Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller (15 page)

‘Hello, Mom.'

‘
Joey?
'

I start to stand, but he leans over and gives me a hug. He is solid, and he looks so good. So healthy. So handsome and strong. I hear cicadas in the hedges, and smell the scent of the aftershave my son always used to wear.

‘Joey, how can you be here?'

‘You mean, since I'm dead?' He winks at me. ‘It's OK, Mom, I just thought you needed to see me. And I wanted to bring you these.' He hands me a bouquet, three pink roses surrounded by nine white.

The scent of roses is so strong and sweet I can still smell them when I wake.

I
t is a long way home to Kentucky, a hard and tedious drive. I'm a sponge to the quiet. Leo and Ruby are snoring softly, stretched out together in the back.

Not long after a very late lunch, I cross the state line from Tennessee to Kentucky. An hour later I'm on the Bluegrass Parkway – a lonely stretch of road, no more than a couple of places to gas up your car, and limited, static-filled radio reception.

Another hour and I'm on the outskirts of Versailles. I make a point of cutting my speed. Patrol cars circle like sharks in Woodford County.

I now have my pick of radio stations. News from the BBC will see us home. I am cruising New Circle Road, just a few miles from the house, when the news of the nation gives way to local events. The governor is courting the relocation of a large manufacturing plant with tax incentives, and tuition at state universities is going up again. The Lexington Fire Department is battling a blaze at the south side residence of local evangelist Joy Miller. It is believed, but not confirmed, that Miller has died in the blaze.

I move from the left lane to the right lane and pull to the side of the road. I listen to an obituary-flavored run down on the highlights of my adult life.

Local evangelist Miller, I learn, was the guiding force behind the Joy Miller Ministries, and once had a popular show on cable television, which in its heyday was widely watched over a region of thirteen states. Miller made headlines seven years ago when her son, Joey Miller, her only child, was shot and killed by his estranged wife Caroline, who was five months pregnant at the time. Miller's life had been struck by tragedy seven years before with the death of her husband, Carl, an apparent suicide. Miller testified at the trial of her daughter-in-law, and was considered the pivotal factor in the jury's verdict of not guilty. Immediately afterwards Miller suffered a breakdown, and never appeared in public again.

In other news, the price of oil was going up.

I
smell it before I see it, smoke clouding the air. I brake for the stop sign that is less than a mile from my house. The dusky light of fall is just giving way to a night of darkness and no moon. I turn left from Wilson Downing Road, and left again, to the street where I live.

I have been afraid of fire since the seventies when the Beverly Hills Supper Club burned. I remember photos of bodies on the lawn, newspaper reports of refrigerated grocery trucks used as temporary morgues. The death toll reached one hundred and sixty-five, setting off a domino of lawsuits.

Ruby sits quietly, watching out the back window, but Leo paces from side to side and slams into the partition between the cargo hold and back seats no matter how gently I brake. He lets out a low grumbly growl when he sees the men who mill purposefully around the fire engine and police cruiser in front of what's left of our house.

I park in the street near my favorite neighbor. Leo is barking and Ruby joins him. The police officer is waving a hand at me and yelling but I can't hear a word he says. There is a fire engine in my driveway, and I look, but Marsha's car is not on the street. I feel nearly weightless. Relief. I have been reported dead, but not because Marsha was in the house.

I leave the back windows down two inches, lock the dogs in the car and step out. The police officer who has been shouting at me looks angry.

‘Ma'am, unless you have business in this area, we're asking everyone—'

‘This is
my
house.
Was
my house.' I lean against the hood of the car and it radiates heat – I've driven over seven hundred miles. I try to take it all in.

My house smokes like a cigarette butt that won't go out, a blackened, gutted shell. Part of the roof is intact, and so are over half the outside walls. Everything is badly scorched, and I can see the glow of burning embers and coals.

‘Your name, please, ma'am.' The police officer is young. He has short dark hair, brown, hungry-looking eyes, a look of intelligence in his face.

‘Joy Miller. They reported me dead on the radio just a few minutes ago.'

He nods at me. ‘Yes, ma'am. Can I see your driver's license, some form of ID?'

My purse is locked in the Jeep with the dogs. It is embarrassing how much trouble I have trying to get the purse out, while leaving the dogs inside. The policeman watches Leo warily, and shoves the door shut quickly when my purse and I are free.

He takes a quick look at my license, gives me a sad smile. ‘Glad you're OK, Mrs Miller. And sorry about your house. You got insurance?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's good.' He tucks my license into his clipboard. ‘I better call this in.'

I look at the house again over my shoulder. It is hard to believe, though I can see it and smell it, and I heard it on the news.

Leo is barking again, but I don't hear Ruby. I tell Leo to hush. I trip over the broken concrete of the curb and stumble on to the lawn, which is soggy with run-off from the hoses. The curb was intact when I left for Arkansas. Crushed, no doubt, by one of the fire trucks, maybe the one that left deep ruts in the grass.

What smoke and flames do not destroy, water and axes will. I hear someone call out as I head for my sagging, splintered front door.

They have rigged up high power emergency lights, and portions of the interior are illuminated, as alien now as another planet. My living room has morphed into a blackened garbage dump and vapor rises like a haunting.

A hand on my arm stops me before I go through the door.

‘Ma'am? You can't go in there—'

‘I'm Joy Miller, and this is my house.'

‘Yes ma'am.' The firefighter is grimy with soot and sweat. Age and physique are swallowed by the androgyny of the gear, the helmet, the dirt.

Another man approaches – he wears a uniform and carries a radio, but he's not weighed down by the tools. He is talking low into a radio and has the air of the man in charge.

He stops in his tracks and his smile is radiant with relief. ‘
Joy?
'

I know him. But my mind is not working properly.

‘Joy, it's me. Hal Reinhardt.'

‘Hal. Of course, I'm sorry, I'm just so – I didn't recognize you without your dog.'

‘Cindy Lou? She's in the truck. You know I never go anywhere without her.'

I smile and tear up. Something about a friendly face at a time like this.

Hal Reinhardt is a captain in the fire department, but he also trains dogs for K-9 and search and rescue – he is the one who gave me Leo. My ministry has donated to his non profit for years.

He takes my elbow gently and turns me away. ‘Is that Leo I hear barking in your Jeep?'

‘Yes, that's Leo.'

‘So you're both safe.' He puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘I'm so glad. Even though you and I both know that Leo is a thoroughly bad animal.'

‘He's not and you know it. And you can't have him back.' I look back at the house. ‘I need to go in, just for a minute, I have to—'

‘No, no, Joy, you can't. It's not safe in there, honey.' He looks over his shoulder, craning his neck. ‘Looks to me like that second floor could go any minute, and I don't want you or my crew getting hurt.'

I am now officially under the wing of Captain Hal Reinhardt. He is solidly built, with a deeply scarred right cheek, and though he is fit he carries enough excess weight to make him cuddly. His calm self assurance is soothing. He settles me high up in the front seat of the fire engine, a blanket around my shoulders, hot coffee in hand. His dog, Cindy Lou, puts her head in my lap. She is an odd-looking dog – part blue heeler, part corgi, the color of buckskin. A departure from the German shepherds and Labs Hal usually trains.

I stroke Cindy Lou's scoop ears and tell Reinhardt my story – how I've just come home after two days out of town. How I heard the news on the radio, the announcer broadcasting my demise.

‘Joy, was there anyone
in
your house when you left? Does someone live with you? Did you have someone house sitting, or picking up your mail, or staying there for a visit?'

‘It's just me and Leo.' It occurs to me that there is a reason for these questions. ‘Did you find – was there somebody in the house?'

My hands start shaking and I drop my cup of coffee. The Styrofoam splits, the plastic lid falls off. Brown liquid splashes the toe of Reinhardt's boots and the cuff of his soot-stained trousers.

Reinhardt looks over his shoulder. The police officer is headed our way, holding my license out like it is radioactive. Reinhardt puts himself between us. ‘Give us a minute, will you please, Jordy?'

Reinhardt puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘We did pull someone out. A woman – we assumed it was you. She was packed into the ambulance before I got a look so—'

‘
That's why
– how bad was she hurt? She wasn't dead?'

‘She was alive when we got her out, but she was in pretty bad shape. We radioed the hospital a few minutes ago about the mistaken ID. The word is they've moved her from the ER into ICU. Which means they've got her stabilized, so that's something. Do you have any idea who the woman might be?'

‘My first guess would be my assistant, Marsha Dewberry, except she wasn't supposed to be working.' I knew better than to say she was fired. ‘And I don't see her car. How did it start? Was it wiring or – I don't smoke, and I know I didn't leave the oven on. I don't even own an iron. On the radio, they said something about arson.'

Reinhardt nods his head. ‘It's not official, understand, until we file the reports and confirm the details, but it burned hot and fast, and there were obvious signs of accelerant. I had Cindy Lou out earlier and she picked up the scent.'

‘Accelerant?'

‘Something to make the fire burn. Something like gasoline.'

‘Someone did this.' I shiver, and Reinhardt pulls the blanket up around my shoulders.

‘What kind of car does your assistant drive?'

‘Dark grey. A Ford Taurus.'

Reinhardt touches my forearm. ‘I had to send the crew in through the attic, right over the garage – it was the safest approach. We had to tow a car out of the driveway. It was blocking the trucks and equipment.'

‘Was it a grey Taurus?'

He nods.

‘Oh, God.' I take a breath. ‘It's got to be Marsha then. It was her in the house. Look, I have to go now. Go to the hospital, go call the family.' I am so high up in the truck I have to turn around backward to climb back down.

Reinhardt takes my waist as I make the leap from the bottom step. He leans close and lowers his voice. ‘Joy, listen to me. There were two FBI agents here earlier. A man and a woman, and they had a lot of questions. They seemed to know you, from the things they said.'

‘They know me.'

‘Look, if—'

The grind of the police officer's shoes on grit and loose gravel interrupts whatever Reinhardt was going to say.

‘Mrs Miller?' the officer says. ‘I just got off the phone with Special Agent Russell Woods of the FBI. He said you would know who he is?'

‘I know.'

‘He asked me to drive you down to his office, so they can get this identity thing sorted. He wants me to take you right now.'

Reinhardt frowns. ‘The identity is already sorted. Can't this wait till tomorrow?'

‘It's OK, Hal,' I say thickly. ‘Give me a minute to see if my neighbor will look after the dogs. I'll follow you in my—'

‘I'll take the dogs,' Hal says. ‘Jordy, you drive her down there. Joy, you don't need to be driving right now.'

‘But—'

‘It's OK,' Reinhardt says. He squeezes my hand. Sees me to the patrol car and tucks me into the passenger's seat up front. I am relieved not to be riding in the back, like a prisoner.

I know that Jordy talked to me on the way down. Told me how sorry he was about my house. I didn't answer. My mind was full of images, the smell of gasoline, a vision of Marsha surrounded by fire. And the realization that I had been punished, just like the Dark Man promised. He warned me not to go to the FBI.

A
gent Russell Woods motions me through the doorway. I am swamped by a wave of dread, finding myself, once again, in an interrogation room with the FBI.

It's me and Woods, one on one. He doesn't bother to read me my rights and I'm not asking for a lawyer. He motions me to a chair but I don't sit down.

‘No good deed goes unpunished, does it, Mr Woods? He warned me. He told me not to bring you guys in. Now he's mad as hell, he's burned down my house, and God only knows what's happening to Caroline and Andee. And you still don't know anything, do you? Who he is? Where he is?'

‘I was hoping maybe you could tell me.' Woods straddles a chair and rubs his thumbs together – one of his many odd habits.

‘What is
that
supposed to mean?'

‘It means that it seems awfully convenient that you are out of range and on the road when your house gets burned down.'

Now I do sit down. I look down at the table. ‘I am dealing with lunatics. You people are just as crazy as the kidnapper.'

Woods opens a file and I slap it shut.

‘And you
know
where I was. I was in Arkansas cooperating with your office. I was on the computer with Andee and Caroline, while your CATs were trying to find out where they're being held. Are you people getting
anywhere
? Do you have
anything
?'