Chapter Four
R icky spread out a large sheet of white paper on his desk and carefully unloaded his plastic bag of treasures. He leaned over and sniffed carefully, nodding to himself.
Unless it was pure coincidence, the pizza box had been a decoy, as he had suspected.
He used a pencil to turn over the black lumps. His professional instincts kicked in as he felt the old, addictive thrill of seeking out the person or persons whom he privately thought of as the scum of the earth—arsonists.
Even a baby arsonist, an angry kid or disgruntled ex-employee, could cause devastation, lifelong injury and even death in the most excruciating of ways.
Smoke. The acrid scent of chemical foam and the misty, snow-like aftermath in the air. Charred plastic and smoldering laminate releasing their poisons. The silence when life has departed.
A surge of panic hit him, a sucker punch to the gut, but he forced it down. Swallowed the nausea, gritted his teeth. Took a deep, calming breath. Focused.
He could do this.
Exhibit A: A wad of newspaper, singed around the edges. Damp, blurred text and the unmistakable smell of copier fluid, which was near enough to paint thinner in flammability. It had the extra benefit of being easily available in most offices.
Exhibit B: The remains of two matchbooks, still wrapped around the twisted butt of a cigarette.
“Aren’t you the clever one,” he muttered. “Your average joe would see a pizza box and a live cigarette butt. A couple of juveniles having fun.”
Maybe .
But only a lazy investigator started with a solution and then worked back to the problem.
Don’t overthink it, Ricky reminded himself. This still could be the work of a kid. After all, the internet was a treasure trove of all things dark and bizarre, particularly when it came to finding out how to kill and maim human beings.
His mind took a wander. A reluctant wander. The rectory. Crowded with adults, teenagers, and children. Everyone happy except for the two foster boys who had landed at this place of sanctuary after surviving a world of pain and abuse.
Smart boys, capable and big for their age.
The question was, just how angry were Judah and Josh?
***
T he universe seemed determined to expose Temple Mountain Town Council’s latest recruit to every aspect of crime in town, and on Friday morning Ricky found himself on the trail of yet another local miscreant.
He was enjoying the pale, early winter sunshine as he pulled into the landscaped parking lot of the local retirement village. The first snow had come and gone overnight, and the lowering clouds promised more.
At first glance, Temple Mountain Retirement Village looked to be as advertised on its website; a haven of relaxation and social hub for the elderly and soon-to-be elderly of the district. No high-rise Queens social housing here, but pleasant low-set brick buildings stepped down the slope, framed by sugar maples and a pleasing blend of shrubbery.
Ricky opened the car door, glad of an excuse to get outdoors and away from the office. The crisp temperature reminded him of walking through Central Park in New York City at daybreak after a night shift. Even then, the smell of gas fumes and last week’s trash and a million dusty air conditioning vents lingered in the early morning coolness.
Not here. Ricky inhaled the clean scent of pine trees and soggy pastures and clipped hedges. Perhaps a hint of industrial strength bleach and burned toast.
It would be fair to say that the arson investigation hadn’t progressed much in the past couple of days, beyond confirming that he had been right about the copier fluid—which left almost the entire Temple Mountain office workforce of around five thousand people as suspects.
Ricky had conducted an evening training session with the firefighter volunteers and given a lecture on fire safety to the kindergarten kids.
There had been no more trash fires. No fires at all, in fact, until a half hour ago when the administrator of the Temple Mountain Retirement Village called to say that a resident had accidentally set fire to their dressing gown while sneaking a cigarette in the garden.
The fire—more of a smolder, according to the perky-sounding female caller—had been quickly quenched by a tepid mug of coffee, but it was felt (and Ricky agreed) that a visit from a representative of the fire department was required, plus a stern word.
He assessed the buildings with a professional eye. Not new, but well-maintained for a facility situated in the snow belt and in a direct line from the icy terrain of Quebec. Ricky reminded himself to check the fire plan, the extinguishers...
But first, to today’s villain. He was priming himself for a brisk inspection of the scene of the crime and a few well-chosen words when he heard a familiar voice.
“Gramps, you need to listen to the doctor. You can’t drive anymore. And no, it’s not a suggestion.”
An older man emerged from a pathway to the left, followed by Jodi Ruskin.
Ricky stared. He felt the oxygen in his lungs escape, and the heightened calm brought about by an early morning run evaporate.
Jodi’s boyfriend-style slightly baggy black jeans emphasized her womanly hips and long, strong legs. She had the slightly pinched look of a woman who wishes she had stuck with sneakers instead of those amazing new black boots with killer toes.
Ricky tried to temper the foolish grin on his face to something more dignified.
Rev. Bob Ruskin had a deep mellifluous voice honed by decades of preaching. He looked older than Ricky remembered, and there was a definite stoop to his narrow shoulders.
“Honey, you know that’s ridiculous. I was driving every day just a few months ago. Find another doctor.”
Jodi’s eyes lit up when she saw Ricky, and there was a brief, shared moment of mutual pleasure before good sense and social decorum interceded.
“Ricky! Hey.” Jodi steered her grandfather, who was still muttering about his years of experience behind the wheel, in Ricky’s direction.
“Gramps, this is Chief Leroy Browning’s new assistant, Ricky Sharp. From the New York City Fire Department. He’s in charge of...” she paused, clearly unsure exactly how to describe the council dogcatcher and trash fire expert.
Ricky stepped up.
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. The old man’s grip was impressive.
Bob frowned. “It’s those old hippies in 12B, isn’t it? I knew those pot plants weren’t exotic ferns.”
Ricky smiled. He shook his head. “This is more of a public safety issue. I’m following up on a minor breach by a resident.”
The old man reeled back. His eyes glittered with interest. “Really? Who?” His voice dropped and he leaned forward. “You can confide in me, son. I’m a minister of religion. And I may be able to ease things if you need to arrest someone.”
Jodi rolled her eyes.
“Not this time,” said Ricky gravely. “We usually give a warning first up. But I will be checking licenses if I need to.”
Bob looked shocked. “You can do that? Oh my.” He turned to his granddaughter and bussed her cheek. “Can’t stop, honey. The bus for the shopping center is leaving in twenty minutes, and I need to get ready.”
He threw Ricky a half-salute. “Keep up the good work officer. Greatest respect for the folks who keep our little town safe.”
His tall figure disappeared with surprising speed.
When he was out of sight Jodi let out a giggle.
“Nice work, officer.” She turned to Ricky, matching him head-to-head in those heels. He inhaled a heady scent which reminded him of soap and flowers with perhaps a hint of felt tip marker.
He shrugged, smiled. After a few seconds he realised he was still grinning and staring into her blue eyes like a lovesick teenager (or in his case, like a faithful brown Labrador).
Ricky rearranged his expression into something more dashing. He wished he had a hat like Chief Browning.
“All in a day’s work, ma’am. As a matter of fact, I am on the trail of a dangerous arsonist right now.”
Her gaze widened. “The firebug? You’ve tracked them down to...” One eyebrow rose. “Temple Mountain Retirement Village? How do they escape the scene of the crime? On their motorized scooter?”
The breeze, which had been ambivalent until now, picked up in strength, bringing the faint damp smell of rotting vegetation. A cloud drifted across the pale sun, and the temperature plummeted. Dry leaves from forgotten fall skittered across the concrete.
Ricky zipped up his jacket. “Temple Mountain Town Council prides itself on its inclusive and diverse community. If some old coot wants to burn down the nursing home, we won’t discriminate in our balanced and proportionate response to the threat.”
She snorted with laughter. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a red corduroy jacket.
She wasn’t wearing any makeup, Ricky realized. Must be her day off. Without the armor of the smooth, flawless layer of color, her skin was pale with the faintest of freckles scattered across her long nose. The tip of her nose was pink in the chill.
The overall effect was one of pared-back beauty; of finely honed features which were both fierce and vulnerable in their nakedness.
Ricky felt an absurd rush of tenderness that he couldn’t explain, followed by the even more absurd urge to wrap his hands around her face and kiss the cool cheeks, the frozen nose, and those wide, generous lips.
Her eyes flared briefly, as though she read his thoughts.
She cocked her head to one side.
“Did you swallow the town council rulebook? Sounds nasty.” Jodi shifted her feet uneasily as she spoke, and Ricky was on the point of suggesting she change shoes when his better sense prevailed.
“Let’s sit down for a bit.” He led her over to a small bench in front of a bleak mulched space where the rose garden would be a place of beauty in a couple of months. She hobbled behind him and let out a sigh of relief as they sat.
“These damned boots,” she muttered. “So don’t leave me in suspense. I need to get home before I get a blister. And there better not be any important developments because this is my day off.”
Ricky stretched out, enjoying the respite, and the fact that Jodi was alongside.
“The serial nuisance who I have been chasing all over town with my fire extinguisher seems to have gone quiet,” he began.
He sneaked a look at her profile. Her eyes were closed and she looked ready to lay her head on his shoulder at any moment.
In his dreams.
He hastily continued. “Maybe it was your breaking news story warning about juvenile pyromaniacs. Nice work, by the way. I had to tell Leroy that your relentless questions wore me down. But he was most annoyed by the photos of his assistant taken at the scene. Told me I looked like Gomer Pyle. I don’t even know who that is, but I know it’s bad.”
Jodi laughed. She opened her eyes and met his gaze.
“Look it up, city boy. And Leroy has a point. It’s the keen expression. But tell me about the serious safety breach which has brought Temple Mountain’s finest to the old folks’ home.”
“It’s...ah...more of a tempest in a teacup, in a manner of speaking.” Ricky nodded towards the front door of the reception where someone seemed to be lurking. A young woman with a Rubenesque figure waved impatiently in their direction.
“Hmmm,” said Jodi. “Why am I not surprised that there is suddenly an urgent need for the new hot firefighter to attend the retirement village where Bonnie Browning is the manager?”
Ricky blinked. “Bonnie Browning as in Leroy Browning’s daughter?” He smirked. “And I’m the hot new smoke jumper?”
Jodi nodded. Her grin was way too wicked for Ricky’s liking. “Exactly. There’s no accounting for taste.”
“As a matter of fact, I am here on a genuine call,” said Ricky in a dignified tone. “Some old coot...sorry, older citizen, started a fire while sneaking a cigarette.”
“Wow.” Jodi whistled. “So why aren’t you in there with your bucket of sand or your big hose?”
There was a brief silence as Jodi realized what she had said. She settled on a carefully blank face.
Ricky nodded gravely, as though her question was perfectly sensible and not causing an embarrassing surge in testosterone.
“Fire’s out,” he said briefly. “Cup of coffee did the trick. Now I’m off to read the riot act.”
“Yoo-hoo!” Bonnie Browning had gotten tired of waiting. “Officer? Rickkkky!”
Jodi couldn’t hold back another unladylike snort of laughter. She stood up, hitching her bag over her shoulder, and threw him a lazy smile.
“How’s the lasagna going? I hope you used plenty of mozzarella.”
Ricky’s newly acquired sense of wellbeing evaporated in an instant.
Lasagna. A large lasagna. A homemade large lasagna with real mozzarella .
“You bet,” he said heartily. A fresh urgency to tackle Bonnie Browning (not literally, of course) and the recidivist smoker, and then hightail it to the supermarket for supplies roared through him like a fire station alert.
Jodi turned towards a dark blue two-door Miata that looked fresh off the car lot. “Good to hear,” she purred. “And I’ll have Alma with me. I’m picking her up from the family counselor.”
Ricky’s mind went momentarily blank. Of course, the Beechams’ middle child. An image of delicate features and golden skin popped into his mind. Dark eyes and an anxious-to-please smile.
He nodded, then watched as she drove away. Of course, that was exactly what Jodi Ruskin would do—step up to look after the strays.
A cool arm threaded through his elbow. Ricky inhaled the sultry mix of perfume and hair products. Bonnie Browning.
“Well hi,” she said. “I expect that you won’t remember little old me from your school days. But I sure remember you.” She steered him gently but firmly towards the front door. “I had a crush on you all through high school in fact.”
It was on the tip of Ricky’s tongue to agree that no, he didn’t remember Bonnie, but he wisely settled for a cheesy grin.
“That Jodi Ruskin,” she rolled her eyes. “You want to watch her Ricky. I mean it’s sad and all about her dad and then her mom, but you simply can’t trust her.” Her tone grew confidential. “According to my father, it’s beyond embarrassing that she’s still Acting Editor, with her lack of experience. Apparently, the owners are desperate to find a proper editor, but it’s not everyone who wants to settle down in our sweet little town.”
Feeling like he was being marched to some unknown doom which involved Bonnie Browning and more insider gossip (and body contact) than he was comfortable with, Ricky was whisked past the mulched gardens and into the overly warm reception area, all the time aware of the soft weight of her generous breast against his arm.
The front counter, festooned with official-looking health brochures about Covid, influenza, vaccinations, strange rashes, tinea and the like, was unattended, save for a large push-button bell. An elderly woman who was busy pinning a flyer to the cork noticeboard gave Bonnie a defiant look before scurrying away.
Bonnie pursed her carmine lips.
“That’s Babs. I’ve told her she can’t advertise her class in anti-terrorist self-defense anymore. Apart from encouraging residents to be hypervigilant about terrorists, which is why the Swiss bakery on Main Street refuses to deliver any more—even after we apologized—last time we had complaints from several gentlemen about overenthusiastic physical restraint techniques on the part of the ladies. We don’t want a lawsuit on our hands.”
Her manicured hand scooped up the offending page, along with notes advertising a massage service and a psychic promising to pass on messages to deceased loved ones.
“Honestly, you’d think the old dears would settle down and watch daytime television but no.”
“My grandparents used to enjoy bridge,” offered Ricky, fascinated by this glimpse into the lives of the elderly. He breathed in warm air tinged with the scent of disinfectant, cooked cabbage, and talcum powder.
Bonnie huffed in disgust. “Banned. Way too competitive.” She crumpled up the notices and threw them in the bin. “Shall we say there were some unfortunate disagreements? Ditto Monopoly, and don’t even mention Uno. We had to get the recreation room completely repainted last year.”
“Wow.” Ricky began to wonder if he needed to spread his net wider in the search for the arsonist.
Instead of heading down one of the wide corridors, bright with cheerful quotes about positive thinking, and pictures of puppies, Bonnie steered him into her private office. A tray of cake and coffee were already set up.
She closed the door, shutting out the squeaking of rubber on linoleum and the soft buzz of conversation as a group of seniors on walkers made their way laboriously through reception to the front door.
“I feel like we are already friends. Daddy talks about you all the time.” Like a seasoned television host, Bonnie’s voice combined thrillingly intimate with firmness and confidence.
She leaned back in her armchair, which was situated kitty-corner from his, separated by a small round coffee table, and crossed her black-stockinged legs. One black patent leather toe waved in his direction, drawing attention to the curve of knee and thigh.
“He’s pretty impressed, “she continued. “Nabbing a local boy turned hero New York fireman is a real coup for the town.”
Ricky considered pointing out that Leroy had certainly kept his appreciation of his new employee to himself, and that he was on a short-term contract, and that it was “firefighter” these days...but decided not to bother.
“Before you go and inspect the scene of the crime, I want to tell you how the Temple Mountain Fire Department can help keep these dear old duffers from burning the place down.” Bonnie’s voice turned playful.
She leaned forward to pour the coffee, providing a glimpse of décolletage that seemed unwise in a place with so many elderly gents with pacemakers.
“I put this together. Only a suggestion, of course.” Bonnie slipped a sheet of paper across the desk. It was a schedule of events with headings such as Virtual Fire Drill, and Safety Tips for the Elderly, the Incapacitated, and the Incontinent.
She pushed a plate of choc chip cookies in his direction. “There will be other stuff of course. Personally, I would ban cooktops, stoves, electric gadgets, appliances, that sort of thing, in any of the residents’ rooms, but the residents’ committee is pushing back, unfortunately. Anyway, it’s all very fluid. I’m looking forward to your expert input.”
Ricky sipped his lukewarm coffee. Thought about a life where the coffee was never hot and the toast was always cold.
“The town council media officer will attend of course. Wonderful photo opportunities.” Bonnie nibbled at a cookie.
His heart sank further. Ricky thought about Far Rockaway, Engine Company 264. About that sudden rush of adrenaline, the crisp efficiency of his team working as a unit, the cool professionalism that superseded the danger and even the horror.
Especially, he thought about the horror. And afterwards, the surreal calm which followed the intensity of the debrief. And then, the silly jokes and the clowning around and the camaraderie. That was the job.
“It’s all about the personal touch, Ricky,” Bonnie cooed. “Daddy said he was sure you would be able to find time.”
***
T he Miata was already bursting at the seams with boxes of food and sundry kitchen supplies by the time it pulled up outside the Sharp house.
“Wow.” Alma’s voice from the tiny backseat was impressed. “That’s like the biggest lasagna I ever saw.”
Jodi leaped out to help Ricky, who was staggering down the path with a supersize dish and a clutch of bulky cloth bags. The temperature had dropped during the day, and the low clouds were heavy with snow.
She reached for the bags, which, judging from the smell of warm, sweet pastry, were fruit pies, each packed in a cardboard box. He shook his head.
“Door,” he gasped. “Quick.
“My Lord, you really are an overachiever Ricky Sharp,” Jodi muttered, wrestling with the handle and trying not to jolt the heavy ceramic dish.
Ricky had changed into a pair of worn jeans and hiking boots. Like her, he had ditched fashion in favor of warmth and was wearing a faded quilted jacket and one of his mom’s scarves.
“Take this weight for a sec,” he muttered. Jodi braced her arms under the heavy dish as Ricky untangled the bags and slid them off his arms. The aroma of melted cheese and tomato was heavenly, and she felt her stomach rumble. Lunch had been a snack while she minded her nephew Isaac.
“Shit, I think I broke a pie.” Ricky slid his bare hands under hers to take back the dish. “I told Mom I was a firefighter not a superhero.”
Time slowed down. His skin was warm and smooth, and he was suddenly super close. That is, as close as a large lasagna would allow.
A ripple of pleasure ran down her spine and her neck tingled with warmth. It felt more than nice.
“Mmmmm,” Jodi managed. His breath puffed in the cool air, and she caught a musky splash of that Old Spice.
His eyes darkened. A smile twitched at his lips.
That faint stubble on his chin would feel like light sandpaper under her fingers, against her cheeks.
“Do I smell of bolognaise sauce?” he asked teasingly. His head bent closer. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Jodi shook her head. The smart quip she needed evaporated and she wondered for a wild moment if he was going to kiss her. That thought was quickly followed by the alarming realization that she didn’t know whether or not that would be a good thing.
She swallowed, hard. This was no way for the local newspaper editor (even if she was only keeping the seat warm until they found a new editor) to behave in public.
“Lottie made pies. How thoughtful,” she said finally.
“Come on Jodi!” Alma leaned forward from the backseat. “You told Hattie that we would be there by five, and it’s ten after.”
“At your service ma’am.” Jodi snapped back into super efficiency mode. There were a few quick fumbles as the food was wedged into the back seat next to Alma.
She slipped around to the driver’s seat and buckled in next to Ricky, who was having trouble getting his long legs folded into the small space.
“Sorry,” she said shortly. “I know it’s a bit squished.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “And keep those fingers away from the pie crust young lady. This is Ricky, by the way.”
“Cooool.” Alma dragged out the word. “You were at Sunday lunch, right? So you’re a fireman, huh? I thought you might be more like The Hulk, you know, bigger and covered in muscles so’s you can carry people down ladders.”
Ricky shook his head regretfully. “Sorry. But I reckon I could carry Jodi down a ladder if I had to.” He threw her a thoughtful glance. “Probably.”
“Thanks,” muttered Jodi, grateful that the early evening light hid her still pink cheeks. Being hoisted across Ricky’s broad shoulder? That was an image worth contemplating. Very un-PC of course, but no sane woman was going to argue about gender stereotypes with the firefighter sent up to rescue her from a blaze.
For the next ten minutes the conversation was entirely taken up with talk about the incredible dangers of fighting fires and the bravery and strength required of firefighters. Alma moved her assessment of Ricky up a few notches—especially after he promised to let her sit in the driver’s seat of the firetruck the next time she was downtown.
They had just finished discussing how to carry a Rottweiler down a ladder (don’t try this at home) when the Miata pulled up at the church hall. Jodi steered carefully down the narrow access lane to the back door.
People spilled out the door with cries of welcome. There was a brief tangle of limbs as the food and other supplies were unloaded. Ricky finally staggered to his feet with the lasagna in both arms.
“That smells divine.” Jodi inhaled the fragrance of tomato, meat, cheese, and pasta. She sniffed. “Ummm...garlic, basil, and what’s that other herb? Oregano or maybe tarragon?”
She grinned when she spotted a slight shiftiness in his eyes.
“Gotcha. So you got your mom to make it. I knew it.”
Despite the heavy dish, Ricky managed to slip one arm around her waist. Her heart began thudding like the newspaper presses of yesteryear, and her knees were dangerously weak.
She really ought to get out more, she told herself briskly. A good-looking firefighter comes to town, and she was putty in his hands.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Ricky whispered in her ear. “I did not get my poor overworked mom to make it. I was...unavoidably detained at the old folks’ home —” He ignored Jodi’s snort. “An informative session with Ms. Bonnie Browning, followed by forty minutes trying to explain to an elderly gentleman that county law forbids smoking indoors in public institutions, and that the fact that his brother-in-law was on the town council didn’t matter a hill of beans.”
Ricky huffed out frosty air, sending a shiver of goosebumps down Jodi’s neck. He inched infinitesimally closer. “Only realized when I was leaving that the old coot had taken out his hearing aids. Anyways...I called my dad and asked him to get started on dinner, and by the time I got home it was in the oven. Haven’t seen the old boy so chuffed for ages.”
His hair was tickling her cheek.
“So what do you think of that, Ms. Acting Editor?” he murmured. “Worth a frontpage story?”
“Man Makes Lasagna?”
She put her finger to her bottom lip and pretended to consider the question. Happiness welled up inside her, and her heart was fluttering in her chest like a captured bird. She forced herself to project an air of cool sophistication, as though harmless flirtation with handsome men was pretty much part of her job.
“Hmmm...any story is purely speculative at this point since the lasagna has not been taste-tested. Maybe for the next Mindfulness and Wellbeing feature, or possibly the recipe page, though the fact that it contains gluten, dairy, and meat could be problematic.”
Her smile was angelic.
“But if you don’t get that lasagna inside in thirty seconds, the front-page story will be about the food riot at the church hall.”
***
T he free Friday night community supper at Temple Mountain Community Church had always been popular, especially in the dark months when the pandemic was decimating local businesses. Now that life had returned to the “new normal”, people still turned up to share what had become a regular event.
Of course, few knew better than the newspaper editor that the town was made of villains and heroes, with most folk somewhere in between, but on the whole Jodi was proud of the Temple Mountain community for holding together.
And of the volunteers, she reminded herself when she finally paused for breath. She looked around the half-empty hall. Her hands were full of scrunched up paper tablecloth and stained napkins.
She puffed at the corona of dark blond curls over her eyes which had escaped from her ponytail. Her cheeks, she knew, would be flushed from heat and exertion, and there were spots of sauce on her jeans.
But Jodi had learned not to fuss. No place here for egos. Serving food, chatting, manhandling pots and dishes, and lugging tubs of washing-up to the huge sinks and commercial dishwashers ( thank you, Lord! ).
She glanced through the wide server hatch to the kitchen, where the volunteers were milling around with dishcloths and chatting ten to the dozen. The last guests, as Silas insisted on calling their customers, were slowly filtering from the heated hall to the now frigid street where nobody was inclined to linger.
Ricky had fit right in. Even better, he had kept his eye on Alma while Jodi helped at the check-in desk and flitted around doing any number of tasks. He had manned the bain-marie with good humor and used his authoritative manner whenever things looked to be getting out of hand or when the gravy looked to be running out.
Even the twins were watching their step, she observed. Jodi’s gaze rested briefly on the tousled heads whispering in the corner. In fact, Judah and Josh were actively avoiding the newcomer. Male authority figures tended to have that effect on them.
She swiped at the tables with a damp cloth, watching Ricky under her lashes as he chatted with a couple of the regular homeless folk lingering in the warmth.
She cocked her head. Ricky was listening rather than talking. Nodding, concentrating, like what they were saying was worthy of his full attention.
Huh . Made sense.
Jodi wished she’d thought of talking to the town’s less visible citizens herself.
Hattie slipped through the back door, once more engulfed in her apron.
“Coming back for late tea at the rectory? Please do,” she said. Jodie hesitated, and Hattie clasped one of Jodie’s long narrow hands briefly with her own petite hands. Her nails were pearly pink against the mocha skin, and her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Ricky is keen to come, and he explained that he was with you tonight, so...” Hattie leaned forward, bringing a comforting waft of baby shampoo and hot chocolate. “He’s a beautiful soul, I think, but troubled.”
Jodie bridled. She opened her mouth but closed it again.
Yes. Ricky was troubled , she thought with dawning awareness. There were shadows behind that quick smile and the flashes of warmth in his eyes.
Jodi wrenched her brain back on track before the preacher could read too much in her eyes. And Hattie was a hard person to say no to, though she looked weary. Her long slender neck and prominent collar bones had the delicacy of a young woman, and Jodi knew for a fact that Hattie always pretended to eat more than she actually did.
No one knew, except her husband, what terrors Hattie had left behind in her war-torn African country of birth.
“Of course,” Jodi said with a smile. “In fact, why don’t you head off now and put your feet up for a minute? There are more than enough of us to finish the clean-up.”
She physically steered Hattie towards the door. “Go. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Hattie nodded and disappeared.
Jodi finished scrunching paper tablecloths and went into the kitchen only to discover that Ricky was gone. So were the twins.
A niggle of worry snaked through her mind. What if the boys had run off again, disappearing into the night, with Ricky on their heels? She poked her head out the back door and was reassured by the sound of low male voices.
To be exact, one low, intense adult male voice and a couple of teenage mumbles. The hubbub from the kitchen faded as Jodi walked towards the corner, suddenly tense. It was truly dark now, the moon hidden by clouds.
Ricky’s voice was crisp. “I asked you a simple question, boys. And believe me, I know when someone is lying to me...”
Jodi swung around the corner, heart hammering. The faint light from the hall windows threw the trees into deep shadow and cast a wan glow over the three faces.
Ricky looked up from his stern lecture. The twins, who were lounging with fake nonchalance against the back wall, immediately brightened. They both spoke at once.
“Jodi. He was accusing us...”
“He’s going to arrest us. Send us back to reform school...”
Jodi hushed them with one hand and then, drawing herself up to full height, glared at Ricky’s grim face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “I don’t know what you imagine these children did, but you have no right...”
Waves of shock and sick disappointment surged through her, leaving her breathless.
Another voice cut through the air. Silas, whose barracks-room tones had been honed on the selling floor of the New York Stock Exchange (and more recently in the rectory when a firm paternal hand was required), stepped into the half-light.
Everyone froze.
“Boys, home. Now.”
The words were brief, but the effect was instant. Josh and Judah bolted away as though Satan himself was on their tail.
Silas looked gravely at Ricky, who was quivering with frustration.
Ricky raked one hand through his dark hair.
“I really need—”
Silas clearly didn’t give a hoot what Ricky needed.
“You just stepped over the line, buddy.” Silas’ eyes drilled into the other man, igniting an instant bristle of male aggression. “We need to talk. But first I need to try and undo some of the harm you just caused.”
Both men rolled back their shoulders reflexively and lifted their chins like street fighters. Outraged as she was, Jodi repressed a sigh.
Silas strode away into the darkening night. Jodi was left staring at Ricky.
“You can’t simply...” she began. She fell silent at his cold, forbidding expression. His face might have been carved from granite. The easy-going, what-would-it-be-like-to-kiss-him, charming guy had vanished.
“Don’t be so quick to judge, Jodi. You have no idea what I was talking about, and those two feral lads...”
“Josh and Judah are not feral,” replied Jodi hotly. She knew she would have time later to mentally flagellate herself for her girlish romantic dreams. It would be time well-spent, she promised herself.
She composed herself. Her voice was flat.
“Have you forgotten that the twins were taken away from a terrible, abusive situation...God, their father is an awful man...and then you waltz into town and start accusing them of...whatever.”
She ran out of steam. The chilly space inside her chest had expanded, and it was nothing to do with the sudden drop in temperature. An icy breeze trickled down her unprotected neck, and she hugged her arms across her chest.
“Thanks for the reminder.” He spoke evenly. “I hadn’t forgotten, as it turns out. That’s one of the reasons why Joshua and Judah are on my radar.”
Revelation hit Jodi in the gut with the force of a fully loaded deep-dish lasagna.
( Lasagna . Traitorous home-cooked cheesy lasagna, luring her into intimacies and fantasies when she ought to know better...)
“You think those children are the firebug! How could you?” Her tone was squeaky with outrage.
Ricky remained unmoved. He cocked his head and viewed her with a detached calmness which was itself deeply infuriating.
“By following up on some excellent intelligence and asking pointed questions. Or attempting to ask them. Not one, but two people saw a couple of teens hanging around just before the fire near the basketball courts. And those boys are hiding something.”
He moved closer. His eyes were deep, dark, and unfriendly. “This is my job, Jodi. Trying to catch the bastards who are doing this because if I don’t, the next time or maybe the time following that, a live ember will find its way into the school or maybe the church or perhaps someone’s home. And people will die.”
Jodi swallowed. She clamped her jaw tight to stop the trembling.
But Ricky wasn’t done. In the darkness his face was a series of hard, unforgiving angles. His breath grew loud, ragged. As his eyes bored into hers, Jodi knew he was seeing something she couldn’t.
“And when it happens, Jodi, someone’s got to run into that inferno, put their own life and that of their buddies on the line, and deal with all that shit. And it ain’t some do-gooder preacher or head-in-the-clouds journalist who thinks she can tell you how to do your job!”
His voice faltered, and she glimpsed a flash of anguish cross his face.
Silence fell, as though even the distant cars and the faint sounds of voices in the kitchen had quietened to hear what was barely a whisper.
“You do it because it’s your job. And sometimes it rips out the very heart of you.”
Jodi let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. Of its own accord, her body leaned towards him, driven by some deep instinct to comfort...
“Hey Jodi!” The back door banged open. One of the retired men who were stalwarts of the free dinners. Alma peered around him. “You coming back to the rectory? Hattie’s got cake...”
Jodi forced her voice to work.
“I’m just coming Harvey. Alma, honey, you should be back in the rectory!”
She turned to Ricky.
The light streaming from the door threw his tall frame into shadow. Now he seemed like the stranger that he was. A newcomer, breezing back into Temple Mountain like the town ought to be grateful.
He shook his head. “I need to get home anyway,” he said. “And I could do with the walk.”
He turned away, and Jodi felt the fragile link between them begin to tear, like a sharp pain that tugs at the ribs.
She opened her mouth to tell him not to leave, that she was sorry she’d gone off half-cocked, but they were only kids and traumatized kids...
His boots crunched dry leaves and the collar of his jacket was turned up against the chill. “Thanks for the invite, Jodi. It’s been...a real eye-opener.”
He was gone.