“Okay. I’m on it.” Tyler took the clipboard back and tossed it into the car. “And if there’s anything more I can do to help, all you have to do is ask.”
He was being so nice. She could learn to like this man. “Seriously, thank you,” she said. “Is it okay to ask what you think about this fire?”
“Unofficially?”
“Whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”
“Fire in an empty structure. No one injured.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “Started in a twenty-gallon bag of potting mix.”
“You’re telling me the fire started in a bag of dirt?”
“What they sell as potting mix for houseplants doesn’t have much ordinary dirt in it. It’s shredded bark and peat moss, plus fertilizer, of course. Under the right conditions, it burns.”
“My mother used to grow geraniums. She might have left behind some potting mix. But wouldn’t it need a source?”
“That’s exactly the question the investigators will be asking. You can’t just toss a match into the bag and expect it to go up in flames. And it certainly wouldn’t spontaneously combust. At the very least, it would need a sustained heat source. A hot coal. A live wire. Or a cigarette. That’s what it usually turns out to be, careless disposal of smoking materials.”
Deirdre groaned. How many times had she seen her father mash his cigarette in one of her mother’s plant pots? It was emblematic of her parents’ incompatibility that he couldn’t see why his doing it bothered Gloria so much, and Gloria couldn’t understand why he couldn’t stop doing it just because it bothered her.
Could her father possibly have started the fire himself? “How long would it have taken to catch fire?”
“Hard to say.”
“More than a day?”
Tyler frowned. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but highly unlikely. My guess? An hour; maybe as many as four. Fewer with help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Accelerant. Even in charred debris, we can detect the presence of certain chemicals.”
“Is there—?”
“I won’t know until I’ve run the tests.” He grinned. “It’s bizarre how life turns out. I nearly flunked chemistry at Beverly and now, when I’m not in the field, they let me use an office and what’s basically a chem lab in the basement of City Hall. I get paid to produce lab reports.” His wry expression turned serious. “But regardless of what started the fire, once there was an open flame it could have taken only minutes for the fire to spread. Garages are typically full of flammable liquids. Gasoline, of course. Linseed oil. Turpentine.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
“Most garage fires are.”
“What happens if that’s what it turns out to be?”
“Accidental fire? Just property damage, no one injured or killed? Usually as far as police are concerned, case closed.”
But was the fire accidental? Her father’s death had turned out not to be. “And what if . . . ?”
“It was deliberately set? Insurance investigators swoop in like a flock of banshees. They’ll want to know whether this fire was set with an intent to defraud. They’re looking for a reason not to pay out, and they’re nothing if not thorough.” He paused for a few seconds. “Police get involved, too. Arson is a crime.”
Chapter 21
Later that night, long after Tyler had driven off in the fire department van, Deirdre stood with Henry outside the garage, taking in the miserable piles of cardboard boxes and lawn furniture that had been left heaped in the driveway. At least the crime scene tape and orange cones were gone. The air pulsed with crickets, and a sliver of a crescent moon hung high in a sky that shimmered in the tepid night air.
Had the fire been deliberately set, and if so, was it a firebug who liked to watch things burn, or someone whose aim was to destroy her father’s garage and office and its contents? And if so, how could it not be connected to her father’s death?
“Promise you won’t bite my head off if I ask you something,” Deirdre said to Henry.
“What?”
She turned to face him. “First, promise.”
“How can I promise if I don’t know what you’re going to ask?”
“Did you set this fire?”
“Did I . . .” Henry’s mouth fell open. “Deirdre, how could—”
“Just answer the question. Did you?”
He glared at her. “Idiot.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Henry paused. Then said emphatically, “No.”
She stared hard at him. Used to be she could tell when he was lying. Now he seemed completely opaque. “Do you know anything about how it started?” she asked.
“No. I do not. Do you?”
She entered the garage and shined a flashlight beam across the floor. Prints from the patterned soles of rubber boots tracked through the soot, and water still dripped overhead. “Here’s where it started.” She shined the beam on a spot on the floor.
Henry crouched over the lighted area. He ran his finger through ashes, sniffed at them, and pulled a face.
“Tyler told me that was why they were taking so many pictures right there,” Deirdre said. “He said it could have been started by accident, something like careless disposal of smoking materials. Or it could have been set.”
“Why would anyone set fire to Dad’s garage?” Henry said, taking the flashlight from Deirdre. “Your friend Tyler have any theories about that?”
“Why would anyone kill Dad?” she said. Henry glanced up at her, then back at the floor. “What do you have against Tyler, anyway?”
“Wasn’t he the one in high school who made a big deal about there being no ROTC? He was always Mr. Straight Arrow.”
“That’s it? That was twenty years ago.” It amazed her, the old tapes that were still running in his head. Did any of them ever outrun who they’d been in high school?
Henry walked over to where one of his motorcycles was tipped over on its side. He ran the flashlight beam across the skim of ash that now coated its twisted flank. The leather seat had been burned away, revealing bits of charred yellow foam. He shook his head. “Shit.”
“That’s it? Just ‘shit’?”
“Hey, it’s just a bike.” He shrugged. “And it’s insured. So’s Dad’s car. And the garage, too, for that matter. They’re just things. Not like it got one of us or the dogs.”
Someone would have to call the insurance company—and as usual that someone would end up being her. Deirdre stared up at the ceiling where the fire had burned through. A huge cleanup lay ahead of them. Any records that her father had kept up there, like their homeowner’s insurance policy, had probably gone up in flames along with financial records and whatever “literary estate” he’d left for her to execute. Execute seemed the apt term, since that was pretty much what the fire had already done to it.
“Don’t even think about going up there now,” Henry said.
“I want to know how bad it is.” What she really wanted to know was whether anyone had been messing around with her father’s papers after she’d left and before the fire started.
“It’s late,” Henry went on, “and besides, there’s no electricity. You don’t know if it’s even safe to walk around. The insurance adjuster is coming over first thing in the morning. At least wait until after the inspection—”
“You actually called the insurance company?” Deirdre said, astonished.
“You know, you’re completely batshit,” Henry said. “Believe it or not, I do plenty of things without you or Mom telling me I’m supposed to and then pecking me to death until they’re done.”
Deirdre yawned. She could feel the adrenaline that had been fueling her drain away. “I think you enjoy being pecked at. I just never thought you’d figure out where to call. Especially when most of Dad’s records are probably up there.” She kissed Henry lightly on the cheek. He reeked of smoke. She realized she did, too. Her clothing. Her hair. Even her skin smelled charred. “Seriously, thank you,” she said. “The truth is, I’m exhausted. What I need more than anything right now is a hot shower and my pillow. Maybe a drink to help me pass out.”