and the antiseptic ointment on the table. She hooked her
medical kit over her shoulder. “Not the police station. What are you up to?”
“Only a little more research at the library. I have
the old fire investigator’s name. An Internet search ought to come up with his
address.” She shrugged into the hoodie on the back of her chair.
“God, Lani, you’re going to end up with more trouble.”
“Trouble, yes, but not for me.”
“Why don’t you just stay here and take it easy?”
“Not gonna happen. I owe it to my twin to find
answers.” And fast, before another attack. Ignoring the twinges in her
chest, Lani collected her tote bag and slung it on her shoulder. “Now are you
going to give me a ride or do I have to call Bayport Taxi?”
Her friend’s gaze softened even as she sighed. “When
have I ever won an argument with you?” She shook a finger in admonition. “But I’m
watching you lock this house up tight.”
Gingerly, with her forefinger and thumb, Lani fished
out her keys and held them up. “Ready to lock up, Mommy.”
*****
Lani’s research took longer than expected. She found
three obituaries for a Frank Tyson, but none of them had worked for the state
in any capacity, let alone arson investigation. A cement company in Bridgton
was headed by Frank Tyson, but he was forty-five, too young. Finally typing
into the search engine in quotes Maine retired arson investigator Frank
Tyson uncovered a small news article. Two years before, Tyson, of Oak
Mills, spoke on fire safety to his granddaughter’s fifth grade class. Then an
online phone directory supplied his number and address.
She tucked her legal pad and pen in her big bag and
left the library. After a shrimp salad plate—easier to manage than a
sandwich—at the Cuppa-’n-Suppa, she picked up a ready-made salad and a frozen
dinner at the general store. She stowed them the thermal bag she’d brought in
her tote.
Finally she set out to rent a car. Buoyed by her
success, she didn’t mind the half-mile hike up the East Road beyond the
village. Her muscles didn’t feel as tight today, but by the time she arrived,
the sun’s beating down beaded sweat on her brow.
The owner of Buddy’s Garage and Bait Shop stepped from
beneath the sedan on his lift and ambled toward her. Two other men in the
garage’s tilting wooden building continued working amid the whine of power
tools. Buddy wiped his grease-covered hands with an equally filthy rag, then
tucked the cloth into a pocket in his coveralls.
Affable as always, he ambled toward her, his narrow
face crinkled in a smile. “Heard about your car. Rotten luck. Some jackass run
you off the road, folks’re sayin’.”
“Something like that, Buddy.”
His eyes lit up with the prospect of work. “Need some
body work, do you?”
“I wish. Nope, the car was totaled.”
“Well then, you must need some wheels to tide you
over. I got just the thing. Cheap.”
Twenty minutes later, Lani was the proud renter of a
battered lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. Thank God for automatic transmissions,
she thought, as she headed south toward the farm. Steering on the curving road
aggravated her still-tender hands but not as much as shifting gears would have.
She concentrated on the beauty around her—sun glinting
diamonds on the bay, pine-tree-dotted islands beyond the shore—and not the
sheer drop to her left—but on the other, the far side of the narrow road. A big
black Ford pickup sped toward her, high on oversize tires, and her heart began
to pound.
The driver gave a wave out his open window as he
passed. Just another Mainer being neighborly. She blew out a breath and waved
back. The guy probably wondered about her hand, wearing what must look like a
white mitten. Not your normal June attire.
“I got this. No prob,” she said to the VW.
Up ahead loomed the Devil’s Elbow.
Her heart tried to jump into her throat, and she
swallowed hard. Forcing herself not to grip the wheel too
medical kit over her shoulder. “Not the police station. What are you up to?”
“Only a little more research at the library. I have
the old fire investigator’s name. An Internet search ought to come up with his
address.” She shrugged into the hoodie on the back of her chair.
“God, Lani, you’re going to end up with more trouble.”
“Trouble, yes, but not for me.”
“Why don’t you just stay here and take it easy?”
“Not gonna happen. I owe it to my twin to find
answers.” And fast, before another attack. Ignoring the twinges in her
chest, Lani collected her tote bag and slung it on her shoulder. “Now are you
going to give me a ride or do I have to call Bayport Taxi?”
Her friend’s gaze softened even as she sighed. “When
have I ever won an argument with you?” She shook a finger in admonition. “But I’m
watching you lock this house up tight.”
Gingerly, with her forefinger and thumb, Lani fished
out her keys and held them up. “Ready to lock up, Mommy.”
*****
Lani’s research took longer than expected. She found
three obituaries for a Frank Tyson, but none of them had worked for the state
in any capacity, let alone arson investigation. A cement company in Bridgton
was headed by Frank Tyson, but he was forty-five, too young. Finally typing
into the search engine in quotes Maine retired arson investigator Frank
Tyson uncovered a small news article. Two years before, Tyson, of Oak
Mills, spoke on fire safety to his granddaughter’s fifth grade class. Then an
online phone directory supplied his number and address.
She tucked her legal pad and pen in her big bag and
left the library. After a shrimp salad plate—easier to manage than a
sandwich—at the Cuppa-’n-Suppa, she picked up a ready-made salad and a frozen
dinner at the general store. She stowed them the thermal bag she’d brought in
her tote.
Finally she set out to rent a car. Buoyed by her
success, she didn’t mind the half-mile hike up the East Road beyond the
village. Her muscles didn’t feel as tight today, but by the time she arrived,
the sun’s beating down beaded sweat on her brow.
The owner of Buddy’s Garage and Bait Shop stepped from
beneath the sedan on his lift and ambled toward her. Two other men in the
garage’s tilting wooden building continued working amid the whine of power
tools. Buddy wiped his grease-covered hands with an equally filthy rag, then
tucked the cloth into a pocket in his coveralls.
Affable as always, he ambled toward her, his narrow
face crinkled in a smile. “Heard about your car. Rotten luck. Some jackass run
you off the road, folks’re sayin’.”
“Something like that, Buddy.”
His eyes lit up with the prospect of work. “Need some
body work, do you?”
“I wish. Nope, the car was totaled.”
“Well then, you must need some wheels to tide you
over. I got just the thing. Cheap.”
Twenty minutes later, Lani was the proud renter of a
battered lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. Thank God for automatic transmissions,
she thought, as she headed south toward the farm. Steering on the curving road
aggravated her still-tender hands but not as much as shifting gears would have.
She concentrated on the beauty around her—sun glinting
diamonds on the bay, pine-tree-dotted islands beyond the shore—and not the
sheer drop to her left—but on the other, the far side of the narrow road. A big
black Ford pickup sped toward her, high on oversize tires, and her heart began
to pound.
The driver gave a wave out his open window as he
passed. Just another Mainer being neighborly. She blew out a breath and waved
back. The guy probably wondered about her hand, wearing what must look like a
white mitten. Not your normal June attire.
“I got this. No prob,” she said to the VW.
Up ahead loomed the Devil’s Elbow.
Her heart tried to jump into her throat, and she
swallowed hard. Forcing herself not to grip the wheel too
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