Beneath the Ashes Page 3

  Her stomach lurched with nausea. She wondered if she had breathed too much of the smoke that had now swirled away in another direction, but knew that the knot in her stomach had more than a chemical trigger.

  It was also the result of apprehension and helpless anger. She was furious that it was too late to do anything but watch while the remainder of the Other Place burned.

  It took quite a while, but when the firefighters finally had almost contained the blaze and were pouring water on defiant hot spots, Hank returned, soaked, covered with soot and grime, and smelling as evil as a demon out of nightmares. He stood slump shouldered and coughing, but he retrieved a crushed package from

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  one pocket, dug out a bent cigarette, and lit it with a kitchen match. When a woman standing nearby cast a startled glance at the small flame, he chuckled humor-lessly and wound up coughing again.

  “Guess we’re all gonna be spooked after this.”

  “What started it?” Jessie questioned. “Electrical?

  Something Oscar forgot to turn off?”

  Hank frowned and shook his head. “No way. Oscar

  always checks everything—twice. I’ve helped him

  close up, and he never leaves until he’s sure it’s all off.”

  He lowered his voice. “Not sure yet, but I heard one of the Wasilla guys say that it didn’t look like an accident.”

  “Oscar—where is Oscar?” She turned to scan the yard full of people. Another truck pulled off the road into the crowded parking lot. The telephone system had evidently been used effectively.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you call?”

  “Tried,” Hank said. “His line was busy, so I figured someone else got him.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  As Jessie carefully searched the faces of the crowd, a car with state trooper markings pulled into the lot, drove through a narrow space in the sizable collection of cars and pickups to park behind the fire truck. A uniformed figure stepped out and moved to join the firefighter who was directing the efforts to extinguish the last flames in the smoking ruin. For a few minutes they conversed, then walked together and disappeared behind the blackened remains of the Other Place. She knew him. Phil Becker was a trooper who had often worked homicide with Jensen. Why was he here?

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  SUE HENRY

  The fire was now under control, reluctantly it

  seemed, as greedy fingers of flame flared up momentarily and were knocked down by water. The glare became a black, charred heap of rubble, still glowing here and there and putting out clouds of wicked-looking and -smelling smoke.

  A tall man, looking as exhausted and filthy as Hank, strode across to the woman who had flinched at the lighted match, and stood frowning tiredly down at her.

  “There’s a body,” he said, “behind the bar. Somebody died in there.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Behind the bar? Oh, God,” Jessie blurted, without thinking. “It’s Oscar.”

  Heads turned in astonishment, eyes widened, and no one moved or spoke for a couple of shallow breaths as the appalling idea sank in. The silence was broken only by the sound of two late-arriving vehicles pulling off the highway.

  A hand was laid on Jessie’s arm and she turned to find a frowning Phil Becker standing next to her.

  “Are you sure, Jessie?”

  So it was true. Someone really had died in the fire.

  “No, Phil. It just makes sense.”

  “Why?”

  “When Oscar’s tending bar, he’s always the last to leave—he locks up.”

  “He was behind the bar tonight?”

  “Yes—and—”

  The group of people, crowded around them to listen, suddenly parted, and there were gasps of recognition as a figure pushed its way through.

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  “Whoever it is, it’s not me,” Oscar informed them, reaching Jessie. “What the hell happened? Someone’s dead in there? Good God. Who?”

  “You’re the owner?” Becker asked.

  “Was. The operative word seems to be was. Yeah, I’m Oscar Lee and this was my Other Place.”

  “What took you so long?” Hank Peterson asked. “I tried to call you at home, but the line was busy.”

  “I wasn’t there. We almost ran out of Budweiser

  tonight, so I went to town for another keg.”

  “And you were headed back here?” Becker ques-

  tioned.

  “No, I was headed home. It didn’t seem cold enough to freeze a keg in the truck tonight, so I was going to bring it over in the morning.”

  “Took you a long time after closing.”

  “Damned incompetent bartender left without re-

  stocking. I had to clean up there, too. There’ll be somebody else behind that bar tomorrow. You can bet on it.”

  “Anyone with you there?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just checking, Mr. Lee. Someone died in this fire.

  We’re going to have to check a lot of things.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What happened? Everything was fine—everybody

  had gone—when I left.”

  “We don’t know, but an investigator will be here soon.

  I called dispatch in Anchorage and he’s on his way.”

  “What kind of investigator?”

  “An arson investigator. It looks like this fire might have been set, Mr. Lee.”

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  “Dammit. You mean somebody burned my place on purpose? ”

  “It’s possible, but that’s not my call. You’ll have to wait for the results of the investigation. Right now we’re concerned with the identity of the body. You have any ideas at all?”

  “God, no. Everyone was gone when I locked up. My truck was the last one in the lot, except for one that wouldn’t start and was left.”

  “Anyone leave angry?”

  “No, and I think I’d know.”

  “Anyone got a mad on in your direction?”

  Oscar shook his head slowly.

  To Jessie it was clear that he was having trouble taking it all in—the fire, the death. She empathized with his obvious feeling of unreality. His attention kept wandering away from Becker’s questions and toward the charred, smoking ruin of the Other Place, his face a moving record of his loss, anger, and concern.

  “You got insurance, Oscar?” Hank asked.

  “Sure—sure.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But I

  can’t think who’d want to do this to me—and to have somebody die—that’s just . . .” He swallowed hard and stopped. “I locked up like always. How’d someone get back in?”

  “You’re sure it was empty?”

  “I check to be sure—the johns, the back room. I

  don’t see how—unless . . .”

  “The investigator may be able to tell you how, Mr.

  Lee,” Becker told him, “but not until he finishes his job; and that’s going to take till sometime tomorrow, I think. Why don’t you wait and talk to him when he

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  gets here, then you might as well go on home. There’s nothing you can do here tonight. He’ll want to talk to you again in the morning—and the rest of this crowd.”

  He raised his voice to speak to the spectators. “Will you all please leave your names and where to get in touch with you? Thanks.”

  Turning back to Jessie, Hank, and Oscar, his next words did not carry so far. “We’ll need to know who was here tonight before the bar closed. You three were here. Can you work that out?”

  Oscar frowned and shifted uneasily. Jessie stared at Becker, dismay rising.

  “You really think someone who was here did this, Phil? One of our regulars?”

  “I didn’t say that, Jessie. It could be anybody—

  someone
with a grudge, a disguised robbery. We just need all the names we can get.”

  “But why would someone . . . ?”

  “No way to know yet. If you can think of any-

  thing—any hint—put that on the list, too.”

  Hank was shaking his head, and Jessie shared his re-pugnance at naming friends and acquaintances.

  Suddenly, she felt exhausted—rain soaked and cold.

  There was nothing she could do here. It was time to go home.

  3

  Q

  UP EARLY TO START FOR THE AIRPOR , J

  T

  ESSIE WAS

  -

  DE

  lighted to see that four or five inches of new snow covered the ground. It lifted her spirits and helped her forget that her usual eight hours of rest had been reduced by half, though she was still discouraged and concerned about the fire at Oscar’s. The unexpected warm spell and ceaseless drizzle of the preceding two days had melted the icicles from the edges of the cabin roof and dissolved much of the packed snow from the ground, turning parts of her dog yard to a quagmire and her long driveway to muddy ponds. Now, the mud and standing water had frozen and been covered in the night, and her world was once again a bright clean white. She resented having to call Billy and postpone the training runs she had planned, feeling that she should be taking advantage of every opportunity. The early thaw had been a warning that winter would soon be over, and the new snow was merely a suspension of the fast-approaching spring.

  Breakup was her least favorite time of year and hav-30

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  ing it come early, when she wanted training time on snowy trails, made it worse. It seemed that all the grime that accumulated during the winter washed out and floated to the surface, leaving dirty ridges on the snow, creating gluey mud that clung to the knee-high rubber boots she wore into the yard to feed and care for her dogs. Even the mutts grew muddy. Handling them transferred the unpleasant muck to her raincoat, gloves, and jeans. The dogs slept away most of the rainy hours in their individual boxes, staying as dry and warm as possible, though the inactivity made them restless enough to exhibit their boredom in ill-tempered snaps and growls at each other.

  As Jessie looked out into the yard this morning, she could tell that their mood had also lifted with the return of snow. They were all out of their shelters and moving around energetically. Putting coffee on to brew, she went to shower and dress, so she could feed and water them before starting the long drive to Anchorage to pick up Anne Holman. She would much rather have

  gone back to bed or, better, out to slide quickly away into wilderness on a sled behind a dog team, leaving all the trouble behind. Maybe this afternoon, she had told Billy. Maybe . . .

  It was twenty-five after nine when she parked her pickup in the multilevel airport garage and hurried through the underground passage toward the terminal, a few minutes later than she had planned. The strong coffee in her thermos hadn’t been a complete cure for too little sleep and had done nothing to diminish her continuing anger and regret over the destruction of the

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  Other Place or her discomfort over having to make a list of all the pub’s customers. She felt slightly out of sync with everything around her as she stepped off an escalator and headed toward the security checkpoint for Concourse B, wishing she felt more capable of handling whatever new trouble the arrival of Anne Holman was about to add to her growing list.

  The plane had evidently already arrived. Passengers were streaming down the hallway toward her from the Alaska Airlines gates, crowding one another, glad to have escaped their three-hour Seattle-to-Anchorage confinement.

  Might as well wait where I am, she decided, skip the security hassle and catch Anne as she comes along.

  Leaning against a pillar, she yawned and watched people go by.

  Two gray-flannel-suited men with briefcases strode purposefully, one already muttering into a cell phone,

  “No, the senator wants . . .” Scowling, a young mother with a fretful two-year-old halted abruptly to unfold the stroller she was carrying, blocking the flow of passengers and prompting an impatient young man in wire-rimmed glasses to make an abrupt detour in his rush to embrace a girl who flew into his arms with a welcoming, “Tim!” Jessie’s attention was caught by a cautiously moving fellow in a neck brace as he stumbled against a wheeled carry-on towed by an anxious-looking middle-aged woman and was deftly rebalanced by a flight attendant. A father herding twin boys in matching jackets and Seattle Mariners caps was followed by a grossly obese woman anxiously searching the con-course for someone she clearly expected to meet.

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  Anne? Could she have changed so much? No—too

  tall. But the one just behind her . . . ?

  “Jessie?”

  The middle-aged woman with the carry-on had

  stopped beside her and half raised a hand. Probably a fan who had recognized Jessie from media photos. Be nice, she told her tired, less-than-usually-tolerant self, and forced a pleasant, if somewhat distant, smile.

  The woman’s expression was slightly asymmetrical, the right side of her face not quite moving with the left, pulling her hesitant half smile a little crooked. Jessie looked back toward the gate, afraid she would miss Anne as she responded to this unfamiliar person.

  “Yes.”

  At Jessie’s lack of complete attention, the woman’s brows drew together. She glanced down and released the handle of the carry-on. When she looked back her smile had vanished. Startled, Jessie suddenly recognized the shape of her brows and the soft gray-green of her eyes, a tiny spot of darker color near the iris in the left.

  “Anne?”

  “Yeah. Look, I—ah—know I’ve changed, but . . .”

  Except for her familiar eyes, she was so different that Jessie could only stare, speechless and unable to mask surprise. She had not known—would never have known this woman as her friend from a decade earlier.

  Back then, Anne had been a bright bird, with a lively face and agile body. Though her delicate features and slim stature had invited the assumption of fragility, she had actually been a tough bundle of muscle with the energy and graceful strength of an athlete.

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  Jessie saw little of this now. Anne was so thin she looked anorexic, the jeans and sweater she wore hanging on her like clothes she had borrowed from someone several sizes larger. The luxuriant, dark hair that Jessie remembered escaping in wisps and tendrils from

  Anne’s heavy braid now hung limp and lifeless, cut severely straight at the level of her jaw, and it could have used a wash as well as a good combing. But most of Jessie’s dismay resulted from the odd appearance of the face turned questioningly toward her with a guarded look. The once attractive features were slightly blunted and coarsened—nose a touch off center, lips uneven, jawline a little blurred. The dark circles beneath the eyes were not smudged makeup, and the pale line of an old scar caused the left lid to droop just a little.

  Anne had entered the terminal with none of the animation and easy, eager stride Jessie had expected. She had looked like an older person and moved with instinctive caution, shoulders slumped, chin down, arms defensively close to her body.

  How could I have known her? Jessie wondered, appalled and embarrassed at the transparency of her own reaction.

  “You haven’t changed much,” she prevaricated. “I’m just not tracking too well—didn’t get enough sleep last night—there was a—”

  “Don’t, Jessie,” Anne interrupted sharply with a hint of exasperation. “I look in the mirror every morning.

  Pretending just makes it worse.”

  “Okay.” Jessie gave in. “What happened to you?”

  Tears welled and ran down the coarsened cheeks and mouth that was now twisted with resentment.

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  “Greg happened,” An
ne said, bitterness spilling over with her tears. “My husband—may he fry in the flames of hell—is what happened to me. Can we just get out of here?”

  When the two women reached the baggage pick-up

  area on the lower level of the airport, the carousel was crowded with people waiting to claim their luggage.

  But it was another ten minutes before suitcases and bags began to make their appearance through an opening in the wall. One after another they moved on an endless track that snaked through the large room in two large loops. People began to grab their luggage from the moving display and Jessie noticed that, as usual, no airline official was bothering to check claim tickets.

  Many of the cases were very similar in size and color, which led to a few inevitable confusions. Across the room she saw a large man shake his head and set a suitcase that apparently belonged to someone else back on the track.

  Anne, now full of nervous energy, barely stood still, moving close to see what was coming next, pushing people until Jessie finally stopped apologizing for her and took firm hold of her arm.

  “You won’t make it show up any faster by climbing on the carousel. What does it look like?”

  “It looks like—that.” She shoved between a young couple, who gave her disgusted looks, and leaned to reach a large suitcase that matched her carry-on bag. As she yanked it off and swung it around, directly into the shins of another passenger, Jessie once again caught sight of the large man who had returned a suitcase to the

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  track. He was moving quickly away through the crowd, but as she thought for an instant that she recognized him she was distracted by a cry for help from Anne and the grumbling of a man who was rubbing his shin.

  “Watch it,” he growled. “What’s the big rush?”

  Anne ignored him. “Let’s go,” she demanded, practically running for an elevator.

  When Jessie glanced over her shoulder to look for the man she had seen, he had disappeared.

  All the way to Jessie’s truck, Anne cast nervous glances behind her and suspiciously examined everyone they passed.