Page 122 of Fire and Bones

I retrieved my phone and checked for missed calls.

Yep. Two from Ivy.

Crap. A chinchilla?

Every time I thought I might be able to boogie for Charlotte something else came up.

Seriously, Brennan? Leave and abandon your commitment to four murder victims? Miss the opportunity to work with Chuckle Berry Deery?

Ivy had maintained her sense of humor. I vowed to do the same.

Chastised by yet another suck-it-up-girl pep talk, I dug deli meat and cheese from the SubZero and slapped some of each between two slices of bread. After adding mustard and pickles, I parked my creation on a plate and climbed to my room.

Hating to dine alone, I grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV, and scrolled to my old reliable, CNN. The regulars were there, “going straight to the source for the best reporting on the day’s biggest stories.”

The most current of which involved coverage of Ivy’s mine-shaft kid. As I tuned in, the on-scene journalist was speaking directly into the camera, backdropped by dark forest and large equipment lit by powerful floods. Behind him, rescue personnel milled and called to each other under the unnatural illumination.

The man was reporting, probably for the umpteenth time, that a fourteen-year-old boy had fallen into an abandoned coal mine in Marshall County, West Virginia, at approximately four o’clock the previous afternoon. Looking grim, he stated that the shaft was more than five thousand feet deep, that the mine had been closed since 1956, and that the entrance had never been capped. Authorities were uncertain how far down the boy was or the extent of his injuries.

Concluding with the update that there was no update, he handed over to the anchor, a young Black woman looking equally grim. The woman was introducing a representative from the West Virginia Office of Abandoned Mine Lands & Reclamation when my mobile buzz-vibrated.

The name displayed was a shocker.

“Detective Deery,” I answered.

“They are being untruthful.”

“The Stolls?”

“Ronan claimed that he and Roy were in Roanoke, Virginia, from twenty-one through twenty-three May.”

“Dates bracketing the first Foggy Bottom fire.”

“Earlier in that conversation, Roy reminded his brother that they’d been at home when the Zamzow condo was robbed. I pulled the file. The Zamzow B and E took place on May twenty-two.”

“So where were they? DC or Roanoke?”

“They claimed Granny could verify their story.”

“We need to talk to Susan Lipsey.”

I waited out a ration of nasal breathing. I couldn’t tell if Deery was irritated or undecided.

“I caught Roy’s slip about multiple fires,” I reminded him.

“Seven sharp,” he said.

“I’ll be ready.”

After disconnecting, I went in search of Chuck, thoughts of sharp teeth and zoonotic diseases damping my enthusiasm.

Ivy’s room was at the back of the house. Like mine, directly above, its square footage equaled that of a high school gym.

Unlike mine, the décor leaned toward girly romantic. The palette was pink, dusty rose, and lilac. Lots of candles. Lots of ruffle-edged pillows. A flouncy bed skirt.

An enormous painting hung above the white-lacquered headboard, an impressionist angel with wings spread, violin tucked under her chin. I wondered if the work was by Anne Neilson.

The bath was off to the left. Not wishing to intrude on Ivy’s privacy, I beelined to it.

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