A Dime a Dozen (10 page)

When they were finished with their presentation, I commended them for their efforts in building this amazing operation, and then we talked about what it would take to get the company through the grant approval process for the million dollars.

“As I’ve said before,” I told them, “I have ten criteria that I have to apply to MORE. If we can show that you pass on every single count, then I can recommend that you get the money.”

“Are these criteria financial?” Dean asked.

“Only some,” I replied, and I went on to name them as Dean and Natalie both leaned forward, listening intently.

“A good nonprofit agency,” I began, counting off on my fingers, “serves a worthwhile cause; adequately fulfills its mission statement, showing fruit for its labors; plans and spends wisely; pays salaries and benefits on a par with nonprofit industry standards; follows standards of responsible and ethical fund-raising; has an independent board that accepts responsibility for activities; is well rated by outside reporting sources; has a good reputation among its peers; believes in full financial disclosure; and has its books audited annually by an independent auditor and receives a clean audit opinion.”

“That’s a pretty tough list,” Natalie said.

“Think you’ll pass?” I asked.

Dean winked at Natalie before answering me confidently. “We wouldn’t have applied for the grant if we didn’t.”

The three of us worked together in the conference room the rest of the morning, and in that time I was able to familiarize myself with their bookkeeping system and their policies and procedures, and to obtain much of the paperwork I would need to do the job. I expected Harriet to arrive late in the day, and in the morning I would bring her here to the office and get her set up with the books to begin her own audit.

Harriet would be handling two of the criteria for me fully, including “believes in full financial disclosure” and “has books audited annually by an independent auditor and receives a clean audit opinion.” She would also help with a third, “pays salaries and benefits on a par with nonprofit industry standards,” because it was her job to ferret out all of the “extras” that working for this company provided. Often, the benefits were a gray area to which we gave a lot of attention. Of course, here things were a little different, since I believed unequivocally in the Webbers’ integrity. But we still had to go through the full process and sign off on every detail.

Just by seeing on paper all that they had accomplished with their charity, I had already checked off the first criteria. I knew they served a worthwhile cause. This week I would spend time looking into their fund-raising efforts, their rankings, their reputation, and their board of directors. The main part of my time, however, would be spent checking to see how they fulfilled their mission statement, and if they were planning and spending wisely, as I felt certain they were. Of course, I would also have to assess the effect of the problems that arose when Luisa Morales had worked here.

Feeling well organized by noon, I took Natalie up on her offer of lunch. Dean excused himself to catch up with some paperwork, so Natalie and I left the office without him and drove up the street to one of my old favorites, Auntie’s Country Kitchen.

According to the sign next to the hostess stand, today’s specials included a variety of meat-and-starch-type dishes—meatloaf and mashed potatoes, pot roast with rice and gravy—all with sides of biscuits and collard greens and applesauce. In other words, good old Southern home cooking! Inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from inside, I could feel my appetite quickly springing to life.

We sat in a booth next to the window and perused the menu. The restaurant was an unpretentious place, with a small vase of plastic flowers at the center of every Formica-topped table. Natalie pushed our vase to one side, reminding me to save room for the fruit pies that were the restaurant owner’s specialty.

Before we had a chance to order, however, Dean entered the restaurant and walked quickly to our table.

“Dean!” Natalie said happily upon spotting him. “I’m so glad you decided to join—”

Seeing the expression on his face, she cut herself off in midsentence.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s been a new incident. With Luisa.”

“Is she all right?” Natalie asked.

“She and the kids are fine,” Dean said. “But someone just tried to burn down their trailer.”

Seven

Dean explained further as the three of us drove toward the trailer in question. Apparently, Luisa had brought her car to the auto shop just a while ago to have the window repaired where the person had broken the glass to throw in the stink bombs. Because it was going to take some time before it was ready, the tow truck driver had given her a ride home. When they got there, the trailer was on fire.

“The guy from the auto shop said they managed to put it out before it did any real damage,” Dean said. “But he sounded pretty shaken up, and I could hear Luisa crying in the background.”

Dean added that the man had wanted to call the police, but Luisa insisted that he phone Dean and Natalie first.

“Why you and not the police?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean said, “I think Luisa has lost faith that the cops can help her at all. They didn’t treat the stink bomb incident very seriously last night; at least, not until the poor stabbing victim was found.”

“Yeah, but come on,” I said. “There’s a big difference between a stink bomb and a house fire. Especially now that there’s been a murder.”

Natalie shook her head sadly.

“Poor Luisa,” she said. “Her troubles never seem to end.”

The three of us were quiet for a while as Dean continued to drive. The closer we got to downtown Greenbriar, the more I felt an odd sort of déjà vu. I had come into Greenbriar from a different direction yesterday, so this was the first time I had been to the downtown area in several years.

The names on the stores may have changed, but the old structures with their lovely ornate cornices were the same. Narrow buildings lined both sides of the street for several blocks, most of them with little shops downstairs and what I assumed were converted apartments upstairs. Fortunately, there seemed to be some effort to keep the area attractive and viable, with charming little boutiques and inviting cafés dotting both sides of the street. A new row of trees grew from brick-lined circles spaced along the sidewalks, interspersed with wooden benches and old-fashioned coach-type lampposts. The street had always been a little too narrow for the passage of cars and parking on both sides, but now it looked as though they had widened the lanes and built public parking lots along the back sides of the buildings.

At the main intersection, Dean made a left turn and then followed the highway out of town where it snaked alongside a creek. It was a gorgeous spring day, and many of the trees and plants we passed were alive with early blossoms of pink and white and purple. Of course, between the breaks in the trees on all sides were the Smoky Mountains, vivid shadowy peaks topped by white tufts of clouds. Reluctantly, I forced my mind away from the beautiful scenery and back to the task at hand.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said. “After all the harm this woman did to your agency, why are the two of you still so involved with her?”

Natalie sighed deeply before answering.

“She really doesn’t have anyone else,” she said. “And besides whatever has happened with her in the past, it is still our charity’s mission to help migrants.”

“It seems to me you go more than the extra mile.”

“That’s what it takes sometimes,” Natalie said. “And our hearts really do go out to her. She’s a very sweet woman.”

“How does she know the fire was intentional?” I asked. “I mean, it could’ve been electrical or something.”

“From the smell,” Dean replied as he slowed and put on his turn signal. “The man from the auto shop said it smelled like someone had doused the side of the trailer with gasoline.”

Dean turned onto a gravel drive that dipped down and ended abruptly at a tangled mess of bushes and kudzu vines. He pulled in next to a tow truck, and we got out and walked toward the trailer, a tiny blue-and-white aluminum capsule that was even smaller than I had expected. It sat at a slight angle in tall weeds, perched next to the creek, and one end was stained black. The smell of gasoline was still prevalent, though there were no containers nearby except for an empty bucket.

Dean stepped onto the upside-down milk crate that served as a front stoop and was about to knock on the door when a man called out from the far side of the trailer.

“We’re over here,” he said.

We walked around the corner toward the voice to find Luisa sitting at a rickety picnic table under a tree, crying. Pacing nearby was a man in an oil-stained work uniform, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Natalie went to Luisa and hugged her while the man stopped pacing and explained what had happened. Apparently, they had seen the fire before they even turned into the driveway. Once they got out of the truck, they tried dousing the flames with water from the creek, but with only one bucket it was a losing battle. Finally, he remembered the truck’s fire extinguisher, so he retrieved it and sprayed the fire until it went out.

“This whole trailer woulda probably burned down if we hadn’t got here when we did,” he said in a thick mountain accent. “She’s all upset, but I tol’ her she’s lucky. At least the fire didn’t burn all the way through to the inside.”

While they continued talking, I walked back around the trailer to look at the big blackened mess, and I saw he was correct. It appeared to have burned down to the insulation, but not beyond.

“Look, I know the police are probably gonna wanna talk to me, but it’s takin’ too long for them to get here,” the man was saying as he walked to the tow truck. He opened the passenger door and began digging through the glove compartment. “If I don’t get back to the garage right now, I’m gonna lose my job. Tell ’em to call me if they need me, would ya? I’ll be there ’til four. Her car’ll be ready by then anyway.”

He handed Dean what looked like a business card, and then he climbed up into the truck, gave us a wave, and drove away.

Dean and I walked back to the other side of the trailer where Natalie was still comforting Luisa. They looked up when we appeared, and Natalie introduced me as her daughter-in-law, Callie Webber. I said hello and quietly took a seat on a nearby tree stump. Dean found a spot at the table to sit, and then we all waited as Luisa wiped her eyes and pulled herself together.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she said finally, stifling more sobs. “Thank the good Lord at least the children are not here to see this.”

“Where are the children?” Natalie asked, her brow wrinkled.

“At Go the Distance. I called and checked on them. Karen said they’re fine.”

I cleared my throat and then spoke.

“Do you mind if I look around a bit?” I asked.

“Go ahead,” Luisa mumbled, barely noticing as I rose and walked away. As she recounted her version of what had happened, I studied the situation, careful not to disturb anything since this was a crime scene. I couldn’t get around the back of the trailer because it was covered with more kudzu, a stubborn plant prominent in the Southeast that sometimes grew so quickly and heartily that it was able to cover almost anything in its path—including old house trailers. I thought that in a better moment I ought to warn Luisa to cut down the vines before they completely took over. For now, I went around the other way and tried to see if I could find any clues to the fire. No one had asked for my help here, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

Years ago my investigating mentor, Eli Gold, had taught me the basics of arson detection. As if I could hear his voice in my head directing me, I examined the side of the trailer and the grass underneath for any evidence that might have been left behind.

And, actually, there was a lot. At first I didn’t quite understand what I was seeing, but as I played with some scenarios in my head, it began to make sense. To me, it looked as if someone had indeed doused the side of the trailer and the ground under that side with gasoline or some other similar incendiary agent. Then from there they had poured a line of the liquid out about 15 feet for their own protection when lighting the fire. It hadn’t worked, however, because there were half-burned matches every few feet along the line. The best I could figure was that the grass was so wet—and the line of liquid poured so thin—that the matches wouldn’t stay lit. The fire would travel a few feet and then fizzle out. The arsonist would obviously try again, a bit closer this time, but the same thing happened twice more. The last few matches were a mere five feet or so from the trailer, and I guessed at that point the arsonist hadn’t wanted to risk being any closer when lighting the fire.

I supposed that explained why the ignition source actually responsible for the fire wasn’t matches at all but a road flare. A small, blackened piece of it remained, half hidden in the burned grass at the point of origin. I could only assume that the flare had been lit and then tossed into the gasoline from a safe distance, finally doing the job of starting the main fire.