Deep Haven [03] The Perfect Match Read online

  She and God were on speaking terms, even if it did seem to be a rare conversation these days. Despite her attempts, she’d given up hoping she’d ever find that magical relationship with God that Seth had raved about. Perhaps that kind of connection with the Almighty of the universe was reserved for the real saints, with the majority of the world destined to stand on the fringes.

  Ellie sighed, defeat rushing over her. Although her post as interim chief was less than twenty-four hours old, she felt like she’d been on the job for a decade, complete with fatigue and war wounds. After her way-too-revealing conversation with the pastor last night—one that had left her with an unsettling sense of longing and anger—she needed to focus on exactly why she’d moved to Deep Haven.

  It certainly wasn’t to cultivate friends . . . well, not that she was inherently against the idea, but certainly not the type of “friends” who made her feel like fixing her hair and painting on makeup. And wouldn’t that portray the steely image she needed? The firehouse was a hotbed for rumors. The last thing she needed was someone even musing about her spending time with a firefighter on her crew under a lavender sunset. Suddenly her career would be in shreds. If not her career, her reputation.

  Spending time alone sifting through the burned remains of the Simmons home would give her focus, help her hone in on her objective. And she could say she had spent the morning in useful activity.

  There it went again, the unexpected spurt of guilt.

  She tried to focus on her work. The first step in determining the cause of a fire was pinpointing its origin. The Simmons home groaned, and the hairs on Ellie’s neck rose. Walking through a fire-gutted house, relying on the strength of damaged foundation posts seemed slightly shy of smart, but she knew the risks when she signed on.

  Starting at the door, armed with her camera and a short pike pole to help her negotiate over furniture and melted plastics, she traced the fire path from the least damaged to the deepest charred rooms, trying not to disturb any evidence that might reveal arson. From the entryway, which opened into the family room, she tracked the smoke line, the etching of where smoke and heat blazed down from the ceiling. She noted that the overhead lightbulb had melted in the direction of the family room, where the heat concentrated. Stopping at a light switch, she pried it off the wall. The wires were still intact so the fire here had licked along the lath-and-plaster wall, leaving the wiring unscathed. The fire hadn’t invaded the electrical system. Overhead, the ceiling had dripped water into pools of watery embers.

  She wore her steel-toed, Kevlar-bottom rubber boots today, her turnouts, and a helmet; she realized that she’d forgotten, in the past year of management classes, how heavy her gear could be. In a fire, with the bunker pants and SCBA breathing gear, she often likened herself to a turtle trying to crawl through a black maze.

  As she marched down the hall, the odors of burned plastics, wood, and fiber stung her nose, bit at her eyes. She stepped inside the decimated kitchen and treaded carefully over glass splinters, the remains of an overhead light. She shone her flashlight on what had been a brass lamp, its arms now warped and tangled from the heat. The aluminum casing for the lightbulbs hung in frozen drips, hinting at the intense heat of the blaze. The top half of the room—wallpaper, cupboards, and wall clock—had been chewed up by flames and melted almost beyond recognition. The pattern, however, indicated that the fire had moved like a wave across the kitchen, seeking oxygen and a fresh fuel supply.

  She approached the blackened window frame, examined the spray pattern of the glass shards. Splinters littered the floor as well as the ground outside. Obviously a casualty of the fire rather than an arsonist’s attempted entry.

  As she moved across the adjoining room—a pantry?—her feet slapped through puddles and dug through debris—plaster, wood, insulation—torn open as the firefighters had overhauled the house, searching for smoldering heat. The door to the room hung only by its lower hinge, and the deeper surface burning at the top told her it had smoldered before fiery breath had blown it open, freeing the fire to consume the house.

  She peered into the room—a bathroom. And, from its condition, the possible source. Only the porcelain toilet, badly blackened, and the tub remained. On the far wall, nothing but spaghetti-thin shards remained of the studs, betraying the fire’s desperate search for oxygen as it gulped air from the cracked window. From her vantage point she could look right through to the family room and beyond that to the street. To her right, on what remained of the bathroom wall, the wallpaper, or perhaps paint, curled down from the walls like chocolate curls. Just above a deformed mess beside the toilet, Ellie made out a slight fire cone, the V of the fire. Below it, the tiny vanity, mirror, and what she guessed had been various cleansers and shampoos had melded into a pile, and next to it was a deformed mound of hardened black plastic.

  When Ellie stepped closer, the floor groaned. She stilled and heard her father’s voice: Don’t ever go into a fire without your buddy. He’d been on the force long enough for his warning to resonate with wisdom. She had obviously discarded common sense this morning in favor of accelerating her career. She’d not only left her PAL but also her UHF radio on the seat of her Jeep. Not that she’d have anyone to call if she fell through the bathroom floor and broke her legs in the basement.

  That thought stopped her heart cold in her chest.

  Slowly she set down the pike tool and hoisted her camera. Taking a series of shots of the bathroom, she then crouched and carefully tugged at the melted plastic blob, which she surmised had been a garbage receptacle. The thing had hardened, and whatever was inside had been encased in its mass. A river of congealed plastic led to the vanity rubble.

  Ellie sifted through it with gentleness. Whatever had started the fire had generated enough heat to melt plastic and chew through the wooden vanity without slowing to account for the different combustion temperatures. It had fed on the ample fuel under the sink in flammable cleaning supplies, breathing the scant oxygen from the open window, until it filled the room with enough gas to blow out the door and flashing over the kitchen, hunting breath and fuel. Still, if it had blown out through the kitchen, certainly the family would have heard the explosion.

  But the lack of alligator scaling, the high-heat scars left on the surface of wood, suggested a different story. Ellie guessed that the blaze had simply gobbled through the wall to the family room, exploding across the ceiling, gulping the air, and killing the victim instantly with toxic carbon monoxide. That would account for the carpet still intact in the corners and the fairly insignificant burning of the sofa and the recliner, despite the man’s condition.

  Had Leo Simmons been a smoker? Perhaps he’d dropped his cigarette in the garbage, thinking it was extinguished. A cigarette would smolder among the tissue, building heat, melting the plastic until it finally ignited. But paper produced smoke—more smoke than wood and other fuels. Enough smoke to sneak out under a bathroom door and trigger the smoke alarm. No, this fire was fast and hungry. It ignited suddenly, reduced the litter basket to liquid, then almost immediately discovered the fuel under the sink. Within three minutes, the room would have been a fireball, more flame than smoke, and by the time the blaze gnawed through the wall and flashed over the family room, the smoke alarm would have been useless.

  The burn patterns suggested an accelerant. An arsonist or a very fatal mistake?

  A suicide arsonist would set the fire to smoldering, do his deadly deed, and wait for the blaze to cover up the results. He certainly wouldn’t set a fire, then retire for five short minutes in the family room to watch the Minnesota Twins lose a pre-playoff game, especially with his family sleeping upstairs.

  Whoever had set the blaze had done so moments before he escaped . . . before his act could be discovered.

  She’d have to interview the neighbors, see if they could recall who might have visited Leo Simmons Thursday night shortly before his house burst into flames.

  Meanwhile, she had enough suspicions to call in
the fire marshal from Duluth. A fire investigator with a computer system, canine units, and forensic techniques would help her track down the person who’d nearly killed an entire family.

  And perhaps, then, she wouldn’t be seen as the invader in Deep Haven but a protector.

  Ellie backed out of the bathroom, stepped carefully through the kitchen, and started down the hallway. The wind had picked up, scattering leaves and other debris across the family room. She hesitated near the door, thinking of Leo and his shock as flames rolled across the ceiling, devouring the oxygen and burning his lungs.

  The house moaned and she felt it shudder, as if heaving a sigh. She had a split-second warning before the crack sounded. Throwing her arms up, she closed her eyes as the world caved in on top of her.

  Dan stood in the vestibule, shaking hands with his parishioners. He couldn’t count how many times he’d summarized the event surrounding his injury and outlined his hopeful prognosis. He ought to place a sign over his head or take out an ad in the Superior Times.

  Even so, it touched his heart that so many people cared. Edith Draper had promised to send over a casserole—a hearty Minnesotan cream-of-mushroom-soup, tater tot, and pulverized meat affair, as if his injured shoulder had somehow impaired his taste buds. But he could hold out hope that the meal might include the woman’s rice pudding. Most of the congregation took him for the usual underfed, measly cook bachelor. He didn’t have the heart to tell them that he’d spent every summer during college in the sweaty kitchens of some of Minneapolis’s finest restaurants. Perhaps he should be hunting the want ads for line-cook positions.

  Bruce Schultz stepped up, pumped his hand, thanked him for the sermon, and teased him about missing hockey practice. “Don’t tell me you can’t shoot with one arm.”

  Joe, right behind Bruce, gave the man a light punch.

  Mona looked more rested this morning and had developed a motherly glow. She still hadn’t donned maternity clothes, however, and Dan wondered when she’d announce her pregnancy to the congregation. As he chatted with the Michaelses, Dan noticed Liza lining up behind them, a saucy smile on her lips. She had her arms folded, but those dark eyes definitely simmered with trouble. When she stepped up to him, he braced himself.

  The woman had a way of stripping down casual conversation to the bare essentials. “I met her, Dan.”

  He worked to keep up.

  “I’ll have you know, she’s not going to let you run her out of town.”

  Who—?

  “The new fire chief.” She answered his nonverbal question, obviously posed in his frown.

  “I’m not trying to run her out of town.” His gaze darted past Liza, and he smiled at Doc Simpson. “Besides, we smoothed things over last night.”

  “Oh?” Liza’s black eyebrows arched.

  He winced. “That didn’t come out quite right. Let’s just say that she and I came to an agreement.”

  “Like you staying out of her way? letting her do her job?”

  “Like me doing mine.” He tracked back to Ellie’s face when he’d accused her of trying to run a one-woman show, not needing any help. She’d gone stark white, as if she’d been punched. And then abruptly she stood, wrenched her pooch to his feet, and coldly bid Dan good night. Okay, so it hadn’t exactly ended well. He’d hit upon a soft spot—or a dark fear. It had kept him sitting on the beach long after she’d retired to her hotel.

  Something haunted Ellie—enough to make her want to keep Dan outside her private walls lest he get a good glimpse of it.

  Obviously, the woman hadn’t unlocked her secrets for Liza either. “Well, I did try and tell her that you were a pretty good fella—” Liza’s warm smile appeared, and somehow it loosened the breath in his chest—“and . . . single.”

  “Liza, you didn’t.”

  She smirked. “I thought, you know, since I did such a good job with Joe and Mona, I’d move on to higher obstacles.”

  He scowled at her.

  She laughed, unfazed. “Pastor, you should know that no one is immune to my matchmaking.”

  Her grin was so infectious his scowl turned to a chuckle. “It won’t work, Liza, but thanks for the good intentions. I’m afraid I’m simply not the marrying kind. Almost took the plunge once but—”

  “Don’t tell me you came to your senses.”

  Well, that about summed it up. Reality had hit him hard and square in the chest, leaving a wound so deep he wondered if he’d yet recovered. “Maybe I just know that the right girl for me isn’t out there. I’m happy single . . .” He moved past her and reached out to Doc Simpson, praying Liza would keep moving.

  “Yeah, sure. We all are,” Liza said, then walked away.

  Dan tried not to let her words grate at him as he finished greeting his parishioners. He was happily single. Or maybe he simply wasn’t ready to surrender his heart again for a woman to trample. He’d barely survived the first time. Besides, his wife would have to be committed to life as a pastor’s wife. Serving. Letting him keep doctor’s hours, putting up with other people needing his time and attention. It seemed like a job better suited for a single man. No wonder the apostle Paul had urged those heading into ministry to remain single.

  He was saying good-bye to Ruth Schultz when he spotted a man, his long dark hair tied in a ponytail and dressed in a tweed jacket, black jeans, and hiking boots standing with his back to him near the vestibule. “Noah?”

  The man turned. “Hey ya, Preach.” A wide smile graced Noah Standing Bear’s face as he extended his arm and took two long steps toward Dan. “Glad to see you.”

  Dan always felt slightly dwarfed by this man, despite his own six-foot stature. Noah was over six feet tall with the girth of a small grizzly. But his demeanor was pure lamb. A former gang member, Noah worked as a youth pastor in Minneapolis and ran a summer camp on the Gunflint Trail for delinquent inner-city kids. “What are you doing here?”

  Noah took a deep breath, as if holding back a flood of emotions, but his eyes betrayed his secret in a bright glow. “Anne and I are getting married.”

  “Yes!” Dan high-fived him. “Not that I had any doubts, but still, she has a mind of her own, and I’m glad to see you get a ring on her finger.”

  “You and me both.” Noah looked like the man who hung the moon, all grins and puffed-out chest. Or maybe it was simply his stocky build and standard demeanor. If anyone exuded the joy of salvation, it was Noah Standing Bear. The guy had stories that sent Dan’s chin to the floor in alarm, his heart soaring with the redemptive work of Christ. “Anne and I are getting married in the city, but we want to have a small party here at the church. Do you suppose we could work that out?”

  “Are you kidding? When?”

  “We’re getting married the weekend before Thanksgiving.”

  “That is the best news I’ve heard all year. Where is Anne?”

  “She left a couple weeks ago with Katie, one of my staffers.”

  “I know Katie.” Dan easily pictured the redhead, a cute ball of Irish spunk and courage. The woman had a way of leading kids to Christ that was simple and understandable. Sometimes Dan wished he could take notes.

  “Katie and Anne’s sister are in the wedding, and they had to have fittings for their bridesmaid dresses and iron out a few details.”

  “So you’ve been engaged all summer?” Dan frowned at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

  Noah shook his head. “Sorry, Dan. We didn’t tell anyone except a few of the staffers. We didn’t want the kids watching us and forgetting why they were there.”

  “Right.” It didn’t take much for street kids who lived soap-opera lives to turn a godly courtship into R-rated gossip. “Well, the church would love to host you. I’ll put it on our calendar. Let me know what I can do to help.”

  “Thanks, Dan. Anne will be thrilled.” He curled his program in his hand. “I gotta run. I’m heading down to Minneapolis this afternoon.”

  Dan walked with him into the parking lot. Noah unstrapped his helm
et from his motorcycle and worked it on. “Joe told me about your injury . . . and your new fire chief.” This time the shine in his eyes had nothing to do with his own love life. “Heard she made quite an impact on you.”

  Dan grimaced. “No. Just trying to do my job.”

  “Oh, really?” Noah pulled the bike off its kickstand. “And what’s that?”

  Dan let the image of Ellie sitting on the beach, the wind teasing her hair, those blue eyes hiding too many secrets pass over him. He sighed. “Keeping people out of trouble.”

  “Hmm,” said Noah, his smile dimming. “I guess I didn’t know that was your job description.” He jump-started the bike, then sat and revved the engine. “Well, just so long as you leave something for God to do!” he said over the roar. Then he smiled, flicked a salute, and motored off.

  6

  Ellie blinked, her eyes tearing as they adjusted to the fog of debris now settling on the floor. She had landed on her elbows, and they felt like they’d been shattered. Her eyes nearly crossed with the pain that pulsed up her arms. She took a breath. No sharp burning in her chest. Hopefully she hadn’t cracked any ribs. Something heavy lay on her lower legs.

  Groaning, she twisted and discovered that the overhead beam to the second floor had given way. Crashing against the staircase, it had scattered the banister beams like bowling pins, raining them down upon her as it fell. The beam then broke and pinned her neatly to the floor.

  She felt for her flashlight, found it, and shone some light on the situation. Two very menacing-looking nails had missed her leg by a fraction of an inch. She could be bleeding out on this carbonized, water soaked floor if it weren’t for providential protection.

  Again, God had spared her life despite her foolishness. She had to be setting new records. Thank You, Lord.