Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery Read online

  “Not specifically.” I lifted the bag to change the subject. “I’ll get this in a locker and catch you later. Have fun in court.”

  “You know it.”

  I turned the evidence over to the technicians and was heading for the door when a call came over Channel 4, the fire channel, on the sheriff’s radio. “Paging Oak Lea Fire Department. Barn on fire in Blackwood Township at Twenty-four sixty-three Collins Avenue. Paging Oak Lea Fire.”

  My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as the image of that Collins Avenue barn came to mind. It was about the same age as my mother’s, built in the early 1900s. It wasn’t six-sided like Mother’s, but it was historic and well-built and I admired it almost as much as I did hers.

  I was running full bore and almost lost my balance when I stopped abruptly by my car. I grabbed a quick breath, hopped in, and fired up the engine. Being off duty, I wasn’t required to report in, but it was good practice to tell Communications I was heading to the scene. I plucked the portable police radio from the passenger seat then set it back down, deciding a phone call was better.

  “Nine-one-one—”

  I cut her off. “Robin, it’s Corky. I’m heading to the barn fire scene to see what’s up.”

  “Sure thing, and thanks for letting us know.”

  Communications was busy dispatching deputies to a variety of calls. I switched to the channel reserved for fire calls and heard Oak Lea Fire Department requesting mutual aid from Emerald Lake, a town seven miles west, and about the same distance from the burning barn as Oak Lea was. I shifted into gear and drove west on the county road past the township road I lived on, and took the next left on Collins Avenue. Smoke was billowing above the trees and dissipating into the atmosphere.

  Sounds of sirens from emergency vehicles were bouncing around the countryside, and it was difficult to tell where they were all coming from. I was the second one on the scene behind Deputy Todd Mason. He was standing outside his squad car close to the home’s detached garage watching the blaze. I considered leaving my GTO on the township road, but with all the emergency vehicles en route, decided to pull onto the property instead. I headed to the opposite end of the farmstead, as far away from the barn and incoming traffic as possible.

  I got out and jogged toward Mason. He glanced my way then shifted his eyes back to the flames shooting out from a partially open door and the roof. “Damn, what is taking them so long?” he said over the roar of the blaze.

  We were standing a safe distance from the fire, but the heat was marked and increasing by the second. “The call went out five or so minutes ago, and by the sound of it, it’ll be less than a minute.” The county fire departments were staffed with volunteer firefighters. Men and women were off-site and reported to the station as fast as possible when they were paged. It amazed me how quickly they got the rigs out, considering. Some reported directly to the scene, if it was closer for them than the station was.

  Mason shook his head. “It seems like forever.”

  “Always does when you’re waiting.” I looked around the property. “Homeowners are gone?”

  “Appears so. I knocked on both the front and back doors of the house. No one answered. I took a look inside the barn—as much as I could see through the flames from a couple of the windows, that is. Did a quick search around the place, looked in the windows of the other buildings.”

  “What a thing to come home to. I think the owners that I knew of, an older couple, must have sold this place a while ago. I don’t know who lives here now.”

  “No, me either.” Todd shook his head. “The owner’s name is listed as Harding.”

  “I was wrong then. That’s the name of the folks I remember. Who called it in?”

  He frowned. “An unidentified passerby, according to Communications. Sounded like a teenage boy, but he didn’t leave a name. He was gone when I got here, not sixty seconds later. Most people that see something like this hang around to watch, at least until help arrives.”

  “Either on his way somewhere, or didn’t want to get involved, probably.”

  We quit talking as two rigs pulled into the driveway. They’d killed their sirens, but the weight of the vehicles crunching on the gravel driveway was nearly as deafening. They came to a stop, and Mason and I stayed back as two guys jumped out of each rig, dragging gear bags with them. They wasted no time as they pulled on suits, boots, helmets, and gloves.

  Oak Lea Fire Chief Corey Evans waved to Mason, and I tagged along as they met halfway. “The owners home?” Evans said.

  “No.”

  “Any sign of animals in there, did you hear any noises?” Evans dipped his head to the right, toward the barn.

  “No, and I didn’t see any when I looked in the windows. Or in the other outbuildings, either.” Besides the barn, there was as a detached garage, a chicken coop, and a small shed.

  Chief Evans nodded. “Time to get to work.”

  When the rig from Emerald Lake Fire Department arrived a few minutes later, Evans put them on stand-by in case they needed more water or additional assistance.

  I watched from a distance as they aimed the hoses at the base of the blaze. A warm summer gust carried a cool spray to my cheeks as the first timbers from the beautiful, old barn collapsed into the inferno.

  2

  Belle and Birdie

  Belle climbed from board to board up the side of the tree. They’d nailed the steps in place some years before. With athletic ease she stepped onto the sturdy lowest branch that extended horizontally from the massive trunk and sat down next to her sister. Birdie had scooted up ahead of her. Belle watched in awe as flames shot out from the narrow open slats where the old wood planks of the barn had shrunk over time and pulled apart. The dry July weather and increasingly brisk air current speeded the fire’s progress.

  They saw the Oak Lea and Emerald Lake Fire Departments arrive. The firefighters raced against time trying to get the inferno under control. But their efforts were in vain, and there was no way they would be able to save the barn.

  Belle turned to her sister to catch her reaction, but it was the same as usual. Birdie didn’t display a particular expression, or emotional response. Belle’s heart ached with disappointment. She hoped her sister would feel free at last from the burdens she had carried most of her life. That they would dissipate like the rising smoke as it lifted higher and higher toward the clouds.

  Birdie turned to Belle and nodded. It was like looking at her own reflection, but there was no sparkle in Birdie’s eyes. Would she ever see Birdie smile again?

  3

  Detective Elton Dawes was the go-to guy in the sheriff’s office for fire investigations. All five of the detectives had been through the Minnesota State Fire Marshal’s training, but Smoke was the most qualified overall. He was adept at determining whether a fire necessitated calling in the State Fire Marshal for a deeper probe. Some people thought that’s how he’d earned his nickname, but it actually went back to his teen years following an unfortunate fire incident. Besides picking up the moniker, the experience had left Smoke with a keen awareness of how quickly a spark could roar into a full blaze, especially when helped along by an accelerant. In his case, it was kerosene in an oil lamp that he had accidentally knocked over.

  Despite all the activity at the scene, my eyes were drawn to Collins Avenue and Smoke’s department-issued Chevrolet as he pulled to a stop a half block from the driveway. A number of passersby had parked a safe distance away on Collins and were sitting in their vehicles watching the action.

  The heat from the blaze felt hotter, more brutal, than the rays beating down from the late morning sun. Sweat beaded on my forehead and temples, and streams of it trickled down my spine. Smoke joined Mason and me by the house, perhaps two hundred feet from the barn.

  “What happened with court?” I said.

  He loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. “It settled. Shafer copped a plea, and that’s just as well. For him, as well as for our ta
x-paying citizens, anyway. I doubt his defense would have been strong enough to convince a jury.”

  “Probably right about that.”

  Smoke shook his head and concentrated on the firefighters’ battle. “What a gigantic bonfire, the likes of which I’ve seen only a time or two before this.”

  “There’s a ton of kindling in that big old barn,” Mason said.

  “That’s the sad truth, all right.” Smoke waved his hand toward the house. “We were here one other time, maybe seven, eight years ago. Remember that? It was a strange one,” he said.

  “Sure, the call from the young girl,” I said.

  “That’s the one. She called nine-one-one and reported her sister was dead, that she’d been killed. The girl wouldn’t give her name or any other information, so we had no idea what we’d be faced with when the four of us responded. And it turned out to be more of a mystery than anything else.”

  Mason nodded. “I was with you. It was quiet when we got here, no indication that anyone was home. We pounded on the doors and looked in the windows before we went in the house and searched. Saw no signs of a struggle or anything that looked out of place.”

  “Puzzling, for sure,” I said.

  “I left a note on their door asking them to call me. A few hours later the owner, an older guy, a Mr. Harding, finally did. I told him a nine-one-one call had come from their residence—not saying what it was about—and he was pretty mystified. Harding said he and his wife had been out all morning and didn’t know who would have been in their house. Said they should probably start locking their doors if kids are sneaking in when they’re gone. I did some follow-up, checked with neighbors, asked if they had kids, what they’d been up to, that sort of thing. But nothing panned out,” Smoke said.

  “No one wants to believe their kids would be messing around like that, falsely reporting a crime,” Mason said.

  “And a most serious one at that,” Smoke said.

  “How true. I had another call here last summer. Somebody reported a scrawny-looking dog wandering around in the yard, hanging around the house. Said it looked like it had rabies. When I got here I grabbed my shotgun afraid I’d have to shoot the poor thing, but never found it. There was an awful stench near the house, and I figured there was a rotting critter nearby,” I said.

  “I remember you talking about that at the time,” Mason said.

  “Nobody home then either,” I said.

  “Seems to be a pattern,” Mason said.

  “Same deal. I left the Hardings a note saying I’d been there and to call if they spotted the dog. They didn’t call, but when I was driving by the next day I stopped in and saw the note was gone, so I know they got it,” I said.

  “According to Communications, the Hardings are still the property owners. Robin tried to call them when the report came in, but they’d apparently dropped their landline,” Mason said.

  “Hmm. I never got to know them.” I took a step back from the heat. “They kept to themselves, but I’d notice one of them out in the yard once in a while. I was surprised when Todd said they still lived here. They’re getting up in years. Their lawn is mowed, but there hasn’t been much activity around here for a while.”

  “There’s a whole lot of it here right now,” Smoke said.

  “I’ll say.”

  The curiosity-driven crowd continued to grow, drawn like moths to flames. The firefighters worked to prevent the fire from spreading to the other buildings, knowing the barn itself was lost. By the time a fire was fully involved, it was too late. The structure had withstood the extremes of Minnesota elements for over a hundred years, yet had no defense against the spark that led to its consuming blaze. It was reduced to a smoldering heap of old blackened barn wood in short order.

  “Ever notice how a fire like that has a life of its own and assumes complete control when it gets a hold of something?” Smoke said.

  I let out a loud breath. “Good way to put it. It’s a futile effort, and the guys fighting it know there’s nothing they can do to stop it.”

  Smoke reached over, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and then made his way closer to the barn for a better look. The firefighters started gathering their equipment together, and I watched for a while feeling a bit dazed. Corey Evans was standing by a rig, so I went over to talk to him. He pulled off his gloves first, then his helmet and eye protectors. Particles of soot clung to his damp skin. He looked like he’d been in a sauna far too long, and then someone had thrown dirt at him when he got out. One of the other firefighters tossed him a quart-size bottle of water, and Evans poured some of it over his head before downing the rest in impressive gulps.

  He looked glum, downhearted. “I was afraid our tanks would run dry before we could stop her from spreading to the rest of the farm.” He waved his hand in the direction of the acres behind where the barn had stood. “Or to that dry hayfield back there. Turns out we didn’t need Emerald Lake’s supply after all, but it was nice having them on site.”

  “Mutual aid is a good thing, knowing they’re at the ready. Corey, your crew would’ve had to be here the minute the fire started for any chance of saving the barn.”

  “Yeah, I know that. And even then it’d be no guarantee. We knew she was a goner from the get-go, not what us firefighters like at all.”

  I was watching the happenings when a young woman came jogging down the driveway into the yard and caught my attention. The fire trucks were still there, and it was not the place for citizen gawkers. I hurried over and stepped in front of her, cutting her off at the pass.

  We were about the same height, with petite builds. But that’s where the similarity ended. Her dark brown hair was cut short, and she studied me with piercing, almond-shaped hazel eyes. Her intelligence and astuteness came across clearly, even in those first moments. She gave me the impression she had sized me up in a split second, faster than the average bear. A reporter? If so, she was missing the tools of her trade. Unless there was a notepad and pen tucked in the back pockets of her jeans.

  “Excuse me, I’m Sergeant Corky Aleckson. Who are you, and where do you think you’re going?”

  “This is my grandparents’ farm.” She waved her hand at the barn. “What happened?”

  “Oh, my apologies. We don’t know what caused the fire. Your grandparents aren’t home, and we haven’t been able to reach them. Do you know where they are?”

  “Yes, um, they’re in Canada. With my uncle.”

  “So sorry this happened, especially when they’re away. We’ll need to get in touch with them, let them know. And they’ll want to talk to their insurance provider, check on coverage.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” she said.

  “You have their insurance information?”

  “Yes, in the house.”

  “Okay, good. I didn’t get your name,” I said.

  “Sybil Harding.” Same last name as the property owners.

  I nodded. “The detective in charge here will want to talk to you.” I pointed in Smoke’s direction. “His name is Elton Dawes.”

  Her shoulders visibly tightened. “Why?”

  “It’s part of the investigation. And he’ll have a permission-to-search form for you to sign.”

  “I suppose. I don’t know much about how that works.” Sybil’s head lifted slightly, and her eyes moved across the scene like she didn’t comprehend what she was seeing. Not unexpected, given the circumstances.

  Smoke noticed us and walked over. He narrowed his eyes on Sybil. “Miss?”

  “Sybil Harding. I’m the owners’ granddaughter.”

  His frown deepened. “This is a real shame, and it’s gotta be a huge shock for you.” He pulled a business card out of his breast pocket and handed it to her.

  Sybil lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug then looked down and fingered the card.

  “Where are your grandparents at?” Smoke continued.

  “Canada, um, British Columbia. With my uncle,” she said.

  Smoke pulled a
memo pad from his back pocket and a pen and reading glasses from his breast pocket. He slipped on the glasses, resting the bridge halfway down his nose. “British Columbia. That’s quite a trek from here.”

  “My grandmother was born there and loved it.”

  “What’s your uncle’s name?”

  “Um, Melvin Harding.”

  “And a phone number we can reach your grandparents at?”

  She shook her head. “I communicate with them through emails instead. The cell phone service isn’t good where they are. I have power of attorney and can handle any details that need to be taken care of. My grandparents aren’t in the best of health, but I’ll keep them in the loop.”

  Smoke looked at her over the top of his glasses. “Sybil, do you have your driver’s license with you?”

  “Um, no, I forgot my wallet,” she said.

  “Then how about giving me your full name and date of birth?”

  Sybil’s response prompted me to take a closer look at her. Her birth date put her age at twenty-six, but she didn’t look a day over seventeen. Then again, most people guessed my age as younger than my thirty-one years.

  “And your address?”

  She gave one in Golden Valley, about thirty miles away then said, “I try to come out to check on things pretty often.”

  “So your grandparents have been in Canada a while?” Smoke said.

  “A couple of months.”

  “And you’re the one who’s looking after things. Where are your parents?”

  “Um, they live in New Mexico now. We don’t talk all that often, and I don’t have their address memorized,” she said.

  “Not much communication with them?”

  “No. They’ve got a busy life down there, I guess.”

  Smoke snuck a glance at her. “Do you have the name of your grandparents’ insurance provider?”

  Sybil frowned and tipped her head slightly like she was trying to understand the question. When she hadn’t answered after a long moment, Smoke said, “So we know where to send the report when we wrap up our investigation.”