Chapter 5 Fire On Forsythia Lane #9
I slow my steps, creeping silently closer as I eavesdrop on the call.
But there’s not much else to eavesdrop on because that’s when Marcus says a curt goodbye and hangs up, turning back to his computer.
It looks like he has an email up on the screen, but the window around the email doesn’t look like an ordinary inbox.
Before I can get a closer look, Marcus notices me approaching and minimizes the window, lightning-fast.
“Well, if it isn’t the little boss himself. Just in time to get me a fresh coffee. Hey—how did it feel to get a police escort into work today? Must’ve been quite the honor.”
I press a humorless smile onto my lips as I sling one arm over the edge of his cubicle. “An honor I have you to thank for, right?”
Marcus chuckles, straightening his tie. “You think I have nothing better to do than follow you around as you play your little detective games with your girlfriend?”
I study him, trying to peel apart the layers of that response. He seems uncharacteristically… twitchy. Almost nervous.
“What are you working on?” I ask, casually jerking my head towards the screen.
Marcus stiffens. “Fact-checking.”
“Who were you on the phone with just now?”
His eyes narrow. “None of your business, little boss.”
“I think it would be my dad’s business, since you’re on his payroll and you’re technically supposed to be working right now.”
“I am working,” Marcus replies briskly, picking up his empty coffee mug and thrusting it into my free hand. “Dark roast. No cream or sugar.”
TESSA
Out of the goodness of my heart, I decide not to strangle Weston for almost getting me arrested.
At least we got off with nothing more than the proverbial slap on the wrist. It might have been a different story if we wound up in a cell together, but thankfully the sheriff is good friends with Mr. Ludovico and didn’t let his son—or me—get in any real trouble.
We’ve been strictly forbidden from snooping around the Montgomery property or “investigating” the fire, according to Weston. But that doesn’t stop us from secretly meeting with Rudy later that week at the Trolley Station Café to go over the findings of the title search.
“Apparently, these records are all public—otherwise, I never would have been able to convince my dad to dig into this.” Rudy pulls a folder out of his backpack and flips it open on the table, looking like a professional attorney himself.
He’s started wearing glasses for reading, and it only enhances the academic look of him.
He slides a few pages across the table to me and Weston. “Here’s what he found.”
We lean over the page, scanning the records as Rudy explains them to us in a low voice.
“This shows the sale history of the property. Three years ago, when it went up for auction, Montgomery bought it for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. According to my dad, auction sales always come with a ‘buyer beware’ scenario.”
I frown, looking up at him. “Meaning what?”
“The house is sold on an ‘as-is, where-is’ basis,” Rudy explains. “The buyer takes on every problem that comes with it. And as it turns out, Montgomery got more than he bargained for.”
Weston flips to the next page, his eyes scanning eagerly for answers to his unspoken questions. Rudy points to a line of data halfway down the page.
“See that number?”
“Two hundred and twelve thousand,” Weston murmurs. “That’s not what he paid for the house, right?”
Rudy shakes his head. “No. That’s the estimated cost of a remediation order the city hit him with after an inspection. Full asbestos and mold removal, plus lead paint abatement. They even issued a stop-work order. Until that’s done, he can’t sell or even rent it.”
“So even if he finished the flip,” I say, puzzle pieces fitting together in my mind, “he’d have to sink two hundred grand into making it legal. And after the price he paid for it, plus the renovations…”
“He would’ve sunk three hundred thousand dollars into the house,” Weston concludes, his gaze locking on mine.
“But if the house burned,” Rudy interjects, “he could claim the insurance for what it was worth. The house was valued at two hundred and fifty thousand.”
I swallow hard, a knot tightening in my throat. “But wouldn’t the insurance company run their own investigation?”
Rudy rests his chin thoughtfully on his fist. “Yeah, they ran their own investigation. But they found no evidence that Montgomery was involved.”
“He’d already set himself up with the perfect alibi,” Weston says. “He booked a hotel in Albany and stayed there on the night of the fire, to prove he was out of town and planning to fly out to LA the next morning.”
“So you think that was just a setup?” I ask.
Weston shrugs. “It could’ve been. He would’ve booked the hotel for real, and the plane tickets. That’s proof of an alibi.”
Rudy eyes Weston cautiously. “You said you didn’t like how Marcus was trying to implicate Boone without enough evidence. Careful you don’t do the same thing to Montgomery.”
“I’m not,” Weston argues, crossing his arms as he sits back in his chair. “I just think this is a pretty strong motive. Before this, we couldn’t find a motive for Montgomery. Now we know he couldn’t have sold that house without forking over two hundred grand to bring it up to code.”
“But he didn’t make it look like an accident,” I add, thinking out loud. “He could’ve if he wanted to… Most fires are started accidentally. But he used accelerant.”
“Because he wanted the house to burn as fast as possible,” Rudy puts in, rapping his fingers on the table. “And it didn’t matter if he made it look like arson…”
“Because he was planning to pin this whole thing on Boone from the beginning,” Weston says decidedly.
“Think about it—the ex-convict with a shady past loses his house to the white-collar businessman… and in a fit of drunken rage one night, he goes around and burns down the house Montgomery took from him. It’s the perfect story. ”
I frown, turning over all the possibilities in my mind. “And according to Marcus, there were threatening emails from Boone to Montgomery. He has records of malicious intentions, which would be the smoking gun the police need to prove Boone had a motive.”
Weston nods slowly, a doubtful look creeping into his eyes as he thinks about it. “How the hell did Marcus know about those emails, anyway? He told me that Montgomery wasn’t talking to anyone but his lawyers.”
“Maybe Marcus camped out on Montgomery’s front lawn until he agreed to answer his questions,” Rudy offers with a wry smirk.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Weston grumbles. “He was acting weird the other day at the office. And I overheard him on the phone with someone he called ‘sir,’ saying he’d print something off and deliver it. Later, I saw him walking out with a yellow envelope.”
“Do you know where he was going?” I ask.
Weston shakes his head. “I didn’t have my truck, so I couldn’t follow him. But now I think he was probably going to the police station.”
“To take them evidence?” Rudy raises an eyebrow. “Why would he have any evidence to give them?”
Weston’s gaze slides from me to Rudy, gears spinning behind his eyes. “Good question.”
After our meeting at the café, we go our separate ways, and I don’t hear from Weston again until later that night, after my shower. I’m towel-drying my hair, wrapped in a bathrobe and ready to dive into a cozy mystery book before bed—and that’s when my phone starts ringing.
“Hey, you still awake?”
“Weston, it’s nine o’clock. I’m not that much of an old lady.” I leave out the part about me planning to snuggle up with a blanket for the next hour reading a book.
“Feel like being my lookout?”
“What?”
“I’m going to go down to the Chronicle.”
I frown, crossing my bedroom to draw my curtains closed. That’s when I see Weston’s truck idling in my driveway, the headlights misty in the rain that’s beginning to fall.
“You’re literally calling me from my driveway.”
He laughs. “I was wondering when you’d notice. See? You’d make a great sleuth.”
“And you’d make a terrible criminal.”
“That’s why I need you to come with me to the Chronicle.”
“Why?” I put one hand on my hip, frowning out the window at his truck. “What are you doing that you have to sneak around at night?”
Weston sighs through the phone. “I need to figure out what Marcus was hiding.”
“You’re going to break into his computer?”
“It’s a work computer, not his. It technically belongs to my dad, which means it kinda sorta belongs to me. So no, it’s not illegal. And I won’t even have to break into the office—I have a key.”
“Did you steal it from your dad?”
“No, he gave it to me. He trusts me.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
Weston groans. “Come on, Tessa. Please? I need your computer skills. If Marcus was doing something wrong, he would’ve covered his tracks well. And you know I’m not the most tech-savvy person in the world.”
I think about it for a few moments, resting my forehead against the cool glass window as I consider my options. If I say no, Weston will go to the Chronicle anyway—and possibly get himself in more hot water than he can handle.
He’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.
“You’re not just doing this to get back at Marcus, are you? I know he’s been getting on your nerves lately—”
“That’s not what this is about,” Weston insists, his voice firm with resolve. “I just want to get to the bottom of this. I want to know the truth. I want to solve the damn Rubik’s Cube.”
A little smile teases my lips as my gaze drifts to the unsolved cube sitting on my nightstand. I’ve made a little progress with it each night. Now only three sides remain scrambled.
I understand how Weston feels—I know this whole mystery has been getting under his skin like a splinter. It’s done the same to me. Now, we may be on the cusp of finding answers. So, despite the little voice of hesitation in the back of my mind, I give in.
“If you get me arrested again, I am going to kill you this time.”