letter.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Hell.”
“Women suck.”
“Tell me about it. Write a letter,” he repeated, brooded into his Gatorade. “Maybe. Talk about something else. If I keep talking about her, I’m going to try to call her again. It’s humiliating.”
“How about those Cubs?”
He snorted. “I need more than baseball to get my mind off heartbreak, especially since the Cubbies suck more than women this year. We’ve got murder, and fire starters. I heard there was another one, another body. And whoever did it started the fire. The cops better catch this bastard before he burns half of western Montana. We can all use the fat wallet, but nobody wants to earn it that way.”
“He got a good chunk of Idaho, too. It’s scary,” she said because they were alone. “We know fire wants to kill us when we’re going there. We know nature couldn’t give a damn either way. But going in, knowing there’s somebody out there killing people and lighting it up who maybe wants to see some of us burn. Maybe doesn’t give a shit either way. That’s scary. It’s scary not knowing if he’s done, or if the next time the siren sounds, it’s because of him.”
She looked over as Gull came in. “What did the cops say?” she demanded.
“It’s not official, but it’s a pretty good bet what we found out there is what’s left of Reverend Latterly.”
Cards bolted up. “The priest?”
“Loosely.” Gull dropped down in a chair. “They found his car out there, and nobody can find him. So, either we did, or he’s taken off. They’re going to be talking to Brakeman after the funeral.”
“They think he killed him and burned him up?” Cards said. “But... wouldn’t that mean... or do they think he killed Dolly and—Her own father? Come on.”
“I don’t know what they think.”
“What do you think?” Rowan asked him.
“I’m still working on it. So far I think we’ve got somebody who’s seriously pissed off, and likes fire. I’ve got to clean up.”
Rowan followed him into his quarters. “Why do you say ‘likes fire’? Using it’s not the same as liking it.”
“I guess since you’re dressed—and you look good, by the way—you’re not going to wash my back.”
“No. Why do you say ‘likes fire’?”
Gull pulled off his shirt. “I increased my passing acquaintance with arson after Dolly.”
“Yeah, you study. It’s a thing with you.”
“I like to learn. Anyway,” he continued, dragging off his boots. “Arsonists usually fall into camps. There’s your for-profit—somebody burning property to collect insurance, say, or the torch who lights them up for a fee. That’s not this.”
“You’ve got the torching to cover up another crime. I have a passing acquaintance, too,” she reminded him as he took off his pants. “Murder’s sure as hell another crime.”
“Maybe that’s what it was with Dolly.” Naked, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower. “The accident or on purpose, the panic, the cover-up. But this, coming on top of it, when the first didn’t really work?”
He stepped under the spray, let out a long, relieved groan. “All hail the god of water.”
“Maybe it was a copycat. Somebody wanted to kill Latterly. Brakeman had motive, so did Latterly’s wife if she found out about him and Dolly. One of his congregation who felt outraged and betrayed. And they mirrored Dolly because of the connection. It’s the same motive.”
“Could be.”
She whipped back the shower curtain. “It makes the most sense.”
“In or out, Blondie.” He skimmed those feline eyes down her body. “I’d rather in.”
She whipped the curtain back closed. “The third type doesn’t play out, Gull. The firebug who gets off starting fires, watching them burn. It doesn’t play because of the murders.”
“Maybe he’s getting a twofer.”
“It’s bad enough if it’s to cover the murders. That’s plenty bad enough. What you’re thinking’s worse.”
“I know it. If the vibe I got from the cops is right, it’s something they’re thinking about, too.”
She leaned her hands on the sink, stared at her own reflection. “I don’t want it to be somebody I know.”
“You don’t know everybody, Ro.”
No, she didn’t know everybody, and was suddenly, desperately grateful she knew only a few people who connected with Dolly and Latterly.
But... what if it was one of those few?
“Dolly’s funeral. Where can they have it?” she wondered. “They couldn’t have planned on Mrs. Brakeman’s church, even before this happened.”
“Marg said they’re having the service in the funeral parlor. They don’t expect much of a crowd.”
“God.” She shut her eyes. “I hated her like a hemorrhoid, but that’s just depressing.”
He shut off the water, pulled back the curtain. “You know what you need?” He reached for a towel.
“What do I need? Gee, let me guess.”
“Gutter brain. You need a drive with the top down and an icecream cone.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, you do. We’re third load on the jump list, so we can cruise into town, find ourselves an ice-cream parlor.”
“I happen to know where one is.”
“Perfect. And you look nice. I should take my girl out for ice cream.”
“Cut that out, Gull.”
“Uh-uh.” He wrapped the towel around his waist and, still dripping, grabbed her in for a kiss.
“You’re getting me wet!”
“Sex, sex, sex. Fine, if that’s what you want.”
He managed to chase the blues away, make her laugh as she shoved him back. “I want ice cream.” Since he’d already dampened her shirt, she grabbed his face, kissed him again. “First. Get dressed, big spender. I’ll go check with Ops, make sure we’re clear for a few hours.”
Photographs of Dolly Brakeman, from birth to death, were grouped together in a smiling display. Pink roses softened with sprigs of baby’s breath flanked them. The coffin, closed, bore a blanket of girlish pink and white mums over polished gloss.
As she’d helped Irene by ordering her choice of flowers, Ella sent pink and white lilies. She noted a couple other floral offerings, and even such a sparse tribute overpowered the tiny room with scent.
Irene, pale and stark-eyed in unrelieved black, sat on the somber burgundy sofa with her sister, a woman Ella knew a little who’d come in from Billings with her husband. The man sat, stiff and grim, on a twin sofa across the narrow room with Leo.
Sacred music played softly through the speakers. No one spoke.
In her life, Ella thought, she’d never seen such a sad testament to a short life, violently ended.
Ella crossed the room, took her friend’s limp hands. “Irene.”
“The flowers look nice.”
“They do.”
“I appreciate you taking care of that for me, Ella.”
“It was no trouble at all.”
Irene’s sister nodded at Ella, then rose to sit with her husband. “The photographs are lovely. You made good choices.”
“Dolly always liked having her picture taken. Even as a baby,” she said as Ella sat down beside her, “she’d look right at the camera. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to bury my girl.”
Saying nothing—what was there to say?—Ella put her arms around Irene.
“I’ve got pictures. All I’ve got’s a lot of pictures. That one there, of Dolly and the baby, is the last one I have. My sister Carrie’s bringing the baby soon. She’s been a help to me, coming up from Billings. She’s bringing Shiloh. I
