Authors: Debra Dixon
Then there was the failed lie detector test question to be considered. Maggie had stumbled over whether or not she’d caused a fire.
Everything pointed in one direction, a direction he couldn’t believe he’d missed before. By six o’clock, Beau was out the door again, pausing only long enough to pick up the
Morning Advocate
from the driveway. He tossed the newspaper in the front seat of his car. Reading the news would have to wait. He had phone calls to make now that he realized trying to trace that burned newspaper scrap was the hard way to get the information he needed.
The place to look for Maggie St. John’s secret was in a logbook. He’d call every parish and city fire department within a hundred-mile radius. All Beau had to do was open the Greater Baton Rouge Law Enforcement and Fire Company Directory. Find the right engine company, the right parish, a fire within a few days of the old article and involving Ms. Maggie St. John. Eighteen years was the blink of an eye in a fireman’s career.
If he could find the fire, he could probably find the crew, the case notes, everything.
When Maggie walked into the break room prior to the start of her shift, Donna Campbell was waiting. The charge nurse was as serious as Maggie had ever seen her. Donna’s anger could demoralize interns and scare cats off kitchen counters for three city blocks, but this expression wasn’t anger. It was concern, uncertainty, and distress. All those scary emotions that made Maggie want to turn around and run.
Too late.
Without preamble, Donna handed her the metro section of the
Advocate.
It was no secret on the floor that Maggie didn’t subscribe to the daily newspaper. But it seemed bad news had a way of catching up with people. She couldn’t imagine Donna lying in wait to hand her anything but bad news. Not with a face like that.
Slowly Maggie opened the folded section and scanned the page. Even without the big red circle the subhead would have leapt out at her.
CLOISTER NURSE POSSIBLE SUSPECT IN HOSPITAL FIRE.
Maggie sank down in the orange molded-plastic chair and spread the newspaper flat on the table. She stared at the subhead, trying to make it mean something else. Anything else. She couldn’t. There it was in black and white, official and complete. Part of today’s news ration for the masses. Fodder for dinner conversation.
With a shaking hand she smoothed the center crease. The article wasn’t long. Just long enough to do some damage. It reported the utility closet fire of Friday last, the arson squad’s interest in the fire, and the hospital’s decision to request voluntary lie detector tests from employees. Finally, even though Donna had obviously already read the article, Maggie began to read aloud.
“Sources close to the hospital believe the fire department has gathered evidence that points to Maggie St. John, the nurse who discovered the blaze. Hospital employees have described St. John as disgruntled.” She glanced over at Donna and then continued. “St. John, recently returned to work after serving a suspension unrelated to the fire, did not respond to requests for an interview. Beau Grayson, Baton Rouge’s Assistant Chief
of Fire Investigation, also declined comment with regard to St. John’s status as a suspect, indicating only that he was fully aware of her recent suspension and that the investigation was ongoing. A spokesman for the hospital issued a brief statement affirming their commitment to patient safety. ‘Every hospital fire has the potential to cause catastrophic loss of life. Therefore, it is our intention to work closely with arson investigation until the matter is satisfactorily resolved.’ ”
When Maggie finished reading, Donna sat down across from her. “I’m sorry, Mags.”
“I didn’t even know they were doing this story.” She leaned back and closed her eyes briefly. She did shock math, and tried to guesstimate the circulation and secondhand readership of the
Advocate.
Giving up, she said, “God, Donna, my machine at home is broken. It eats the tape when I push
PLAY.
And I haven’t been answering the phone. The hospital sure didn’t want me to talk to the reporters because the suits never even mentioned a request for an interview. Now this article makes it look like I have something to hide.”
“Hey, you couldn’t have changed anything even if you’d answered their questions. You’re better off this way.”
“Better off? I don’t think so.” Anger began to replace the horror and embarrassment of seeing her name publicly linked to the fire. “He never said a word. The sonovabitch threw me to the wolves and never said a word.”
“What did you expect of Bennett? You’ve been at each other’s throat for months now.”
“Oh no, not Bennett,” she corrected quickly. “Beau Grayson.”
Donna frowned. “What does he have to do with it?”
“Everything. I don’t think he could have made me look more guilty if he’d tried.” Maggie stood and snatched the newspaper up. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it. In the end she folded it neatly and tossed it back on the table in frustration.
“Don’t you get it, Donna? Declining to comment is as good as a flashing neon sign over my house that says ‘suspect.’ You either are or you aren’t a suspect. There isn’t an in-between category. And if you aren’t completely,
unequivocally
cleared, people believe the worst.”
“Your friends won’t.”
“This isn’t true, you know,” Maggie said, suddenly driven by an irrational need to refute the implication in the article. “I didn’t set that fire. You know I didn’t have enough time.”
“What I think or even what I know doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change reality.”
“Which is?” The question was argumentative and defensive, and Maggie wished she hadn’t been so sharp.
“The administration isn’t going to like this publicity.”
“Are you kidding?” Maggie jabbed a finger toward the table. “They’re going to love this article. They’re just waiting for another reason to suspend me. They probably planted the piece, so they’d have an independent reference that I’m dangerous.”
“You know they didn’t. It’s bad press for them too.”
“Then who did? Who else has anything to gain? If house counsel didn’t do it at the urging of Bennett, then Bennett did it himself. I’m surprised he’s not down here to gloat.”
“Oh, but he is.”
At the sound of Bennett’s voice, Maggie turned, her skin crawling as it did every time she came within five feet of the man. His voice could have belonged to Dracula. Cultured and evil, it was the voice of someone used to blithely stepping over bodies to get what he wanted. On any other man, his features would have been handsome, but he managed to ruin them with condescension.
“I’ll get right to the point, Ms. St. John.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and drew it closed. “Chief Grayson tells me you’ve been involved in a second suspicious fire. That leaves the hospital no choice but to put you on leave until this matter is cleared up. Our insurance carrier insists. Effective immediately.”
The smile as he paused left no doubt of his enjoyment at delivering this news. “The liability premiums on a pyromaniac—even a suspected pyromaniac—are prohibitive. I’m sure you understand our position.”
Maggie didn’t understand at all. And Bennett wasn’t the right man to explain it to her.
“Where are you going?” he demanded as she grabbed her purse and shoved past him. “You have to sign some forms, We have to talk.”
A few feet from the break room Maggie wheeled, forcing herself to be charming. It was an effort. “I don’t work here anymore, remember? The only thing I have to do, Bennett, is see a man about a lie.”
Beau had expected a woman to come storming into his office this morning, but not this one. Carolyn Poag
was middle to late thirties and well-kept. From hair to fingernails, she was a walking advertisement for modern cosmetology.
Fury didn’t look good with lipstick, eyeshadow and hairspray, though. Unless he missed his guess, the lady was about to unload on him. Trying to blunt some of the explosion, Beau stood up as Russell ushered her into his office and smiled a welcome he didn’t feel. “Why don’t you have a seat, Ms. Poag?”
He looked past her and nodded a dismissal at Russell, who stood by the door and pulsed his spread fingers twice in a silent gesture for ten minutes. Beau nodded again. Whether he’d take the way out when Russell interrupted them later, Beau didn’t know. But he’d rather have an escape hatch ready than be trapped in a confrontation going nowhere.
As the door shut, he gave Ms. Poag his full attention. “What can we do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m not here for me.” She opened her suitcase-size purse and pulled out a fresh, folded newspaper clipping. “But since you asked, you can stop the witch-hunt tactics.”
“Excuse me?” Beau had no idea to what the woman was referring. His newspaper was still on his car seat, forgotten in his haste to work the new angle on Maggie’s situation. So he leaned forward to take the clipping. She didn’t wait for him to read it.
“I don’t suppose you cared how this article was going to affect Maggie St. John, did you?”
“This is about Maggie?” His eyes locked on the inflammatory headline. Lord, it must have been a slow
news day. The reporter had contacted him yesterday in one of the world’s shortest phone interviews.
“Oh!” Her huff leaked disapproval, if not outright disbelief. “As if you don’t know exactly what that article says. Are you trying to drive her over the edge?”
Beau’s head whipped up. “Are you saying that she’s close to snapping? Burned-out like Bennett claims?”
“N-no.” She backpedaled quickly, trying to cover, but the stutter blew her credibility. “What I’m saying is that you are purposely trying to upset her. She didn’t have anything to do with that closet fire, and you know it. If you don’t, you should hand in that badge and let them get someone with a brain in here.”
While she ranted, he scanned the article. When they were both finished, he set the clipping down on his desk. “Who
are
you? To Maggie, I mean.”
“The closest thing she’s got to a family. I’ve known her since she was a kid. So I thought it was time I said something before you destroy her with your little game. I don’t like what this is doing to her.”
Beau clearly heard the implied,
What you are doing to her.
Instead of taking offense, Beau straightened and reassessed Ms. Poag in light of the gold mine she had just dropped in his lap. She could insinuate anything she wanted as long as she talked. Finally he had someone who’d known Maggie since well before she entered nursing school. He had history. He was going to work Carolyn for everything he could get. So he chose his words carefully, keeping his tone level.
“I don’t like this article either, but I don’t print the news, Ms. Poag. What I told the reporter was standard
procedure in this department. We
never
confirm or deny suspect status until an arrest has been made.” He leaned back in his chair and held up a hand to stall her retort. “And before you chop my head off and serve it up on a platter, you should consider that if I’d wanted to hurt Maggie, I could have told them a lot more than this.”
“Like what? About the lie detector test? I’m surprised you didn’t.”
“No.” Beau played his trump card. “I could have told them about the foster homes. About the other fire. You know how the press loves to dig up dirt from the past.”
“She told you about Sarah’s fire?” Her eyes were wide; her expression stunned.
Bingo.
He’d zeroed in and nailed the target. Yet he didn’t betray a flicker of his elation. Finessing information required a steady delivery.
“She’s only told me bits and pieces so far,” he said.
Judging from Carolyn Poag’s reaction, the generic statement was well chosen. She seemed to deflate, as if accepting the unacceptable and trying to rearrange the universe as she knew it into a new pattern. So Beau ventured further out on the limb. “Her guilt’s the problem, I think.”
She rolled her eyes in disgust. “Imagine that. The first foster home that would keep her practically burnt down, Mr. Grayson. With Sarah Alastair, whom Maggie adored like a big sister, still in it. It doesn’t matter that the fire was accidental. Maggie got out alive. And Sarah didn’t. Who can blame her if the emotional backwash swamps her sometimes? That doesn’t mean she started that damn hospital fire.”
“I think it’s more complicated than that.”
“I think—” She broke off as the intercom flared to life.
Russell was five minutes early. “You got a visitor, Beau.”
Beau glanced out at the bull pen. Russell’s interruption wasn’t early; this wasn’t a ploy to get rid of the Poag woman. Maggie had finally arrived. Her arms were crossed tightly against her midriff. Her scrubs were a cheerful robin’s-egg-blue, but there was no smile for Russell. Or for him. Distance couldn’t blunt the waves of anger rolling off Maggie.
“She’s going to kill me,” Carolyn Poag whispered as she followed his gaze.
“No. I believe she’s here to kill me, but you can watch.” He pressed the button. “Send her in, Russell. She knows Ms. Poag.”
Beau stood up, bracing himself—feet slightly apart, hands on his hips. The way Maggie approached his office reminded him of a fighter pilot coming in low and hard. When she entered, she didn’t bother to close the door behind her. Beau thought she probably hadn’t absorbed her friend’s presence yet because her gaze never strayed from his as she delivered her payload. Straight to his gut.
“You low-life bastard. You got me fired. I hope you’re happy.”
“Oh, my God!” Carolyn said. “They fired you because of the article?”
As the voice registered in Maggie’s brain, she turned. Her mouth fell open. “
Carolyn?
”
“Don’t be mad. I had to come.” Carolyn sounded like a mother caught meddling. “Somebody had to tell them you couldn’t have done this. I can’t believe they
fired you because of the article. I just can’t believe that. I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t the article.” She shifted her gaze to Beau. “They fired me because of last night. The old barn next door to my house had the bad manners to burn down.”