The Arsonist

She jumped to her feet. “No problem. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

Standing, he held up his hand to stop her. “I want you to keep me posted. Call me every day or two. Gannon won’t be easy to crack. Can be a real son of a bitch from what I remember.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be.”

Just the idea of this story had her nerves humming. “Michael Gannon will talk to me. I can guarantee it.”

Chapter 2

The perky Surprise, I’m home! Darcy Sampson had practiced on the car ride down Interstate 81 died on her lips when she saw flames shooting out of a frying pan on her family’s restaurant’s industrial kitchen stove.

For a moment, she stood, dumbstruck, her green duffel bag gripped in her hand as flames licked the sides of the stove’s greasy exhaust hood and black smoke filled the restaurant kitchen.

“Fire!” Darcy shouted.

Her mother, a short plump woman with graying hair, whirled around from the sink where she’d been washing dishes. Panicking, she grabbed a full glass of water and raced toward the fire.

Darcy dropped her bags. “No, Mom, don’t!”

Her mother tossed the cold water on the hot grease in the pan. Immediately, the fire exploded higher, spilling over the sides of the stove. Hot oil spattered like a Roman candle. Mrs. Sampson screamed and jumped back as oil peppered her arm.

The smoke detector started to screech through the entire building. Darcy ran down the shotgun style kitchen to the pantry. There she grabbed a large box of flour and rushed toward the blaze. Without hesitating, she dumped the entire box on the flames. The fire died instantly.

Her heart pounding, Darcy set the empty tub down on the island in the center of the kitchen and rubbed a shaking hand to her forehead. “Mom, you know how to put out a grease fire.” White flour coated Darcy’s fingers, the stove and the mud-brown linoleum floor. She looked down at her black silk pants suit now dusted with flour. “I just had this dry-cleaned.”

Her mother glanced impatiently up at the smoke detector that still wailed. She started to wave her apron in the air under the blaring smoke detector. “Help me turn this thing off. I don’t need the fire department knocking on my door.”

Darcy grabbed a stepladder, and in high heeled boots climbed up the steps and disconnected the smoke detector. She pulled the battery out of the back of it. Blessed silence filled the room.

Darcy climbed down and shut off the gas to the burner under the frying pan now covered with a thick coat of flour. She set down the battery and faced her mother. “Did you burn yourself?”

Her mother pursed her lips. “I’m fine.”

The speckled burns on her mother’s arms said otherwise. Darcy went to the sink, turned on the tap and soaked a handful of paper towels in the cool water. She rang out the excess water.

“Let me see your arms.”

“I’m fine,” her mother said, her tone brusque.

Darcy swallowed her frustration and took her mother’s arm in hand. Gently she started to clean her arm.

Her mother winced. “That hurts. Don’t be so rough.”

“You need some antibiotic ointment on that.”

Her mother pulled her arm away. “It’s not that bad.”

She’d been home less than two minutes and already she and her mother were arguing. It had to be a record. “Mom, you wouldn’t admit to third-degree burns even if they covered your body.”

Mrs. Sampson took the towels from Darcy. “I’ve managed to take care of myself all these years while you’ve been up north with your big city job.”

Darcy’s defenses rose. But instead of taking the bait, she went to the swinging doors that led to the dining room so that she could calm the customers.

To her surprise, the row of booths covered in green vinyl and the seats around the mahogany bar were empty.

She checked her watch. Two o’clock. The lunch hour had passed, but normally there’d be a half a dozen folks eating a late lunch.

As she glanced around the deserted room, she realized the place hadn’t changed in twenty years. It still smelled of stale cigarettes and beer and was decorated with her brother’s football memorabilia, including jerseys from his peewee days through his brief time with the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Growing up, Darcy had jokingly called the room The Shrine, though deep inside it hurt knowing her parents’ world revolved solely around her brother. She’d been all but invisible to them.

“Where is everyone?” she asked. She ignored the tightness in her chest and walked back into the kitchen.

“We don’t open for lunch anymore.” Her mother surveyed the mess around the stove as she pushed a trembling hand through her short gray hair. “We open at five now.”

That surprised her. “Why? The lunch crowd was always profitable.”

Her mother got a broom from a small closet by the back door. “Trevor says lunch is more trouble than it is worth. The real money is made at dinner and the bar.”

Her brother, Trevor, had become the tavern manager after their father’s death last year. Trevor had just been cut from the Steelers and was at loose ends. At the time, his managing the restaurant had seemed like a win-win solution for everyone.

“Dad never missed an opportunity to make money. He only closed on Christmas Day. Trevor’s decision must have Dad rolling in his grave.”

Jan Sampson shot an annoyed glance her daughter’s way. She wasn’t willing to discuss Trevor’s managerial decisions. But instead of saying so, she diverted the conversation to another topic. “Good Lord, I’ve never seen a fire jump like that.”

Darcy could feel a headache coming on. “I get the hint—Trevor is perfect.” It had been six years since she’d moved away from home, but it surprised her how deep old resentments still ran.

Her mother ignored the comment.

Darcy drew in a calming breath. This visit home was going to work. “What caused the fire, Mom?”

Her mother tugged down the edges of her Steelers yellow T-shirt. “I was frying potatoes when I noticed there were dishes to be put away. I got distracted. The next thing I know, you’re screaming fire.”

“You could have burned the whole place down.”

Anger flashed in her mother’s eyes. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Darcy pushed aside her annoyance. She’d come home for a story—not a tender family reunion. “I was fired.” The lie tumbled over her lips easily. She’d decided on the drive down that honesty wasn’t the best policy if she were going to get Gannon to talk to her. Her mother couldn’t keep a secret.

Mrs. Sampson stopped her sweeping. “Fired?”

Darcy shoved her hands in her pockets. She’d rehearsed this conversation on the drive down. “A week ago.”

“You were always in the center of trouble as a kid.”

“Straight As was how I remember it,” she said, her anger rising. “And I worked in our family’s restaurant full time all the way through college.”