“Whichever’s faster.”
She pulled ingredients out of the fridge and put them on the counter. “Tell me about your barn burner of a day.”
The hem of her shirt barely covering her backside distracted him. He took a moment to reply to her question. “It was a barn burner, literally. I can’t believe you haven’t already heard, given how fast news spreads around here.”
She straightened, smiled, and put two slices of bread on a plate. “I guess I had my emergency scanner off this evening.”
“Tom Buchanan’s old hay barn burned down.”
“Oh, wow. That eyesore? I almost want to say ‘hallelujah,’ but not until you tell me no people or animals were hurt.”
“Nobody was hurt. He used it to store hay and equipment, not animals. Rusty passed by on his way to his parents’ party, saw the flames, and called it in, but in the time it took to get equipment and men to the scene, the barn burned to the ground.”
His stomach grumbled again. He noted that she began to slice the tomato a little faster. “What started the fire?”
“There’s the burning question. We had a rainy spring, and nothing but high temperatures and humidity the last few weeks. Tom says there was old hay in the barn. Heat from decomposing hay creates an autoignition point, and that’s what everybody wants to think, but I smelled fuel.”
“You think something else started the fire?” She put the finished sandwich in front of him, along with the half-empty light beer he’d “forgotten,” and wandered to the other side of the island to retrieve her clothes from the floor.
He bid a silent farewell to one of Bluelick’s most spectacular views as she shimmied into her pants and consoled himself with a big bite of the sandwich. After chewing and swallowing, he said a soft, “Thank you,” and took a long pull of the beer. The grimace he struggled to conceal probably told her what he thought of her diet beer. “Buchanan says his tractor and some of the other equipment still contained fuel.”
She shook her head and walked back to the counter to get her wine. “He should know better than to park a gassed-up tractor in his hay barn—”
“He should, but I don’t think stored combustibles are the culprit, either. If you ask me, someone poured gasoline around the barn and lit the thing up. I’m not the fire investigator—the sheriff’s department has that honor—but I consider the fire suspicious.”
“The sheriff agreed?” she asked as she settled onto the stool next to him.
“I wouldn’t say that. They need to send the debris to a forensic arson lab, to check for ignitable liquids used to accelerate a fire, but the jerkoffs responding to the call wanted to wait and check with Sheriff Butler on Monday to get authorization, which was code for ‘do nothing,’ so I made them remain at the scene while I contacted him and convinced him to have his deputies do their fucking job.”
She frowned into her wine. “Pitiful. You shouldn’t have to kick-start the sheriff’s department.”
“I agree.” He took another bite and swallowed, and tried to choke down some of his frustration while he was at it. “Meanwhile Tom’s shitting a brick because he had some insurance on the tractor and some other stuff inside the barn, and I refused to put ‘act of nature’ on my report. He’s afraid his insurance company will use my report as an excuse not to pay, which is not my problem. My problem is determining if Bluelick has a fire-starter, and I would dearly love to know what Justin was up to tonight, because damn if he wasn’t right there on the scene when we showed up to douse the fire.”
Melody slowly spun the stem of her wineglass between her thumb and forefinger. “What did he have to say?”
“No clue. Tom alibied him and the deputies on scene wouldn’t question him, because he’s the mayor’s son. They’re worthless.”
The curt observation earned him a nod of agreement from her. “They are, but even so, I can’t see Justin starting the fire. Not because he’s incapable of maliciousness—he’s a spoiled brat—but torching a barn would take too much energy and planning.”
“He was on scene at Mr. Cranston’s porch fire, and he was on scene tonight. Arsonists like to watch.”
“Oh, I imagine he’s behind Mr. Cranston’s flaming poop bag. That took next to no planning. But the barn fire feels like more effort to me. Can’t they check his credit card receipts and see if he bought any of those plastic containers of fuel? There’s only so many gas stations around here.”
He finished off his sandwich. “Want a job as an arson investigator with the county?”
“No, thanks, but I’m sorry the sheriff’s department isn’t being more helpful. They serve the entire county. We’re just one small, relatively quiet corner, so we don’t get much attention.”
“That’s bullshit. They take the tax dollars and the contract, so they need to…” He trailed off, shook his head, and met her eyes. He let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. “And there’s not much I can change about it tonight.”
She braced an elbow on the island and propped her chin on her hand. “Why firefighting?”
“Why did I go into firefighting?”
She nodded.
“It’s in my blood. I’ve been hanging out in firehouses my whole life. My grandfather was chief in northern Maryland, and my dad came up the ranks there. He transferred to Cincinnati FD when I was fourteen, because he wanted more action and more opportunities. He hoped to do his family proud and make chief someday, too. A year after transferring, he died on duty when he and another firefighter fell through the floor of a burning apartment building while making an interior attack on the structure.”
“Oh my God, Josh.” She reached over and took his hand. “I’m so sorry.”