good to see you.”

His smile lit up his eyes. “You too. So who’s the bastard that fired my big sister? I want a name because I’m going to have to rough him up.”

Darcy laughed and tears did fill her eyes this time. “Thanks, but I got it under control.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, Dee. I can drive up to D.C., pound some flesh and be home before you know it.”

Gratitude choked her throat. “Just the offer makes me feel better.”

He hugged her again before he released her. “It’s a standing offer.” He moved behind the bar and drafted himself a beer. He took a long drink, nearly draining half the mug. “Hey, thanks for covering the delivery today. I don’t know what happened with the payment. But I’ll write you a check first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Darcy smiled. “So when did you start drinking?” Their dad had been an alcoholic, and, like her, Trevor had always sworn to stay off the sauce.

He rolled his eyes. “A half a beer is hardly a drinking problem, Dee.”

“That’s what Dad used to say.”

Michael Gannon often lost track of time when he was working on a new bike. Regularly, he worked hours under the garage’s fluorescent glare often skipping meals. Tonight, however, he was having trouble concentrating. He kept thinking about the fire at the Super 8. The fire at the motel possessed an intensity that had surprised him. An older hotel could easily have burned that fast, but new construction rarely did.

He shut off the flame of his blowtorch and set it and the solder down on the workbench next to the gas tank he was fabricating. He pulled off his faceplate and stepped back, easing the kinks from his back as he moved. He’d been working on a custom gas tank for a vintage old-school bike most of the day. The task should have taken a few hours. But his concentration kept wavering and he’d been forced to work well into the night to finish it.

The bike was expected to go to the paint shop in six days, and if he didn’t get it built in time, he’d fall behind schedule.

He picked up the tank and studied the cigar-shaped form. The seams and edges were rough now, but tomorrow he’d buff out the uneven spots. And once painted, it would be sweet.

Gannon set the tank down and walked over to the long window of his shop. Outside, the bulb above his front door cast a ring of light. Across the street, the neon lights of the Varsity tavern blinked. The tavern was winding down and the last customers made their way out the front door.

Thinking about their new waitress, he went outside. She had a real mouth on her, but he still couldn’t help but grin when he pictured her green eyes blazing at him.

He glanced again at the Varsity and then checked his watch. The tavern was open for another fifteen minutes, enough time to get a bite to eat. But he didn’t like being close to cigarettes when he was this edgy. He’d not had a cigarette in a year and he wasn’t going to mess up just because some fool had set an accidental fire.

A bike ride was in order. He needed to get out in the open air and let the wind clear the cobwebs from his brain. As he started back inside to get his bike, the leggy waitress pushed through the front door of the tavern. She had her arm around a guy who was clearly drunk.

Gannon paused, stepping back into the shadows. He imagined the waitress had handled her share of drunks, but he hung around in case there was trouble.

The waitress and her customer stood outside the tavern and he suspected they were waiting for a cab. The drunk swayed a couple of times and then his right hand drifted up to the waitress’s butt. She slapped it down.

Gannon grinned.

When the cab arrived, the brunette helped the drunk into the cab. She leaned in the backseat window, her ponytail swishing forward over her shoulder as she bade him good evening. When the cab drove off, she waved.

He watched her walk back toward the bar, admiring the way her jeans hugged her rear. He couldn’t resist stepping partway into the light and shouting, “Break any plates tonight?”

She whirled around searching the darkness until she saw him. For a moment she stared as if she didn’t know him and then she connected the dots. “Six. Run over any more people today?”

He laughed. “You’re it so far.”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. The smile lit up her face, making Gannon very aware that it had been a long time since he had been with a woman.

Shaking her head, she said, “I’ll be sure to look both ways. Have a good night.” She disappeared into the tavern.

He lingered a few more moments and watched her move through the tavern picking up stray glasses and plates.

Gannon started to whistle. As he turned to get his bike, he noticed his mailbox on the wall by his front door was full. He reached inside the rectangular box and pulled out two days’ worth of mail. Most of it was junk flyers and bills.

Standing under the porch light, he started to flip through the mail. He was halfway through the stack when a packet of matches fell out of the stack to the ground. The packet was red with lettering embossed in gold.

Little Rome—Great Italian Food.

His blood ran cold.

The matches were identical to the ones Nero had sent him after each Washington, D.C., fire.

He opened the pack. Inside was scrawled Day One.

He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them to refocus on the note. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. This was how it had begun with Nero in D.C. a year and a half ago.

Gannon exhaled, tipping his face to the stars. Anyone could have sent the matches. He’d made no secret of his past when he’d moved to Preston Springs and a good many knew he’d investigated the Nero fires in D.C. The matches were common knowledge, thanks to the Channel Five reporter, Stephen Glass.

He glanced down at the matches. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny.

Sick bastard.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, trying to release the tension from his shoulders. He was twisting himself up in knots.

One fire. One pack of matches. Neither countered the mountains of evidence the D.C. fire investigators found that proved the body in that warehouse was Nero.

Raymond Clyde Mason had been Nero’s real name. The man who had terrorized D.C. for nearly a year was dead. Mason hadn’t fit his idea of Nero, but gut reactions didn’t hold a candle to the hard evidence that said Nero was dead. And whatever lingering doubts Gannon had had faded when the fires had stopped completely.

So why did he have the feeling that Nero was back?

“You’re losing your mind, Gannon,” he whispered.

Someone is jerking your chain.

Nero is dead.

He walked over to the trash can by the door and was ready to toss the matches away when he changed his mind and slipped them into his pocket.