Neighing with Fire: A Mystery (Colleen McCabe Series) (15 page)

“Radical how?” he asked, now laser focused on Rosalinda.

Rosalinda hesitated, then said, “She had some rather unconventional ideas about what to do to those who interfered with the plover and their nests.”

“Such as?” Colleen asked.

“She wanted to tar and feather the cars of those who were in violation,” Rosalinda said with a shake of the head. “And that’s for starters. I couldn’t have someone like that on staff. It wouldn’t be good for the foundation or the piping plover.”

Strange how Autumn had failed to mention her dismissal from the group, Colleen thought. “How did Autumn react to being kicked out?”

“She didn’t. Given her antics, I had expected some type of big scene, but she simply said that she understood and left. That’s the last time I spoke with her.”

“When was this?” Bill asked.

Rosalinda counted silently on her fingers. “About three months ago.”

From the way Autumn had reacted to the mention of Denny during her visit, Colleen thought the woman’s dismissal from the foundation would have been recent. Perhaps Autumn’s anger had been simmering on the back burner. She wondered what might have set the woman off—and Denny on fire—assuming that she was indeed their suspect.

“Anything else?” Rosalinda asked. “I’m in need of a bite to eat. Blood sugar, you know.”

Rosalinda pursed her lips several times. Was the woman really in need of food or was she attempting to get rid of them?

“You were quick to bring up Autumn Harkins,” Colleen said. “Why is that?”

Bill raised a brow, surprised by her question.

Rosalinda shrugged. “No reason.”

“We’re in the midst of arson and homicide investigations, Ms. Hawthorne,” Bill said in a serious tone. “If you’re withholding relevant information—”

“My only interest is in protecting the plover,” Rosalinda said in a raised voice, interrupting him. The other wildlife center educator shot Rosalinda a look. She lowered her voice. “All I know is that if you’re looking for someone comfortable with the idea of doing things outside the norm—which I think we can all agree arson and murder are—then Autumn Harkins is your person. Now if there’s nothing further, I really am in need of something to eat.”

Bill paused, and then said, “I’m going to need your son’s number.”

Colleen’s phone buzzed and her pager squealed. “Excuse me,” she said, and hurried from the building leaving Bill to finish up with Rosalinda. She read the phone text as the pager’s dispatcher simultaneously announced a vehicle fire in Carova.

Bill emerged from the wildlife education center a moment later. “Got the text about the fire,” he said. “I’ll meet you up there.”

“You sure? It could just be another car overheating,” she said, untying Sparky from a shady tree.

Despite the Carova Beach Fire Department’s persistent education efforts, SUV and pickup fires weren’t uncommon in the four-wheel-drive area, particularly in the summer. These fires were caused by first-time beach drivers failing to reduce air pressure in their tires, placing strain on the transmission and engine. The fires started when the transmission fluid overheated, gurgled over, and ignited.

“Go,” Bill said. “I’ll see you there.”

She slipped into the SUV behind Sparky, slammed her door closed, started the engine, flipped her emergency lights on, and pulled away from the wildlife center. Their conference with the tour company would have to wait.

She made her way up Carova’s beach highway as fast as the speed limit, crowded beach, and oak stumps would allow. Sparky sniffed at the air and squinted into the wind, enjoying the ride. She swerved around a particularly large stump, then picked up speed again. Normally she wouldn’t drive to Carova for a call unless her station had been requested for backup; but given the recent burning of Pinky’s property and the arsons on the mainland, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. It was only on occasions such as the April 2014 fire of the Duck Super Wings, a beach apparel and souvenir store, or the June 2013 fire of two Carova beach properties, that local stations usually called for assistance from their neighboring Fire Departments. The Carova Beach Fire Department was a good one and would certainly have the car fire under control.

Colleen found an access point—a sandy road that ran from the beach into the community—and tracked the smoke to the scene of the fire. As she had predicted, the Carova Beach firefighters were in full command of the situation. What she hadn’t expected to see was a Tour-zilla horse tour truck packed with nearly a dozen tourists photographing and filming the entire incident on their phones and cameras.

“Take as many pictures as you like,” announced the tour guide with delight.

She rolled down the windows, stepped from her SUV, and shook her head in disgust. The last thing she’d want while her men were fighting a fire was a bunch of people recording them as if it was a form of entertainment.

“Look over there,” the tour guide said, pointing to a dune on the right away from the fire.

The tourists turned from the smoldering pickup to witness a stallion and his harem cresting a dune. The stallion bobbed his head, neighed loudly, and shook his mane, prompting “oh’s” and “ah’s” from the crowd and a bark from Sparky. One tourist jumped from the truck with his camera and scrambled up the dune toward the stallion. Colleen glared at the tour driver.

“Sir,” the guide said over the loudspeaker, noticing Colleen frowning at him. “You need to come back.”

The tourist climbed closer, took a picture, and then slid down the dune to the truck. He’s lucky that stallion didn’t charge him, she thought. While the horses were accustomed to sharing their land with people, they were still wild. On more than one occasion, she had witnessed a fight between the horses when one stallion had wandered into another stallion’s territory. She could see why Myrtle had been having conflicts with this company. Bill arrived and parked behind her. Perhaps they could question the tour guide once the fire incident was over.

She squinted at the remains of the smoldering and hissing pickup. She had seen numerous vehicle fires. It appeared from the charring that the fire had started in the cab rather than the engine, which would be unusual for an overheated transmission. She searched for Carova’s chief among the crowd and was surprised to spot Rodney. She caught his eye. Rodney shook hands with the firefighter he had been conversing with and strolled over.

“What’s the story?” she asked as Bill joined them.

“I stumbled on it as I was driving through. Called it in as soon as I discovered it,” Rodney said.

Bill cast an eye over the area. “Where’s the driver?”

Rodney tipped back his hat. “I didn’t see one.”

The pickup was located off the road in an area hidden by brush. “Hunters maybe?” she asked.

“Could be,” Rodney said.

Though not an unusual activity in the four-wheel-drive community, she had never become accustomed to seeing hunters with rifles creeping through the foliage stalking wild pigs and ducks and had always worried that someday a hunter would accidentally shoot a visitor, a reclusive year-round resident, a bird watcher, or horse. She was grateful that thus far that had never happened. She noted Bill’s serious expression.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Anything about that pickup seem familiar to you?”

She stared at the vehicle again. “You don’t think…”

He nodded.

“Think what?” Rodney asked.

“You said you called it in,” she said to Rodney. “You didn’t happen to get any photos on your phone did you? Maybe in the early stages of the fire?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, producing his phone. “I took a few after I called, once I was sure nobody was inside.”

He held out his phone, shielded the screen from the sun so they could see, and scrolled through the pictures.

“That one,” she said, motioning for him to go back.

Rodney scrolled back and enlarged the image.

“There,” Bill said, and pointed to a logo on the pickup’s door.

A portion of the logo had already been destroyed by the fire, but the letters “C.C.C.” were visible.

“Custis Construction Company,” Rodney said, and glanced at the pickup.

Only one person would set fire to Denny’s missing vehicle … his killer. Whoever set the blaze, likely set Pinky’s property on fire. Colleen was convinced that someone had burned Pinky’s house in order to cover up the crime of Denny’s murder, and that the more they found out about Denny, the closer they would be to solving both crimes.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Ms. Harkins?” Bill asked his deputy.

“I was about to when I saw the pickup.”

Given what Rosalinda had told them about Autumn’s radical ways and the fact that the artist’s residence was in close proximity to the pickup fire, Autumn was looking more and more like their primary suspect.

“I’m going to ask the Carova chief about impounding the pickup as evidence,” Bill said. “Then it’s time to pay Ms. Harkins a visit.”

“You want me to go with you?” Colleen asked.

“I got it covered. I’ll let you know how it goes when I see you at dinner.”

She and Rodney watched him jog to the Carova chief, chat briefly, return to his pickup, and vanish down the sandy road.

“You worried about something?” Rodney asked.

She wasn’t crazy about Bill being alone with the attractive artist. Not only was the woman a possible murderer, but she suspected the woman was a bit of a flirt. She had confidence in Bill’s loyalty, but she didn’t know Autumn well enough to know if she could be trusted. And something else was troubling her.

“Do you know Rosalinda Hawthorne?” she asked.

“Met her a few times while working events at Heritage Park. Why?”

“When Bill and I spoke with her she was quick to point a finger at Autumn as someone who might do drastic things in service to the piping plover cause. But Nellie felt strongly that it was Rosalinda who might want Myrtle out of the way and perhaps blamed for Denny’s death.”

“You think Rosalinda had something to do with Denny’s death?”

“I don’t know. Something’s not adding up.” Sparky whimpered through the open window to be let out. “Excuse me. I think duty calls.”

She opened the door, but before she could leash the dog he took off running. “Sparky, heel,” she called, knowing it was impossible for a Border collie to resist herding horses. Much to her surprise, however, he only glanced at the horses, then put his nose to the ground and weaved toward the burned-out pickup.

“Do me a favor,” she said, calling over her shoulder to Rodney as she jogged after Sparky. “See if you can keep the tour from leaving. I’d like to ask the guide a couple questions.”

Rodney walked toward the tour vehicle as she sprinted to grab Sparky.

One of the Carova firefighters intercepted Sparky and grabbed his lead. “Thanks,” she said. “He doesn’t usually disobey a command like that.”

Sparky bore his nose into the sand and pawed to get closer to the truck.

“Looks like he’s caught a scent,” the firefighter said, then moved away to join his fellow firefighters as they waited for the tow truck.

The firefighter was right. It was the same digging she had seen him do at Pinky’s house before she had spoken with Jacob. She’d wait for the forensics to come back before coming to a definitive conclusion, but Sparky’s nose was never wrong and right now it was telling her that the same accelerant had been used at both scenes. This was the work of Denny’s killer.

She led Sparky away and joined Rodney, who was gabbing with the Tour-zilla guide while visitors were busy photographing the beautiful wild horses.

“Hi,” she said, joining them with Sparky and trying to appear casual.

“Hey, Chief,” Rodney said. “This is Greg Snelling. His father and he own Tour-zilla.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Greg said with a sly grin.

She resisted the urge to bop him. “All good, I’m sure,” she said, faking a friendly tone. “How have things been going up here with the tours?”

“Business is great.”

“Really? I heard Tour-zilla had been having some trouble.”

Greg’s smirk disappeared, and he stole a look back at the tourists to see if any had overheard her. “You musta heard wrong.” He shifted his weight and rubbed his neck.

His nervousness was not lost on Rodney. “Rumor had it that Denny Custis was giving your family a hard time—trying to unfairly charge you for driving up here. That true?”

“Maybe you oughta speak to my dad,” Greg said, climbing into his vehicle.

“How was it you ended up here?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you-all on this route before.”

“Like I said, you oughta speak to my dad,” he said. “All right, folks, I hope you got some good shots of those beautiful wild horses ’cause we’ll be heading back now. Everyone buckle up.”

Colleen, Rodney, and Sparky backed away from the road as the Tour-zilla truck rumbled off, rubber tail flapping. There was clearly something going on with the Snellings and their company.

Chapter 14

Colleen bustled
about the kitchen as Smokey and Sparky watched with curious fascination—cooking like she was doing now was not an activity they had witnessed … ever. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to cook; it was that she didn’t have the time. The closest she usually came was heating food in the microwave or throwing pasta into a pot and opening a jar of sauce. For tonight, she had considered a stew, pot roast, baked chicken, and a few other dishes but settled on what was probably her best … Swedish meatballs. The smell of meatballs simmering in a cream sauce, boiling egg noodles, and a fresh vinaigrette salad were almost too much for her furry friends to handle. Sparky perked his ears, waiting for a morsel to fall to the floor, while the often-aloof Smokey rubbed against Colleen’s legs and purred loudly. With any luck, the food would have as positive an impact on Bill.

She checked the time. He was due in a few minutes. She had surprised him by inviting him over for dinner rather than meeting him out as they had planned. When he had asked, why the change, she had told him she felt like staying in after the day’s activities, but truthfully, she wanted to remind him how much she appreciated that he was in her life—especially after his visit with Autumn. There was nothing like potential competition in love to motivate one to cook.