Playing with Fire Page 18

  “Not much,” he said. “That was the most disturbing thing of all. Not much.”

  Wayne didn’t know what to make of the changes he saw taking place in Charity. The woman was a puzzle, all right, and now he wondered if she was always this mercurial or if the case had gotten to her somehow. Somehow beyond the attempts to kill her.

  Or maybe there were just some things she didn’t like and refused to allow pass. That he could understand. Which didn’t mean he liked the idea of this arsonist taking another swipe at her.

  That email seriously troubled him, and he mentioned it again as they were washing up after breakfast, and making more coffee. “Why would anyone send an email like that? I don’t think Fred Buell has that kind of enemy.”

  “It was directed at me,” she said firmly. “And no, I don’t think I’m the center of the universe, but I’ve got somebody so scared or mad that they’re willing to attempt murder. The carbon monoxide failed, but an email suggesting fraud might have been another way to get me out of here. My bosses might question my judgment and send someone else in my place.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “They want me out of here, but not for that reason.” She filled two mugs and carried them to the table. It was still too dark outside, and too early to leave for the Buell place. Time to talk more.

  He was glad of that, because he needed to understand some things. “They don’t think you’re falling for a fraud, do they?”

  She shook her head as she sat. “Wayne, I’ve been doing this for them for five years. My fraud-proof rate is higher than anyone else’s. Simply, I don’t skim these things, I look really close and sometimes I learn things that others might miss. In that sense, I’m golden. I also have an instinct for this, a nose, if you will. Things will niggle at me until I get to the root of it. This time there’s no niggle. Fred Buell didn’t commit that act. Not any of it.”

  Wayne nodded, sipping his own coffee. “Seems as though if he had a hand in this, he would have increased his insurance.”

  “Exactly. Maybe not all at once, but gradually over a couple of years. The thing is, we should have been paying attention to the property appraiser’s records. Someone at my company screwed up. Maybe they went to sleep after the housing bubble burst and everything was overinsured for its value for a while. I don’t know. I just know that the pattern for an arsonist is to get more than enough insurance.”

  He nodded, thinking over the things he’d learned from her. “But then there’s poor folks. Someone like Fred Buell who might think he could get a new barn for nothing.”

  She shook her head. “Then, he’d have burned the barn, not a house with his whole family in it. And I doubt he’d have left the livestock in it. Even if he didn’t care about his stock—and everyone tells me he did—he’s not covered enough on the barn to handle his losses in livestock. Seriously, this fire has put him in a world of hurts. And I’m probably discussing his financial situation too openly.”

  Wayne shook his head. “Nothing I didn’t guess from the moment you said he was underinsured. The situation is the same for a lot of ranchers out here. They make it only if they keep going. They walk a line so narrow that one bit of serious trouble can put them under. Oh, we have a few who are doing well, but most are like Fred. Keep taking the next step so you can barely keep your head above water. It was bad enough when the economy tanked and people stopped buying beef. Then feed prices went through the roof, commodities speculation drove it even higher and there are some out here for whom the loss of a single steer could make the difference between a profit and a loss. Seems hard to believe, doesn’t it?”

  She shook her head. “Actually, no. A lot of small businesses, single-owner type deals, run on very thin margins. No room for error or trouble.”

  “Well, Fred’s not that close to the edge from what I hear, but he’s not raking it in, either. His kids get homeschooled in part so they can help with chores. It’s the way folks used to live all the time. Some folks are still living that way.”

  Wayne paused, thinking about all of it. “So you really don’t think that email was an attempt to get at Fred?”

  Charity shook her head. “Not likely. Another investigator would find exactly what I’ve found. You know, this all makes me hopping mad. An innocent man targeted for some reason. Why? Why ruin Fred Buell’s life? For a thrill? As much arson as I’ve dealt with, I still find it hard to believe. I’ve seen apparent arsons that turned out to be accidents. I’ve seen arsons for gain. I’ve seen arsons that initially look like accidents. I’ve seen arsons as the result of a dispute. But the ones that really get me are the ones for a cheap thrill.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Some of them get off on it.”

  “There are other ways to get off.”

  He couldn’t disagree with that. “Charity, will you be honest with me?”

  She looked surprised. “I’m always honest.”

  “Except when you don’t share.”

  He watched her bridle. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. You shared some pretty personal stuff with me last night, but I’m sitting here once again wondering what you’re thinking. You want to risk your life to catch an arsonist.”

  “And a potential murderer.”

  “True, but you’re the one at risk for being killed. You turned all stubborn about this for some reason. You’re not a detective. You’re not in any position to investigate this, so why hang around to give the guy another opportunity? You just said someone else could finish your job. You even said you think you’ll have it finished today. This person has threatened your job and your life and you’re digging in your heels.”

  “I’m a stubborn person.”

  “Maybe that’s how you got through your rambling childhood. I don’t know. But you say you can’t commit, now here you are committing your life to a dangerous game that should be left to the proper authorities. I’m not criticizing—” although he guessed he was in a way “—but I need to understand. Is there something pushing you besides your desire to catch this creep?”

  He watched her look down at the mug between her hands and he waited, coiled tight as a spring. He already knew he was coming to care for this perplexing woman in dangerous ways, that when she left he was going to miss her like hell. But he’d rather see her leave here alive and safe. “You keep too much inside,” he said finally.

  “I thought I was letting it all hang out,” she said. Slowly her gaze lifted and met his. “I’m confused, Wayne. I know that. I’m trying to sort out some major life issues all of a sudden. It finally stood up and bit me on the butt. I’m a runner.”

  “I sure don’t see any of that here. That’s what’s got me wondering. I can’t stand by while you do this if I don’t at least have some understanding.”

  “What are you going to do? Throw me out of town?”

  He sighed and rubbed his chin. “Really? Let’s not go there. Try respecting the fact that I have some feelings and opinions here.”

  She averted her face, but he caught a glimpse of her embarrassment. “I guess I’ve been selfish.”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that at all. It’s just that you’re all locked up so tight in yourself. I’m honestly proud that you felt you could tell me so much last night, but then you shut down again. Was that necessary for survival when you were growing up?”

  She hesitated, still not looking at him, then nodded. “I guess so. I never had a confidant. A few times when I tried, I was laughed at or criticized. I’m different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I guess I’m not like other people.”

  Something inside him suddenly hurt so badly he thought it was going to crack wide-open. “So people shut you down when you tried to open up?”

  “Yes.” The word came out clipped.

  “That is so freaki
ng sad,” he said. The pain inside him, pain for her, made him want to slam something.

  “It’s the way it is. My mother told me not to be so dramatic. She said I exhausted her. My first boyfriend told me he was sick to death of hearing about my feelings. Clearly there’s something wrong or different about me. So you’re right, I don’t share easily.”

  “God.” He pushed back from the table and reached for her. At least she didn’t resist when he tugged her into the living room and sat on the couch with her close beside him. He wrapped his arms around her in what he hoped was a gentle but unbreakable grip.

  “You listen to me, Charity Atkins. You’re not different. You’re a human being with human feelings and needs, and anyone who wasn’t willing to listen to you wasn’t worth your time. And that includes your mother.”

  “But...”

  “I don’t care what they said, any of them. They were being selfish. You think I haven’t listened to hours of teenage angst from Lindy? Of course I have. You want to hear some of mine?”

  She remained stiff in his arms but gave a little shrug. He took it as a yes.

  “I still don’t know why my wife left me. You’ll never know how many nights I’ve paced this place and wondered what I did wrong. I kind of intimated that I’d made peace with it, but the truth is I haven’t. All she ever said was she was going crazy in this town, but that doesn’t answer many questions, does it? I still wonder, I’ll always wonder what lay behind that. She grew up here, Charity. She had friends here. Why should a few years away change all that? She claimed it did, but you know what? Glenwood Springs isn’t much bigger than this town. It just has more attractions because it caters to tourists. So maybe more things to do, but was that all of it? I wonder. I’ll always wonder. She didn’t even try to take Lindy with her. I wonder about that, too. Didn’t want her except for summers and every other Christmas. But she was Lindy’s mother!”

  She was softening as she listened, no longer as stiff as wood. “That’s awful, Wayne.”

  “Damn straight. At least if she’d cut me to pieces I’d have answers about what the hell is wrong with Wayne Camden, wrong enough to leave even her daughter.”

  She shifted a little, her head turning toward him, just a little. “Maybe it wasn’t you,” she said quietly. “Maybe it was all her.”

  “Maybe. And maybe you ought to consider that about the people who made you feel you had to be a clam. If they didn’t care enough to listen, then they didn’t care.”

  She lowered her head. He hadn’t really been able to see her face since they’d sat on the couch, but reading her face was seldom useful. She’d not only closed up when it came to talking, but she’d shielded her face, as well. He caught flickers, just glimpses, of what she might be thinking or feeling, but they vanished quickly.

  He hoped that he’d once again see the woman who had busted out so briefly yesterday, flirting in his office, confiding in him last night, doing that amazing striptease. Inside her a woman waited to be set free.

  Of course, he could be totally deluded, but he didn’t think so. The real Charity was in there somewhere, and he suspected she’d be full of excitement, joy, raw sexuality and delightful secrets.

  Every so often, she tried to reach out, like at the fire station yesterday, like last night. Then she pulled back like a startled turtle, walking herself once again into a solitary existence, everything on the surface, everything safe. Protected. Where no one could hurt her in the ways that really mattered. Where Charity couldn’t be dismissed yet again.

  Yet now she wanted to put her head in a very real noose, and he needed to know why. Was it her need to prove she had some worth as a human being, a worth that others had denied her? Or was it something else?

  “I’m angry,” she said quietly. “Really, very, truly angry. Something happened when I talked to Fred Buell. That man’s pain was palpable. He’s close to broken, Wayne.”

  “I know.”

  “I hate arsonists, but this time...when I saw what it had done to Fred, it became personal. Really personal. I don’t usually do personal. But I guess this time I am. I looked at that man, all but crushed, and still managing to give thanks his family had survived. That’s real courage. Maybe it taught me a lesson, I don’t know. But this is deeply personal to me now. More personal than just the attempt to kill me. Maybe that sounds weird but...”

  “It doesn’t sound weird,” he said when she stopped talking. “It makes sense to me. Someone else’s pain being bigger than your own? I get it. I do.”

  At last she twisted enough to look at him. “I think you do.”

  He hesitated, but decided that confiding more might help her to do the same. “Last winter we had a bad accident out on the highway three miles out of town. Friday night. Four high school students heading home from a football game. Black ice on the road. Too much speed. You were a volunteer. I don’t need to paint the ugly details.”

  “No. Don’t. I’ve seen.”

  “Anyway, I knew all those kids. I knew their families. I helped pick up the pieces and afterward the only thing I had to be grateful for was that I wasn’t the one who had to notify their families. I came home and hugged my daughter until she couldn’t stand it anymore, and I don’t think I had a solid night’s sleep for weeks. She also got pretty mad at me because I took the car keys away for a few days. Thing was, mad or not, I could see in her eyes that she understood. They’d been her friends.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” She turned fully into him and wrapped her arm around his waist.

  “I lost two good firefighters that night. That was it for them and they quit. I can’t say I blame them.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “I stay because sometimes I can make a real difference. Someone has to.”

  She grew still against him. A look at the clock on the cable box told him they were fast running out of time. He hoped she’d offer another piece of herself, a bit of understanding, but he guessed she was lost inside her own thoughts, even as she returned his hug. He was savoring this time, maybe too much, but it had been so long since he had enjoyed holding a woman, being held by one, in moments of quiet.

  Minutes passed, and just as he was thinking it was time to suggest they leave, she spoke.

  “I thought I was making a difference doing this job. I mean, catching fraud is not just about saving my company money. It’s about saving our clients money, because premiums increase more slowly if we’re not paying out huge sums on fraudulent fires. And it feels good, sometimes, when I have a case like this one where I can help a client get his due when he’s been wronged by someone. But it’s not like what you do. What I did with the fire crew. It affects lives, but not in the same way.”

  “Don’t put yourself down. It’s like I said, someone needs to do it.”

  “I get that,” she said. Then she sighed. “But maybe it’s not enough for me.” With that, she pulled back a little. “Time to go?”

  “Getting there. It’ll be chilly still, so wear something warm.”

  * * *

  Charity went to the guest room to get a sweater and her jacket. She even messed up the bed and remade it inexpertly, figuring that Lindy would look—curiosity was normal—and she didn’t want to cause Wayne any unnecessary teasing, especially when all he’d done was comfort her through the night. And Linda, evidently, wasn’t one to exercise discretion in her comments.

  In the past twelve hours, she’d told Wayne things about herself that she’d never shared with anyone, even the whiny stuff about having her feelings dismissed. Oddly, she felt she’d found a safe confidant for those truths about herself. She knew one thing for sure, they might not be truths in the objective sense, but they were true for her emotionally, and she had trusted him with them.

  For the first time in years, she’d opened up to someone, exposing what she believed were her deepest
flaws. Being different in some way, a way that made others just want her to be quiet. Maybe she obsessed too much when her feelings were knotted, or when she was stressed. Or maybe she just confided more than people really wanted to hear from anyone. Maybe at times she was too self-centered. She didn’t know.

  Or maybe she’d just overreacted to normal human impatience. Regardless, she couldn’t escape the fact that it had altered her, left her scarred in some way. So much so that she never entrusted her deepest thoughts and feelings to anyone.

  So what was wrong with her? She figured she’d never really get an answer. She didn’t know what had possessed her to open up so much to Wayne. Maybe the realization that after a few days she’d never see him again? Would never have to deal with that inevitable complaint about her feelings?

  But then he’d told her he was having a similar experience over his divorce. Not exactly the same, obviously, but wondering what was wrong with him. Always wondering. She could definitely sympathize with that.

  She emerged from the bedroom ready for the day, and found Wayne dressed in his blues—the comfortable shirt and pants that could be worn under a turnout suit—and a matching jacket for warmth. On his head sat a white ball cap emblazoned with the department’s seal and the word Chief. His jacket sported a badge, too. His shirt had an embroidered badge, but the one on the jacket had been carefully etched in brass and silver.

  All very official. She felt anything but official in her jeans, work shirt and boots. Dressed down, but necessary for what they were about to do. Of course, she wasn’t really official in any meaningful sense of the word. She was the private employee of an insurance company, paid to do a job that often brought her across the path of public servants who did it for much nobler reasons. Sometimes they helped, the way Wayne and the sheriff were helping. Sometimes she was treated as an unwanted outsider and had to find a way to grease the skids, as it were. Get herself taken seriously. Or at least treated as if her access to information mattered.

  She often wondered where the hostility lay. After all, she wasn’t questioning the word of the professionals, she just needed information from them. It wasn’t her job to second-guess a professional arson investigator. But sometimes she got treated like a spy from the enemy camp.