“What kind of store is it, sir?”
He looks at the fire, then back at me. Some unidentifiable specks of ash float over us, sparks showering around them. “Water beds,” he says. “How could they burn?”
I didn't know people still slept on waterbeds. The fire's burning ferociously, and distant shouts among the firemen sound frantic. Popping and exploding noises are flying along with bits of debris, and I realize these are from waterbeds bursting in the air like pricked balloons. The water from the hoses steams in the frigid air and all the snow around the lot is melting. I tell Mario to film some more of the fire and get back to me in five minutes, then I focus on the water-bed guy, putting a hand on his arm. When I offer my condolences, he opens up.
His name is Luther Hodges. He's been in the water-bed business since the sixties, and has seen his fortunes rise and fall, but he's convinced they're about to rise again. The water bed is making a comeback, he tells me, his little black eyes flashing. His store is called Sleeping With the Fishes, or was.
“Who would do this?” he asks after I've elicited this much information.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” I say. “Do you have any enemies? Any really dissatisfied customers?”
This offends him. “People love their beds,” he says. “I sell a quality product under warranty.”
The cop who was embracing him earlier comes over and says he's ready to ask Luther some questions now.
“Officer, do you have any theories as to how the fire started?” I ask.
“No comment at this time, Joanne.”
“Police authorities,” I say into the microphone, “have no comment at this time on the cause of the fire.”
I crawl into bed after midnight, my clothes reeking of smoke in the hamper, and barely wake up in time to answer the phone at four in the morning. I'm still in the mindset of assuming it's going to be Jeff. But it's Luther Hodges.
“You've got to help me,” he says.
“I'm in bed,” I say, wondering, not for the first time, about the wisdom of a person who works in television having a listed number.
“They think I did it,” he says. “They're gathering evidence, they said. I need someone on my side.”
“Did you do it?”
“Are you crazy? It's my own friggin' store.”
I yawn and sit up. “What kind of insurance policy do you have, Mr. Hodges?”
There's a pause after this in which I almost fall asleep again. “That's what the cops wanted to know, too,” he says. “You know, just because a person has an insurance policy that covers fire doesn't mean he wants his entire life to go up in smoke.”
“I'm hanging up, Mr. Hodges,” I tell him. “I'm a television reporter, and I need my beauty sleep.”
“Just hold on a minute,” he says, but I don't.
I sleep late, wake up, read three papers, watch CNN. My free time's mostly in the morning, and until recently I'd spend it with Jeff. He liked to cook, preferably old-school breakfasts with eggs and sausage and hash browns. After eating we'd go right back to bed. Half an hour later I'd get restless and want to leave the house, but he'd hold me down, his big hands on my shoulders, telling me not to be in such a rush all the time. It was a friendly argument, but an argument nonetheless. With him gone, I find there's all this space in my life, phantom and new, like when you put on your clothes after successfully dieting off five pounds. Except with the pounds you know you're more than likely to fill up the space again.
The phone rings every hour on the hour, and the caller ID says it's Luther Hodges. He leaves these messages that sound offputtingly breathy and excited — less distressed than pornographic. He wants to meet me for a drink and protest his innocence.
“This case will be tried in the court of public opinion,” he says when I finally pick up the phone. “You have a responsibility to garner all the facts.”
“Like what facts?”
“I'm being set up,” he says.
“By whom?”
“I can't tell you over the phone.”
I roll my eyes and agree to meet for a drink that afternoon, letting him pick the place; you can tell a lot about a person from the kind of bar they deem a suitable rendezvous point. He chooses a chain restaurant on 195, a neon-lit catastrophe with a sports-bar theme. When I get there I find him hunkered down in a booth with two hands around a pint of beer. In front of him is an order of fries served in a plastic football helmet.
I sit down opposite him and pull out my notepad. “So, Mr. Hodges. Who do you think set the fire?”
He leans forward over the table, then looks to his left and his right. It's three in the afternoon and the only person around is our waitress, a bored nineteen-year-old in a Patriots jersey. I wonder who he thinks could be listening. Luther Hodges, I decide, watches a lot of thrillers on late-night TV.
“My ex-wife,” he says, “has some very shady acquaintances.”
“I see. And what's your ex-wife's name?”
“Shannon Hodges. She lives in Pawtucket. All her friends are no-good characters.”
I write on the pad, so that he can see, Shannon Hodges. No-good characters. I underline the no-good. People like to feel that their words are being taken seriously. When I was in school, before I had much practice interviewing people, I used to worry about how to get them talking to me. Now that I've been working for a while, I know the real problem is how to shut them up.
“And what would she stand to gain by burning down your store?” I ask. “Is she a beneficiary on the insurance policy?”
“Ha!” Luther Hodges says, his little black eyes sparkling with malice. “The fire's incidental. She doesn't care about the store one way or the other. She never did. All she wants is to set me up. To see me suffering gives her great happiness, and it always has.”
I hear this kind of thing from married couples all the time, and it's another reason I don't like to put all my eggs into a basket labeled Life with Jeff.
“She's very, very clever.” Luther taps on my notepad with his index finger, for emphasis. “You'll have a hard time catching her. She's great at covering her tracks. This case could make your career.”
“There's no need for you to worry about my career, Mr. Hodges.”
“Call me Luther,” he says, “and I'm not worried. I seen you on the news. Lipstick on. Hair blowing. You look like a million bucks even when it's twenty below. I know you're going places.”
“I'll be in touch,” I tell him, and leave enough money to cover my drink.
I check in at the station — nothing pressing there, just another story about plummeting temperatures and rising oil costs — to pick up Mario and then drive out to Pawtucket. The sun's shining and the roads are dry. Shannon Hodges lives in a rundown duplex behind a chain video store. When she comes to the door, though, she doesn't look shady at all. She's wearing office clothes and looks tired but respectable. I can smell something cooking, and the news is on in the background, which always reassures me. She recognizes me right away.
“You're on TV,” she says. “Boy, you're young.”
“Can we come in?”
“Shorter than I thought, too.”
“Can we please come in?”
“Is this about Luther?”
“It's about the fire at his store.”
“I saw it on TV,” she says, and opens the door.
Mario goes into the living room and starts setting up. I ask her if she'll sit on the couch and answer a few questions. The place is dumpy but clean: flowered couch, wicker tables, doilies on everything.
She sits at the corner of the couch and smoothes her skirt. “I only have a few minutes,” she says. “I'm expecting company for dinner.”