Grilling the Subject by Daryl Wood Gerber Page A

alternative scenarios scudded through my head. The lighter fluid. The propane tanks. “Maybe this isn’t what it looks like. What if Sylvia lured my father up here to goad him into doing something rash? What if she set the blaze, hoping to trap him and kill him? What if she died of smoke inhalation before he got here?”
    â€œShe didn’t.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI can’t tell you.”
    â€œWhat if—” I bit my lip. In every one of the scenarios running roughshod through my brain, my father appeared guilty, because if he had come to the site and didn’t try to save Sylvia . . .
argh!
“It wasn’t Dad. You know he didn’t do this. He couldn’t. He’s a pacifist. He—”
    â€œChief!” Bucky called. He hailed her over. “You’ve got to see this.”
    Cinnamon said to me, “Hang tight,” and traipsed through the muck to where Bucky was standing. “What?”
    He pointed.
    I stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse over one of the firemen’s shoulders, to see what they were discussing.
    Marlon Appleby, Cinnamon’s second-in-command, a manwith big ears and square jaw, strode to my side. “Hey, Jenna,” he said, concern in his tone. Usually he was stern with me, but he seemed more tolerant this time. Why? Because he was dating my aunt, or because I looked like one vulnerable mess of a woman? “Sorry, but you’ll have to move back.”
    â€œCan you tell me anything about what happened? What evidence do you have against my father other than Ronald’s statement? How did Sylvia die? Are there footprints? Please, detective, give me something.” I tried to hold back the tears that were filling my eyes but couldn’t. Moisture dripped down my cheeks. Swell. I wasn’t merely a vulnerable mess; I was a bleary-eyed, ridiculous mess. “My father . . . he didn’t—”
    My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I wriggled it out and read the text: Hi, Tootsie Pop —my father’s nickname for me since I was a tween; I hated it, I had outgrown it, but what could I do, demand he stop? I continued reading: Fishing. Will call soon. Hope it’s nothing important. That was a longer message than I’d ever received from my father. He was old school and preferred analog or even the written word to digital, but Lola would have none of that. She made him promise never to leave home without his cell phone.
    I texted back: Yes, it’s important. Sylvia Gump is dead. The police think she’s been murdered. By you. Call me.
    My cell phone rang in an instant. I stabbed Accept. “Dad?”
    â€œWhat happened?” He sounded out of breath. The connection wasn’t good. It was crackly with static.
    I quickly explained.
    â€œHow did she die?” he asked.
    â€œI can’t get the police to cough up any information.” I glared at Detective Appleby, who was standing stoically by my side.
    â€œTell Cinnamon I was nowhere in the vicinity,” my father said. “I left for the lake well before dawn, and sunrise was at five forty-seven A.M. Fish don’t bite once the sun is up.”
    â€œWhere are you now?”
    â€œHiking back to my car.”
    â€œIs anybody there?”
    â€œI went alone.”
    I huffed. “I mean, are there other fishermen?” I splayed a hand in frustration.
    â€œI don’t see anyone else. It’s midweek.”
    I sighed. “Dad, this doesn’t look good.”
    â€œIt’s my word against Ronald’s.”
    â€œDoes he have any reason to lie?”
    â€œMaybe he killed her.”
    I shook my head. “C’mon, have you seen Ronald Gump? He’s not a big man in the first place, and now he’s walking with a cane.”
    â€œI didn’t do this!” Dad barked. Stern, authoritative. Good. That meant his FBI persona was kicking into gear. “What do they have on