Grilling the Subject (5 page)

I, of course, went to bed feeling like a weakling. I mean,
c'mon
. I needed my boyfriend to check out my place? No one was hounding me. I was imagining things, right?

*   *   *

Wednesday morning, I
dressed in leggings, tennis shoes, and a fashionably torn Cal Poly sweatshirt—fashionably torn because that was what was in vogue when I went to college at Cal Poly. At a quarter to seven, knowing a fast
walk would do me wonders, I hustled to the beach to clear the cobwebs. The air was crisp. A light mist hovered over the ocean. The strand was empty of people.

Near a smoldering fire pit—apparently someone had enjoyed a party late last night and into the wee hours—a seagull dive-bombed me. Had I drawn near to its breakfast, possibly a dead fish that it had dropped?

“Sorry, buddy,” I yelled and darted away to escape its cawing craziness.

In the mad dash, I caught sight of a string of horseback riders moving along the road parallel to me. In about a mile, they would ascend the hills. There were tons of fabulous trails to explore. What a fun day ahead for them.

As I neared The Pier, I noticed a figure hovering in the shadows by one of the pylons. My pulse started to chug double time. Not only wasn't I a fan of strangers in parking lots or elevators, I wasn't eager to run into one on a deserted beach. I did a U-turn but stopped when someone—a woman—screamed. I whipped around.

The woman was standing on The Pier and pointing. People gathered near her. All started jutting arms in the same direction as she, toward the hills behind me.

One yelled: “Fire!”

I pivoted and gaped. On the hill, near my father's neighborhood, an orange-red fire lit up the sky.

I
darted into the
cottage, fetched my cell phone and purse, told Tigger to stay put, and hightailed it to my father's house in my VW Beetle. On my way, I telephoned Dad at home. He didn't answer. I reached his voice mail. “Are you okay?” I yelled, then ended the call and tried his cell phone. He didn't answer that, either.

By the time I arrived at Pine Lane, my father's street, my adrenaline was pumping double time, and my mind was fraught with worry. People in various stages of dress—some in robes, some set for work—were milling near a curb with a public outlook. No houses blocked the ocean view. Two police cars and two fire trucks had parked on the road. Firemen aimed water through hoses at the now-nonexistent blaze, which was not my father's house, thank heaven, or any house. The fire seemed to have erupted in the open area down the hill where Sylvia had held her party the other night.

What had started the blaze? A spark, an ember, an arsonist?

I searched for my father among the curious people. I didn't find him. “Have you seen Cary Hart?” I asked an elderly woman. She shook her head. I ran to my father's house and pounded on the door. No one answered. “Dad!” I bellowed.

Silence.

Call me crazy, but I was worried. Where was he? I charged toward one of the police cars. They were empty. I saw Chief Pritchett—Cinnamon—and a couple of her deputies on the plateau below. Though Cinnamon was a well-built, athletic woman, she appeared puny standing next to her subordinates. They seemed to be entrenched in a conversation. I hailed her, but she didn't acknowledge me. I headed toward the path that ran alongside my father's house.

“Miss, halt!” A skinny deputy, hanging back and managing the onlookers, aimed a finger at me. “No civilians allowed.” He put a hand on his holstered gun.

I saluted and made a U-turn. I raced to my VW thinking if he wouldn't allow me to go
down
to the crime scene, I would go
up
. I drove to Sylvia Gump's sprawling house on Azalea Place. At least in one regard, the Gumps had conformed to city standards—the roof, what you could see of it, was red—and to Sylvia's credit, she, like Ava Judge next door, had a gorgeous, well-tended garden.

There were no fire trucks on the street, but there was a parked patrol car. Its driver was not inside; I didn't see an officer anywhere. Taking my lead from Sylvia—if she could trespass, I could, too—I jogged to the side of the Gumps' house and up a set of stairs.

As I neared the rear of the house, the hideous-looking fence on the side of the porch snagged my attention and made me almost ram into a rear set of stairs. In the nick of time, I veered right and avoided catching my calf on a stair corner; however, I caught a heel on wet grass and skidded about ten feet, like when I was a girl doing Slip'N Slide. I remained on my feet, barely. I spun around and glared at that fence
and then the stairs, which from this angle were quite visible. They were loaded with shoes and a collection of female-sized garden boots that would make Martha Stewart envious, if she could stand the mud and mess on them.

Move on, Jenna!

Past the house was yet another set of stairs heading upward toward the plateau. They seemed makeshift, like someone had stacked stones with no solid base. A gentle tremor beneath the earth might make them skid into the Gumps' backyard.
Trespasser, beware.

Gingerly I scaled those and sprinted to the scene. When I arrived, I made a beeline for Cinnamon. Though she was wearing her standard broad-brimmed hat, she held a hand overhead to shield the morning sun from her eyes. I gazed in the direction she was peering, at the wreckage: charred bushes, ash-streaked nymph-and-satyr fountain, scorched ground. Beyond the mess stood the semidemolished brick wall. A pile of brick pieces, some broken and some intact, lay beside it, all untouched by the fire. Lola said Ava had caused that mess. Yipes. Talk about angry.

“Cinnamon.” I hurried to her. “Chief!”

She pivoted. Her blunt hair swung with the motion. Her expression was not welcoming. “Jenna, you shouldn't be here.”

“Careful, guys!” Bucky Winston, a handsome firefighter with the brawn of a male weightlifter and the easy smile of a jokester, was in command of the crew. A couple of men were using rakes to move the charred bramble to one side. “Don't tamper with the body.”

“Body?” I yelped. I strained to look where Bucky was standing.

Cinnamon nudged me away. “Jenna, go home,” she ordered, then revised that. “No, wait. Stay.” She squinted. “Where's your father?”

“I don't know. I'm looking for him.”

“Why?”

“Because he's not at home, and he's not answering his cell phone, and I saw the fire on my morning walk, and”—I slurped in air—“who's the victim?” I choked on the last word.

“Sylvia Gump.”

A man moaned. To my right. Ronald Gump, as pasty as wet clay and looking every one of his seventy-plus years, was standing near the cluster of firemen. He was dressed in flannel pajamas and leather slippers and leaning heavily on his cane. He removed the sunglasses he was wearing, rubbed a palm against one eye, and replaced the sunglasses. Poor guy.

“What happened?” I asked Cinnamon.

“Fire.”

“I can see that. What was Sylvia doing there?” Was she trespassing again and putting in a fire pit or something else that required natural gas? Had her misguided efforts gone kablooey? “Did she set the blaze?”

“She couldn't have.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Cinnamon hesitated. Her chest rose and fell. “Because she was murdered.”

“Murdered? How?”

“Jenna, it's not your business.”

“What started the fire?”

“Lighter fluid.”

“It doesn't look like it was ablaze for long.”

“That's because someone called 911 minutes after it ignited.”

“Who?”

Cinnamon said, “The dispatcher said she wasn't sure. The call was untraceable.”

“Do you think whoever killed Sylvia set the fire?” I asked. “Possibly a neighbor who didn't want the area to go up in smoke?”

Cinnamon seared me with a glare. “Don't theorize.”

Ronald moaned again. He was shaking his head; his free hand was weathering the collar of his pajamas between his
thumb and forefinger. He seemed to be in total distress. He mumbled something, and I flinched. Had I heard him right? Did he utter my father's name?

“Cary,” Ronald said, louder this time. No mistaking the word. “Cary did this.”

“What?” I yelped again. I was getting good at it. “Cinnamon . . . Chief,” I quickly revised. She might be my friend, but I had to show her the respect she deserved. “No way would my father—”

“Cary killed my Sylvia.”

I stared daggers at Ronald. “He. Did. Not. Do. This.”

Cinnamon touched my shoulder. “Jenna, calm down.”

“I will not calm down.” I wriggled away. “You know my father.”

“Ronald saw him.”

“Where?” I flailed a hand. “When?”

“Running away from the blaze.”

“Not possible. No way.” My heart was chugging so fast I could barely breathe.

“You said you called your father.”

“Yes. I didn't reach him.”

“Text him.”

“If you're so eager to find him, why don't you text him?”

“Jenna.”

“Fine,” I snapped like a disgruntled teenager. Raw emotions were hard to curb, even at the ripe age of thirty. I pulled out my cell phone and typed a text to Dad:
Where R U?
He didn't respond. I showed the screen of my cell phone to Cinnamon and said, “While we wait, tell me everything, from the beginning.”

She blinked back tears, and suddenly I realized how hard she was taking this. She adored my father. He had been her mentor. At my mother's insistence, he had rescued Cinnamon when she, speaking of bad teenage habits, was heading down a path toward juvie. “Around six
A.M.
, Mr. Gump—”

“Ronald—”

“Wakened to the smell of smoke. He hobbled to the window and saw the blaze. He called the fire department, too.”

“Too?”

“A team had already been dispatched.”

“Who called it in first?”

“I told you. An anonymous caller.”

“Let's hear it for good citizens.”

Cinnamon's mouth quirked up, but there was no humor in the smile. “Mr. Gump . . . Ronald . . . saw your father fleeing in a red plaid jacket.”

“Did he actually see Dad? Did he make out his features at that hour of the morning? Lots of people own red plaid jackets.”

Cinnamon's nose narrowed as she drew in a breath and let it out. “Jenna, I'm on your side. I'm on your father's side, too.”

“Good to know.” I worked my jaw back and forth.

“Whoever was in the jacket fled over the crest, right near your father's house.”

My insides drew into a knot.

“The crew arrived,” Cinnamon continued, “and they went to work to put out the blaze. By that time, my team and I had arrived. Once the fire was out, we saw the charred remains of Sylvia.” She sighed. “Ronald told the crew your father and Sylvia argued on the telephone Sunday night. Ronald said Cary—your father—told Sylvia to
burn in hell
.”

I flapped a hand. “Sylvia said it first.”

“So you heard this exchange?”

I blanched. Open mouth, insert foot. Dang.

“Jenna?”

“It was during our regular Sunday night dinner,” I said. Cinnamon had joined us a few times for our weekly meal. She was considered family. “Sylvia was throwing a loud party. Dad phoned her. She screamed at him. He was simply echoing what she said.”

“Ronald mentioned that.”

“Sylvia is . . .
was
trying to usurp this property.” I pointed at the charred area. “Lots of people in the neighborhood had a beef with her about it. In fact, all of them got together to discuss what to do about it.”

“Like who?”

“I don't know. Ask Ava.” I gulped. The musty smell of damp smoldering hillside made me want to heave. I pressed down the impulse.

“I heard your father took Sylvia on at the gas station, too.”

“Says who?”

“Bucky.” Cinnamon's boyfriend, the hunky fireman. “I believe Sylvia retorted: ‘Over my dead body.'”

I moaned. “She was buying fuel, like for a barbecue. Dad warned her not to put on another party, and she—” I glanced at the scorched area and wild, alternative scenarios scudded through my head. The lighter fluid. The propane tanks. “Maybe this isn't what it looks like. What if Sylvia lured my father up here to goad him into doing something rash? What if she set the blaze, hoping to trap him and kill him? What if she died of smoke inhalation before he got here?”

“She didn't.”

“How do you know?”

“I can't tell you.”

“What if—” I bit my lip. In every one of the scenarios running roughshod through my brain, my father appeared guilty, because if he had come to the site and didn't try to save Sylvia . . .
argh!
“It wasn't Dad. You know he didn't do this. He couldn't. He's a pacifist. He—”

“Chief!” Bucky called. He hailed her over. “You've got to see this.”

Cinnamon said to me, “Hang tight,” and traipsed through the muck to where Bucky was standing. “What?”

He pointed.

I stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse over one of the firemen's shoulders, to see what they were discussing.

Marlon Appleby, Cinnamon's second-in-command, a man
with big ears and square jaw, strode to my side. “Hey, Jenna,” he said, concern in his tone. Usually he was stern with me, but he seemed more tolerant this time. Why? Because he was dating my aunt, or because I looked like one vulnerable mess of a woman? “Sorry, but you'll have to move back.”

“Can you tell me anything about what happened? What evidence do you have against my father other than Ronald's statement? How did Sylvia die? Are there footprints? Please, detective, give me something.” I tried to hold back the tears that were filling my eyes but couldn't. Moisture dripped down my cheeks. Swell. I wasn't merely a vulnerable mess; I was a bleary-eyed, ridiculous mess. “My father . . . he didn't—”

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I wriggled it out and read the text:
Hi, Tootsie Pop
—my father's nickname for me since I was a tween; I hated it, I had outgrown it, but what could I do, demand he stop? I continued reading:
Fishing. Will call soon. Hope it's nothing important.
That was a longer message than I'd ever received from my father. He was old school and preferred analog or even the written word to digital, but Lola would have none of that. She made him promise never to leave home without his cell phone.

I texted back:
Yes, it's important. Sylvia Gump is dead. The police think she's been murdered. By you. Call me.