Killer Kisses (23 page)

Chief Von den Broeck pointed at a gas grill pushed up against the base of the home. “The burn patterns point back to the grill.” He bent and, using the tip of a pencil, poked at a loose hose fitting on the Propane canister. “There’s where the fire started. You must have left the grill on overnight.”

“No,” Genie swore. “I’m a professional chef. I never leave anything on—I check everything twice before I go to bed.”

The chief looked skeptical. “Maybe you were distracted last night?”

She flushed, certain she must have turned bright red. Before she could protest, Jim spoke. “The lady said no. And, I was right beside her, checking everything two and three times.”

Genie scanned the yard. Her gaze snagged on a pile of silver papers. “Jim. Look over there.”

Striding through the wet grass, he squatted down for a closer look, then called out to Von den Broeck. “Chief, could you come here for a minute?”

The chief walked over to Jim’s side, obstructing Genie’s view. Her pulse quickened and she clenched her fists in the silk robe. “What is it?”

The firefighter pulled out his radio and started speaking in low, urgent tones. When finished, he turned to Jim and Genie. “You both need to get out of here.”

“What’s going on?” Genie demanded. “What did you find?”

Jim was at her side in two long strides. “Gum wrappers—and a throw-away lighter. We have to leave now. This is a crime scene.”

~*~

Having chomped through an entire pack of Chewy Blewy, Tony stood in the back of the crowd, eying his handiwork with grim satisfaction. Torching the bimbo’s house had given him particular pleasure. Not in a pervy, hard-on kind of way. No, he was a professional, used to getting paid for these sorts of jobs. He knew if he wanted something done right, he had to do it himself. Too bad the bimbo and Ichabod Crane woke up in time to get out. In his expert opinion, the house was a total. Fixing up after fire and smoke damage, combined with the mess made by water, would put a major dent in her savings. All he had to do now was wait for the next auction announcement, and he’d get his new casino at a dirt-cheap price.

That’d teach her to mess with the Wolf.

As the neighbors started moving back to their houses, a little boy stopped in front of him and pointed at Tony’s hands.

“Mommy, that man has hairy fingers!”

The Wolf snarled at the little puke, turned on his heel, and walked away as fast as he could. Someone should teach that kid some manners. He didn’t have time to take care of that today. He shoved another stick of gum in his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground.

~*~

Jim sat in his rental car and rubbed Genie’s arms, trying to get some color back into her face. Not only had she lost her house and everything in it, but now it was apparent the fire had been set deliberately. “Let’s see if the Arson Team will let me into the house, at least to get some clothes for you.”

She stared at him, glassy-eyed. “Whatever.”

“We need to get you coffee and something to eat.”

Genie didn’t respond. She just stared at the house, her face a mask of sorrow. He had never lost a house to a fire, but he certainly knew about loss. The day the police called him and told him his parents were dead, killed by a drunk in a head-on collision, he’d felt as if the earth had crumbled out from under his feet. He’d been inconsolable, driven deeper into his compulsive gambling. The day of his parents’ funeral, he lost his last five dollars in a slot machine and had to hitch a ride to New York from Atlantic City.

After the funeral, he’d been told he’d inherited his parents’ home—but it was mortgaged to the hilt and they owed back taxes on it. The executor—no big surprise—was not Jim, but a lawyer familiar with Jim’s habits. At the end of the estate sale, all Jim had left was the Rolex watch his father had put in a safe deposit box. It was the one thing Jim had never, ever pawned to support his gambling habit.

He sighed, patted Genie’s hand, and climbed out of the car. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

After explaining that the home owner had nothing on under her robe, the uniforms guarding the door got permission from the Arson Investigator to let Jim into the house. One stayed at his side the whole time, watching him pack a suitcase and cataloging what he took. Suspecting he might not have the opportunity to do this again for some time, he stuffed as many clothes as he could into the rolling bag. On his way to the front door, he stopped and made one more request. After a lengthy explanation and a heated discussion, the lead investigator rolled his eyes and nodded.

Jim headed back to the car, opened the trunk, and placed the bag inside. Then he opened the passenger side of the vehicle. “I have something for you.”

The look on Genie’s face when he handed it to her was thanks enough.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.”

She clutched the clock to her breasts and sobbed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

~*~

Much to Genie’s surprise, when she called the insurance company, the agent who answered the phone had already heard about the fire. Then again, Summerville
was
a small town. “I’m so sorry for your loss. We’ll have an adjuster out there today. Where can you be reached?”

She held Jim’s cell phone to her breast. “Where am I staying?”

“Motel Seven—No. Wait.” He snatched the phone out of Genie’s hand. “She’s staying at the Summerville Inn.”

After a long silence, the insurance agent said, “Is this some kind of joke? That place is a dump—has been for years.”

“Genie and I just bought that ‘dump.’ When you have some information about the fire, you can find us there or at this number.” He snapped the phone shut.

She stared at Jim, her mouth agape. “Are you out of your mind? We can’t stay
there
.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her—the one with the scar.

Why did that make her stomach turn to a quivering bowl of Jell-O?

“The Motel Seven is not a suitable setting for a world-class chef. It has no kitchen, not even a hot plate. You belong with the Grande Dame of Summerville.” He handed her a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “Slip into these. We’re going to breakfast, then shopping.”

The thought of eating made her queasy. “I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am. And you need to eat, like it or not.”

As she slid into the jeans under her robe, she glared at him. “Who died and left you in charge of my life?”

He pointed at the smoking house. “Your old life. You have a choice. You can either melt down into a puddle of self-pity—or you can take this as a sign from someone.” He pointed upward. “And catch the helicopter ride.”

“Helicopter? What the hell are you talking about?”

He leered at her. “You planning to wear that robe to breakfast?”

She glanced down and found half-exposed breasts. “Crap. Hold it over me, so I can put my T-shirt on without giving my little neighbor another show.”

He chuckled on the other side of the silk. “I still say little Timmy is a lucky boy—and an excellent observer of fine ass.”

She ripped the robe out of his hands. “You—you—” She grabbed his face and pulled his lips to hers, smothering his amusement with an ardent kiss. She broke it off just as abruptly. “You keep that up and I will have to spank you
and
Timmy.”

He leaned back against the driver’s side window and tapped his index finger on his cheek. “I don’t know about Timmy, but that sounds like fun to me.” He put the car in gear. “I’m working up an appetite—aren’t
you
?”

Avoiding the sight of her lost home, she looked forward. “Let’s go see what my future holds.”

~*~

Since her driver’s license, checks and credit cards had gone up in smoke, they stopped at the bank after a late brunch at Sips Coffee Shop, so Genie could get some cash.

The smiling, gray-haired bank official didn’t seem to care that three small children were tearing up deposit slips in the lobby and scribbling on credit applications. He was so focused on a curvaceous Hispanic woman with long black hair and lush lips, that Genie and Jim might as well have been invisible. After what seemed like a lifetime of shrieking children, the woman left the bank with a thick envelope, her brood trailing behind her.

When the flushed man finally tore his eyes off the woman’s derrière he seemed startled at the couple’s appearance. Mr. Beasley had known Genie most of her life—he had to be in his mid-sixties. She was amused to discover the man was not dead
yet.

Beasley cleared his throat noisily. “Ah, Miss King. How may I help you today?”

After a brief description of the morning’s disaster and her reason for coming to the bank, the talk turned to financing the renovations at the Summerville Inn.

Beasley’s expression bordered on that of the subject in Edvard Munch’s painting,
The Scream.
“You
bought
that dump?”

Genie glanced at Jim’s rigid jaw and put her hand on his arm, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not a dump,” she said. “It’s a fixer-upper.”

Jim released a deep breath. “Since we have a million dollars in equity in it, we prefer to call her an investment property.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Beasley steepled his fingers. “I’m going to have to see how much credit we can extend you and at what rate. Summerville might give you a grant to rehabilitate the property. The Inn is in an historic district, but I don’t recall if it’s considered historic property. If you can’t prove that it’s of historic or cultural significance—then you
might
be able to get money on the basis that you’d be creating employment opportunities and investing in the local community.”

Genie pressed a fingertip to the throbbing blood vessel at her temple. Where was the aspirin when she needed it? Oh, yeah. In her burned-out kitchen. “I did research online before I had the building inspected. There
are
historic properties on the same street—but the documentation on the Inn isn’t clear.”

Beasley stood. “Considering this is an emergency situation, I’ll add a home equity line for ten thousand dollars to your existing accounts and will speak with the president of the bank regarding a larger loan for renovations. In the meantime, I suggest you pay a visit to the Summerville Historical Society. I’m sure they’ll be happy to assist you.”

~*~

Jim led Genie into the Outdoor Gear store and beckoned to a gum-chewing young man in hiking gear wearing an
“Oh-Gee. You’re Going To Love Us!”
button. He hoped this kid earned a sales commission because he and Genie were about to make his day—if not his week, or month.

“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“We’re rehabbing the Summerville Inn.”

The sales associate’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? That place is a dump.”

Jim turned to Genie. “Why does
everyone
call it a dump?” He turned back to the kid. “Please do not refer to her in that manner. She is a Grande Dame fallen on hard times. And until such time as we can get her back on her feet, we will be camping there.”

Light dawned. “Yes, sir. Should I get a cart or a flatbed truck?”

“Flatbed—we’ll probably need two.”

Trailed by the associate, Jim held Genie’s hand and led her down the camp kitchen aisle. “What about that stove? Two burners enough? Or do you want two stoves with two burners?”

She dug her nails into his palm. “You don’t have to do this.”

He winced and released her hand. “Yes, I do. I have a chef and I like to eat.”

She shook her head and examined the selection of stoves, then settled on one that would do. Pots, pans, dishes, glassware, and a cooler followed. “That ancient refrigerator might be functional—but just in case, we’d better have one.”

“Sleeping bags, pillows, blow-up mattress…” Jim glanced at the kid. “—make that two mattresses.”

Genie gave him a puzzled look. “Expecting company?”

“You never know. Once word gets out the Inn is open, people will start coming out in droves.” Jim pinned her with a serious look. “Think we need a bear vault to protect our food?”

The associate stopped chewing his cud and stared at him.

She smirked. “Only if you’re expecting Tony to show up in the middle of the night.”

“You never know.” An image of the Neanderthal flashed in his mind. He hoped he’d never see him again. His mouth suddenly sour, Jim turned to the young man. “You have any more of that gum?”

Mr. Oh-Gee! Flashed the pack of gum at him and it reminded him of something—but what? A thought shimmered in his mind, thumbed its nose, at him and danced off into the hinterlands of his forty-two-year-old brain. He shook his head.

Getting old is not for the weak.