Page 55 of Playing With Fire

“I have seen the twins from the rectory in the basketball park and over on the Rotary Park near the high school, and even on the walking tracks up to the lookout. They are energetic lads. And not always in school, I gather.” He looked censorious. “And, I have seen them flick cigarette butts into the trash can on several occasions, though not recently.”

The wind picked up, sending stray twigs and old leaves skittering across the path. Bubbles broke wind loudly and then lay down with a contented sigh across both Jodi’s feet.

All heads turned at the sound of footsteps.

An instant rush of pleasure surged through Jodi at the sight of the tall, well-built man walking towards her. This was swiftly replaced by a pang of guilt at digging into his secrets.

Though he might have told her, might have trusted her, argued the little voice in her head.

“Hmmm,” said Everett. He paused, his eyes skittering between Jodi and Ricky, and cleared his throat. “The other thing I can tell you is that I not once but twice spotted young Bonnie Browning, who is a young woman of robust charms, and thus not easy to miss, talking to the twins.”

Jodi’s eyebrows shot up.

“Indeed,” said Everett dryly. He yanked at Bubbles, who obediently rose to all fours without giving Jodi or her shredded shoelaces so much as a glance.

Faithless hound.

“Good luck, my dear.” Everett nodded at the approaching Ricky. The older man’s smile verged on the roguish. He tipped an imaginary hat and headed off.

“If there’s a Crime Stoppers reward, let me know.”

***

Jodi parked the Miata in the small underground park. Her apartment was on the ground level, which had been a pleasure during summer when the small walled garden was a magnet for bees.

But the outdoor chairs were folded away and the flower beds mulched for their winter sleep. The tiled patio was gritty from the brisk breeze and a fresh layer of dry seeds and twigs had tumbled across every surface.

“It’s too cold outside.” Jodi drew the drapes and turned on the lamp. “I’m sure that wind comes direct from Quebec.”

She knew she was talking too much, unnerved by the reality of Ricky sitting in the high-backed armchair belonging to her long-departed father. At his back was the long-stitch tapestry cushion of pumpkins and skulls which Alma had made for her at the Temple Mountain Boys & Girls Club.

Every one of the old, new, and sentimental pieces which made up Jodi’s home had a story. And each item revealed far too much about the owner.

She curled into the creaky armchair, a reject from the rectory which she had re-covered in thrifted navy and cream toile, and reached for her glass of wine.

Ricky had brought the bottle, a pinot noir from The Brotherhood winery in Washingtonville, and Jodi had put out a chunk of Nettle Meadow Three Sisters she’d grabbed from the main street delicatessen (in between door-knocking), a ripe pear, and a jar of some sort of jelly left over from a Christmas basket that was supposed to go on a cheese board.

Clearly, she needed to entertain more often.

Ricky cut a large chunk of cheese as he typed into his laptop. He looked relaxed in a pair of charcoal jeans and a loose flannel shirt that matched his eyes. He angled the screen back, placed it on the coffee table, and Jodi scooted down onto the floor so she could see.

Behind her, he shuffled his body until his long legs were either side. His arm brushed her shoulder as he leaned over to point to the screen.

The clean smell of laundered cotton and that faint, spicy scent that she decided wasn’t Old Spice at all tickled her nose.

“Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” Ricky’s brisk tone brought her back to earth.

Nothing to see here folks.

“This map shows the three trashcan fires which have occurred in the couple of months since I’ve been here.”

Jodi stared at the circles on the map of Temple Mountain. She nodded.

“All in public parks, accessible to anyone with the exception of the walking trail, which would be difficult for someone with ambulatory issues and impossible for wheelchairs or motorized scooters because it’s basically a dirt track.”

He flipped to a series of photos. All looked much the same. Blackened clumps of trash, the singed remains of pizza boxes and stained newspaper. The final photo showed a cigarette butt half-attached to shreds of matchbooks.

The finger stabbed again. “This is the only fire I was able to get to within a few minutes, before the evidence was incinerated, but my instinct is that they were all started by the same means. Newspaper soaked in printer fluid, and a slow-burning cigarette wrapped in matchbooks. The pizza box is a distraction.”

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