“That would be difficult,” Tina said shortly. “We filled out a quickie form under the flickering light of a burning building. That Arnold Frye never asked a damned thing. Yesterday morning he told Grandmother the fire started in her pile of rags and he hoped she could live with it. Because of that, that man, my grandmother may lose everything.”
Zoe didn’t look up from her folded hands. “Don’t swear, dear. It’s not becoming.”
Tina squeezed her grandmother’s arm. “You worry about the silliest things.”
“No, dear, I worry your anger will cause more trouble. Please continue, Mr. McLean.”
He flattened the computer-generated floorplan on the table, then led the two women skillfully from room to room, short questions triggering long answers as he built a pre-fire picture of the building and its contents.
They knew the building from the intimacy of long use, first as owners, then as reluctant renters. Zoe had neared retirement giving public demonstrations on furniture restoration for a marginally likeable man. A long drop from the proud woman who’d inherited an entire city block during Eisenhower’s first term.
“I was always careful with those rags, Mr. McLean. Knowledge gained from my grandfather. Hard-learned knowledge. He burned down the first store on this site sometime around 1895.”
Tina nodded. “She was careful, believe me.”
McLean did, but for other reasons. He sipped his tea, jotted a few notes, and kept going. The stifling room made his neck, confined by the tie, want to explode. Did they know what Firth’s plans were for the holes in the second floor? No. Had they ever changed the fuses in the store? Zoe vaguely remembered where the box was but couldn’t remember the last time she’d changed one. That had become Firth’s problem when he took over.
“Did you always have a packaging operation?”
Zoe shook her head. “Another one of Clement’s brainstorms. I don’t know if it made money, and I hated having those plastic packing pellets around. Terrible things. They stuck to everything, got into everything. Still I guess it wasn’t too bad an idea. He sold collectibles by mail, and the packing was certainly good for that.”
When he asked if the packaging room doubled as a dressing room, he drew guffaws. The hair dryers were used to tighten shrinkwrap around valuable shipments.
From an ingrained sensitivity to lost dreams, McLean hesitated before broaching the last subject. “I believe you worked for Mr. Firth. How did he come to take over the store?”
For the first time anger furrowed Zoe’s face. “Yes, I worked for him. I, who’d built the store up from nothing. I, who’d sunk my life’s savings into it.” She wheezed to a stop, then let out a throaty laugh. “And now, I’m being a silly, stupid old woman.
“I had mortgaged the store, this entire block, trying one business after another. A vain old woman’s effort to leave my grandchild something besides a block of decaying, money-swallowing buildings. Finally I used the furnishings from our house to start the antique store. But I was much better at buying than selling. I so hated to part with all that lovely craftsmanship.” She waved vaguely around the denuded apartment. “And this is what’s left.”
Zoe smiled wanly, “Clement offered such a perfect way out. He’d take over the store and my debts. Put everything right, then sell it back to me. Of course nothing ever really works out, does it? Somehow the bills still piled up, although he kept the big creditors happy.”
McLean mentally ticked through his notes from Sarah Shallott. “But he never legally took on your debts.”
Zoe’s face reddened. “No, he didn’t.”
“So they remain yours.” He nodded to himself. “You were laid you off two weeks ago. Why?”
“It was a kind of combination sick leave,” she wiggled a gouty foot, “and layoff. Just for a few days originally. Then he broke his arm...” She shrugged.
“So things have been up in the air. Including your finances?”
Zoe looked glum. “I should say so. What happens now? I suppose I get the store back. Along with the banks screaming for their money and Clement’s unpaid contractors’ bills.” She wiped her brow with a handkerchief and said softly, “This is really too much.”
“Was he insured?” Tina asked.
“About a half a million on the inventory.”
She flushed slightly, but her voice remained flat, “Sounds right. I haven’t been in the store for weeks, but say what you will about Clement and Regina Thom, they knew antiques.”
“What do you know about the manager, Regina?”
“Not much,” Tina answered, “but I was there the day she walked into the store. He looked like someone had dropped a brick on his foot.”
“When was that?”
“A year ago. Just as he and Grandmother firmed up their deal. I was supposed to be store manager; Grandmother was to appraise and refinish. Then Regina walked in, they went upstairs for a few minutes, and when they came back down, she had my job.”
“An irritating development, surely?”
“At first I wanted to turn the pair of them into sausage. I mean really, the guy broke his word less than an hour after giving it. But it worked out better for me. I start my sophomore year of college next month. Pre-law and accounting.”
“So, no hard feelings?” McLean tried not to sound dubious.
Tina snorted. “I suppose. She acted like she owned the place, bossed Grandmother around as if she didn’t know country furniture from Sears’ best. She knows all right.”
“Let’s move to Saturday night. The fire report says you and Regina were together during the incident. At midnight. That you walked out of the Jumping Jack, saw the flames, and called the fire department.”
“We belong to the same athletic club. And in fact we were working out together, well, at least we were in the same room. We left at the same time because I wanted to know what was going on with Clement.” She almost smiled. “He broke his arm falling down the stairs. I warned him when he remodeled that they were too high and too narrow.”
“Who turned in the alarm?”
“I did. Regina was rooted to the spot. Kind of like a snake charmed by the flames.”
“You called 911. Then what?”
“I woke Grandmother up and got her out of here.” Tina’s tone indicated the question was stupid.
McLean swallowed a small grin. “Then?”
“We’d gone down the back stairs and had come out in the alley. Clement was still in the store; he lived there.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away. “We saw two firemen and told them. Smoke was pouring out the upstairs windows, and those guys went into it.” She sounded awestruck.
McLean rose to leave. “I’m sorry about your loss. I’m certain Sarah will try her best to put you right.”
“I don’t want to mislead you, Mr. McLean,” Zoe said. “Show him the agreement, dear.”
Tina shot her grandmother an unreadable look but dug through a pile on the makeshift desk to produce a wrinkled piece of paper. “I got Clement to sign it last month. Pre-law isn’t a total waste of time.”
It was a will of sorts. A guarantee that if Clement Firth died, his estate would cover all outstanding claims against the business.
“He signed this willingly?”
“Yes, even joked about it. Said he didn’t have any family and that we might as well benefit from his death.”
Tina escorted McLean out. On the walk down the hall he snagged one of the old gas valves with his foot and nearly fell. Trying to recover his poise he said, “Haven’t seen these in years. Do they still work?”
Tina hid a smile. “Lord, no. Grandfather unhooked the pipe in the basement years ago. Grandmother is terrified of gas.”
On reaching the street he yanked off the tie and tossed it on the pickup’s seat, next to the cellular phone and the fax, his mobile link to Mort Reed, partner and friend. The coveralls he’d worn earlier that morning, jammed under the seat, contributed a faint aroma of their own.