Lye In Wait: A Home Crafting Mystery Part 11

Chief Blakely nodded toward the few remaining onlookers. "Lady who owns it says no one was in there, and from what we could find, she's right."

"The man who used to live there died last week, and my housemate and I had been helping his mother by boxing up his things. You never know, though."

He nodded slowly. "I'd like to get your name, if I can. Since you've been in the house recently, I might have some questions for you in the next couple of days."

"Happy to help. My name is Sophie Mae Reynolds, and I live in that house right there." I pointed.

Taking a battered notebook out of his pocket, he scribbled a couple lines. "What's your house number?"

I told him, then asked in the most casual voice I could muster, "How did it start? Since no one was there, it was probably something electrical, right?" I looked at the charred remains of the wine-colored sofa in the halogen lights, spongy brown stuffing erupting from the cracked upholstery.

"We don't know yet," he said.

Pulling my gaze away from the wreckage, I met his eyes. "Was it arson?"

He crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the ladder truck. "What makes you say that?"

I checked to make sure the reporter and his obnoxious photographer were still out of earshot. "Because, unless it was electrical, I can't think what else it would be. No one was smoking in bed, no one spilled grease on the stove, no one did anything to cause the fire by accident, because the house was empty. I suppose the gas furnace could have blown up or something, but we would have heard the explosion next door, and I think the fire would have looked different."

"Um, Miss..."

"Sophie Mae," I said.

"Right. Sophie Mae. We don't know what happened here. It warrants an investigation, but we can't start until the place has cooled down. And until we have some daylight, as well. So I can't answer your question."

I persisted. "All I want to know is whether we need to worry about some pyro running around the neighborhood."

"Is that really all you want to know? Not just a bit curious?"

"Not like you think. There are... questions about the occupant's death last week. I'm worried."

He raised his eyebrows. "What kind of questions?"

"Let's just say it was suspicious."

"I see. Well, I still don't like to comment on what started a fire until I have some evidence."

I was too tired to feel the full brunt of my own frustration. I nodded and turned toward my waiting bed, then turned back. "I meant what I said about being grateful for the job you and your crew did tonight."

Chief Blakely gave me a nod. "I'll pa.s.s it on."

At home, I went in the bathroom to wash off some of the grime I had managed to collect on my hands. Looking up, I saw my reflection: green eyes practically glowing within their red rims, hair escaping its braid in a dozen places, and a nice big black smudge across one cheek. Given the addition of my striped pajamas, robe, and tennis shoes, I was surprised Chief Blakely hadn't run after the first glance.

I rubbed the charcoal off my face and faced the fact that unless I wanted my bed to smell like smoke for a month, I had to take a shower. Afterward, I slid my scrubbed, weary self between the sheets and plunged into a dream even crazier than the last one.

FIFTEEN.

SUNDAYS ARE MADE FOR sleeping in, but I dragged my sorry b.u.t.t out of bed at seven a.m. Kyla was coming at nine, and I needed to be ready for her. Discovering I still smelled faintly of smoke, I showered again and dressed in jeans and pulled on a soft old sweatshirt. If I had to be awake, at least I'd be comfortable.

Erin sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of Cheerios and the Seattle Times Sunday comics. I paused in the doorway to finish braiding my still damp hair. Her mother would still be in bed, lucky woman. I made coffee and asked Erin about the movie they'd watched the night before. She replied that it was a fluffy comedy, a "chick flick with hokey dialog." We talked a little about the fire, then I poured a cup of fresh brew, grabbed a pear, and told her I'd be downstairs.

Her next words stopped me. "Walter's obituary is in the paper."

"Where?" I turned back and Erin handed me a carefully folded section she'd put to one side. I sank onto a chair opposite her.

"It doesn't say much," she said.

And it didn't. One short paragraph. Survived by his mother, Petunia Hanover, preceded in death by his father and two brothers. No indication of military time, a brief reference to his work in the local sawmill, no mention of marriage or children, and no information about how he died. At least Crane's Funeral Home had added the time and place of the funeral service. Saddened by the paltry death announcement, I continued downstairs.

I'd mixed two batches of oatmeal-milk bath salts, one scented with rosewood essential oil and the other with a combination of orange and sandalwood essential oils, by the time Kyla showed up. Pure sandalwood would have been nice, too, but the real oil is so expensive I'd have to charge more for that variation than for the other three in the series, and I'd never dream of using the fake oil. Real essential oils not only impart more intense and evocative scents, but the customer gets the additional aromatherapy and herbal benefits as well.

Kyla started capping the lip balms I'd made the night before while I started on a batch of the bath salts in balsam peru, another of my favorite scents. It's like a rounder, denser form of vanilla, definitely a blue scent in my mind, so I chose blue for the label. The rosewood label is a rich taupe, the sandalwood/orange combination a dark peach, and the fourth scent, fir needle, is a gray-green. I'd saved the fir-needle batch until last because it's so invigorating, and I knew I'd be ready for a boost.

But Kyla had brought me a double latte, and between that and my usual morning cup of plain old coffee, I was soon buzzing around like a manic bee. We went to work on opposite sides of the table, chatting about the fire, the upcoming bazaars, and Kyla's latest boyfriend while she funneled the bath salt mixture into ster ile six-ounce gla.s.s jars and pa.s.sed them to me to wrap with raffia and affix the hanging tag. Kyla filled faster than I labeled, so when she'd finished a hundred bottles, she started popping cellophane bands over their tops and shrinking them to fit with an old hair dryer I kept for the purpose.

When the oatmeal-milk bath salts were done, she agreed to apply the labels to the lip balm tubes, an operation that required a precision I didn't feel up to that day. I began carting bottles of oatmeal-milk bath salts back to my storeroom. It smelled like heaven in there, and I lingered to take another inventory of the soaps stacked neatly along the shelves. I had plenty of everything except the emollient cocoa b.u.t.ter soap, which a recent order had depleted somewhat. If I ran out, I ran out; there wasn't time enough for another batch to cure properly before the bazaars, and I didn't want too much extra inventory on hand at the end of the year.

I'd make some holiday-themed glycerin soaps, which need very little curing. Glycerin soap is fast and easy, so I could do a couple of small batches and see how they moved at the first two bazaars. I called to Kyla to make sure she planned to come in on Tuesday; she could wrap them then. She shouted back that would be fine.

Kyla's voice came from the other room again, and I stuck my head out to ask her to repeat what she'd said but discovered she wasn't talking to me at all. Lugging a forty-pound bucket of meltand-pour glycerin soap out of the storeroom, I nodded to Chief Blakely standing in the doorway.

"We tried the front door, but no one answered."

"Couldn't hear you down here. And Meghan's with a client, so even if she did hear you, she wouldn't have interrupted a session to answer the door. Who's 'we'?"

He entered. "Meghan? That must be your housemate, the one Ambrose told me about. What kind of work does she do on a Sunday?"

"She's a ma.s.sage therapist, and she works whenever her clients are available," I said. "Are you here about the fire?"

"I mentioned last night I might need to ask you a few questions. I'd like to do that now, if you don't mind."

"Let's go sit outside at the picnic table." I gestured toward the cedar plank table in the backyard. "Want something to drink?"

"Nah, I'm good," he replied. If he'd talked to Ambrose, he probably feared I'd spike his coffee with sodium hydroxide.

I closed the door behind me, shutting the very curious Kyla inside, and followed him out.

"Hey, what the heck...?" I strode over to where I'd parked my truck on the gra.s.s verge between our yard and the alley.

Ambrose stopped poking at something in the bed of the truck and craned his head to peer through the pa.s.senger side window.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Just taking a look."

My paranoia skyrocketed. What did he expect to find? A book of matches from the Pyro Club? A copy of Arson for Dummies on the front seat?

"I see you've been talking with Chief Blakely."

He straightened. "Hanover's place burning down right before I get in there to look around again? You bet I have."

And I'd known he planned to go in Walter's house again. Great.

I started back to where Blakely sat at the picnic table. To my relief, Ambrose followed me.

Sun broke through a jagged hole in the clouds, and sudden warmth struck my face. Blakely perched at one end of the table. He wore a uniform, but Ambrose wore slacks with a sports coat again, this time with an olive green shirt and a copper bolo tie in the shape of a steer's head. I sneaked a look at his feet as I sat down opposite him. Uh huh-cowboy boots.

"We need to know how you left the Hanover place." Ambrose asked the question before he'd even managed to slide his frame onto one of the picnic benches.

"You mean when Meghan and I were boxing things up?"

A curt nod.

"Well, everything was still pretty much a mess. We'd packed maybe ten boxes for the Salvation Army to pick up when Debby and Jacob came in. Debby wanted to help, so we decided to leave things until after the funeral."

Blakely leaned forward. "Can you remember where they were? How things were arranged?"

I closed my eyes, trying to remember. "There were two or three boxes in front of the sofa, which sat under the front window. They contained various junk from the shelves. I was sorting through pictures and trying to find anything Tootie-Walter's mothermight want. Meghan had spent some time in his bedroom, sorting through clothes, and the rest of the boxes were in there."

I opened my eyes. Blakely was taking notes. He looked up.

"Any piles of stuff in the living room?" he asked.

"No. Not really."

The two men exchanged a look.

"No piles of old newspapers, magazines, that sort of thing?"

"There were some papers. Lots and lots of magazines," I said. And three boxes worth of miscellaneous paperwork I should probably mention about now.

"Where were the magazines placed?" Blakely asked.

"Placed? Well, most of them were on the shelves and some on the coffee table, another pile on an end table. We were going to see if the library wanted them for one of their book sales."

"Not all of them in one big pile in the middle of the livingroom floor, then."

"Huh uh. Is that what started the fire?"

Blakely nodded. "It looks like it. We'll test for accelerants to make sure, but my guess is someone piled the magazines all together, poured gasoline on them, and tossed a match on it."

"Not that there's any evidence of a break-in left," Ambrose said.

"They didn't have to break in," I said. "They had the key, remember?" And then I remembered: I had forgotten to tell Ambrose about the missing key. I explained about it now.

"If it was the same person you say you heard in Hanover's house," Ambrose said.

"'Say I heard?"' I repeated.

He held out his palms. "All right. The person you heard in Hanover's house."

"Thank you. But you think the arsonist was someone different?"

Ambrose shrugged. "Can't jump to conclusions."

I stood up. "If that's all, then, I have to get back to work"

Blakely said, "Yeah, we're done."

Ambrose studied me like a particularly th.o.r.n.y algebra problem, then abruptly rose and followed Chief Blakely around to where they'd parked on the street in front of the house.

Kyla went back to labeling the lip balms, and I finished taking inventory. Or tried to. Halfway through counting something, I'd find myself speculating about what nasty surprises might be in store for me in the near future if someone was really trying to frame me. I wracked my brain for anyone who might hate me that much. It didn't take long to decide the idea bordered on ridiculous. I just wasn't that important in the scheme of things.

Enough with the persecution complex.

After a while, I gave up and went to find Meghan. I found her at the kitchen table, paying bills. She didn't look pleased.

"What's wrong?"

She just shook her head.

"Where's Erin?"

"She went over to Zoe's to play."