Page 49 of Playing With Fire

Go figure. Someday she was going to write an article exploring whether this was science or simply childhood nostalgia.

Ricky had offered no resistance to her wiles. After reminding her (quite unnecessarily in Jodi’s opinion) that this was all confidential, he had laid out the evidence.

The boys had admitted to being at the retirement village and they wouldn’t say why; they were often out and about on a weekday morning, and more damning—both boys smelled suspiciously of tobacco. This last bit of evidence, admittedly, was based entirely on Ricky’s fleeting olfactory response as the boys had hightailed past him to get out of the study.

Jodi chased the last piece of apple around with a fork, dunked it in the last blob of ice cream, and popped it in her mouth.

“Ummm,” she murmured. She held up a finger, and he waited patiently, both hands flat on the table. His body language was warm rather than intimate, and although she ached to reach out and trail a finger over those tiny scars, to feel the warm, reassuring touch of his skin, she dared not.

“All that is circumstantial. Suspicious, but no slam dunk,” she finally managed. “Or there’s something else you are not telling me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Otherwise, the twins would be wearing orange onesies at the county lockup and getting their knuckles inked as we speak.”

Ricky threw back his head and laughed, a glorious full belly laugh that released a rush of pure longing in Jodi. She locked her hands tightly together like a circuit judge.

No touching, she reminded herself. One kiss—technically, two kisses—didn’t mean a thing, especially to handsome and successful New Yorkers.

“You’re wasted as a journalist. You’d make a great creative writer. But yes, there is something.” The smile slipped off Ricky’s face. He leaned over the table, blocking out the noisy chatter in the crowded café.

“Silas believes the boys. According to him, if Josh and Judah say they didn’t do it, then that’s good enough for him.”

Ricky leaned back. Jodi read both sadness and frustration in the tight set of his jaw.

“But that’s his job, believing people,” he added. “Looking for the good. My job is seeking out the bad, and believe me, it’s out there. I’ve seen it.”

Jodi sat silently for a few minutes, thoughts flying through her brain. Finally, she shook her head.

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss Silas. Sure, he loves those boys, and he wants to protect them. But he’s no fool, and his instincts are spot on. Maybe they didn’t do it.”

Ricky suddenly looked tired.

“Well, that means that your grandfather is wrong, and more importantly, that Chief Leroy Browning is wrong—because that man is hounding me to pull the boys in so he can chalk up a big win for the voters come election time.”

Jodi drummed her fingers against the table.

“Then we have to find out who did do it. Or at least find proof that the twins didn’t do it.” She paused. “That was a terrible sentence. But you know what I mean.”

A new energy surged through her. This was a story that mattered, for more reasons than simply protecting the trash cans and garden sheds of Temple Mountain.

“You let me in on the evidence, pizza boxes, printing fluid or whatever, we’ll figure out the truth, and then I’ll write an exposé on the firebug.” Jodi smiled, pleased. “Another scoop for The Temple Mountain Monitor.” She pulled out her cell and ran an eye over her already ridiculous schedule.

Ricky’s face was grave. “This is serious stuff Jodi. That harmless fertilizer in the shed probably contains ammonium nitrate. It’s stable under most conditions, but if it comes into contact with open flame, it can explode. Think Oklahoma City. You saw inside that shed.”

“Open flame...like cigarettes?” Jodi could barely get the words out. The dreadful image leaped into her mind of the elderly gardeners pottering away in the veggie patch or warming up on the tennis courts, blissfully unaware that a cigarette butt was smoldering in the shed.

“Would someone actually do that, on purpose?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said firmly. “Not on purpose. But we need to warn people—and by that I mean whatever idiot is setting fires—of the danger. And some of those old folks insist on their constitutional right to smoke. And if they can’t do it out in the open, they might head for—”

“The woodshed,” she finished his sentence. “Or the garden shed or the bike shed.”

Jodi took a deep, shuddering breath. She glanced back at her diary.

Monday, she would be at the printers in Rochester trying to sort out why the print was shadowing through from the front page onto the second page, which didn’t please either the advertisers or the letters-to-the-editor writers. And some of those colors in the social pages were definitely not from any Pantone color chart Jodi had ever seen. And then there was a Zoom meeting with the owners.

“Tuesday morning, we go over the evidence in your office?” Her voice was crisp.

He reached over and squeezed her fingers gently, one thumb rubbing against her palm. His skin was warm and dry. Jodi ignored the signals this engendered.

These New Yorkers were always doing air kisses and faux hugs. Touchy feely. Look at all those so-called influencers. Even if they hated each other in real life.

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