Candy Apple Dead (4 page)

Upstairs, I changed into flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt, opened my window an inch or two so I could listen to the crickets, and made cocoa the old-fashioned way with actual milk. I dropped in a homemade marshmallow and curled up in bed with one of Aunt Grace’s books to bone up on how to make hazelnut and cherry caramels.

If you’ve never had a homemade marshmallow, you don’t know what you’re missing. It differs as much in taste and texture from the store-bought variety as milk chocolate from dark. In ancient Egypt, marshmallow was made by squeezing sap from the mallow plant and mixing it with nuts and honey. It was considered such a delicacy that it was reserved for gods and royalty—a far cry from today when we pass out handfuls to kids so they can incinerate them over campfires.

These days, even Aunt Grace’s recipe calls for gelatin instead of sap, but on a chilly autumn night when you’re nursing hurt feelings, it can make you feel better, if not exactly like royalty.

I pulled the covers up to my chin and tried to pay attention to what I was reading, but exhaustion got the best of me before I could even finish half the cocoa. I’m still not sure what woke me first—the sound of sirens or the smell of smoke. It took me a few seconds to piece the stinging odor of burning wood and the stench of an electrical fire together with the shouts of people on the streets.

Confused and still not fully awake, I staggered into the kitchen to see if I’d turned off the stove. The second time I banged into the wall and sent pain shooting through my hip and shoulder, I woke up enough to realize the apartment wasn’t engulfed in flames.

Stuffing my feet into slippers, I raced down the stairs and onto the street. Outside, the smell of burning wood eclipsed everything else, and an eerie red glow painted the night sky. Obviously, the fire was close but, luckily, coming from somewhere else.

The wail of sirens calling the volunteer fire department to duty stopped suddenly, and the sudden silence chilled me to the bone. A couple of cars shot past, and Lydia Cole, who lives above the bakery on the next block, streaked by wearing a pair of cow-patterned pajama pants.

With my heart in my throat, I set off after her. Someone in town was in trouble, and a sick feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. The fact that the small crowd was moving toward Man About Town only made it worse. I picked up the pace and ran, full-out, slippers flapping against my feet, and my throat burning from exertion and the smoke. The closer I drew to Brandon’s store, the harder it was to delude myself.

Flames shot into the sky. Wood popped and crackled as it burned. My nose stung, my eyes burned, and the smoke made it hard to breathe. Glass from an upstairs window shattered, and a woman’s scream pierced the night.

I could only wrap my arms around myself and watch in horrified disbelief as the upper floor crumbled, and the fire consumed Brandon’s store right before my eyes.

By two o’clock in the morning, the excitement
was over. I wandered home, climbed back into bed, and lay staring at the ceiling for a couple of hours before finally giving up on the idea of sleep. I couldn’t concentrate enough to read, and even with satellite TV—the only hope for clear reception in our little valley—there was nothing on worth watching. After what seemed like a long time, I dressed and went downstairs to Divinity’s candy kitchen.

Aunt Grace used to always say that when she had a case of jangled nerves, nothing soothed her like a session at the stove. I don’t know about that, but I did have a couple of orders to fill, so I decided to do something productive with my time.

I’d just finished coarsely chopping enough hazelnuts to keep everyone in Paradise happy when I saw a familiar red truck pull into the parking strip. Seeing Wyatt in town almost before sunrise was even stranger than seeing him driving around late at night. He parked, taking up at least two spots, and would have climbed the stairs to my apartment if I hadn’t banged on the window to get his attention.

When he saw me waving at him through the glass, he pivoted on his heel and strode across the narrow parking strip. He’s five years older than I am, and if you ask me, he looks every minute of his forty-four years, plus a few. I like to think the years have been a little kinder to me, but I’m probably just deluding myself.

He was dressed for work in jeans, a T-shirt, and a ratty pair of cowboy boots his wife has thrown away twice. Wyatt has rescued them both times. That ought to tell you something about him.

Throwing open the kitchen door, he came inside wearing a deep scowl that was almost hidden by the thick swag of mustache he’s been cultivating since the summer he turned eighteen. “You’re up early.”

I pulled bags of dried cherries from the cupboard and carried them to the chopping block. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess that means you’ve heard.”

“About the fire?” I nodded sadly. “I was there half the night. I still can’t believe it.”

Wyatt hooked one of the stools and dragged it across the room so he could talk to me. “It’s a damn mess, that’s for sure. The guys have been over there all night trying to make sure the fire’s completely out.”

The blaze must have sent our volunteer fire crew into shock. They’re used to the occasional brush fire, but Paradise has never had a fire like this. I yawned hard enough to bring tears to my eyes and nodded toward the coffeemaker on the far counter. “I just made a fresh pot,” I said. “Pour me a cup, would you?”

Wyatt almost got to his feet, but he stopped and shot a skeptical glance across the room. “Is it real coffee or that sugary crap you like so much?”

“Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. It’s regular, and it’s strong. It won’t hurt a bit.”

He made a face at me. I tore open a package of cherries and dumped them onto the board. “Any idea what Brandon’s going to do now? It didn’t look like there was much left last night.”

“There’s
nothing
left.” Wyatt filled two cups, handed me one, and turned his attention to one of the two refrigerators humming away on the other side of the kitchen. We keep candy supplies in the new one and personal items in the white Frigidaire that’s as old as I am.

He dug around in the old fridge for a few minutes and finally emerged holding a container of shrimp fried rice left over from lunch at the Lantern Palace. Sniffing the rice to make sure it was still edible, he pulled a fork from a drawer. “Looks to me like Mills has lost everything. If you ask me, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”

I stopped chopping so I could gape at him. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Why do you dislike him so much anyway?”

“Because he’s an asshole.” Wyatt shoveled rice into his mouth and spoke around it. “He probably started the fire himself.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

I gave the cherries a vicious whack with my knife and glared at my brother. “What are you doing in town so early anyway? What’s the matter? Didn’t Elizabeth fix your breakfast?”

Something flashed across his face, and his mouth thinned. “I heard about the fire. Thought maybe I’d come see how bad it was.”

Wyatt and Elizabeth live several miles out of town—just far enough to make a person think twice about driving back and forth without a good reason. Someone must have called mighty early for Wyatt to be in town at this hour. “Well, I guess that proves that the grapevine is alive and well,” I said. “Do you mind me asking who was up making phone calls in the middle of the night?”

“Nate Svboda.”

Nate’s been a friend of Wyatt’s since high school. He’s also a patrol officer with the Paradise police department. “Why would Nate call you in the middle of all that trouble just to tell you about the fire?”

“It wasn’t in the middle of all the trouble. The fire was mostly out when he called.”

“So he called you in the middle of the night?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He didn’t have to. I abandoned the cherries and carried sugar and the creamer to the table where mounds of old-fashioned stick candy waited to be bundled into gift jars and tied with raffia ribbon. I don’t care how old people get, they still seem to love those candy sticks, and the jars filled with them are one of our best-selling items during the summer months.

“It’s barely six-thirty now,” I pointed out. “It takes at least half an hour to get to town from the ranch, and obviously this wasn’t your first stop.”

“So?”

“So why did Nate think it was so important to call you?”

Irritation flashed in my brother’s eyes. “How should I know?”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I was tired.”

I shook my head firmly. “No way. The last time I called before sunup you nearly took my head off, and I’m your sister. Are you telling me that after dealing with the fire for half the night, Nate called you just because? And that you didn’t mind?”

Growling, Wyatt tossed his fork onto the table. “What the hell is this? The third degree? Nate called me. Leave it at that.”

His reaction stunned me. Wyatt’s an open book. Honest as they come. Sometimes almost too honest. He says what he thinks, and he means what he says. I couldn’t remember a single time in our adult lives when he’d told me anything but the unvarnished truth, even when I wished he would. I couldn’t prove he was lying now, but I would have bet a prime-rib dinner at the Timberline Grill that he was.

He was also spoiling for a fight, but giving him one wouldn’t accomplish anything. I kicked my feet onto a chair and gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well, Nate’s a weird duck. So what did he say, anyway? Do they know how the fire started?”

Wyatt dragged his gaze away from my face slowly and went back to attacking the fried rice. “They’re not absolutely certain yet, but Nate thinks somebody set it deliberately.”

I sat up sharply. “He thinks it was arson?”

“That’s what he said.”

“But why? Who’d do something like that?”

Wyatt scraped the bottom of the container and licked a few grains of rice from his fork. “I don’t know. Somebody with a bone to pick, I suppose.”

“A bone to pick with Brandon?”

Wyatt slanted an annoyed glance at me. “That’d be my guess.”

“Yeah, but who?”

“How the hell would I know? Brandon’s pissed off so many people, it could have been just about anybody.”

“I know a few people were upset over the Arts Festival, but
that’s
certainly no reason to do something so horrible.”

“I never said it was over that.”

“Then what?”

Wyatt rested his elbows on the table and cradled his coffee mug in his hands. “Maybe some poor jerk found out his wife was fooling around on him.”

I laughed uneasily. “Come on, Wyatt. I know Brandon dates a lot, but he doesn’t mess around with other men’s wives.”

Wyatt met my gaze steadily. “You want to put money on that?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re sure? I could use a new stereo for the truck.”

I’d always had strong opinions about fidelity, and learning about Roger’s affair had only made them stronger, but even I wouldn’t convict Brandon on my brother’s say-so. “That’s a pretty ugly thing to say. Can you prove it?”

“I’m sure I could.”

“Then do it. Who has he been seeing?”

An odd expression inched across Wyatt’s face. “It’s not my place to say.”

“You can’t make an accusation like that without proof to back it up.”

“Oh, there’s plenty to back it up. Believe me.”

“Well, I hope you’re wrong. And I hope Nate’s wrong about the arson.”

Wyatt fixed me with a steady stare. “Why do you care? What’s Brandon Mills to you?”

I hadn’t told him about my so-called date with Brandon, and I sure didn’t want to mention it now. “He’s a friend,” I said. “And besides that, he’s a human being. Last time I heard, people were supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. If you can’t prove that he was sleeping around, you shouldn’t spread rumors.”

“It’s not a rumor.”

“Well,
I’ve
never heard anything about him sleeping with married women.”

“That’s because you’re new in town.”

I kicked my feet from the chair and glared at him. “That was a rude thing to say. I’m not new around here.”

“Might as well be.” Wyatt reached for the hazelnut creamer, sniffed, and put it back with a grimace. “You can’t leave town for twenty years and expect everything to be the same when you finally drag yourself back. Life doesn’t work that way.”

Like it or not, he was right about that. I’d received a warm welcome from some of the people I’d known before I left, but there were some who still held me at arm’s length, and a few others who acted as if I’d committed treason by leaving. I was counting on the uncertain ones warming up once they realized I was back to stay, and I told myself the others weren’t worth worrying about.