Chapter Six
T he chef’s special was a classic meat pie, served with baked Adirondack Blue potatoes and a side of early season New Yorker tomatoes.
Jodi experienced a brief rush of diner’s envy as Ricky rubbed his hands together and inhaled the exquisite fragrance of flaky pastry and beef. Her bagel and lox looked lonely on the large plate.
“Now this is how a meat pie ought to be,” said Ricky, slicing into the pie. “No fancy herbs and boutique salt.”
“My kind of man,” Jodi said lightly, without thinking. She felt her cheeks redden and looked away, but not before she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face. As though he too sensed the invisible thread which seemed to be drawing them together.
He tucked into the pie, giving a low hum of pleasure.
His face grew animated.
“You ever been to Far Rockaway Beach in Queens?”
Jodi blinked. Was this a gentle reminder that his real life was in New York City?
She shook her head. “Never heard of it.” She watched as he neatly diced some tomato and ate a few bites, once again noting the tiny scars crisscrossing the backs of his hands.
From out of nowhere, an image floated into her mind. Ricky and Chrissie Caitens. Sauntering down the main street of Temple Mountain like they owned it; arms wrapped around each other, heads down in some private conversation.
Ricky was still talking, his eyes bright with memory.
“The historical part is old, maybe 1920s. Nothing fancy, simple stucco and brick bungalows near the sea, designed for regular folks to vacation by a guy who became famous for his Art Deco hotels.”
Jodi nodded, wondering where this was going. Art Deco was something she knew about.
“Love that style. Hotel Edison. The Evelyn Hotel. The Great Gatsby .”
He nodded, clearly impressed. Jodi firmly quashed any thought of former girlfriends and munched into her bagel, savoring the salty bursts of flavor from the tiny capers and the tang of dill in the cream cheese.
The café was busy at this time of day, and Jodi found herself relaxing into the warm cinnamon-scented ambience with the air of a woman who has no place she needs to be.
Not for the next hour or so anyway.
“So,” Ricky continued, his face alight, “there’s a great little café at the end of Beach Street, looking out over the water. From outside it looks kinda ordinary, but the first thing you see when you walk inside is this amazing Art Deco tile floor, black and white with pink. The matching stained glass panels didn’t last of course, but they’ve saved one and framed it on the wall.” He grinned. “Opens at three in the morning. Crazy.”
This was the boy Jodi remembered. Before Ricky Sharp became the hard-bitten firefighter who made instant life and death decisions. A man who sent firefighters into fearsome blazes and had to live with the consequences.
That same boy whose teeth got in the way of kisses, whose eyes had widened with wonder when their lips first met. She bit back a smile. Ricky had been a fast learner.
He ate a couple more bites. His mind was still in Far Rockaway.
“I go there a lot with my team, before or after a shift, sometimes just by myself. Magic spot to catch the sunrise.”
He stopped, a piece of purple blue potato on his fork.
“Here, try this.”
Jodi leaned forward. The taste was nutty and salty.
“So good,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.
She opened them to find Ricky’s gaze fixed on her face. His deep-set eyes were dark, intense. She froze, pinned down by a jolt of desire so powerful that her insides seemed to melt into a puddle of warmth and longing. Her heart thudded in her ears.
“Potato,” she managed. “Great.”
His narrow, serious face relaxed into a smile. An intimate smile that pierced the layers of professional no-bullshit calm with which Jodi armed herself each day.
A warm smile that said Yes, I felt it too .
Her mouth was dry. She picked up her water glass.
“And they serve meat pies there?”
“Pies?” Ricky took a second to refocus. He dug into the rich red heart of the tomato and ate a chunk.
“No, sadly. But they do a great breakfast. The full fat and salt and meat and dairy and gluten thing. Hungry firefighters need their fuel. Especially after a long run along the waterfront to chase away the cobwebs and the ghosts.”
Ghosts .
Of course there would be ghosts. Ricky’s job wasn’t like a movie set, where children and puppies got rescued in the nick of time. It was dangerous and dirty and heartbreaking.
Jodi experienced a moment of clarity, that elusive space when polite conversation is brushed aside to reveal a glimpse of the fragile, inner self. It would take only a false move, she knew—a wrong note, a laugh, an offhand comment, to make the door slam shut.
“You miss it,” she said quietly. “The job. Even though it takes a chunk of you that you can’t get back, you miss it.”
Ricky was silent, slicing into his pie as though it was the only thing on his mind.
Jodi took the hint and picked up the bagel. A few minutes passed, and she began to think she had messed up. Probed too deep, assumed a relationship that wasn’t there.
She took another bite. It was an okay bagel. Typical Jodi, going for the safe choice. Next time she would try the pie. She was Gen Z, flexible and adaptable.
Ricky picked up the conversation as though there had been no break.
“Yeah, I do miss the job. It’s more than jumping on the fire truck and roaring down the street with the sirens blasting, though I gotta admit that you never stop loving that buzz. Inside every firefighter there’s a little kid who never grew up.”
He met her gaze.
She nodded. “I get that.” The thrill of being at the center of the action. The frantic few hours before print deadline, when someone called in with a hot tip for a breaking story, when the hardware store pulled their half-page ad and a regular columnist called in to say she had twisted her ankle falling over her dog and couldn’t possibly write a single word.
Jodi, at the helm, was the conductor of this mad symphony that played its way ponderously through the last movement and then the fast and furious finale.
Okay. Nothing like being a firefighter .
She cut the remaining chunk of bagel in half, wishing it were larger.
“I miss the team.” Ricky sliced the last potato and placed a large piece on Jodi’s plate. “The feeling of working together, running like clockwork, of doing something that really matters. Pushing yourself until you think you can’t climb any higher but you can. Running into the burning building when everyone else is running out.”
He shrugged. His face grew guarded. “Maybe I’m a thrill junkie. Superhero complex.”
Jodi glanced down as the waiter refilled her coffee. “But you came back. And now you talk about fire blankets and hand out fridge magnets. Isn’t there some less important person at the town council who could handle that?”
A curious expression flitted across his face and was gone before she could read it. He shrugged again and looked around the café as though checking out the fire exits and the emergency signs.
“Less important than me? Now there’s a good question,” he said mockingly. He ate his potato and Jodi followed suit. “Maybe the guy at the coffee van? No, scratch that, he’s the most important guy on the premises.”
Ricky’s eyes met hers, half-challenging. “Maybe I simply like working with families with young kids. Change of pace, worrying about stepping on a toddler instead of putting my foot through a burned-out ceiling.”
She watched his eyes carefully. Nope, she wasn’t buying it.
“What happened to Chrissie Caitens?” The words popped out before Jodi could stop them.
His face turned blank. He shrugged. “She died.”
A shudder of horror, followed by remorse, ran through Jodi. “God. Sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
She frowned. There was something lingering in her memory bank.
Ricky broke into her chain of thought. His voice was light, as though he had already forgotten the last topic.
“Enough about me. Now why are you still here in Temple Mountain, Jodi Ruskin? Truth time.”
Jodi wriggled uneasily. “Hey, I’m the ace girl reporter here. I ask the questions.”
He placed his cutlery neatly on his empty plate, leaned back and folded his arms. He looked at her through thick dark lashes. Jodi clamped down hard on the signals her treacherous body was sending.
“I reject that gender and professional stereotyping,” Ricky said gravely. “Besides, my new role gives me carte blanche—that means ‘full discretionary power’—”
“I know,” said Jodi sweetly.
He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Full power to ask citizens of the county any question I choose related to their safety and wellbeing.”
Jodi snorted.
He leaned forward. “Such as, why didn’t you take the job in Manhattan that your sister told my mom’s hairdresser about? Are you in a relationship at the moment? And do you prefer New York bagels to the Montreal style?”
Jodi spluttered. Social media had nothing on good old-fashioned gossip, not in Temple Mountain. She settled for a shrug and a throwaway line.
“You’ll have to fine me then, officer, because I plead the Fifth. I’m just not ready to commit to either bagel.”
His smile was lazy and slow, and Jodi experienced the terrible and exhilarating conviction that he was going to kiss her, right then. And now she knew exactly how she felt about that.
Her lips parted softly, and she felt more than saw his chin tilt towards her.
A harsh buzz shattered the moment.
His eyes flared. He took a deep breath and pulled his cell from his shirt pocket.
“Shit.” He glanced up at Jodi before rising to his feet in a fluid movement.
“The firebug?” She rolled her eyes. Tried not to grind her teeth.
Damn arsonist should be put in the stocks and pelted with rotten fruit .
Ricky peeled off some cash and slipped on his jacket. His face was unreadable.
“Another trash can bites the dust?” Jodi finished her coffee and rose, trying not to show her annoyance. “Sorry Officer, the paper has been put to bed so there’s no front-page photo opportunity.”
She paused. A niggle of fear crept into her mind. Josh and Judah were not at school today. Not out starting fires, she was pretty sure. But not at school.
The distant wail of sirens pierced the chatter of the café, getting closer every second. Ricky threw her a sympathetic glance that filled Jodi with instant foreboding.
“I think you might want to come,” he said quietly. “The fire is at Temple Mountain Retirement Village, and this time it’s not in a trash bin.”
***
R icky drove fast, skillfully weaving through the light lunchtime traffic with the help of the siren clamped to the roof. The radio crackled and squawked as the volunteer firefighters checked in.
Jodi clung to her seatbelt. Her mouth was dry with fear.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Ricky’s stern profile. The part of her brain that wasn’t paralyzed wondered at the ancestors who had gifted him that scimitar of a nose and the high, narrow brow.
Snippets of urgent conversation crackled into the silence, the codes impenetrable to her. Ricky’s replies were terse. Only as they reached the gates of the village did his expression soften.
He gripped her knee.
“It’s the shed,” he said flatly. “It’s the janitor’s day off, and one of the residents saw the smoke when she went to get some gardening tools. The door is usually locked, but it was wide open and the shed was full of smoke.” His voice was gentle. “The Chief says it looks like there was no one inside.”
Relief surged through Jodi. A cool rush of thanksgiving that left her almost light-headed. Gramps was fine, and so too were the many elderly and frail residents of the sprawling village.
She took a deep breath as they wound through the manicured driveway to reception, kick-starting her brain.
The Temple Mountain Monitor Acting Editor was back on the job. In the thick of it all. And this time there wasn’t a thing that Leroy Browning could do to stop the news cycle doing its job.
She patted the camera in her bag. Nothing like timing.
***
A large fire truck was parked in the emergency vehicle bay, its lights still strobing. Several figures in full gear clambered over the truck, carefully coiling the flat hose snaking down the path.
Chief Browning, in full uniform including the Smoky the Bear hat, was an impressive sight, waving his arms and barking out orders.
Sally Lett was directing the scene like a movie. A medium-sized woman of mature years with a passion for high heels and permed hair, she was wielding what Jodi recognized even at a distance as the latest professional camera, shooing away bystanders who wanted to chat to the Chief and making sure that the volunteer firefighters remained in the background.
Jodi felt a brief and unworthy surge of envy. Nice to have a real budget, she thought.
Her eyes narrowed.
“So the Chief went out on the firetruck? And Sally Lett is here already? That’s...er...quick.”
Ricky turned into a parking space. His response came through gritted teeth.
“Apparently Bonnie called the Chief directly, and he came to check it out personally since he was on his way home from lunch at the golf club.”
Ricky jammed his hat on and patted his pockets. Over his shoulder Jodi could see people milling around in the reception area and in front of the fire truck. Phones waved overhead like space age flowers, recording the excitement.
Bonnie Browning flew through the front entrance, throwing Ricky a wave. Her face dropped when she saw his passenger.
“And, in a further breach of protocol,” said Ricky tightly. “The Chief called the fire station first, and then, five minutes later, my cell. And he also found time to call media relations.”
The car door slammed closed and Jodi watched Ricky stride across the car park in the direction of the Chief. Sally waved him away, but Ricky ignored her.
Bonnie, a vision in tight-fitting black, changed her angle and intercepted the young firefighter. She threw her arms around Ricky and appeared to burst into tears.
Jodi, her fingers flying over her cell phone, paused.
Ricky was a study in embarrassed masculinity. Stiff as a board, he gingerly patted Bonnie’s shoulder as though she was made of glass.
He seemed to be saying “There, there.”
Outraged as she was, Jodi couldn’t suppress an unprofessional snicker.
Tough gig, being the local hero .
A sharp rap on the passenger side window made her jump. Her grandfather’s face bobbed up and down.
Jodi’s eyes filled with tears. She jumped out and embraced the old man. His shoulders, which had once seemed so broad and wide, felt frail under her trembling arms.
“Gramps.” She sniffed into his neck, inhaling the familiar scents of Imperial Leather soap and hair oil. His pulse hammered against her cheek.
By the time she pulled away, they had both regained their poise. Jodi blinked away any telltale moisture and saw that Bonnie was still draped over Ricky, seemingly talking non-stop.
Talk about breaking news, thought Jodi, pulling out her camera.
Hunky NY Firefighter Comforts Hysterical Person At Aged Care Facility.
Hunky NY Firefighter’s Rescue Hampered By Weeping Maneater.
Bob Ruskin wove his arm through his granddaughter’s. “You missed the excitement hon.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” murmured Jodi. She shot a look at Bonnie, who had kept her grip on Ricky as he attempted to talk to the Chief.
Leroy Browning looked suitably grave. Sally Lett was firing off camera shots from different angles and Jodi silently vowed to not include a single image of the shapely manager.
Bob laughed. “That old show pony. He’s looking for votes before the next election, that’s why he didn’t call our new firefighter first.” His white eyebrows wriggled like ancient caterpillars and he glanced at Ricky’s car. “I see you been doing some research of your own about firefighting.”
Jodie snorted, which she knew was both unattractive and unprofessional in a grown woman. “Purely work-related,” she said airily.
“Uh huh.”
“Gramps, I have to go, sorry,” said Jodi, seeing that Ricky was finally starting to detach himself from Bonnie. “Gotta take photos, find out what’s happened. Grab a few quotes.”
“Yup, honey. And I’m going to escort the Acting Editor right to the scene of the crime, so’s you can get a scoop.”
Well, why not, thought Jodi. Nothing like an inside contact. And no one seemed to be taking the least notice of them.
The old man hooked his arm through hers and steered her down a side path through the shrubs, waving grandly at curious bystanders. “My granddaughter,” he explained unnecessarily.
It sure was a pretty spot thought Jodi when they finally arrived. The tennis courts and scattered seating were sheltered to miss the icy winds and to enjoy a few more minutes of sunshine. A few hardy New York astors provided a burst of purple and yellow against the thin crust of snow, and a bee hovered over a late show of dense clusters of tiny pink flowers on sage green shrub.
The air was full of oily smoke.
“Being the Christian that I am, I can’t accuse the Chief of staging the whole thing, even if I was tempted.” The Reverend sounded regretful.
Jodi fumbled for the camera. “Oh? Why not?”
Bob looked around to check for eavesdroppers.
“I can’t accuse a man of a crime he didn’t do. And the reason I know he didn’t do it—and you didn’t hear this from me, Ms. Acting Editor—is that I saw who did it.”
Jodi’s eyes flew open, then narrowed. “Spit it out. This isn’t The Late Show .”
Her grandfather looked sad. Jodi’s heart sank. She knew what was coming.
“It had to be those boys. The twins over at the rectory. They were hanging around the tennis courts this morning, looking real shifty. You know I’m the last person to criticize a child who has lost his way. But no question, it was Joshua and Judah.”
***
T he garden shed was a stinking mess of blackened tools, half-melted plastic containers of pesticide, and disintegrating bags of everything from mulch to fertilizer. Added to this noisome collection was a stack of insect netting, a shade cloth, and the sharp tang of extinguisher foam.
Ricky pulled down his breathing mask. He poked through the piles with his heavy gloves.
“Typical garden shed,” he muttered. “Full of enough chemicals to flatten the place if they explode, along with every bit of crap that no one wants but no one is game to throw away.”
His foot nudged a charred pair of boots and a couple of cans with the labels burned off. There were even the remains of a backpack and a wadded-up Little League jacket.
He shook his head in disbelief.
Even watching a few episodes of Chicago Fire ought to give the average idiot some idea of what could happen when you combined fertilizer, fire accelerants, and who knew what other chemicals were present in those harmless-looking bags and bottles! He shuddered.
His eyes traveled around the small space, looking for the telltale signs of arson. But he knew it was too late. Only the high-tech labs in New York City could find something in this mess, and Ricky doubted very much that they would even look at a couple of firebugs who tried to burn down the shed in the old folks’ home.
“No harm, no foul,” he muttered. “Chuck the kids into juvie court and get back to chasing boodles.”
Ricky closed his eyes briefly, pushing down the anger and frustration. Now was the time for a cool head, not for wondering what the hell Leroy Browning was thinking when he got the call from his daughter and decided to check it out on the way home from a long and no doubt boozy lunch.
“Well, look it this!”
A shadow blocked the light from the doorway. Ricky turned and saw the Chief in an awkward half-squat, pointing to the corner space between the door post and the corrugated iron wall.
A couple of cigarette butts, damp and half-covered with soot. For a brief second Ricky was reminded of Hercule Poirot.
“We must use the little grey cells, mon ami ,” he muttered under his breath.
Browning raised his eyebrows.
“Quit mumbling, boy,” he barked. “And go get those little bastards. This ends right here. And get Sally and that girl from the newspaper over here. They’ll need a picture of this.”