Crunch Time

So we did. Boyd expertly pulled in front of Yolanda’s van and gunned his vehicle downhill. Just before the crime-scene tape, he signaled to turn left onto the shoulder where we’d initially stopped, when we were trying to see if there was a police car up at Ernest’s. The gravel area passed through two spruce trees and materialized into a road, if you used the term loosely. The narrow lane was pitted and deeply grooved, but Boyd expertly swung his prowler from one side to the other. I prayed there were no cliffs nearby.

While I clung to the puppy in my lap, Yolanda worked hard to follow Boyd. Despite my efforts, the puppy awakened anyway and started shivering. I used my feet to stabilize the cardboard box on the floor, from which much canine whimpering issued. Ferdinanda’s wheelchair was locked in place, and she assured us she was leaning over and was holding on to the box of dogs on the backseat.

My eyes stung from the smoke. Still, I could see Yolanda’s headlights pick out a tiny U.S. Forest Service sign in front of a boulder on our right. The Forest Service had built many such roads into the mountains, for fighting flames in remote regions. The summer before the one we were technically still in had seen numerous wildfires, which had been followed by flooding. The word in town was that it would take another year or more to get some of these roads rebuilt. From a forest-fire perspective, the fact that June, July, and August had seen record amounts of rain had been a blessing.

Boyd veered right, left, then right again. There were no streetlights, of course, but Boyd knew the way, and Yolanda managed to keep up. Thanks to the rain, the police vehicle wasn’t kicking up much dust, but it occasionally spit a shower of dirt onto the old van’s windshield. Yolanda cursed but kept going. After a few minutes, we made a hairpin left turn, then headed steeply downward. Boyd made a sharp right turn onto a paved road, right near a gas station that was barely visible in the gauzy light.

I peered outside. We’d landed on Lower Cottonwood Creek Road, below town. I looked up; a sudden breeze had sent the smoke back up the hill behind Ernest’s place, and I could just make out an exterior light on a building that had to be John Bertram’s large garage. I wondered how John was. Okay, I hoped.

We passed Saint Luke’s, and within a moment we were back on Main Street. The wind had stopped, and downtown was dark, foggy, and quiet. The only exception was the Grizzly Saloon, where light spilled from the double doors. A batch of cowboys and bikers were hanging out under the porch roof. Heads turned as the prowler passed.

Despite the cold and fog, Tom was waiting on the porch. Carefully, I moved the puppy from my lap and put him back in the box, so he could snuggle with his compatriots.

“Miss G.,” said Tom as he helped me out of the van. He looked down. “Did you get all the dogs out?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Goldy?” Tom asked, putting one of his big hands on my forearm. I was shivering. “Did you see who set the fire?”

“Yes. A bald guy. I described him to Boyd.”

“Let’s all get inside,” Tom said, “and we can talk.”

Despite Ferdinanda’s protests, Tom worked to bring her onto the lowering mechanism of the van, then rolled her up our driveway. Thank God, it stopped raining. Nevertheless, it seemed as if the temperature was still dropping.

Boyd offered to bring the battered suitcases and bags of stuff that Yolanda had managed to pack up before all hell broke loose. I hauled out the box of puppies from the passenger-side floor while Yolanda pulled on her big shoulder bag and, before I could protest, lugged the other box of puppies from the back. What a troop we made: two caterers, two cops, nine puppies, and a great-aunt in a wheelchair.

Boyd put down his load and raced forward to aid Tom in lifting Ferdinanda and her wheelchair to the front door. I realized that we would need a ramp if they ended up staying more than a single night. At this point, I didn’t care that there was one more thing still to be done. I was grateful we’d all gotten out alive.

“Hey, Tom!” Ferdinanda called. “You got any hand weights? Five pounds, ten?”

“Not here,” Tom said patiently as he wheeled Ferdinanda into the house. “But Goldy’s pantry shelves are undoubtedly groaning with cans that would work for you. Why? Are you going to start working out?”

“Start?” exclaimed Ferdinanda. “Start? What are you talking about? I already lift. Gotta stay in shape. Gotta be ready.”

I didn’t say Ready for what? because I knew what she was worried about: our own house burning down.

“Couple times now, I haven’t been ready,” Ferdinanda muttered, once she was situated in the living room. Yolanda, walking by with her box of puppies, gave her aunt a warning look. Ferdinanda clamped her mouth shut.

As Yolanda and I carried the boxes of puppies through the house, Scout the cat streaked by, heading fast in the opposite direction. Our bloodhound had been asleep in the pet containment area, but the sudden arrival of nine fellow canines brought him fully to life. Yolanda and I put all the dogs into the backyard, where they gamboled to and fro merrily. They were undoubtedly covering themselves with mud, but if it made them happy, then I didn’t care.

Tom greeted us in the kitchen. “Yolanda,” he said noncommittally, “could you go out into the living room and answer Sergeant Boyd’s questions?”

Yolanda shot me a questioning glance but then complied. I inhaled deeply. The luscious scent of roasting ham made my head spin. Bless Tom’s heart; he’d made dinner.

As soon as Yolanda closed the kitchen door, Tom enclosed me in a hug. “I was so worried about you, Miss G.” He put his face close to my ear. “You scared me half to death, I swear.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, you always say that.” He inhaled. “You smell like smoke. Why don’t you go upstairs, have a shower, then come back down? Boyd won’t harass your friends.”

“Actually, he’s been great.” I pulled him close to me. “Where’s Arch?”

“He called and said he was staying with Todd. You remember he doesn’t have his car? You wanted to get snow tires for it?”

I rubbed my forehead. Of course. But snow tires were about the last thing on my current agenda.

Tom went on. “The Druckmans will bring him down for the physical tomorrow. You ready to eat? I roasted that ham, and made a macaroni and cheese from scratch. I found some applesauce, too. We’re talking comfort food here. I also chopped fresh basil to put in your Caprese salad. Sound good?”

“It sounds phenomenal.” Then I felt guilty. “We can celebrate Ernest’s life when we eat.” I was still clinging to him. “Uh, Tom? I do have something to tell you.”

“More?” Tom held on to me. “Is this a good something or a bad something? I mean, since Ernest’s house is being incinerated even as we speak. We were not able to retrieve any of his files, by the way. Two bogus calls of shots fired yanked our guys away before they could go through Ernest’s study.”

“I heard.” I cleared my throat. “Ernest McLeod was growing marijuana in his greenhouse. Six plants. And that’s the exact place where our arsonist tossed his Molotov cocktail.”

Tom shifted away from me. “What?” His handsome face went from concerned to incredulous. “Pot? Ernest was growing weed? Our guys didn’t get as far as the greenhouse, but . . . and I thought Ernest had given up—” I shook my head and pulled the somewhat smashed bud from my jacket pocket.

“Here you go,” I said. “I managed to snag this before the arsonist threw in the first Molotov cocktail.”

“You just managed to snag it, huh?” Tom retrieved a new brown paper bag from a drawer. “Drop it in,” he told me. Once I complied, he gave me a quizzical stare. “Does either Yolanda or Ferdinanda know about this?”

“I’m not sure. Honestly, Tom, before that guy showed up and started throwing things, all we talked about was the puppies. When I was looking for their chow, I found the bag next to the plants in Ernest’s greenhouse.”

Tom carefully folded the top of the bag down, then put it on the counter. “Know what?” He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “I’m going to come up and question you while you shower.”

The bathroom mirror confirmed that I looked as bad as I felt. My face was gray, wet, and smeared with dirt. Ash had settled into the wrinkles under my eyes, and my hair looked as if a large family had dumped the contents of their grill on top of my head. My clothes, which had become soaked in the rain, had absorbed so much dust they were unrecognizable as the jacket, shirt, and jeans I’d put on that morning.

Tom said he would turn the shower water on. I hunted for clean underwear, pants, and a turtleneck, then