The Dead of Sled Run by Jean Rabe
Thank you to all those taking part in The Dead of Sled Run Blog Tour and for others who just want to share about the book!
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Please let us know when you post and send us a link at [email protected] so we can add it to our blog tour and, more importantly, share the heck out of it!
Wishing you all the best!
Echo Shea and Mindy Mymudes
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Please let us know when you post and send us a link at [email protected] so we can add it to our blog tour and, more importantly, share the heck out of it!
Wishing you all the best!
Echo Shea and Mindy Mymudes
Let's Talk Promotions
Psst...Promotions
Know someone not part of our blogger list, that might be interested? Click here!
Blog Tour Schedule
November 13
November 14
November 15
November 17
November 20
November 21
November 22
November 23
November 24
November 14
- Patricia Bates Author
November 15
- Taming Chaos
- Janet Walden-West
November 17
- Mary Cunningham Mysteries
November 20
- BookstoCurlUpWith
- BooksGloriousBooks
November 21
- All Things Dark and Dirty
November 22
- Candid Canine
- Karen's Killer Book Bench
November 23
- The Iron Canuck
November 24
- Booksbehindthetitle
- Drops of Ink
Twitter Post:
The Dead of Sled Run - Jean Rabe
A raging fire and two dead--was it an accident? Or were they targeted?
https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
@jeanerabe
#booktwt #BookTwitter #BookBoost #BooksWorthReading #BookRecommendation #murdermystery #mysteryseries #bookseries #mysterythriller
A raging fire and two dead--was it an accident? Or were they targeted?
https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
@jeanerabe
#booktwt #BookTwitter #BookBoost #BooksWorthReading #BookRecommendation #murdermystery #mysteryseries #bookseries #mysterythriller
Instagram Post:
It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter here and follow her on Amazon or Bookbub.
#NewRelease #mysterythrillerbook #booksrock #bookrecommendations #bookstagram #mysterybooks #mysterythriller #mysterythrillersuspense #mysterythrillerbookrecommendation #mysterythrillerbookslover #crimethrillermystery #smalltownmysteries #smalltownmurder #smalltownmysterybook #strongfemalecharacter
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter here and follow her on Amazon or Bookbub.
#NewRelease #mysterythrillerbook #booksrock #bookrecommendations #bookstagram #mysterybooks #mysterythriller #mysterythrillersuspense #mysterythrillerbookrecommendation #mysterythrillerbookslover #crimethrillermystery #smalltownmysteries #smalltownmurder #smalltownmysterybook #strongfemalecharacter
TikTok Post:
#booktok #Thrillertok #mysteryrec #piperblackwellseries #bookrec #newrelease #newbookrelease #newnovel
Facebook Post:
It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter here and follow her on Amazon or Bookbub.
About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
#NewRelease #mysterythrillerbook #booksrock #bookrecommendations #bookstagram #mysterybooks #mysterythriller #mysterythrillersuspense #mysterythrillerbookrecommendation #mysterythrillerbookslover #crimethrillermystery #smalltownmysteries #smalltownmurder #smalltownmysterybook #strongfemalecharacter
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter here and follow her on Amazon or Bookbub.
About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
#NewRelease #mysterythrillerbook #booksrock #bookrecommendations #bookstagram #mysterybooks #mysterythriller #mysterythrillersuspense #mysterythrillerbookrecommendation #mysterythrillerbookslover #crimethrillermystery #smalltownmysteries #smalltownmurder #smalltownmysterybook #strongfemalecharacter
Blog Post:
It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
But more than chestnuts are roasting.
A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
The Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter here and follow her on Amazon or Bookbub.
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)
Publication date: November 13, 2023
Language: English
Print length: 316 pages
Buy link: https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun
The Dead of Sled Run is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on Amazon.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, The Dead of Winter
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter here and follow her on Amazon or Bookbub.
Rafflecopter:
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About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
HTML Post:
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<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.<br />
But more than chestnuts are roasting.</strong></div>
<br />
A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.<br />
<br />
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?<br />
<br />
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.<br />
<br />
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?<br />
<br />
<strong>Publisher:</strong> ‎Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)<br />
<strong>Publication date:</strong> ‎November 13, 2023<br />
<strong>Language:</strong> English<br />
<strong>Print length:‎ </strong>316 pages<br />
<strong>Buy link:</strong> https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun <br />
<br />
<em>The Dead of Sled Run</em> is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on <a href="http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.<br />
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, <a href="http://mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio" target="_blank">The Dead of Winter</a><br />
<br />
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter <a href="https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/" target="_blank">here</a> and follow her on <a href="http://author.to/JeanRabe" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/jean-rabe" target="_blank">Bookbub</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<strong>About the Author:</strong><br />
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.<br />
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.<br />
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.<br />
Find out more about her at <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.jeanrabe.com&sa=D&source=editors&ust=1636871680512000&usg=AOvVaw1zJg81oa1cYUBSbWKH-eXF">www.jeanrabe.com</a>
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>It is almost Christmas and yards glow with twinkling lights.<br />
But more than chestnuts are roasting.</strong></div>
<br />
A raging fire sweeps through the decorated landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg and killing two.<br />
<br />
An accident? Or did something toxic fuel the flames?<br />
<br />
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren was targeted and are tasked with finding motive and means before more than the holiday burns bright.<br />
<br />
With many clues reduced to ashes, can Piper and Basil catch the culprits before they strike again? Or is this blaze just the start of the most murder-filled time of the year?<br />
<br />
<strong>Publisher:</strong> ‎Boone Street Press (November 13, 2023)<br />
<strong>Publication date:</strong> ‎November 13, 2023<br />
<strong>Language:</strong> English<br />
<strong>Print length:‎ </strong>316 pages<br />
<strong>Buy link:</strong> https://mybook.to/DeadSledRun <br />
<br />
<em>The Dead of Sled Run</em> is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out on <a href="http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.<br />
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series, <a href="http://mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio" target="_blank">The Dead of Winter</a><br />
<br />
Love the Piper Blackwell Series and want to keep up with Jean's latest works? Sign-up for her newsletter <a href="https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/" target="_blank">here</a> and follow her on <a href="http://author.to/JeanRabe" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/jean-rabe" target="_blank">Bookbub</a>.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<strong>About the Author:</strong><br />
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.<br />
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.<br />
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.<br />
Find out more about her at <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.jeanrabe.com&sa=D&source=editors&ust=1636871680512000&usg=AOvVaw1zJg81oa1cYUBSbWKH-eXF">www.jeanrabe.com</a>
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For those that selected giveaway on the form, you're authorized to giveaway one e-copy of The Dead of Winter by Jean Rabe to one of your blog readers. This is a giveaway outside of the Rafflecopter, just for your readers.
Buy Links:
The Dead of Autumn on Amazon: mybook.to/DeadofAutmn
Dead of Winter on Amazon: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
The Piper Blackwell Series on Amazon: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries
Dead of Winter on Amazon: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
The Piper Blackwell Series on Amazon: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries
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Book Blurb:
Two weeks before Christmas yards glow with twinkling lights
Carolers serenade neighborhoods
All is merry and bright
But more than chestnuts are roasting. A raging fire sweeps through the holiday landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Detective Oren Rosenberg and killing two.
Could this be an accident? Or did antisemitic hate fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren Rosenberg was targeted. How did the arsonist get into a secure, gated subdivision?
With scant clues and a festive but ill-timed snowfall, will they be able to find the culprit? Or will the brightness of the season take on a deadly glow as a murderer walks free to strike again?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (May 15, 2022)
Publication date: May 15, 2022
Language: English
Print length: 319 pages
Buy link: mybook.to/DeadofAutmn
Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
Sign-up for her newsletter: https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/ and follow her on Amazon: http://author.to/JeanRabe to keep up with her latest works!
Carolers serenade neighborhoods
All is merry and bright
But more than chestnuts are roasting. A raging fire sweeps through the holiday landscape of Sled Run, destroying the home of Chief Detective Oren Rosenberg and killing two.
Could this be an accident? Or did antisemitic hate fuel the flames?
Sheriff Piper Blackwell and Detective Basil Meredith believe Oren Rosenberg was targeted. How did the arsonist get into a secure, gated subdivision?
With scant clues and a festive but ill-timed snowfall, will they be able to find the culprit? Or will the brightness of the season take on a deadly glow as a murderer walks free to strike again?
Publisher: Boone Street Press (May 15, 2022)
Publication date: May 15, 2022
Language: English
Print length: 319 pages
Buy link: mybook.to/DeadofAutmn
Dead of Autumn is book five of the Piper Blackwell Series. Want to read the series in order? Check it out here: http://mybook.to/PiperBlackwellSeries.
Prefer audio? The Piper Blackwell series is in audio, read by Catherine Wenglowski. Start with book one of the series: mybook.to/DeadofWinterAudio
Sign-up for her newsletter: https://jeanrabe.com/sign-up-for-my-newsletter/ and follow her on Amazon: http://author.to/JeanRabe to keep up with her latest works!
Author Bio:
About the Author:
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
USA Today best-seller, Jean Rabe's impressive writing career spans decades, starting as a newspaper reporter and bureau chief.
From there she went on to become the director of RPGA, a co-editor with Martin H. Greenberg for DAW books, and, most notably, Rabe is an award-winning author of more than forty science fiction/fantasy and murder mystery thrillers.
She writes mysteries and fantasies, because life is too short to be limited to one genre--and she does it with dogs tangled at her feet, because life is too short not to be covered in fur.
Find out more about her at www.jeanrabe.com
Excerpts:
Excerpt One:
One
11 p.m. Friday, December 11th
The keening wail of a smoke detector shredded his dreams. Oren Rosenberg jumped out of bed and slammed into his slippers. Acrid burning scents attacked his nose and throat, making him cough. Faint light showing through the window hit the rolling haze hugging the ceiling.
The wail continued, joined by another, and another, until all the detectors in the house screamed a cacophonous chorus that terrified him.
Shaking, he scooped up Cipin, the bonus gray tabby who always slept with him. Next came Razzleberry, another bonus cat, a tuxedo who had been curled on the bedside rug. Cursing for leaving his cell phone on the charger in the kitchen, he looked for the other two cats along the way.
“Freya! Buttons!”
A section of the house had been rewired a handful of days ago after a few shorts and an electrician’s warning that things needed updating. Had shoddy work caused this?
“Freya!” he shouted, voice competing with the alarms’ dissonance. “Buttons! Freya!”
The smoke was thicker in the hall. He held his breath and fumbled through the space, hearing the sizzles, pops, and spitting, finding Buttons, a Hemmingway—his third bonus cat—hissing under the kitchen table. He fumbled for their carrier sitting by the wall, somehow persuading all three squirming bodies into the mesh and canvas enclosure meant for two, ignoring the claws raking his hands and arms. He closed the zipper and stood, the carrier tight in one fist.
Everything looked blindingly bright, flames reflecting in the stainless steel of the refrigerator, licking up the walls, racing across the ceiling like yellow-orange flowing water. Sweltering, Oren felt like he was roasting.
Something fiery dropped on his shoulder. He brushed it aside with his free hand, a piece of wood trim from the ceiling, burning his fingers. The fire moved fast, growing in all directions, its crackling competing with the wails. He smelled something plastic burning, melting, sickly sweet. Everything blazed.
Oren ripped the cell phone from the charger by the sink, punching in numbers, fighting down horror and struggling to find air amid all the smoke while still managing to hold the cat carrier’s handle.
So damn hot. He was solid sweat.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?” Candace, the new hire for the 11 to 7 shift, the one who dressed like she was about to have a photo shoot for some fancy woman’s magazine, perfect hair, manicured nails.
Oren tried to talk.
“Say again. What is the nature of your—”
He worked up enough saliva and shouted: “This is Oren! Oren Rosenberg.”
“Yes, Chief Deputy Rosen—”
“My house is on fire. Sled Run in Santa Claus.” He squeezed the cat carrier tighter and started hacking so loud he couldn’t hear if she said anything in return. The phone slipped from his sweaty fingers, lost in the smoke swirling on the floor.
One
11 p.m. Friday, December 11th
The keening wail of a smoke detector shredded his dreams. Oren Rosenberg jumped out of bed and slammed into his slippers. Acrid burning scents attacked his nose and throat, making him cough. Faint light showing through the window hit the rolling haze hugging the ceiling.
The wail continued, joined by another, and another, until all the detectors in the house screamed a cacophonous chorus that terrified him.
Shaking, he scooped up Cipin, the bonus gray tabby who always slept with him. Next came Razzleberry, another bonus cat, a tuxedo who had been curled on the bedside rug. Cursing for leaving his cell phone on the charger in the kitchen, he looked for the other two cats along the way.
“Freya! Buttons!”
A section of the house had been rewired a handful of days ago after a few shorts and an electrician’s warning that things needed updating. Had shoddy work caused this?
“Freya!” he shouted, voice competing with the alarms’ dissonance. “Buttons! Freya!”
The smoke was thicker in the hall. He held his breath and fumbled through the space, hearing the sizzles, pops, and spitting, finding Buttons, a Hemmingway—his third bonus cat—hissing under the kitchen table. He fumbled for their carrier sitting by the wall, somehow persuading all three squirming bodies into the mesh and canvas enclosure meant for two, ignoring the claws raking his hands and arms. He closed the zipper and stood, the carrier tight in one fist.
Everything looked blindingly bright, flames reflecting in the stainless steel of the refrigerator, licking up the walls, racing across the ceiling like yellow-orange flowing water. Sweltering, Oren felt like he was roasting.
Something fiery dropped on his shoulder. He brushed it aside with his free hand, a piece of wood trim from the ceiling, burning his fingers. The fire moved fast, growing in all directions, its crackling competing with the wails. He smelled something plastic burning, melting, sickly sweet. Everything blazed.
Oren ripped the cell phone from the charger by the sink, punching in numbers, fighting down horror and struggling to find air amid all the smoke while still managing to hold the cat carrier’s handle.
So damn hot. He was solid sweat.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?” Candace, the new hire for the 11 to 7 shift, the one who dressed like she was about to have a photo shoot for some fancy woman’s magazine, perfect hair, manicured nails.
Oren tried to talk.
“Say again. What is the nature of your—”
He worked up enough saliva and shouted: “This is Oren! Oren Rosenberg.”
“Yes, Chief Deputy Rosen—”
“My house is on fire. Sled Run in Santa Claus.” He squeezed the cat carrier tighter and started hacking so loud he couldn’t hear if she said anything in return. The phone slipped from his sweaty fingers, lost in the smoke swirling on the floor.
Excerpt Two:
Oren retreated by feel, shoulder pressed to a wall, keeping hold of the struggling, yowling, confined cats, coughing even harder as he went.
So damn hot and hard to breathe. So noisy: the fire roared.
He was missing a cat. “Freya! Here, kitty!”
Save these three, he thought. Get them safe. Come back for Freya.
Bare-chested and in his pajama bottoms, he stumbled, gasping, out of the house, losing a slipper somewhere. Scorching inside, frigid out. The below-freezing winter air warred with the smoke he’d inhaled and made his chest tight and painful. He hurt terribly everywhere. Snow mixed with ice came sideways in a strong wind that battered him and made the walk slick.
Head and heart pounding, he half-ran, half-slid to his truck. Sucking in as much fresh air as he could manage, Oren only for a heartbeat considered using the truck’s radio to call the dispatcher again to make sure the fire department was on the way. The call would eat a few more minutes, so he decided against that. He shoved the soot-covered carrier full of hissing cats into the cab, slammed the door, and whirled back toward the inferno.
Oren’s chest heaved. He wobbled, catching himself against the front fender and forcing down dizziness. He headed back up the sidewalk, vaguely registering people coming out of front doors across the street. He owned a corner property. Across the other side stretched Lake Noel.
He heard one of the neighbors shout to call 9-1-1. Why did it have to be Candace on duty? Candace the fashionista. Why couldn’t Teegan be at the desk? Teegan with all the tattoos and piercings. Purple hair. He always gave her a hard time about her strange appearance, but he wished she had been on the desk. A seasoned veteran of the department, he trusted her, didn’t really know Candace, didn’t know if she was competent, if she’d get the fire department out before he lost everything and himself.
Someone shouted: “I just called 9-1-1!”
“I don’t hear sirens!”
“Isn’t that the sheriff’s house?”
“The deputy’s.”
“That’s Rosenberg!”
“We should hear sirens!”
Oren didn’t hear sirens either. But he heard his heart hammering, the wind whistling, and the whooshing, snarling conversation of the flames. The fire was so loud. He continued taking stuttering steps toward his porch, his bare foot registering the needle sensations of ice on the pavement. His arm hurt from the cat claws and something else. Burns, he was burned.
Sliding, staying upright.
“Don’t go in there!”
“Rosey, stay out!” That sounded like Dave from a few doors down.
Oren retreated by feel, shoulder pressed to a wall, keeping hold of the struggling, yowling, confined cats, coughing even harder as he went.
So damn hot and hard to breathe. So noisy: the fire roared.
He was missing a cat. “Freya! Here, kitty!”
Save these three, he thought. Get them safe. Come back for Freya.
Bare-chested and in his pajama bottoms, he stumbled, gasping, out of the house, losing a slipper somewhere. Scorching inside, frigid out. The below-freezing winter air warred with the smoke he’d inhaled and made his chest tight and painful. He hurt terribly everywhere. Snow mixed with ice came sideways in a strong wind that battered him and made the walk slick.
Head and heart pounding, he half-ran, half-slid to his truck. Sucking in as much fresh air as he could manage, Oren only for a heartbeat considered using the truck’s radio to call the dispatcher again to make sure the fire department was on the way. The call would eat a few more minutes, so he decided against that. He shoved the soot-covered carrier full of hissing cats into the cab, slammed the door, and whirled back toward the inferno.
Oren’s chest heaved. He wobbled, catching himself against the front fender and forcing down dizziness. He headed back up the sidewalk, vaguely registering people coming out of front doors across the street. He owned a corner property. Across the other side stretched Lake Noel.
He heard one of the neighbors shout to call 9-1-1. Why did it have to be Candace on duty? Candace the fashionista. Why couldn’t Teegan be at the desk? Teegan with all the tattoos and piercings. Purple hair. He always gave her a hard time about her strange appearance, but he wished she had been on the desk. A seasoned veteran of the department, he trusted her, didn’t really know Candace, didn’t know if she was competent, if she’d get the fire department out before he lost everything and himself.
Someone shouted: “I just called 9-1-1!”
“I don’t hear sirens!”
“Isn’t that the sheriff’s house?”
“The deputy’s.”
“That’s Rosenberg!”
“We should hear sirens!”
Oren didn’t hear sirens either. But he heard his heart hammering, the wind whistling, and the whooshing, snarling conversation of the flames. The fire was so loud. He continued taking stuttering steps toward his porch, his bare foot registering the needle sensations of ice on the pavement. His arm hurt from the cat claws and something else. Burns, he was burned.
Sliding, staying upright.
“Don’t go in there!”
“Rosey, stay out!” That sounded like Dave from a few doors down.
Excerpt Three:
Not one part of his home wasn’t burning, the house on the other side of his was on fire, too. Good thing the Laubensteins were vacationing in Florida. But what great news they’d come back to. Oren had a double lot, half of it taken up by an over-sized garage for his hobbies and boat. The wind kept that building safe, at least for the moment. But if it shifted, he’d lose that, too.
“Rosey, what the hell are you doing? Stay out!” Dave again.
There were more voices, but the flames drowned their words.
Oren kept going, sliding, feeling the heat and the snow, numb.
Move faster, you old fool. Freya’s in there!
Oren’s wife would have stopped him from going back inside. She would have told him to stand next to his truck; that he’d managed to save the bonus cats—the two he took in nearly a year ago when their owner had been slain in the tiny town of Fulda, and Razzleberry, the little one he’d gained shortly after that when the owner was arrested for a cold-case murder.
His wife would have held him at the truck where he could breathe.
Where it was safe.
Where the fire couldn’t reach.
His wife would have stopped him.
But she lived in Alabama now and wouldn’t be his wife much longer. She had filed divorce papers. There was no one to keep him from wading through the smoke and flames in search of Freya, the beautiful long-haired Norwegian forest cat he adored. Freya was not a bonus cat; he’d acquired her a dozen years ago from a breed rescue when she was six weeks old.
Freya was still in the house, somewhere, hiding, certainly petrified. He couldn’t let her burn. He’d get her out or die in the attempt. Oren figured his sixty-six years on the planet had been a reasonable run, no regrets. Well, not many.
Oren slid on the icy porch, losing the other slipper, just managing to keep his balance and stepping through the front door into the raging furnace-of-a-home in search of his beloved Freya.
The intense heat walloped him like a sledgehammer and his chest burned from trying to gulp in the scalding air. He tried tiny breaths instead and concentrated to stay on his feet.
“Freya.” A hoarse croak followed by a coughing fit.
The fire played along the curtains, bookcases, and a walnut curio cabinet. It danced across the throw pillows and the back of the couch.
“Please, kitty.”
Nothing mattered in this moment except the missing cat. Not his collection of jigsaw puzzles; irreplaceable photographs of family and friends—some of whom were years gone under the earth; his 1968 Jonny Bench rookie card; the so-called important papers in the file cabinet, like the useless marriage certificate. He was going to lose it all.
Except the cat. He would not lose her.
Not one part of his home wasn’t burning, the house on the other side of his was on fire, too. Good thing the Laubensteins were vacationing in Florida. But what great news they’d come back to. Oren had a double lot, half of it taken up by an over-sized garage for his hobbies and boat. The wind kept that building safe, at least for the moment. But if it shifted, he’d lose that, too.
“Rosey, what the hell are you doing? Stay out!” Dave again.
There were more voices, but the flames drowned their words.
Oren kept going, sliding, feeling the heat and the snow, numb.
Move faster, you old fool. Freya’s in there!
Oren’s wife would have stopped him from going back inside. She would have told him to stand next to his truck; that he’d managed to save the bonus cats—the two he took in nearly a year ago when their owner had been slain in the tiny town of Fulda, and Razzleberry, the little one he’d gained shortly after that when the owner was arrested for a cold-case murder.
His wife would have held him at the truck where he could breathe.
Where it was safe.
Where the fire couldn’t reach.
His wife would have stopped him.
But she lived in Alabama now and wouldn’t be his wife much longer. She had filed divorce papers. There was no one to keep him from wading through the smoke and flames in search of Freya, the beautiful long-haired Norwegian forest cat he adored. Freya was not a bonus cat; he’d acquired her a dozen years ago from a breed rescue when she was six weeks old.
Freya was still in the house, somewhere, hiding, certainly petrified. He couldn’t let her burn. He’d get her out or die in the attempt. Oren figured his sixty-six years on the planet had been a reasonable run, no regrets. Well, not many.
Oren slid on the icy porch, losing the other slipper, just managing to keep his balance and stepping through the front door into the raging furnace-of-a-home in search of his beloved Freya.
The intense heat walloped him like a sledgehammer and his chest burned from trying to gulp in the scalding air. He tried tiny breaths instead and concentrated to stay on his feet.
“Freya.” A hoarse croak followed by a coughing fit.
The fire played along the curtains, bookcases, and a walnut curio cabinet. It danced across the throw pillows and the back of the couch.
“Please, kitty.”
Nothing mattered in this moment except the missing cat. Not his collection of jigsaw puzzles; irreplaceable photographs of family and friends—some of whom were years gone under the earth; his 1968 Jonny Bench rookie card; the so-called important papers in the file cabinet, like the useless marriage certificate. He was going to lose it all.
Except the cat. He would not lose her.
Excerpt Four:
“Freya! Here, kitty!” One more step and the smoke yanked him to his knees. The heat pulsed from the floor up and down his legs.
If he could just find the cat.
Oren crawled fast, his fingers fumbling across a rug that was hot to the touch, but not yet blazing. It would catch fire soon enough. Down the hall, he closed his eyes and kept going. Oren knew the house by heart; he didn’t need to see.
“Freya.” A whisper.
The smoke, searing and awful, burrowed to the bottom of his lungs. The detectors had stopped wailing, had probably melted. He felt like he was melting, too.
Oren still didn’t hear sirens, just the angry voice of the fire. Dizzy and sweat-soaked, he kept crawling toward the study, Freya’s favorite haunt. She would hide there. He risked a look.
Through watery eyes all he saw were bands of swirling gray shot through here and there with tongues of fire.
“Freya! Please, kitty.” Hard to talk, all the smoke, thicker and darker than moments ago. Harder to breathe. Couldn’t breathe. All he smelled was ash, burning wood, and heat. He swore he could smell the heat in the hell that his house had turned into.
“Frey—”
He reached to his office chair beneath the crocheted afghan, felt her brush against his arm. He couldn’t see her for the smoke, but the double-coated fur was familiar. He thought she meowed, brushed by him again, then collapsed.
No! Freya, no! He had to think the words, his throat was an oven that kept the sound inside. He couldn’t tell if she breathed. Don’t be dead. Don’t. Be. Dead. Oren fell next to the chair, trying to find one more swallow of air.
Get up. Get up or she’s dead for certain. Get your sorry old ass up and get out of here.
The fire screamed even louder, and the smoke wrapped around him ever tighter, trying to anchor him in place. Wobbly, he forced himself back up to his knees, gently cradled the cat and held her against his chest, then somehow managed to get to his numb feet. Oren shuffled backwards, the way he’d come, using his memory of the home he’d lived in for twenty years.
It felt like hours had passed since the smoke detector woke him. Likely just minutes, he thought, terrible minutes. The fire gobbled it all so fast. He managed to reach the front door, where the shot of cold fought with the heat, both of them winning.
So tired and so hot, fading, falling.
So cold.
Strong hands thrust under Oren’s armpits and lifted, pulling him up and out onto the porch.
“I’ve got you,” Basil Meredith said. His voice, remarkably calm, cut through the roaring fire.
Basil picked him up and carried him down the sidewalk and toward the street, laying him on the icy lawn. Oren still cradled Freya, her cream-colored fur the shade of cold ashes.
“Freya! Here, kitty!” One more step and the smoke yanked him to his knees. The heat pulsed from the floor up and down his legs.
If he could just find the cat.
Oren crawled fast, his fingers fumbling across a rug that was hot to the touch, but not yet blazing. It would catch fire soon enough. Down the hall, he closed his eyes and kept going. Oren knew the house by heart; he didn’t need to see.
“Freya.” A whisper.
The smoke, searing and awful, burrowed to the bottom of his lungs. The detectors had stopped wailing, had probably melted. He felt like he was melting, too.
Oren still didn’t hear sirens, just the angry voice of the fire. Dizzy and sweat-soaked, he kept crawling toward the study, Freya’s favorite haunt. She would hide there. He risked a look.
Through watery eyes all he saw were bands of swirling gray shot through here and there with tongues of fire.
“Freya! Please, kitty.” Hard to talk, all the smoke, thicker and darker than moments ago. Harder to breathe. Couldn’t breathe. All he smelled was ash, burning wood, and heat. He swore he could smell the heat in the hell that his house had turned into.
“Frey—”
He reached to his office chair beneath the crocheted afghan, felt her brush against his arm. He couldn’t see her for the smoke, but the double-coated fur was familiar. He thought she meowed, brushed by him again, then collapsed.
No! Freya, no! He had to think the words, his throat was an oven that kept the sound inside. He couldn’t tell if she breathed. Don’t be dead. Don’t. Be. Dead. Oren fell next to the chair, trying to find one more swallow of air.
Get up. Get up or she’s dead for certain. Get your sorry old ass up and get out of here.
The fire screamed even louder, and the smoke wrapped around him ever tighter, trying to anchor him in place. Wobbly, he forced himself back up to his knees, gently cradled the cat and held her against his chest, then somehow managed to get to his numb feet. Oren shuffled backwards, the way he’d come, using his memory of the home he’d lived in for twenty years.
It felt like hours had passed since the smoke detector woke him. Likely just minutes, he thought, terrible minutes. The fire gobbled it all so fast. He managed to reach the front door, where the shot of cold fought with the heat, both of them winning.
So tired and so hot, fading, falling.
So cold.
Strong hands thrust under Oren’s armpits and lifted, pulling him up and out onto the porch.
“I’ve got you,” Basil Meredith said. His voice, remarkably calm, cut through the roaring fire.
Basil picked him up and carried him down the sidewalk and toward the street, laying him on the icy lawn. Oren still cradled Freya, her cream-colored fur the shade of cold ashes.
Excerpt Five:
Sheriff Piper Blackwell drove into the Sled Run color barrage. Red and blue strobing lights from fire trucks and police cars melded with the glow of Christmas decorations along the curvy street. The dazzling hues bounced against the icy pavement and walks, seeming to fragment and change patterns in the sleet. Adding to the dizzying display were the fires that continued to burn at Oren’s house and the one next door.
She parked at the only open spot of curb. Everything so painfully glaring, she closed her eyes for just a moment, refocusing, and took a slow, deep breath of the last good air she’d smell for a while.
Out of habit she turned on her body cam, opened her door, and carefully stepped onto the icy slick street. Piper wrapped a winter scarf across her nose and mouth, yet still the strong, acrid scent of fire and char winnowed inside and settled like lead on her tongue. The noise overpowered—loud voices from firemen and police, the whoosh of water, crackling from the fire, and the buzzing conversations of the gawkers who had braved the nasty weather to feed their curiosity. Thirty, maybe a few more, she guessed, many in pajamas with coats over the top and knitted caps, a few carried umbrellas, all smart enough to stay on the safe side of the street.
Piper edged toward Detective Basil Meredith, posed in front of the gaggle. Six feet tall and with espresso brown skin, he stood out amid the white faces. She’d told him to get to Oren’s as fast as he could and figured he must have jogged. She didn’t see his department car.
“Sheriff,” Basil said as she approached.
It had taken her twenty-two minutes to get here, lights, siren, and cruising way the hell too fast for the roads’ wintry state. Under normal conditions and following the speed limit, the ride would have been double that. Spencer County was small in population, but spread out, and Piper lived in Hatfield, well west of Christmas Lake Village in Santa Claus. She typically wouldn’t respond to a fire in a town that had its own police department. But this was different, her chief deputy’s house.
“Word on Oren?” Piper asked.
Candace had dispatched fire and ambulance first, contacted Piper next, and Piper immediately called Basil because he lived two blocks from Oren.
“The ambulance took him about ten minutes ago,” Basil told her.
“How is—”
“Not good, Sheriff. Serious burns, smoke inhalation, shock. They’re transporting him to Memorial in Jasper. But that’s just to stabilize him. Helicopter will take him from there to Ascension St. Vincent in Indy. I’m told they have a top-notch burn center.”
“Bad,” Piper said. Her throat tightened and her hands shook from the horrid news. She forced the tremor down and squared her shoulders, tried to keep the emotion at bay.
Sheriff Piper Blackwell drove into the Sled Run color barrage. Red and blue strobing lights from fire trucks and police cars melded with the glow of Christmas decorations along the curvy street. The dazzling hues bounced against the icy pavement and walks, seeming to fragment and change patterns in the sleet. Adding to the dizzying display were the fires that continued to burn at Oren’s house and the one next door.
She parked at the only open spot of curb. Everything so painfully glaring, she closed her eyes for just a moment, refocusing, and took a slow, deep breath of the last good air she’d smell for a while.
Out of habit she turned on her body cam, opened her door, and carefully stepped onto the icy slick street. Piper wrapped a winter scarf across her nose and mouth, yet still the strong, acrid scent of fire and char winnowed inside and settled like lead on her tongue. The noise overpowered—loud voices from firemen and police, the whoosh of water, crackling from the fire, and the buzzing conversations of the gawkers who had braved the nasty weather to feed their curiosity. Thirty, maybe a few more, she guessed, many in pajamas with coats over the top and knitted caps, a few carried umbrellas, all smart enough to stay on the safe side of the street.
Piper edged toward Detective Basil Meredith, posed in front of the gaggle. Six feet tall and with espresso brown skin, he stood out amid the white faces. She’d told him to get to Oren’s as fast as he could and figured he must have jogged. She didn’t see his department car.
“Sheriff,” Basil said as she approached.
It had taken her twenty-two minutes to get here, lights, siren, and cruising way the hell too fast for the roads’ wintry state. Under normal conditions and following the speed limit, the ride would have been double that. Spencer County was small in population, but spread out, and Piper lived in Hatfield, well west of Christmas Lake Village in Santa Claus. She typically wouldn’t respond to a fire in a town that had its own police department. But this was different, her chief deputy’s house.
“Word on Oren?” Piper asked.
Candace had dispatched fire and ambulance first, contacted Piper next, and Piper immediately called Basil because he lived two blocks from Oren.
“The ambulance took him about ten minutes ago,” Basil told her.
“How is—”
“Not good, Sheriff. Serious burns, smoke inhalation, shock. They’re transporting him to Memorial in Jasper. But that’s just to stabilize him. Helicopter will take him from there to Ascension St. Vincent in Indy. I’m told they have a top-notch burn center.”
“Bad,” Piper said. Her throat tightened and her hands shook from the horrid news. She forced the tremor down and squared her shoulders, tried to keep the emotion at bay.
Excerpt Six:
Piper shuddered and all the colors paled and blurred as she sucked in a lungful of the smoke and ash-filled air. She was tough, tours in the Middle East, downrange assignments before leaving the Army and running for sheriff. She’d dealt with a lot of death and injuries. Not inured to any of it, she nevertheless managed a stoic mien.
Behind her a loud gawker speculated that Oren had set the fire to make sure his wife couldn’t get the place in the settlement. Common knowledge, Oren being depressed over the pending divorce. Piper didn’t know Oren personally all that well, though she’d seen him on and off while growing up, infrequent barbecues in the backyard during her childhood, Fourth of July gatherings in the park. Oren and her father had spent decades in local law enforcement together and were close.
Piper had trained as an MP at Fort Campbell; she wouldn’t hit her one-year mark with the sheriff’s department for another twenty days. She’d worked with Oren for roughly a year, a wholly professional relationship, no friendship involved; he kept his distance and occasionally let her know he should have won the election. Maybe he should have, she thought, all his experience compared to her short MP stint.
And while their relationship always had been business, not personal, she knew Oren would never burn down his own house. Angry, depressed, stressed … he could be all those things, but he just wouldn’t have done this.
A terrible accident appeared to have caught Oren’s house first, then the neighbors’. The dispatcher said those neighbors were fortunately snow birding in Florida.
She watched flames shoot out the windows of the house next to Oren’s, and then the roof collapsed with a sound like thunder. Total losses, both places; the fire department worked to keep the blaze from spreading to other homes. Oren’s boat storage building remained upwind, but they hosed it down anyway. She noticed the blackened husk of Oren’s department Explorer in the charred remains of the garage attached to his house.
“Circling,” Piper whispered. As in Oren was circling the drain.
“Yeah.”
“He has cats,” Piper said.
“Four,” Basil returned. “They’re okay, singed, one of them needed oxygen. They’re in his pickup. I pulled it across the street to get it out of the way. Found an extra set of keys under the mat.” He pointed down the block, where the truck sat under a lamppost from which dangled a blinking red and white candy cane. All the lampposts on the street had lighted decorations hanging from them. “I can take the cats home with me, get them to a vet’s when one opens, have them checked out. Or I can pass them off to Millie. Does Millie know?”
“Yes.” A pause. “About the fire. But not about Oren.” Millie, Oren’s granddaughter, and Piper’s most recently hired deputy, had the eleven to seven a.m. shift this week. “She’s covering an accident near the monastery. Semi- and a sedan in a ditch. A few inches of snow on the ground, tonight’s ice was unexpected, most figured it would just be more flurries. People forget how to drive on ice when the weather’s good.”
Piper shuddered and all the colors paled and blurred as she sucked in a lungful of the smoke and ash-filled air. She was tough, tours in the Middle East, downrange assignments before leaving the Army and running for sheriff. She’d dealt with a lot of death and injuries. Not inured to any of it, she nevertheless managed a stoic mien.
Behind her a loud gawker speculated that Oren had set the fire to make sure his wife couldn’t get the place in the settlement. Common knowledge, Oren being depressed over the pending divorce. Piper didn’t know Oren personally all that well, though she’d seen him on and off while growing up, infrequent barbecues in the backyard during her childhood, Fourth of July gatherings in the park. Oren and her father had spent decades in local law enforcement together and were close.
Piper had trained as an MP at Fort Campbell; she wouldn’t hit her one-year mark with the sheriff’s department for another twenty days. She’d worked with Oren for roughly a year, a wholly professional relationship, no friendship involved; he kept his distance and occasionally let her know he should have won the election. Maybe he should have, she thought, all his experience compared to her short MP stint.
And while their relationship always had been business, not personal, she knew Oren would never burn down his own house. Angry, depressed, stressed … he could be all those things, but he just wouldn’t have done this.
A terrible accident appeared to have caught Oren’s house first, then the neighbors’. The dispatcher said those neighbors were fortunately snow birding in Florida.
She watched flames shoot out the windows of the house next to Oren’s, and then the roof collapsed with a sound like thunder. Total losses, both places; the fire department worked to keep the blaze from spreading to other homes. Oren’s boat storage building remained upwind, but they hosed it down anyway. She noticed the blackened husk of Oren’s department Explorer in the charred remains of the garage attached to his house.
“Circling,” Piper whispered. As in Oren was circling the drain.
“Yeah.”
“He has cats,” Piper said.
“Four,” Basil returned. “They’re okay, singed, one of them needed oxygen. They’re in his pickup. I pulled it across the street to get it out of the way. Found an extra set of keys under the mat.” He pointed down the block, where the truck sat under a lamppost from which dangled a blinking red and white candy cane. All the lampposts on the street had lighted decorations hanging from them. “I can take the cats home with me, get them to a vet’s when one opens, have them checked out. Or I can pass them off to Millie. Does Millie know?”
“Yes.” A pause. “About the fire. But not about Oren.” Millie, Oren’s granddaughter, and Piper’s most recently hired deputy, had the eleven to seven a.m. shift this week. “She’s covering an accident near the monastery. Semi- and a sedan in a ditch. A few inches of snow on the ground, tonight’s ice was unexpected, most figured it would just be more flurries. People forget how to drive on ice when the weather’s good.”
Excerpt Seven:
Behind them, the nosey neighbors complained about the cold and the sleet while continuing to speculate on what caused the fire. Piper and Basil stepped away and into the street, close to the pumper truck, which had the name Blitzen painted on it. The Santa Claus Volunteer Fire Department vehicles were all named after the famous poem’s reindeer.
“Millie’ll come here when she’s cleared the scene.” Piper had to raise her voice to be heard over more shouting. She twisted her foot against the ice. “Then I’ll send her up to Indy.” Provided Oren lived to reach Ascension. “It would be great if you could watch his cats. Thank you.”
Basil turned and pointed to a gangly-looking man in red sweatpants and a puffy black jacket balancing on the curb. “Neighbor from across the street and one house down, Dave … Halm. David Halm. Told me Oren had some rewiring done, used an electrician Mr. Halm recommended.”
“So maybe faulty work,” Piper said. She squinted, the sleet striking her face, tiny ice darts that faintly stung. Why didn’t the lookie-loos go home, get out of this weather? Their nosiness overwhelmed their common sense.
She watched the fire a few more minutes, then returned to the gawkers and honed in on a conversation between David Halm and a thickset man in a plaid jacket, their shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Left his Christmas tree lights on, Davey. Caught the drapes on fire, I’ll bet. Every year it happens in any city. Christmas trees cause fires.”
“Jewish. Jewish. No Christmas tree. Jewish,” Halm said.
“Does he smoke? Maybe he fell asleep with a cigarette and—”
Halm frowned. “No Christmas tree lights. No cigarettes. I never saw Oren smoke anything.”
The firemen barked orders back and forth, and the east side of Oren’s house fell in, smoke belching and fire shooting up with firework-like sparks. The red glow above the ruins painted a false dawn in the neighborhood.
“Not a smoker, then. Ah, Davey, now I remember him being Jewish. Maybe he had one of them Jewish candle thingies lit. Too close to the drapes.”
“Menorahs,” Halm explained. He had a wide face and a long, narrow nose, dark eyes, and gray hair that marked him late middle-age. “It’s a candelabrum with seven or eight branches. Kinda pretty.”
“Maybe the candles caught the drapes on fire.”
Halm shook his head. “Menorahs are lit on each night of Hanukkah. And the first night of Hanukkah isn’t for another week. Rosey wouldn’t have lit a candle.”
“You Jewish? I didn’t think you were Jewish, Davey. You got a Christmas tree. Got lighted nutcrackers parading across your lawn. You decorate every year.”
“I’m not Jewish. Just educated.”
Behind them, the nosey neighbors complained about the cold and the sleet while continuing to speculate on what caused the fire. Piper and Basil stepped away and into the street, close to the pumper truck, which had the name Blitzen painted on it. The Santa Claus Volunteer Fire Department vehicles were all named after the famous poem’s reindeer.
“Millie’ll come here when she’s cleared the scene.” Piper had to raise her voice to be heard over more shouting. She twisted her foot against the ice. “Then I’ll send her up to Indy.” Provided Oren lived to reach Ascension. “It would be great if you could watch his cats. Thank you.”
Basil turned and pointed to a gangly-looking man in red sweatpants and a puffy black jacket balancing on the curb. “Neighbor from across the street and one house down, Dave … Halm. David Halm. Told me Oren had some rewiring done, used an electrician Mr. Halm recommended.”
“So maybe faulty work,” Piper said. She squinted, the sleet striking her face, tiny ice darts that faintly stung. Why didn’t the lookie-loos go home, get out of this weather? Their nosiness overwhelmed their common sense.
She watched the fire a few more minutes, then returned to the gawkers and honed in on a conversation between David Halm and a thickset man in a plaid jacket, their shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Left his Christmas tree lights on, Davey. Caught the drapes on fire, I’ll bet. Every year it happens in any city. Christmas trees cause fires.”
“Jewish. Jewish. No Christmas tree. Jewish,” Halm said.
“Does he smoke? Maybe he fell asleep with a cigarette and—”
Halm frowned. “No Christmas tree lights. No cigarettes. I never saw Oren smoke anything.”
The firemen barked orders back and forth, and the east side of Oren’s house fell in, smoke belching and fire shooting up with firework-like sparks. The red glow above the ruins painted a false dawn in the neighborhood.
“Not a smoker, then. Ah, Davey, now I remember him being Jewish. Maybe he had one of them Jewish candle thingies lit. Too close to the drapes.”
“Menorahs,” Halm explained. He had a wide face and a long, narrow nose, dark eyes, and gray hair that marked him late middle-age. “It’s a candelabrum with seven or eight branches. Kinda pretty.”
“Maybe the candles caught the drapes on fire.”
Halm shook his head. “Menorahs are lit on each night of Hanukkah. And the first night of Hanukkah isn’t for another week. Rosey wouldn’t have lit a candle.”
“You Jewish? I didn’t think you were Jewish, Davey. You got a Christmas tree. Got lighted nutcrackers parading across your lawn. You decorate every year.”
“I’m not Jewish. Just educated.”
Excerpt Eight:
Next door to it a half-dozen pines wore thousands of miniature lights, and along “Take a look at Sled Run, Sheriff. A good look.”
Piper glanced away from the fire, which had practically hypnotized her. What did Sherlock see that she didn’t? What did his experienced eyes notice? His training? Look through his eyes, she thought. Really look.
The Sled Run houses were a mix of large ranches with vaulted ceilings and two-story saltboxes, several with fancy facades. The entire Christmas Lake Village included almost a thousand homes, with an almost equal number of vacant lots still available. Twenty-six miles of streets, the gated community featured three lakes—Christmas, Noel, and Holly, and butted up against an expansive golf course. Many of the streets carried holiday names: Mistletoe Drive, Silver Bell Court, Jingle Bell Lane, Blitzen Lane, Sleigh Bell Drive, Prancer Drive, Snow Ball Lane, and on and on. And, of course, Sled Run.
“What do you see?” Basil asked her.
Basil did not patronize her, Piper knew, he was nudging her.
Besides the homes and the noisy neighbors, voices still buzzing, cell phones out recording, she noted few cars in the driveways, modest models … Fords and Chevys with a thin coat of ice that would require scraping unless the temperature warmed in the morning. None had bumper stickers or decals, nothing to proclaim school or political affiliation. Likely any nicer vehicles were in the garages.
“I see Christmas decorations,” she said. Christmas two weeks away, a lot of people in Santa Claus—in all of Spencer County—strung up lights starting well before Thanksgiving. All she’d managed this year at her own house was a large wreath on the front door. Inside she’d done a better job at decking the halls. She had a seven-foot-tall artificial tree in the living room, covered with ornaments from her childhood and others her husband Nang had added to it.
“Many Christmas decorations,” she said.
A saltbox looked as if it had been dipped in glitter, icicle lights hanging everywhere, white fairy lights wrapped around trees, a lamppost, and the chimney. The ranch next to it had a Grinch theme with oversized inflatables from the cartoon spread across the front yard and green lights dripping from the eaves. Another residence displayed a life-sized manger, complete with lighted wise men, camels, and sheep.
It seemed each neighbor tried to outdo the next.
The lone Craftsman-style house on the block had every window ringed with multi-colored lights. An old-time steam engine outlined in small red bulbs chugged across the roof of the front porch. It pulled three equally-bright train cars loaded with wrapped presents, all the wheels spinning. A glowing Santa perched on the house peak, leaning on the chimney.
Next door to it a half-dozen pines wore thousands of miniature lights, and along “Take a look at Sled Run, Sheriff. A good look.”
Piper glanced away from the fire, which had practically hypnotized her. What did Sherlock see that she didn’t? What did his experienced eyes notice? His training? Look through his eyes, she thought. Really look.
The Sled Run houses were a mix of large ranches with vaulted ceilings and two-story saltboxes, several with fancy facades. The entire Christmas Lake Village included almost a thousand homes, with an almost equal number of vacant lots still available. Twenty-six miles of streets, the gated community featured three lakes—Christmas, Noel, and Holly, and butted up against an expansive golf course. Many of the streets carried holiday names: Mistletoe Drive, Silver Bell Court, Jingle Bell Lane, Blitzen Lane, Sleigh Bell Drive, Prancer Drive, Snow Ball Lane, and on and on. And, of course, Sled Run.
“What do you see?” Basil asked her.
Basil did not patronize her, Piper knew, he was nudging her.
Besides the homes and the noisy neighbors, voices still buzzing, cell phones out recording, she noted few cars in the driveways, modest models … Fords and Chevys with a thin coat of ice that would require scraping unless the temperature warmed in the morning. None had bumper stickers or decals, nothing to proclaim school or political affiliation. Likely any nicer vehicles were in the garages.
“I see Christmas decorations,” she said. Christmas two weeks away, a lot of people in Santa Claus—in all of Spencer County—strung up lights starting well before Thanksgiving. All she’d managed this year at her own house was a large wreath on the front door. Inside she’d done a better job at decking the halls. She had a seven-foot-tall artificial tree in the living room, covered with ornaments from her childhood and others her husband Nang had added to it.
“Many Christmas decorations,” she said.
A saltbox looked as if it had been dipped in glitter, icicle lights hanging everywhere, white fairy lights wrapped around trees, a lamppost, and the chimney. The ranch next to it had a Grinch theme with oversized inflatables from the cartoon spread across the front yard and green lights dripping from the eaves. Another residence displayed a life-sized manger, complete with lighted wise men, camels, and sheep.
It seemed each neighbor tried to outdo the next.
The lone Craftsman-style house on the block had every window ringed with multi-colored lights. An old-time steam engine outlined in small red bulbs chugged across the roof of the front porch. It pulled three equally-bright train cars loaded with wrapped presents, all the wheels spinning. A glowing Santa perched on the house peak, leaning on the chimney.
Excerpt Nine:
“There was a fire on Mistletoe Drive two years back.” The Santa Claus Volunteer Fire Chief removed his helmet, let out a long breath, and leaned against the fire truck named Blitzen. Despite the sleet, sweat beaded on his forehead. His name patch read: James “Jimmy” Wollach. He and Piper watched the other firemen roll the hoses and gather equipment, the darkness cut by truck headlights and streetlights. “That Mistletoe fire, Sheriff Blackwell, was after Thanksgiving, right at the edge of December. Nice house. Two levels, new construction. Electrical problems set it off.”
Piper guessed Wollach to be mid-fifties, about the same age as her dad. She knew he owned a gas station at the northern edge of Santa Claus, had served on the county board, and been president of the school board a few years back. Apparently a civic-minded soul. His blue eyes looked kind.
“Burnt to the ground, that house. Just like these,” he said, making a sweeping gesture at the charred remains of Oren’s place and his neighbor’s. “And two years before that, fire took a split-level on Sleigh Bell Drive. That was because of Christmas tree lights, real candles in the windows. All things merry brought that one down. It was right around New Year’s. They’d had a real tree, let it dry out. Total loss. And wholly preventable if they just would’ve kept it watered. They wrestled with the insurance company for months.”
Piper felt numb … from the cold, from worry over Oren, disgust that this was a hate crime. Basil was right, the destroyed houses had been the only two not decorated for Christmas, owned by Jewish people.
And there was the spray paint.
Anger, hate, prejudice had sent Oren Rosenberg to the specialized burn unit of a hospital in Indianapolis. What the hell was wrong with the world?
She shuddered and nearly gagged. The stench from fire, burnt wood, plastic, and all the other things that had gone up in flames remained strong in her mouth. It felt like it had taken forever to knock down every last bit of fire. All the gawkers had given up a while ago. Piper had recorded a lot of names so she or Basil could talk to some neighbors later. A few hours of sleep and she’d be back to question them when it was light.
“This wasn’t an accident,” she said.
“Can’t say that yet,” Wollach replied. “I’ll be out here later today, when the sun’s bright. Take a close look then.”
“Not an accident,” she said more firmly. She’d walked the property before settling next to Wollach. She knew it was deliberately set. She’d noticed the paint.
“There was a fire on Mistletoe Drive two years back.” The Santa Claus Volunteer Fire Chief removed his helmet, let out a long breath, and leaned against the fire truck named Blitzen. Despite the sleet, sweat beaded on his forehead. His name patch read: James “Jimmy” Wollach. He and Piper watched the other firemen roll the hoses and gather equipment, the darkness cut by truck headlights and streetlights. “That Mistletoe fire, Sheriff Blackwell, was after Thanksgiving, right at the edge of December. Nice house. Two levels, new construction. Electrical problems set it off.”
Piper guessed Wollach to be mid-fifties, about the same age as her dad. She knew he owned a gas station at the northern edge of Santa Claus, had served on the county board, and been president of the school board a few years back. Apparently a civic-minded soul. His blue eyes looked kind.
“Burnt to the ground, that house. Just like these,” he said, making a sweeping gesture at the charred remains of Oren’s place and his neighbor’s. “And two years before that, fire took a split-level on Sleigh Bell Drive. That was because of Christmas tree lights, real candles in the windows. All things merry brought that one down. It was right around New Year’s. They’d had a real tree, let it dry out. Total loss. And wholly preventable if they just would’ve kept it watered. They wrestled with the insurance company for months.”
Piper felt numb … from the cold, from worry over Oren, disgust that this was a hate crime. Basil was right, the destroyed houses had been the only two not decorated for Christmas, owned by Jewish people.
And there was the spray paint.
Anger, hate, prejudice had sent Oren Rosenberg to the specialized burn unit of a hospital in Indianapolis. What the hell was wrong with the world?
She shuddered and nearly gagged. The stench from fire, burnt wood, plastic, and all the other things that had gone up in flames remained strong in her mouth. It felt like it had taken forever to knock down every last bit of fire. All the gawkers had given up a while ago. Piper had recorded a lot of names so she or Basil could talk to some neighbors later. A few hours of sleep and she’d be back to question them when it was light.
“This wasn’t an accident,” she said.
“Can’t say that yet,” Wollach replied. “I’ll be out here later today, when the sun’s bright. Take a close look then.”
“Not an accident,” she said more firmly. She’d walked the property before settling next to Wollach. She knew it was deliberately set. She’d noticed the paint.
Excerpt Ten:
The antiseptic smell clung heavy in Millie’s nostrils. She hated it. She also hated the polished floors—looked like terrazzo—that gleamed dully, and the lighted monitors near the bed, and the tube that delivered oxygen from the wall, and the other thin tubes that dangled from a stand and dripped some sort of liquids into her grandfather Oren Rosenberg.
Or, rather, she hated the circumstances that had landed him in this ICU burn unit.
She hated all the bandages, too, that obscured almost everything but his mouth and closed eyes. The only thing she didn’t hate was that the doctors said he’d survive this … “but it would be a challenging road to recovery.”
They’d only just let her in to see him, probably tired of watching her pace in front of the nurses’ station in her deputy’s uniform. She knew she’d made a few of them nervous.
Millie had to don a disposable white jumpsuit that looked like something out of an old sci-fi movie. PPE they called it, Personal Protective Equipment, intended to shield her grandfather from any contagion she might bring in.
She’d called Sheriff Blackwell a few minutes ago to relay the guarded good news, and to tell her “no flowers.” Those weren’t permitted in his room. Balloons were okay. Piper had told her to take the next week off with Oren, that her shift would be covered. Millie had spotted a small motel two blocks away and would book a room. Across the street from the hospital was a place called Vintage Threads, which looked to be an upscale secondhand shop; she’d stop there for a few changes of clothes. She’d get toiletries and aspirin—to fight her killer headache—from the little pharmacy on the first floor. Maybe they had Coke or Pepsi. Cold caffeine soon would be a seriously good idea.
Millie plopped in an uncomfortable high-backed green vinyl chair near the foot of the bed and set her breathing in time with Oren’s, studying the rise and fall of his chest. The most important person in her life, it made her throat painfully tight seeing him like this. Sixty-six, her grandfather was a hale, powerfully-built soul, so full of life and purpose that he’d probably remain with the sheriff’s department until his last breath. She shivered at that thought. He looked weak now, a few steps above death.
Liquid continued to drip down the tubes. The whisper-hiss that she heard was probably the oxygen flowing into his nose.
Millie’s mother had issues with alcohol and reckless behavior. Her estranged father was a chaotic free spirit fishing somewhere in Alaska. Oren had raised her and paid for most of her college education. She’d joined the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department shortly after gaining her Master’s in the spring because law enforcement intrigued her and she thought it might help pay Oren back. He encouraged her to pursue a law degree, which she had put a dent in by taking online courses in her spare time.
But Millie liked being a deputy, didn’t know if she remained serious about practicing law. Twenty-five, she had years to settle on something.
“Get better fast, Pops,” she whispered. “Please.”
The antiseptic smell clung heavy in Millie’s nostrils. She hated it. She also hated the polished floors—looked like terrazzo—that gleamed dully, and the lighted monitors near the bed, and the tube that delivered oxygen from the wall, and the other thin tubes that dangled from a stand and dripped some sort of liquids into her grandfather Oren Rosenberg.
Or, rather, she hated the circumstances that had landed him in this ICU burn unit.
She hated all the bandages, too, that obscured almost everything but his mouth and closed eyes. The only thing she didn’t hate was that the doctors said he’d survive this … “but it would be a challenging road to recovery.”
They’d only just let her in to see him, probably tired of watching her pace in front of the nurses’ station in her deputy’s uniform. She knew she’d made a few of them nervous.
Millie had to don a disposable white jumpsuit that looked like something out of an old sci-fi movie. PPE they called it, Personal Protective Equipment, intended to shield her grandfather from any contagion she might bring in.
She’d called Sheriff Blackwell a few minutes ago to relay the guarded good news, and to tell her “no flowers.” Those weren’t permitted in his room. Balloons were okay. Piper had told her to take the next week off with Oren, that her shift would be covered. Millie had spotted a small motel two blocks away and would book a room. Across the street from the hospital was a place called Vintage Threads, which looked to be an upscale secondhand shop; she’d stop there for a few changes of clothes. She’d get toiletries and aspirin—to fight her killer headache—from the little pharmacy on the first floor. Maybe they had Coke or Pepsi. Cold caffeine soon would be a seriously good idea.
Millie plopped in an uncomfortable high-backed green vinyl chair near the foot of the bed and set her breathing in time with Oren’s, studying the rise and fall of his chest. The most important person in her life, it made her throat painfully tight seeing him like this. Sixty-six, her grandfather was a hale, powerfully-built soul, so full of life and purpose that he’d probably remain with the sheriff’s department until his last breath. She shivered at that thought. He looked weak now, a few steps above death.
Liquid continued to drip down the tubes. The whisper-hiss that she heard was probably the oxygen flowing into his nose.
Millie’s mother had issues with alcohol and reckless behavior. Her estranged father was a chaotic free spirit fishing somewhere in Alaska. Oren had raised her and paid for most of her college education. She’d joined the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department shortly after gaining her Master’s in the spring because law enforcement intrigued her and she thought it might help pay Oren back. He encouraged her to pursue a law degree, which she had put a dent in by taking online courses in her spare time.
But Millie liked being a deputy, didn’t know if she remained serious about practicing law. Twenty-five, she had years to settle on something.
“Get better fast, Pops,” she whispered. “Please.”
Excerpt Eleven:
Piper watched the sentry download video on the flash drives she provided. Security cameras dotted the gated collection of subdivisions that made up Christmas Lake Village. She was most interested in the feed from a few hours before Oren’s fire, though the warrant specified two weeks’ worth, which was as long as the Village stored it before deletion. They’d take it to the department for study, hopefully noting unusual activity, and run license plate numbers for suspicious cars.
She’d hoped to get a look at the two individuals from the Laubenstein house, but there were no security cameras on Sled Run. Maybe some residents on that street had doorbell cams that could help. As Eldad Laubenstein had said: “One of them certainly saw something.”
Was it possible those burned souls had started the blaze at Oren’s, not knowing it would spread and catch them? How long would it take for DNA or dental records to identify the two?
Piper and Basil squeezed into the tiny brick building behind the sentry at his desk, the closeness and the portable heater banished the frigid breeze that blew outside. Piper unzipped her coat and wondered briefly if maybe she and Nang should consider someplace tropical for their honeymoon.
Basil talked softly on his radio to the dispatcher; Piper caught something about a car stolen from outside the pizza place west of Rockport.
“Awful thing, that fire on Sled,” the sentry, Kenny Caine, said. The post smelled of coffee and the pine sprigs that decorated his small desk. A pen holder crammed with peppermint sticks sat in front of a speaker that played George Strait’s “Christmas Cookies.” There was little room to move around, and no other chairs. An open narrow door revealed a toilet and an almost child-sized sink. A mini-fridge with a microwave on top of it, a coatrack, and a dog bed containing a grizzle-faced chocolate Labrador took up the rest of the meager square footage. The dog glanced at Piper and thumped its tail.
Caine looked to be roughly twenty, silver ring in his left ear, with a matching one in his nose. He had a tattoo of an orange and black fantailed goldfish on the left side of his neck. His hair was short except for a narrow hank in the back. “I just got back three days ago. Been to Portugal with my fiancé. Bette, she’s looking to study music in Lisbon, the Superior Orchestra Academy, and I tagged along. Thinks she can get a scholarship. Violin, cello. She’s really set on living and performing in Europe.”
Caine continued to chat as he filled the four flash drives she’d provided, Piper only half-listening.
Piper looked out the window, down the main road that led into the Village. Her mind was occupied by Oren, the fire, the mysterious lawsuit her father had mentioned. Too many things jousted for prominence. Nang flitted in her thoughts. Married only one week ago and waiting until month’s end so she’d have vacation days for a honeymoon. That trip could be postponed because of all of this, Oren being injured, she was down a deputy. Nang would understand. He might actually be happy to put it off, what with looking at buildings to buy so he could open a restaurant. Their lives seemed so busy, going opposite directions.
Piper watched the sentry download video on the flash drives she provided. Security cameras dotted the gated collection of subdivisions that made up Christmas Lake Village. She was most interested in the feed from a few hours before Oren’s fire, though the warrant specified two weeks’ worth, which was as long as the Village stored it before deletion. They’d take it to the department for study, hopefully noting unusual activity, and run license plate numbers for suspicious cars.
She’d hoped to get a look at the two individuals from the Laubenstein house, but there were no security cameras on Sled Run. Maybe some residents on that street had doorbell cams that could help. As Eldad Laubenstein had said: “One of them certainly saw something.”
Was it possible those burned souls had started the blaze at Oren’s, not knowing it would spread and catch them? How long would it take for DNA or dental records to identify the two?
Piper and Basil squeezed into the tiny brick building behind the sentry at his desk, the closeness and the portable heater banished the frigid breeze that blew outside. Piper unzipped her coat and wondered briefly if maybe she and Nang should consider someplace tropical for their honeymoon.
Basil talked softly on his radio to the dispatcher; Piper caught something about a car stolen from outside the pizza place west of Rockport.
“Awful thing, that fire on Sled,” the sentry, Kenny Caine, said. The post smelled of coffee and the pine sprigs that decorated his small desk. A pen holder crammed with peppermint sticks sat in front of a speaker that played George Strait’s “Christmas Cookies.” There was little room to move around, and no other chairs. An open narrow door revealed a toilet and an almost child-sized sink. A mini-fridge with a microwave on top of it, a coatrack, and a dog bed containing a grizzle-faced chocolate Labrador took up the rest of the meager square footage. The dog glanced at Piper and thumped its tail.
Caine looked to be roughly twenty, silver ring in his left ear, with a matching one in his nose. He had a tattoo of an orange and black fantailed goldfish on the left side of his neck. His hair was short except for a narrow hank in the back. “I just got back three days ago. Been to Portugal with my fiancé. Bette, she’s looking to study music in Lisbon, the Superior Orchestra Academy, and I tagged along. Thinks she can get a scholarship. Violin, cello. She’s really set on living and performing in Europe.”
Caine continued to chat as he filled the four flash drives she’d provided, Piper only half-listening.
Piper looked out the window, down the main road that led into the Village. Her mind was occupied by Oren, the fire, the mysterious lawsuit her father had mentioned. Too many things jousted for prominence. Nang flitted in her thoughts. Married only one week ago and waiting until month’s end so she’d have vacation days for a honeymoon. That trip could be postponed because of all of this, Oren being injured, she was down a deputy. Nang would understand. He might actually be happy to put it off, what with looking at buildings to buy so he could open a restaurant. Their lives seemed so busy, going opposite directions.
Excerpt Twelve:
“Looks like the fire started here, Sheriff, back of the house, right outside the kitchen window. See? Next to the AC unit.” He paused. “What used to be the AC unit.” The man wore navy blue pants, creased, tucked into leather boots that had thick soles and obvious steel toes. Sporting a mud-brown bomber jacket with an ivory wooly collar, he’d clipped his State Fire Marshal badge to the wide lapel.
“Richard Oster,” he said, thrusting out an ungloved hand. “Rick.”
Piper, wearing her driver’s gloves, shook it, noting his grip was uncomfortably strong. She squeezed back. “Piper Black—”
“Sheriff Piper Blackwell. I know who you are. Something of a celebrity. You handled a couple of major drug busts in the fall. Serious pot farm, meth lab so big the Feds came in. Largest take downs in the state’s history. The Indy Star ran stories for days. Made the national news. Pleasure to meet you.”
“And Detective Basil Meredith,” Piper added an introduction, indicating him with a hand. “He discovered the drug operations.” Along with Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg, who nearly lost his life to this fire.
“Pleasure.” Oster shook Basil’s hand.
Santa Claus Fire Chief Wollach joined them. He’d been walking around the perimeter of both properties, taking pictures, shaking his head as if in disbelief.
The wreckage looked worse this morning, the bright sun illuminated charred wood, collapsed bricks, sections of walls leaning precariously, and twisted things that had been furniture and appliances and memories. Oren’s fireplace and chimney still stood, like a tall digit flipping off the neighborhood. The scene had been bad enough when she came out hours earlier while the volunteer fire department fought the blaze. The darkness and sleet muted much of the horror then. Odors of burned and melted things remained strong.
She turned on her body cam, noticing Basil was using the department camera, getting shots of the destruction, Oster, Wollach, and the neighbors perched on the sidewalk across the street.
Ten onlookers bundled in winter coats, two of them with cell phones up and recording, Piper noted. Maybe they were among the gawkers hours ago when the fire raged. Three men stood separate, near an open garage, the clouds of mist around their heads evidence of their conversation. Faces peered from windows, many of them children. Maybe someone watching knew something about the victims who’d died in the Laubenstein house. Or had seen something.
“I agree with you,” Oster said to Basil, nodding. “This is arson. Clumsy, amateur, clear. I’ll conduct a thorough investigation to back it up. I have two technicians with me and we’ll get footage and samples.” He filled the pause with a chuckle. “Well, they’ll be back here in a little while. Baxter takes frequent pee breaks, and they’re picking up coffees.”
“You said the fire started here,” Piper cut in. Wood crunched under her feet as she walked, pieces of Oren’s house. “Show me.”
“Looks like the fire started here, Sheriff, back of the house, right outside the kitchen window. See? Next to the AC unit.” He paused. “What used to be the AC unit.” The man wore navy blue pants, creased, tucked into leather boots that had thick soles and obvious steel toes. Sporting a mud-brown bomber jacket with an ivory wooly collar, he’d clipped his State Fire Marshal badge to the wide lapel.
“Richard Oster,” he said, thrusting out an ungloved hand. “Rick.”
Piper, wearing her driver’s gloves, shook it, noting his grip was uncomfortably strong. She squeezed back. “Piper Black—”
“Sheriff Piper Blackwell. I know who you are. Something of a celebrity. You handled a couple of major drug busts in the fall. Serious pot farm, meth lab so big the Feds came in. Largest take downs in the state’s history. The Indy Star ran stories for days. Made the national news. Pleasure to meet you.”
“And Detective Basil Meredith,” Piper added an introduction, indicating him with a hand. “He discovered the drug operations.” Along with Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg, who nearly lost his life to this fire.
“Pleasure.” Oster shook Basil’s hand.
Santa Claus Fire Chief Wollach joined them. He’d been walking around the perimeter of both properties, taking pictures, shaking his head as if in disbelief.
The wreckage looked worse this morning, the bright sun illuminated charred wood, collapsed bricks, sections of walls leaning precariously, and twisted things that had been furniture and appliances and memories. Oren’s fireplace and chimney still stood, like a tall digit flipping off the neighborhood. The scene had been bad enough when she came out hours earlier while the volunteer fire department fought the blaze. The darkness and sleet muted much of the horror then. Odors of burned and melted things remained strong.
She turned on her body cam, noticing Basil was using the department camera, getting shots of the destruction, Oster, Wollach, and the neighbors perched on the sidewalk across the street.
Ten onlookers bundled in winter coats, two of them with cell phones up and recording, Piper noted. Maybe they were among the gawkers hours ago when the fire raged. Three men stood separate, near an open garage, the clouds of mist around their heads evidence of their conversation. Faces peered from windows, many of them children. Maybe someone watching knew something about the victims who’d died in the Laubenstein house. Or had seen something.
“I agree with you,” Oster said to Basil, nodding. “This is arson. Clumsy, amateur, clear. I’ll conduct a thorough investigation to back it up. I have two technicians with me and we’ll get footage and samples.” He filled the pause with a chuckle. “Well, they’ll be back here in a little while. Baxter takes frequent pee breaks, and they’re picking up coffees.”
“You said the fire started here,” Piper cut in. Wood crunched under her feet as she walked, pieces of Oren’s house. “Show me.”
Excerpt Thirteen:
“You said the fire started here,” Piper cut in. Wood crunched under her feet as she walked, pieces of Oren’s house. “Show me.”
“Show you?” Oster grinned. He had dark red hair with a white streak along his right temple; maybe there was a story behind that. His nose seemed a little too long for his face, and he had the hint of a mustache. He wore frameless oval glasses, and the creases at the corners of his blue eyes suggested he smiled a lot. She guessed him to be maybe forty-five, fifty, and clearly knowledgeable in his field. “Sure, I’ll show you. I can’t provide a course for you, Sheriff. But I recommend you take one, at least the basics of arson. My office holds them twice a year, open to law enforcement and volunteer firefighters. Won’t make you an expert, but it’ll teach you some things to look for.”
Piper thought that would be a good idea. She’d invite either Basil or Diego to join her.
“Look, you’ll see that all the answers are in the ashes, Sheriff. All of them. We just have to listen close enough.”
“Listen?”
“Fire … even the aftermath of a fire … talks to you. It leaves behind a trace that says where it burned hottest and its likely point of origin. Sometimes you’ll see lightbulbs melted like arrows, pointing toward the starting point. Sometimes you just see things like this.”
For the next half hour Oster pointed to spots in the wreckage and described the fire’s path. The char smell settled again in her mouth, though not as bad as hours ago. Wollach followed, keeping quiet.
“This fire doesn’t just talk, Sheriff, it screams. Amateurs make my job a little easier. Amateur arsonists, careless burners, leave the best evidence. They don’t know how to choreograph a fire. Don’t know how to sculpt it.” Oster stepped a little farther away and nodded to flat piece of melted plastic. “This used to be either a gas canister or big jug. My guess, five-gallon plastic gas canister.” He pointed to a blackened strip of material, partially burned. “And that is what’s left of the wick. Fire goes up fast, things get propelled away, not everything gets incinerated. Looks like maybe a thick athletic sock or a hunk of thermal shirt. They shoved it in the jug, lit it, and ran. A wick like that gives you time to get away. You need to bag it, might get some DNA from it. Skin cells, if the arsonist didn’t wear gloves.” He smiled. “Or if he used a sock he hadn’t laundered. DNA can survive the heat of a fire.”
Piper stared at the cloth, nothing she would have noticed. Definitely, she’d sign up for the next class. She watched Basil carefully bag it, then the remnant of the jug.
“You said the fire started here,” Piper cut in. Wood crunched under her feet as she walked, pieces of Oren’s house. “Show me.”
“Show you?” Oster grinned. He had dark red hair with a white streak along his right temple; maybe there was a story behind that. His nose seemed a little too long for his face, and he had the hint of a mustache. He wore frameless oval glasses, and the creases at the corners of his blue eyes suggested he smiled a lot. She guessed him to be maybe forty-five, fifty, and clearly knowledgeable in his field. “Sure, I’ll show you. I can’t provide a course for you, Sheriff. But I recommend you take one, at least the basics of arson. My office holds them twice a year, open to law enforcement and volunteer firefighters. Won’t make you an expert, but it’ll teach you some things to look for.”
Piper thought that would be a good idea. She’d invite either Basil or Diego to join her.
“Look, you’ll see that all the answers are in the ashes, Sheriff. All of them. We just have to listen close enough.”
“Listen?”
“Fire … even the aftermath of a fire … talks to you. It leaves behind a trace that says where it burned hottest and its likely point of origin. Sometimes you’ll see lightbulbs melted like arrows, pointing toward the starting point. Sometimes you just see things like this.”
For the next half hour Oster pointed to spots in the wreckage and described the fire’s path. The char smell settled again in her mouth, though not as bad as hours ago. Wollach followed, keeping quiet.
“This fire doesn’t just talk, Sheriff, it screams. Amateurs make my job a little easier. Amateur arsonists, careless burners, leave the best evidence. They don’t know how to choreograph a fire. Don’t know how to sculpt it.” Oster stepped a little farther away and nodded to flat piece of melted plastic. “This used to be either a gas canister or big jug. My guess, five-gallon plastic gas canister.” He pointed to a blackened strip of material, partially burned. “And that is what’s left of the wick. Fire goes up fast, things get propelled away, not everything gets incinerated. Looks like maybe a thick athletic sock or a hunk of thermal shirt. They shoved it in the jug, lit it, and ran. A wick like that gives you time to get away. You need to bag it, might get some DNA from it. Skin cells, if the arsonist didn’t wear gloves.” He smiled. “Or if he used a sock he hadn’t laundered. DNA can survive the heat of a fire.”
Piper stared at the cloth, nothing she would have noticed. Definitely, she’d sign up for the next class. She watched Basil carefully bag it, then the remnant of the jug.
Excerpt Fourteen:
“There might be some other things left behind. I’ll be here for another hour or so. Let you know what I come up with.” Oster took off his glasses and tugged a handkerchief from his pocket. He deliberately cleaned one lens and then the other before shining the earpieces and putting the spectacles back on. “My belief … and I’ll analyze debris, gas chromatography, before I put it in a report. But my belief is that the arsonist took a full jug of gas, sat it up against the house by the air conditioner, stuck sock in it, lit it, and ran like hell. Maybe two gas jugs, judging by the burn patterns. Probably two. Likely gasoline rather than diesel. Gasoline burns better. I’ve seen this before. But we’ll check for additional accelerants, see if he used anything else.”
“You say ‘he,’” Piper noted.
“Nine in ten arsonists are men,” Oster explained. “I’d put your arsonist here as male, under forty, and single. An older man wouldn’t have come out in the cold and sleet that late at night, not as likely anyway. An older soul would be inside where it’s warm, with his family, watching TV maybe, or sound asleep. And I’d say he’s white. But that’s based on your county’s demographics.”
They walked the scene again, and Oster indicated various patterns that Piper would not have noticed, and where the wind had pushed the fire into the Laubenstein house next door.
“I’ll check the data bases, looking for similar fires, histories, see if there’s a pattern with houses lacking Christmas decorations getting torched. But I doubt I’ll find anything. This feels like a one-off.”
Piper raised her eyebrows.
“A one-and-done. Oren Rosenberg’s house was the target. My report won’t tell you why the fire was set,” Oster continued. “That’s for you to figure out. I get you’re thinking hate crime. God knows there’s plenty of hate in the world. Both households Jewish. And I see the six-pointed star painted on your deputy’s garage. Maybe because he was Jewish. Maybe he pissed off someone he arrested. Maybe he did something one of the neighbors took exception to, didn’t decorate his yard. No twinkling lights might have been a deal-breaking faux pas to some twisted son of a bitch.”
“There might be some other things left behind. I’ll be here for another hour or so. Let you know what I come up with.” Oster took off his glasses and tugged a handkerchief from his pocket. He deliberately cleaned one lens and then the other before shining the earpieces and putting the spectacles back on. “My belief … and I’ll analyze debris, gas chromatography, before I put it in a report. But my belief is that the arsonist took a full jug of gas, sat it up against the house by the air conditioner, stuck sock in it, lit it, and ran like hell. Maybe two gas jugs, judging by the burn patterns. Probably two. Likely gasoline rather than diesel. Gasoline burns better. I’ve seen this before. But we’ll check for additional accelerants, see if he used anything else.”
“You say ‘he,’” Piper noted.
“Nine in ten arsonists are men,” Oster explained. “I’d put your arsonist here as male, under forty, and single. An older man wouldn’t have come out in the cold and sleet that late at night, not as likely anyway. An older soul would be inside where it’s warm, with his family, watching TV maybe, or sound asleep. And I’d say he’s white. But that’s based on your county’s demographics.”
They walked the scene again, and Oster indicated various patterns that Piper would not have noticed, and where the wind had pushed the fire into the Laubenstein house next door.
“I’ll check the data bases, looking for similar fires, histories, see if there’s a pattern with houses lacking Christmas decorations getting torched. But I doubt I’ll find anything. This feels like a one-off.”
Piper raised her eyebrows.
“A one-and-done. Oren Rosenberg’s house was the target. My report won’t tell you why the fire was set,” Oster continued. “That’s for you to figure out. I get you’re thinking hate crime. God knows there’s plenty of hate in the world. Both households Jewish. And I see the six-pointed star painted on your deputy’s garage. Maybe because he was Jewish. Maybe he pissed off someone he arrested. Maybe he did something one of the neighbors took exception to, didn’t decorate his yard. No twinkling lights might have been a deal-breaking faux pas to some twisted son of a bitch.”
Excerpt Fifteen:
Basil watched as the burned Volkswagen Rabbit was towed away from the Laubensteins’. Production on those cars stopped almost forty years ago, 1984; he’d checked with a Google search.
He radioed Diego: “When it arrives, go through every inch of that car, video it, see what you can get from the VIN and the plates.”
“Can’t be too many vintage Rabbits on the road. Shouldn’t take long to pin down the owner,” Diego replied. “Doc says autopsies are scheduled back to back Monday afternoon. Then we can get dentals. DNA will take awhile if we have to go that route. But I’m betting between the old car and the teeth, we’ll put names to the dead people.”
Basil wished he’d worn his heavy winter coat over his uniform rather than his department jacket: while looking official, it wasn’t enough to keep out the cold. His breath puffed away in miniature clouds as he moved to the next house on his list, Vernon Madsen’s. Faintly, he heard Christmas music coming from it, sounded like Mannheim Steamroller or Transiberian Orchestra … techy-pop stirred with traditional. Esme played stuff like that. He preferred light jazz.
“Nobody around here has a problem with Rosey or Eldad.” Vernon Madsen lived across the street from the Laubensteins. Madsen was a robust man with a ring of black hair that made his bald spot stand out like an intended tonsure. He stepped onto his porch and glared across the street. “They’re great neighbors. Long time on the block. Some people gripe about their lack of decorations, the only bare houses on the Run. But nobody around here gives a rat’s ass that they’re Jewish. I give a rat’s ass about that.” He gestured at the ruins. “Just look. Awful. Bet they bulldoze and sell and go somewhere else. Shame. Just a shame.”
Only a few of the decorations along Sled Run were lit. People typically turned them on at dusk. That’s when Basil did, brighten up the night. He’d strung lights on two pines in his yard and on rose bushes, stretched some icicle lights across the top of the garage, wanting to fit in. Rare to see a house in Christmas Lake Village without some sort of outdoor holiday décor. He and Esme walked with the kids almost every night to take it all in. Esme said she missed Marshall Fields’ Christmas window displays and the elegant Walnut Room tree, but the Village after dark was almost an adequate substitute.
Basil watched as the burned Volkswagen Rabbit was towed away from the Laubensteins’. Production on those cars stopped almost forty years ago, 1984; he’d checked with a Google search.
He radioed Diego: “When it arrives, go through every inch of that car, video it, see what you can get from the VIN and the plates.”
“Can’t be too many vintage Rabbits on the road. Shouldn’t take long to pin down the owner,” Diego replied. “Doc says autopsies are scheduled back to back Monday afternoon. Then we can get dentals. DNA will take awhile if we have to go that route. But I’m betting between the old car and the teeth, we’ll put names to the dead people.”
Basil wished he’d worn his heavy winter coat over his uniform rather than his department jacket: while looking official, it wasn’t enough to keep out the cold. His breath puffed away in miniature clouds as he moved to the next house on his list, Vernon Madsen’s. Faintly, he heard Christmas music coming from it, sounded like Mannheim Steamroller or Transiberian Orchestra … techy-pop stirred with traditional. Esme played stuff like that. He preferred light jazz.
“Nobody around here has a problem with Rosey or Eldad.” Vernon Madsen lived across the street from the Laubensteins. Madsen was a robust man with a ring of black hair that made his bald spot stand out like an intended tonsure. He stepped onto his porch and glared across the street. “They’re great neighbors. Long time on the block. Some people gripe about their lack of decorations, the only bare houses on the Run. But nobody around here gives a rat’s ass that they’re Jewish. I give a rat’s ass about that.” He gestured at the ruins. “Just look. Awful. Bet they bulldoze and sell and go somewhere else. Shame. Just a shame.”
Only a few of the decorations along Sled Run were lit. People typically turned them on at dusk. That’s when Basil did, brighten up the night. He’d strung lights on two pines in his yard and on rose bushes, stretched some icicle lights across the top of the garage, wanting to fit in. Rare to see a house in Christmas Lake Village without some sort of outdoor holiday décor. He and Esme walked with the kids almost every night to take it all in. Esme said she missed Marshall Fields’ Christmas window displays and the elegant Walnut Room tree, but the Village after dark was almost an adequate substitute.
Excerpt Sixteen:
Madsen was right. Oren’s and the Laubensteins’ had stood out in this neighborhood because of their lack of decorations. And now they stood out because they were charred mounds, their burned reek still hanging in the chill air.
Only a couple houses left, then he’d meander the few blocks home, fix a salad, check on the cats, hope Esme wasn’t angry that he’d passed Oren’s clowder off to her … on top of her dealing with the kids and being pregnant, and on a deadline. She was a saint.
“A Rabbit, huh? I knew it was an old car in that garage. Saw it when the door was up, lots of rust. A Rabbit? That’s like an antique,” Anna Carpenter said. She lived one house up across the street from the Laubensteins. Mid-thirties, pencil-thin and yawning, wearing pajamas under a fuzzy blue robe despite the hour. Basil guessed he’d awakened her. “Sure, Detective Meredith, I saw lights on in Eldad’s house. For at least a week. I knew he and his wife were in Florida, thought maybe they had a house-sitter, you know, whoever was driving that rusty white car was a house sitter. I saw a man at the window one night, looking out at my decorations. My sister puts a lot of work into our crèche. Couldn’t tell you who he was, how old he was, didn’t see him up close, you know. Just saw him looking.”
Basil admitted the Carpenters had an impressive inflatable nativity display: manger, wise men, camels, sheep, a goat, practically the entire lawn covered with life-size blow-ups. No doubt whoever stayed in the Laubenstein house had looked out at it. Impossible to ignore.
He moved on, thoughts tumbling.
“Too busy to go over there, check out those people,” Norma Wilkins said after he knocked on her door and introduced himself. “I think they were there since the beginning of the month, came in about the time Eldad and Saundra went south. Figured they were supposed to be there. Relatives. House-sitters. Didn’t think much of it. This time of the year is busy for me.” Norma lived next to Anna Carpenter and was an older woman with her white hair pulled back so tight into a bun it looked painful to Basil. Her long nose and the way she bobbed her head reminded him of a pigeon. “I volunteer with the letters for Santa project, one of Santa’s Elves. Busy. Very busy. Santa’s Elves are—”
Madsen was right. Oren’s and the Laubensteins’ had stood out in this neighborhood because of their lack of decorations. And now they stood out because they were charred mounds, their burned reek still hanging in the chill air.
Only a couple houses left, then he’d meander the few blocks home, fix a salad, check on the cats, hope Esme wasn’t angry that he’d passed Oren’s clowder off to her … on top of her dealing with the kids and being pregnant, and on a deadline. She was a saint.
“A Rabbit, huh? I knew it was an old car in that garage. Saw it when the door was up, lots of rust. A Rabbit? That’s like an antique,” Anna Carpenter said. She lived one house up across the street from the Laubensteins. Mid-thirties, pencil-thin and yawning, wearing pajamas under a fuzzy blue robe despite the hour. Basil guessed he’d awakened her. “Sure, Detective Meredith, I saw lights on in Eldad’s house. For at least a week. I knew he and his wife were in Florida, thought maybe they had a house-sitter, you know, whoever was driving that rusty white car was a house sitter. I saw a man at the window one night, looking out at my decorations. My sister puts a lot of work into our crèche. Couldn’t tell you who he was, how old he was, didn’t see him up close, you know. Just saw him looking.”
Basil admitted the Carpenters had an impressive inflatable nativity display: manger, wise men, camels, sheep, a goat, practically the entire lawn covered with life-size blow-ups. No doubt whoever stayed in the Laubenstein house had looked out at it. Impossible to ignore.
He moved on, thoughts tumbling.
“Too busy to go over there, check out those people,” Norma Wilkins said after he knocked on her door and introduced himself. “I think they were there since the beginning of the month, came in about the time Eldad and Saundra went south. Figured they were supposed to be there. Relatives. House-sitters. Didn’t think much of it. This time of the year is busy for me.” Norma lived next to Anna Carpenter and was an older woman with her white hair pulled back so tight into a bun it looked painful to Basil. Her long nose and the way she bobbed her head reminded him of a pigeon. “I volunteer with the letters for Santa project, one of Santa’s Elves. Busy. Very busy. Santa’s Elves are—”
Excerpt Seventeen:
“Detective,” Basil corrected her. “I’m the department’s detective. The sheriff is Piper Blackwell.”
“Piper. Like in the Twelve Days of Christmas? Pipers piping. I seem to remember reading about her, and you, and some big drug bust last month. Drugs in our little county.” She shuddered and scowled. “Oren was quoted in the paper, too, about all the drugs. Piper. I should’ve remembered the sheriff’s name. I’m just so busy. Piper. Piper.”
“You were asking—”
“Do you think the street is safe? That fire. This is a gated subdivision. Gated. Do you think we should be worried?”
It was a fair question.
Norma and her immediate neighbors all had Christmas displays in their yards. The hate had targeted homes without the decorations. That fact spun in his brain.
“I doubt you’re in any danger,” he answered truthfully.
“Gated,” she said again.
“Thank you,” he responded, and turned away.
That had been one of the things attracting Basil to the community. A gated subdivision—the only one in the county, 24/7 guard post, cameras in various places. Protected. A safe place for kids.
Standing on the sidewalk, he looked up and down Sled Run, stared between houses to see other homes on parallel streets that had Christmassy names. Saw children out playing in the snow.
Gated. Three roads in, all with check-points. Safe. Secure.
Bullshit.
Gated didn’t mean impervious. It didn’t mean there was a ten-foot high wall and razor wire surrounding the place. Basil knew that when he bought here. Gated did imply a measure of security, though.
Three roads in?
There were a lot more ways than that to get into this subdivision; you were only limited if you drove. His own kids dashed through yards to visit their friends. People could cut across land from outside the subdivision to get in. The golf course butted up against Christmas Lake Village, and that presented another opportunity. If someone wanted in badly enough, they’d find a way through the golf course. And it wouldn’t be all that difficult.
“Detective,” Basil corrected her. “I’m the department’s detective. The sheriff is Piper Blackwell.”
“Piper. Like in the Twelve Days of Christmas? Pipers piping. I seem to remember reading about her, and you, and some big drug bust last month. Drugs in our little county.” She shuddered and scowled. “Oren was quoted in the paper, too, about all the drugs. Piper. I should’ve remembered the sheriff’s name. I’m just so busy. Piper. Piper.”
“You were asking—”
“Do you think the street is safe? That fire. This is a gated subdivision. Gated. Do you think we should be worried?”
It was a fair question.
Norma and her immediate neighbors all had Christmas displays in their yards. The hate had targeted homes without the decorations. That fact spun in his brain.
“I doubt you’re in any danger,” he answered truthfully.
“Gated,” she said again.
“Thank you,” he responded, and turned away.
That had been one of the things attracting Basil to the community. A gated subdivision—the only one in the county, 24/7 guard post, cameras in various places. Protected. A safe place for kids.
Standing on the sidewalk, he looked up and down Sled Run, stared between houses to see other homes on parallel streets that had Christmassy names. Saw children out playing in the snow.
Gated. Three roads in, all with check-points. Safe. Secure.
Bullshit.
Gated didn’t mean impervious. It didn’t mean there was a ten-foot high wall and razor wire surrounding the place. Basil knew that when he bought here. Gated did imply a measure of security, though.
Three roads in?
There were a lot more ways than that to get into this subdivision; you were only limited if you drove. His own kids dashed through yards to visit their friends. People could cut across land from outside the subdivision to get in. The golf course butted up against Christmas Lake Village, and that presented another opportunity. If someone wanted in badly enough, they’d find a way through the golf course. And it wouldn’t be all that difficult.
Excerpt Eightteen:
Fatigue winnowed its way into her bones. A yawn and a glance in the mirror on the visor showed she had raccoon eyes. Should have taken the time to dab on a little concealer.
Piper stuck the straight end of a candy cane in her mouth. The sharp, sweet taste of peppermint jabbed her senses just enough to nudge her alert. It was a few minutes past one. She’d been driving for nearly an hour, and it would take another two to reach the hospital in Indianapolis. Her dad was with her. She’d ask him to chauffeur on the way back, take a nap then. But for now, she’d rely on the peppermint.
The heat barely on, Piper had shed her coat. She needed to be just cold enough to be uncomfortable, another tactic to keep drowsiness at bay. She’d called ahead to the hospital; Millie told her Oren had awakened and would talk about the fire, and said he was asking about his cats. She also said: “Pops is depressed as all hell.”
The stretch through the Hoosier National Forest was Christmas card worthy, light snow-covered pine branches, the ground thinly blanketed. She’d picked this route, taking 64 through the woods toward Louisville, then 66 up through Scottsburg, Austin, and Seymour. On the map it looked longer, an L-shaped course rather than the seemingly straight shot that State Roads 37 or 57 offered. But this was better for time, more lanes, fewer stops, no small-town congestion. Three hours instead of three and a half. Piper always seemed to be in a hurry.
Her dad, in the passenger seat of her department Explorer, had been passing the time talking about Oren’s love of Freya, the first cat the chief deputy had acquired after previously having dogs, and regaling her with assorted stories from his and Oren’s time together in the sheriff’s department.
“I’m shpulling over at the next McDonald’s,” she announced. Her words slurred around the candy cane. “Shor Burger King, shor Dunkin’s, shor whatever.”
“Coffee?”
She nodded and took the candy cane out. “A big coffee. A really big one. I should have packed a thermos.”
“Did you get any sleep this morning?”
“Two hours, I think. Maybe three. I’m good at the moment. I’ll let you know if I’m not. I’m thinking fries, too, and a cheeseburger, no onions. Drive while I dine. I’m hungry.”
“A double cheeseburger,” he said.
Fatigue winnowed its way into her bones. A yawn and a glance in the mirror on the visor showed she had raccoon eyes. Should have taken the time to dab on a little concealer.
Piper stuck the straight end of a candy cane in her mouth. The sharp, sweet taste of peppermint jabbed her senses just enough to nudge her alert. It was a few minutes past one. She’d been driving for nearly an hour, and it would take another two to reach the hospital in Indianapolis. Her dad was with her. She’d ask him to chauffeur on the way back, take a nap then. But for now, she’d rely on the peppermint.
The heat barely on, Piper had shed her coat. She needed to be just cold enough to be uncomfortable, another tactic to keep drowsiness at bay. She’d called ahead to the hospital; Millie told her Oren had awakened and would talk about the fire, and said he was asking about his cats. She also said: “Pops is depressed as all hell.”
The stretch through the Hoosier National Forest was Christmas card worthy, light snow-covered pine branches, the ground thinly blanketed. She’d picked this route, taking 64 through the woods toward Louisville, then 66 up through Scottsburg, Austin, and Seymour. On the map it looked longer, an L-shaped course rather than the seemingly straight shot that State Roads 37 or 57 offered. But this was better for time, more lanes, fewer stops, no small-town congestion. Three hours instead of three and a half. Piper always seemed to be in a hurry.
Her dad, in the passenger seat of her department Explorer, had been passing the time talking about Oren’s love of Freya, the first cat the chief deputy had acquired after previously having dogs, and regaling her with assorted stories from his and Oren’s time together in the sheriff’s department.
“I’m shpulling over at the next McDonald’s,” she announced. Her words slurred around the candy cane. “Shor Burger King, shor Dunkin’s, shor whatever.”
“Coffee?”
She nodded and took the candy cane out. “A big coffee. A really big one. I should have packed a thermos.”
“Did you get any sleep this morning?”
“Two hours, I think. Maybe three. I’m good at the moment. I’ll let you know if I’m not. I’m thinking fries, too, and a cheeseburger, no onions. Drive while I dine. I’m hungry.”
“A double cheeseburger,” he said.
Excerpt Nineteen:
“Talk to me, Dad,” Piper coaxed.
“I have been talking to you.”
“Tell me about this lawsuit against you and Oren.” Traffic was blessedly light along this stretch, and that let Piper prod the Explorer five miles above the posted limit. She’d thought about turning on her lights and siren, cranking the speed. She was in a hurry, but that wouldn’t be right, not an emergency, as Oren wasn’t going anywhere. The wintry countryside passed by, and she spotted a big Dutch barn with a steep pitched roof to the east. An old design, not many of them around anymore.
“Punkin’, I really don’t think—” Paul frowned. “How about some music? A little radio roulette? Spin the dial and—”
“Like I mentioned before, I have a meeting Monday with DA Scales, our regular monthly go-round. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s going on. You hinted my department might get sued, too. So, talk to me before I talk to Scales.”
Paul let out a deep sigh that sounded like dirt blowing across a dry field. “Oh, hell. All right. It goes way back.”
Paul drummed his fingers against the seatbelt clasp. He wore his Santa Claus Police Department uniform, even though this was a day off for him. “The lawsuit is because of something that happened before you were born. It was one of the first big arrests I made working for the sheriff’s department.”
He glanced out the side window, his breath hitting the glass and fogging it. “Remember asking me about Lefty Jay?”
Piper nodded. In November she’d noticed an older man with droopy jeans and frizzled hair walking past the department. Later, she saw him sitting on a bench in front of the hardware store. He was reading a Val McDermid paperback, holding it close to his face. Piper’s path had taken her past him. She’d paused to chat, thinking he might be homeless or needed help; he had that look, rumpled clothes, dirty hands.
His ruddy face was wrinkled like a raisin, and he smelled of old sweat. He’d said: “You tell your dad that Lefty Jay said ‘hey,’ okay?”
“Yeah. I remember mentioning Lefty Jay to you. I still see him around town, wearing only jeans and a sweater despite the cold. No idea where he’s living. Over really good pie you told me he should still be in prison.”
“Talk to me, Dad,” Piper coaxed.
“I have been talking to you.”
“Tell me about this lawsuit against you and Oren.” Traffic was blessedly light along this stretch, and that let Piper prod the Explorer five miles above the posted limit. She’d thought about turning on her lights and siren, cranking the speed. She was in a hurry, but that wouldn’t be right, not an emergency, as Oren wasn’t going anywhere. The wintry countryside passed by, and she spotted a big Dutch barn with a steep pitched roof to the east. An old design, not many of them around anymore.
“Punkin’, I really don’t think—” Paul frowned. “How about some music? A little radio roulette? Spin the dial and—”
“Like I mentioned before, I have a meeting Monday with DA Scales, our regular monthly go-round. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s going on. You hinted my department might get sued, too. So, talk to me before I talk to Scales.”
Paul let out a deep sigh that sounded like dirt blowing across a dry field. “Oh, hell. All right. It goes way back.”
Paul drummed his fingers against the seatbelt clasp. He wore his Santa Claus Police Department uniform, even though this was a day off for him. “The lawsuit is because of something that happened before you were born. It was one of the first big arrests I made working for the sheriff’s department.”
He glanced out the side window, his breath hitting the glass and fogging it. “Remember asking me about Lefty Jay?”
Piper nodded. In November she’d noticed an older man with droopy jeans and frizzled hair walking past the department. Later, she saw him sitting on a bench in front of the hardware store. He was reading a Val McDermid paperback, holding it close to his face. Piper’s path had taken her past him. She’d paused to chat, thinking he might be homeless or needed help; he had that look, rumpled clothes, dirty hands.
His ruddy face was wrinkled like a raisin, and he smelled of old sweat. He’d said: “You tell your dad that Lefty Jay said ‘hey,’ okay?”
“Yeah. I remember mentioning Lefty Jay to you. I still see him around town, wearing only jeans and a sweater despite the cold. No idea where he’s living. Over really good pie you told me he should still be in prison.”
Excerpt Twenty:
To Piper, Oren had the build of a linebacker … tall, broad-shouldered, strong, physically fit. He’d always seemed far younger than his sixty-six years. But in this moment, he appeared weak and old, truly old, and all the lines and monitors and bandages were a gut-punch she’d wrongly thought herself ready for.
Her imagination had paled next to this rotten reality. Tours in the Middle East had largely inured her to the injuries fellow soldiers and insurgents suffered. But this was Oren stretched out and bandaged and hooked up, her chief deputy, burned in an arson fire set in a secure gated subdivision. A horror in a supposedly safe and rustic place.
She and Basil would find the arsonist.
The room smelled of antiseptic and something vaguely floral, though no flowers were present. Maybe there was a fragrance embedded in these white hazmat-looking outfits she and her dad wore to gain admission. Limited to two visitors, Millie had been consigned to the hall.
Oren’s voice was sandpaper, like he’d smoked a pack a day for decades. Ten years older than her father, in this moment he could have been a hundred. She edged up to the side of the bed to better hear him. Paul stood by the door, looking out into the hall.
“Freya,” Oren started.
“And your three other cats,” Piper said. “Basil has all of them.”
“Good man,” Oren replied. “But he doesn’t know cats. Told me he never had a pet.”
“He’s smart,” Piper returned. “And I’m sure—”
“You don’t know cats either.”
“I have a cat. Marmalade is—”
“—an old cat you inherited with your fine house.” Oren coughed and his shoulders bounced against the pillow. One of the lines on a monitor did an erratic zigzag jump before evening out again. “Cats orient to places, they have favorite spots in a house, are territorial. They don’t know Basil’s house. And they don’t know Basil. Have Basil call me. Or I’ll call him. Millie’s going to get me a new cell phone. My cats need to be set up in a room to themselves, the laundry room, a spare bedroom, someplace quiet so they can get settled. And his kids … they shouldn’t play with them for a while. My cats aren’t used to rambunctious kids, I don’t want them scratching or hissing or—”
“Basil’s wife, Esme, took them to the vet’s this morning, made sure they were okay.” Piper noticed some color had appeared on the few parts of his face that weren’t bandaged, worked up over his cats. One monitor showed an increased heart rate.
“I’ll pay her for that, the vet trip. You tell her.”
To Piper, Oren had the build of a linebacker … tall, broad-shouldered, strong, physically fit. He’d always seemed far younger than his sixty-six years. But in this moment, he appeared weak and old, truly old, and all the lines and monitors and bandages were a gut-punch she’d wrongly thought herself ready for.
Her imagination had paled next to this rotten reality. Tours in the Middle East had largely inured her to the injuries fellow soldiers and insurgents suffered. But this was Oren stretched out and bandaged and hooked up, her chief deputy, burned in an arson fire set in a secure gated subdivision. A horror in a supposedly safe and rustic place.
She and Basil would find the arsonist.
The room smelled of antiseptic and something vaguely floral, though no flowers were present. Maybe there was a fragrance embedded in these white hazmat-looking outfits she and her dad wore to gain admission. Limited to two visitors, Millie had been consigned to the hall.
Oren’s voice was sandpaper, like he’d smoked a pack a day for decades. Ten years older than her father, in this moment he could have been a hundred. She edged up to the side of the bed to better hear him. Paul stood by the door, looking out into the hall.
“Freya,” Oren started.
“And your three other cats,” Piper said. “Basil has all of them.”
“Good man,” Oren replied. “But he doesn’t know cats. Told me he never had a pet.”
“He’s smart,” Piper returned. “And I’m sure—”
“You don’t know cats either.”
“I have a cat. Marmalade is—”
“—an old cat you inherited with your fine house.” Oren coughed and his shoulders bounced against the pillow. One of the lines on a monitor did an erratic zigzag jump before evening out again. “Cats orient to places, they have favorite spots in a house, are territorial. They don’t know Basil’s house. And they don’t know Basil. Have Basil call me. Or I’ll call him. Millie’s going to get me a new cell phone. My cats need to be set up in a room to themselves, the laundry room, a spare bedroom, someplace quiet so they can get settled. And his kids … they shouldn’t play with them for a while. My cats aren’t used to rambunctious kids, I don’t want them scratching or hissing or—”
“Basil’s wife, Esme, took them to the vet’s this morning, made sure they were okay.” Piper noticed some color had appeared on the few parts of his face that weren’t bandaged, worked up over his cats. One monitor showed an increased heart rate.
“I’ll pay her for that, the vet trip. You tell her.”