Unspeakable (34 page)

“Olivia?” her father called. “Honey, did you burn something in the kitchen?”

She opened the bathroom door and stared at her father. He was wearing his flannel robe and slippers. His thinning hair was all mussed.

“What's going on?” she asked. Then the sharp waft of smoke hit her. She glanced up at the hallway light and saw a gray haze.

“Did you leave a cigarette burning?” her dad asked.

“No,” she murmured. She ran to the top of the stairs and switched on the front hallway light. The smoke loomed heavier down on the first floor. Shadows flickered against the wall. She immediately thought of Jerry and Sue and the kids. This was how it must have happened to them. A panic swept through her.

Olivia rushed down the stairs and felt the heat building. The smoke became denser, but she still couldn't tell where it was coming from. Something outside the front door hissed and crackled. The two tall thin windows bracketing the door showed utter blackness. Then flames suddenly flared out on the other side of the glass. The blistering wood let out a loud pop.

“Get back!” her father yelled, brushing past her. He flung open the hall closet door.

Olivia hadn't even realized he'd followed her downstairs. Covering her mouth from the smoke, she stepped back and watched him haul a fire extinguisher from the closet. He struggled with the lock, and then yanked the door open. A wall of flames filled the entryway. Bright orange sparks glowed on the blackened door, spitting pieces of fiery debris. Thick smoke billowed into the foyer. She heard her father coughing. For a moment, he was swallowed up by the black haze.

“Poppy!” she shrieked.

All at once, there was a hiss and an explosion of white clouds that plumed through the front hall. Blinded, Olivia staggered back and waved her hand in front of her face. She screamed out for her father again.

In all the chaos and smoke, she realized the crackling sound had stopped.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” her dad finally called out.

“Yes. How about you? Are you all right?” Through the smog that filled the hallway, she could just make out his silhouette in the doorway.

“No injuries!” he replied, clearing his throat. “Better open some windows. I'll get the garden hose and wet everything down.”

Olivia stood there for another moment. She was thinking about that weird little incident with the recycle bin earlier, and now this. She was thinking about her in-laws, too. Had the fire started at their house the same way?

Heading across the smoke-filled living room, she unlocked all three windows and opened them. The room turned cold, but the haze started to dissipate.

S
he heard voices downstairs.

Olivia rolled over in bed and squinted at the alarm clock on her nightstand. She couldn't believe she'd actually fallen asleep—after so much tossing and turning under her old
Titanic
poster last night.

Her father had hosed down the outside of their house around the burnt, blistered front door. The actual damage seemed surprisingly minimal. The front door would have to be replaced, and the surrounding area needed to be cleaned and repainted. Olivia had managed to air out the downstairs. They still weren't sure if the front hall would need repainting.

After downing a bourbon and water, her dad had announced there would be no golf for him tomorrow, and he'd shuffled off to bed around 2:15. Olivia had shut and locked the last window an hour later. Then she'd dragged herself upstairs.

Considering he believed she'd caused the fire with a stray cigarette, her dad was pretty sweet and forgiving. His assumption seemed pretty far-fetched, but possible. After all, she'd been smoking there earlier in the evening. She was usually so careful about picking up the butts after extinguishing them. But she remembered her last cigarette break had been interrupted by the phone call from Troy Morrow. She'd put out the cigarette in a hurry and rushed inside to grab her cell. Maybe the butt hadn't been completely extinguished.

And then two hours later, it had become a small inferno?

No, it just wasn't likely. But she wasn't ready to tell her father that. She didn't want him to think she was trying to shirk responsibility for the fire. She also didn't want to tell him all the possible explanations that had come to mind. She kept thinking of Jerry, Sue, and the kids—and of those hotel fires fifty years ago.

Olivia wished it were merely her stupid cigarette butt—and nothing more—that had caused this whole flaming mess. How she'd managed to nod off was a mystery—but somehow she must have.

She rolled over on her left side, tugged her sheets around her neck, and listened to her father's muffled voice downstairs. Was he on the telephone? Or was someone else with him downstairs? After a few moments, it grew quiet. But then she heard footsteps on the stairs.

There was a knock on her door. “Olivia, honey?” her father gently called.

She sat up in bed, and rubbed her eyes. “Yeah, Pop, come on in. . . .”

He opened the door and ducked his head in. “Sweetie, the police are here. Could you get dressed and come on downstairs?”

“What's going on?” she murmured. “Is it about the fire?”

“That's part of it,” her father answered grimly. “I don't think your cigarette caused the fire after all. It was no accident. And neither was what happened to your car.”

“My car?”

He nodded. “Somebody really went crazy and trashed it last night.”

 

 

“Her name is Corinne Beal,” Olivia said evenly. “She's my—
estranged
husband's girlfriend. This is her work. There's absolutely no mistaking it. . . .”

With her arms folded, Olivia stood in front of her car—parked in the carport beside the garage. She'd thrown on a pair of jeans and wore a jacket over her T-shirt. Tears of anger filled her eyes as she gazed at her poor little VW bug—once again splashed with acid. The black-rust blotches and crusted-over bubbles covered the hood—for the second time. The front tires had been slashed.

“She did the exact same thing to my daughter's car—this same car—three months ago,” Olivia's dad told the cop. “I'm not kidding. The woman's got a screw loose. She's dangerous.”

Olivia was furious, but also slightly relieved to see Corinne's trademark work. At least now she knew who was behind all the strange things that had been happening lately.

Her father—in plaid slacks, a button-down shirt, and a fall jacket—stood behind her, along with one of the two cops who had responded to his 911 call forty minutes ago. Her dad had been on his way to his car for a coffee and donuts run when he'd noticed the damage to her VW. The cops were a man-woman team, both uniformed. The woman was about twenty-five, and skinny with brown hair. She looked like a neophyte, but seemed to overcompensate with a brisk, no-nonsense attitude. She was examining the charred front door—and talking a lot into her shoulder mic. Her partner was forty and mustached, with a macho swagger. He stood by Olivia's dad with a pen and notepad. He'd already said something about getting a police photographer there to take snapshots of the property damage.

“Obviously, it wasn't enough just messing up my daughter's car again,” Walt went on. “She had to torch the house. What a nutcase!”

“Corinne was in town last night, staying at a hotel with my husband,” Olivia said, still assessing the damage to her VW. “They were supposed to return to Portland today. You might catch them before they leave. I'm not sure which hotel they're at. But you can reach my husband on his cell phone. His name is Clay Bischoff, and his number is five-oh-three-five-five-five-eight-nine-eight-two.”

“In Portland, this girl broke into my daughter's house,” Walt was saying. “She made one hell of a mess. . . .”

Olivia's cell phone rang, and she pulled it out of her jacket pocket. She checked the caller ID:
Leroy Swan-ner
. He was the chiropractor whose office was down the hall from hers.

“Who is it, honey?” her father asked.

“Someone from my office building.” She clicked on the phone. “Hello? Leroy?”

“Hi, Olivia,” he said. “Are you okay?”

She shrugged, and let out a bewildered little laugh. “Yeah, I guess. . . .”

“That's a relief. I was worried something had happened to you. I came in a little early today, and noticed—well, I think somebody broke into your office. They really tore the place apart, too. I called the police. They're on their way. . . .”

“Looks like they stole your hard drive,” said one of the cops. He was checking under and around her desk, which was a mess.

“Shit,” Olivia muttered, rubbing her forehead. She had billing information on there for her regular clients—and God only knew how much more confidential information.

She'd never had so many people in her little office at one time. All five of them were policemen—two plainclothesmen (one of whom was on his cell phone), two more uniformed cops, and the policewoman from the team that had shown up at the house earlier.

Olivia had splashed some water on her face and thrown on a black V-neck sweater. With the policewoman driving, she'd ridden to her office in the back of the squad car. The cop's partner had stayed behind with Walt to wait for the police photographer to show up.

Olivia figured this ought to be the photographer's next stop. The damage here was just as bad. It felt as if the business she'd worked so hard to get off the ground had been destroyed in one fell swoop. Her throat tightened and tears brimmed in her eyes as she stared at the slashed sofa and chairs. The white foam stuffing spilled out of the cushions. The framed Monet print over the sofa had been smashed—along with a lamp and her computer monitor. There was glass everywhere. She heard a crunch every time she took a step. Her rock-sculpture fountain had been toppled over. Amid the scattered pieces, a puddle of water drenched the tan carpet.

“We got ahold of your husband and Corinne Beal at the Hotel Deca in the U-District,” announced the plainclothesman. He still had a cell phone to his ear. “She claims she has no idea what's happened here—or at your house.”

Olivia didn't even look at him. She was still gazing at the destruction to her office. “That crazy bitch did this,” she heard herself say. “I'm pressing charges. Ever since she and Clay got into town on Thursday, she's been following me around, trying to scare me one way or another. She fooled with my name in the directory downstairs and shut off the power the other night. Then on Sunday, she must have been stalking me in the library downtown, because the microfiche machine I was using got sabotaged. And a couple of hours before she set fire to our front door last night, I could tell someone was sneaking around outside the house. . . .”

“Your husband and Ms. Beal have agreed to come to the East Precinct station for an interview,” the detective said.

“Are you really so sure she's responsible for
everything
?” someone asked. It was a new person in the room.

She swiveled around to see Ian Haggerty in the doorway. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He was slightly rumpled in jeans and a beige fisherman's sweater. He had a bit of beard stubble, and his brown hair was messy. But he still looked handsome.

Olivia narrowed her eyes at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you certain this Corinne person is behind all the strange things happening to you since Thursday?” he asked.

Olivia nodded. “Corinne or maybe someone she hired, yes. It's Ian, isn't it?”

“Yes, hi,” he said, still lingering in the doorway. “Nice to see you again.”

The other cops seemed baffled by his presence there.

“Have you been assigned to this case?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Actually, I happened to be driving by, and saw the police cars. I was concerned. I knew you worked in this building.”

“Really? How did you know that?”

“You told me—when we were talking on the ferry Saturday,” he said.

“I think I mentioned my office was in Madison Valley. I don't believe I gave you the exact address.”

“What's going on, Haggerty?” one of the plainclothesmen asked. “You have no business here. You're on a leave of absence.”

“Yeah,” one of the uniformed cops chimed in. “Beat up any sassy third-graders lately?”

Ian glared at him for a second. Then he turned to her and seemed to force a smile. “Could I talk to you out in the hall?”

Olivia nodded. She brushed past the policewoman near the doorway and walked through the waiting room with Ian. They stepped out to the hallway together. “What is it?” she asked. “What were they talking about in there—‘beating up third graders?' ”

He took her arm and started to lead her farther down the hall.

Olivia stopped and pulled her arm away. “I didn't give you my address here.”

“You're right, you didn't,” he whispered. “After I met you on the ferry, I looked you up on Google and found your hypnotherapy site. I did some more searching and got your address.”

She let out a stunned, little laugh. “I'm not sure if I should be flattered or take out a restraining order. Why do I get the feeling you didn't just ‘happen to drive by' here this morning?”

“That part's true,” he said. “I live in Madison Park. I drive by this building at least twice a day. They know me at the Madison Val-U Mart. I'm a regular there. Anyway, when I saw the squad cars outside your building, I thought something might have happened to you.”

“Why's that?” she asked.

“Collin Cox hasn't made a lot of friends since he moved to the Kitsap Peninsula. And two of them were killed last week. I have a feeling you're closer to Collin than you let on the other day. So—when I saw two prowlers and one unmarked car parked outside here . . .”

“I don't think what happened here or at my house has anything to do with Collin.”

“Did he mention to you that they had to call the police because someone was sneaking around outside his grandparents' house on Saturday night?”

“No,” Olivia murmured. She thought about the man she'd spotted tailing Collin after he'd left her office Thursday night.

“You'll say it's none of my business. Still, I have to ask. Are you working your hypnotherapy on Collin to help him recall things from the night his mother was murdered?”

She nodded. “You're right. That's none of your business.”

“Here's why I'm asking. I think the murder of Collin's friend Fernando Ryan wasn't a random thing. And I don't believe the fire that killed your in-laws was an accident. I'm pretty certain they were killed because someone thought Collin told them something—something about the night his mother was murdered. I don't mean to scare you, but it's possible the same people might be after you now. Did I hear Detective Yeager right? Did they make off with your computer's hard drive?”

“Yes, but that's not so unusual, is it? There are a lot of things on a hard drive that thieves can use—credit card information, passwords, Social Security—”

“Back there in the office, you said this Corinne person was responsible for everything. Now you're talking about a theft.”