A Question of Fire

By Karen McCullough

When Cathy Bennett agrees to attend an important party as a favor for her boss, she knows she won't enjoy it. But she doesn't expect to end up holding a dying man in her arms and becoming the recipient of his last message. Bobby Stark has evidence that will prove his younger brother has been framed for arson and murder. He wants that evidence to get to his brother's lawyer, and he tries to tell Cathy where he's hidden it. But he dies before he can give her more than a cryptic piece of the location.

The man who killed Bobby saw him talking to her and assumes she knows where the evidence is hidden. He wants it back and he'll do whatever it takes to get it, including following her and trying to kidnap her.

Cathy enlists the aid of attorney Peter Lowell and Danny Stark, Bobby's prickly, difficult younger brother, as well as a handsome private detective to help her find the evidence before the killers do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen McCullough
• Release date: Feb 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452411699

Karen McCullough

Karen McCullough is the author of ten published novels in the mystery, romantic suspense, and fantasy genres and has won numerous awards, including an Eppie Award for fantasy. She’s also been a four-time Eppie finalist, and a finalist in the Prism, Dream Realm, Rising Star, Lories, Scarlett Letter, and Vixen Awards contests. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies and numerous small press publications in the fantasy, science fiction, and romance genres. Her most recent release is A GIFT FOR MURDER, published in hardcover by Five Star/Gale Group Mysteries. She invites visitors to check out her home on the web at http://www.kmccullough.com and her site for the Market Center Mysteries series, http://www.marketcentermysteries.com

Book preview

-1-

Wednesday

Miss!

The word slithered from the bushes behind her, startling Catherine Bennett out of the few wits she'd managed to recover in the peace of the dark, quiet garden. Thready strains of violin music and the buzz of voices drifted across the lawn from the open door of the house. In the light spilling out, she could distinguish a couple of people sitting at a table on the deck. Cathy measured the distance with her eye. A good, heavy-duty scream would be heard, even over the party noises.

Please, miss! Tense urgency drove the voice as it called again.

She didn't need this. The evening had been disastrous enough already and a man hiding in the garden spelled trouble with capital letters. She got up and backed away while turning to face the source of the call.

Don't run away, please, he begged. I won't hurt you. I promise. I just want to ask you something.

A ring of sincerity in his pleading tone kept her from sprinting straight back to the house, an action the more cautious part of her brain urged. Cathy strained for a look at the person in the shrubbery. The voice was male and adult, though probably not very old. Come out where I can see you, she demanded.

Shhh! he ordered in a fierce whisper. Leaves rustled, and a slender shape detached itself from the bushes. In the darkness, she couldn't distinguish his features.

A light breeze in her face set her shivering. What do you want? She backed another step away. They both jumped when a particularly loud laugh rang across the yard.

He turned to face the house. You been at the party?

At it, not of it, Cathy thought. She didn't say so; the young man wouldn't understand the distinction. Yes, she answered.

You know a guy named Peter Lowell?

Yes, she admitted, wondering where this was leading.

The young man's in-drawn breath sounded almost like a sob. He's in there, ain't he?

Yes.

Could you ask him to come out here?

I don't know. We just met tonight and I... I don’t think he likes me very much. He might not come.

Please. It's real important. You gotta try. A quiver shook the young man's body and voice. Tension or fear—or both? Whichever it was, he sounded near the breaking point.

All right. Who should I tell him is here?

The clouds drifted apart and the moon emerged from their shadow. A sliver of light fell across his cheek and glinted off the sheen of perspiration there. Tell him... Tell him it's Bobby. He'll come, I promise.

Cathy sighed. All right, I'll try. Wait here. She turned toward the house when another noise came from behind—the crackle of twigs or dried leaves underfoot.

Bobby's head jerked toward the bushes, then he called again, Wait! There was no mistaking the sheer desperation in his voice now. Please. Wait. He looked from her face to the shrubbery and back again. I better give you the message. Tell this to Mr. Lowell and no one else. Promise you won't tell anyone else?

Cathy went back to him, found one of his arms, and pulled him into the shadow of a large boxwood. The arm she held was trembling. All right, she said. What's the message?

The young man looked around the yard and took a couple of quick, shallow breaths. Tell him Danny was framed. I got the proof. Tell him—

Another rustle shook the bushes, followed by a sudden, sharp crack which reverberated for a few seconds afterward. Bobby groaned and collapsed, sagging against her. The abrupt burden of his weight drove her to the ground, where she found herself half-crushed by the young man's bulk. She moved out from under him, a rush of adrenaline sharpening her senses until she heard, over Bobby's ragged breathing, the squish of a footstep in the shrubbery and the churning of leaves and branches fading rapidly as the gunman retreated.

Cathy stood and started toward the brush to follow the noise, then changed her mind when a choked groan from Bobby called her back. He sprawled motionless on the ground where she'd pushed him when she stood. The moonlight provided little illumination, but a new, large smudge stained the young man's light shirt. Please. Tell Lowell— He choked on the words.

Cathy found one of his hands and tried to tell him to be still, to be quiet, she'd get help. His breathing was harsh, rattling, and difficult.

Bobby moved his head in a bare negative motion. Tell Lowell... He worked for a breath. God, please... He tried again. Danny... He paused and the hand she held clenched. In the air...

Breath and strength deserted him at the same time. The fingers clasping hers went slack and slid out of her grasp.

Cathy did scream then, yelling for help at the top of her voice, though she knew the man on the ground was beyond assistance. She stood and ran back to the house. People responding to her cry met her as she got to the bottom of the stairs, and she managed to choke out the words to explain that someone needed to call the police and an ambulance.

When a man said he'd make the calls, she went back to the site of the shooting, leading a knot of strangers. The young man still sprawled, face up and unmoving, on the grass. Cathy collapsed beside him. She took his hand again and held it while they waited in the darkness. She asked one of the people to find Peter Lowell and bring him. She shivered as the breeze blew across her bare arms, but the tears sliding down her face burned.

Other people joined the group and several pressed questions on her. She explained only that she'd met this person in the garden and he'd been shot by a sniper while they'd talked. Someone brought a flashlight and, by its glow, they ascertained that the young man was indeed dead. Cathy looked away after her first view of him. Stripped of personality, the face told her what she'd already known: he'd been young. The crowd was beginning to overwhelm her when she heard a voice she thought she recognized asking to be allowed through.

Lowell? she said.

A flashlight swung toward the newcomer, picking out a tall, slender man in a gray suit. The beam glinted in his blond hair and reflected off the lenses of thick glasses.

Yes, he answered. What's—? He stopped abruptly. God Almighty!

The light had moved back to shine on Cathy. She must look even worse than she knew. She lifted a hand to him and saw it was red with blood; she let it fall back into her lap and shut her eyes against the glare.

Turn that away! Lowell ordered the man with the torch. You wanted me? he asked.

He wanted you. She gestured toward the man on the ground. He was trying to get a message to you.

Who is it?

He said his name was Bobby.

Bobby? The name meant something to him. Lowell went down on one knee beside the body.

He's dead, Cathy warned.

Dead! She heard his shock. Bobby? Are you sure?

I'm not a doctor, but, yes, I'm sure.

Dead? No. Pain sharpened Lowell's voice to a thin wire of sound. Oh God, no. His hand moved to the dead man's throat, felt for a pulse, then reached to smooth the hair. He was trying to get a message to me? He stopped and swallowed hard. Did he say what the message was?

Yes, Cathy said.

What—? The sharp blaze of a siren cut through the night and the chatter of the crowd. Lowell surveyed the people gathered around them. Later, he said, and Cathy nodded agreement. The siren approached and swooped into the driveway, silenced abruptly as the police car reached the end of the driveway at the back of the house. Blue lights swirled, reflecting off trees, grass and crowd, throwing crazy shadows over them all. Another siren heralded the arrival of an ambulance seconds later. People piled out of the vehicles, hauling lights, weapons, and medical equipment.

-2-

Wednesday - Thursday

Cathy floated through the rest of the night cushioned by a haze of shock, but the time still seemed to drag. She remembered standing over a cracked basin in a shabby police department restroom, making a futile effort to wash the blood off her dress. Sort of remembered, anyway; her eyes had traced the cracks in the stained basin as though they might provide a map to describe her course through the evening. The effort didn't save her clothes, in any case, but she did get the red smears off her hands and arms. She'd stared into the mirror for a long time, wondering if that pale, shadowed face really belonged to her.

It wasn't until she joined several official types, including a tired, rumpled man who identified himself as Lieutenant Norfolk, in a conference room that she began to emerge from the fog. A cup of hot, strong coffee helped. She must have called her editor, too, at some point. Ray clomped into the room an hour later, in the midst of her second detailed recounting of the events of the evening.

He plopped into a chair in a corner, nodded to her, shut his eyes, and gave a good imitation of falling asleep. Cathy wasn't fooled. Ray might look like a large, sloppy puppy, but the mind behind the unruly brown hair and rounded features was sharp and alert. More than could be said of her at that point.

Lieutenant Norfolk flashed a glance toward Ray, then at another person in the room, and resumed his questioning. Miss Bennett, you said you'd gone out to the garden to get some fresh air. There wasn't anyone else out there at the time?

Ray opened his eyes and looked at her, raising curious eyebrows. He didn't say anything, but his stare echoed the doubts in the lieutenant's tone.

There were people outside, Cathy said, but they were all on the deck or close to the house. I was at the other end of the yard.

The lieutenant swirled the brew in his styrofoam coffee cup. You were at the party on business? Representing the newspaper, you said.

The society editor was sick. Cathy glared at Ray. I agreed to take her place. Just for tonight.

It's not your regular beat?

I cover local government. I’m pretty new at it, though.

You just moved here to North Carolina?

From Florida, she confirmed.

You'd finished your work for the paper when you went outside?

No. Cathy sighed, a long exhalation that took some of her tension and shock with it. I was taking a break. I don't really like parties very much, and it had been a rough evening.

The social scene isn't your favorite area? The lieutenant's lips twisted into a sympathetic grimace.

Cathy looked down into her cup and shrugged. I'm your basic social klutz, she admitted. And I'd already outdone myself tonight. She hoped no one would ask for the details. She almost squirmed remembering some of them. She'd barely arrived at the house when the lavish sprays of roses had set off a sneezing fit, and while rummaging in her bag for a tissue, she’d managed to land an elbow in the solar plexus of Horace Carter, a prominent and powerful businessman in the city, almost knocking him off his feet. His gallantry and good-humor about the accident had failed to relieve her chagrin.

Then there was the cracker incident and her subsequent conversation with Gary Terril, which had seemed for a while to reverse the fortunes of the evening. The assistant district attorney was handsome, personable, charming and had a good line of banter. Their interchange had lightened the burden of duty for a while. Until she'd looked up to see the man she'd later learned was Peter Lowell glaring at her with enough venom to supply a rattlesnake convention. Worse yet, Gary's wife, Lydia, had sought her shortly thereafter to stake a prior claim in the gentlest, friendliest way possible.

Cathy shook herself out of her reverie when she realized the lieutenant was watching her. He didn't ask for her thoughts, but shifted his cup from hand to hand a couple of times. Tell me about the victim—about Bobby. Everything he said.

Cathy quoted again the young man's words as best she could remember them, nagged by a feeling of guilt when she repeated his request that she not give the message to anyone other than Peter Lowell. Would he still feel the same way now? The situation had radically changed.

You got the impression he was afraid? the lieutenant asked.

Cathy considered the dregs in the bottom of her cup. He was terrified. And desperate.

He didn't tell you who he thought was after him? You think it was someone he knew?

No idea. He didn't say anything about it. But he glanced toward the bushes a couple of times like he knew he'd been followed.

He didn't say why someone wanted to kill him?

She shook her head. I got the impression it was because of the message. The one he was trying to get to Lowell.

Tell Lowell that Danny was framed, the lieutenant repeated thoughtfully. I've got the proof; in the air. He paused and picked little pieces of styrofoam out of the top of the cup. It doesn't help us much.

No. Cathy looked at the clock, amazed to discover it was only twelve-thirty. It felt like four in the morning.

You'd never met the deceased before tonight?

Never. I still don't know his last name.

He ignored the hint. What about Peter Lowell—you knew him?

Not before tonight. We were introduced at the party.

The policeman wiped bits of plastic off his suit. You told the deceased you weren't sure Lowell would come if you asked him. Why?

He didn't seem—I don't know, Cathy said. He wasn't very polite or friendly when we met, and he seemed to have something against me.

You don't know what?

Cathy shrugged; she hadn't understood Peter Lowell's antagonism. He saw me talking to another man, and he seemed annoyed about it, but I don't see why that... She gave up. The thought wasn't going anywhere.

You've never met Lowell in the course of your work?

Should I have? Cathy asked. The name sounds familiar, but I'm sure we haven't met before.

He's a lawyer. Criminal. He's argued a couple of cases that've gotten a lot of ink.

I thought I recognized the name. The coffee was beginning to hit her bloodstream and the fog dispersed. Was he defending Bobby—the deceased?

Not recently, the lieutenant answered.

You know who Bobby is, don't you?

The policeman looked at Ray, then back at her. We have an I.D., but we have to ask you not to print it until the family can be notified.

She nodded agreement. That was standard practice.

Bobby was Robert William Stark. Age 22.

Record, I presume? she asked.

Lieutenant Norfolk chugged the remains of the coffee and grimaced. Dealing drugs. Several years ago. No conviction, though. He seems to've stayed clean the last few years; had a steady job in an auto shop.

Married?

No, but there's a girlfriend. She's seven months pregnant.

Lord.

Yeah, he agreed. It's going to be kind of tough on her.

Cathy sat up straighter as another thought occurred to her. Do you know who Danny is?

Norfolk looked at her, then at Ray as though debating how much to tell them. Daniel Wayne Stark is Bobby's brother. He's next door, waiting trial.

Charges?

Arson and murder.

Arson?

Remember the fire at the old Youngblood apartments a couple of weeks ago? Danny Stark was found unconscious on the premises with gasoline on his hands and a cigarette lighter in his pocket.

Unconscious?

The place was old. Had a lot of wood in it. We figure it must've blazed quicker than he'd anticipated. A beam fell on him while he was trying to get out.

A man was killed in that fire, Cathy remembered.

That's why we've got a murder charge.

But Bobby said he had proof his brother was innocent.

Norfolk frowned at her. He came to us last week and said the same thing. Turns out someone in a bar said something about a fire. Bobby didn't even know the person's name.

He seemed awfully sure of what he had tonight, Cathy said.

The lieutenant sighed and rubbed a finger along the side of his nose. Bobby Stark was a forty-watt bulb. He didn't have a clue. Don't pin any hopes on it, Miss Bennett; the case against Danny Stark is solid. He's guilty.

But somebody killed Bobby, she pointed out.

Yeah. Norfolk sighed again but didn't volunteer anything more.

What's the connection with Peter Lowell? Is he defending Danny?

He got Bobby off a few years ago; I guess Bobby called him to help his brother.

Does Danny have a criminal record?

Got a record with the juvenile authorities, mostly small-potatoes stuff.

No other adult arrests? Cathy asked.

One misdemeanor assault seven months ago. Bar fight. He's just barely eighteen.

I see. Cathy sighed, feeling the effects of the evening dragging at her spirits.

The discussion continued for another half hour, mostly reviewing facts already covered. Neither of them learned anything new. Ray finally got up, asked if they were finished, then excused both himself and Cathy, all but dragging her out of the room. We have a story to turn in, he reminded her.

Fatigue weighed her limbs, but she dutifully went along with him and managed to compose a story for the morning's edition. She suspected, though, that if Ray hadn't been editing right behind her, the article wouldn't have been comprehensible.

When she finally got home to her apartment, the clock said four-twenty. Cathy tore off her clothes and left them, uncharacteristically, in a heap when she rinsed under the shower, then dove into bed.

The blare of the phone woke her shortly before seven. A local TV reporter wanted to interview her for their early morning newscast. In a sleepy haze, she told him she'd call him later and hung up, then changed her mind, took the phone off the hook and buried it under a chair cushion.

The next time she woke, the clock read twelve twenty-three. Cathy stared at it in disbelief. Earlier, she'd been too exhausted to bother to reset the alarm. She took another shower, debated between breakfast and lunch, a semantic question since she intended to have an egg and toast in any case. Considering the hour, she decided to call it lunch. Only when a second cup of coffee hit her system did she begin to feel normal again.

By the time she was fed, dressed, groomed, and crossing the gravel parking lot to her car, she was also working her excuses for being late into a speech that would convince Ray to give her the time and flexibility to work on the murder story. Even if she hadn't been so preoccupied, she probably wouldn't have noticed the dark gray Chrysler pull out of a space several hundred feet up the lot. Cars came and went all day long.

The sudden, straining roar of a motor responding to a heavy foot on the accelerator made her look up. Shock froze her in place when she realized a couple of tons of glinting metal and glass were bearing down on her with reckless speed and careful aim.

-3-

Thursday

She stood transfixed, frozen like a squirrel that can't figure out which way to jump. She'd just made the decision when her body was jolted from behind, arms wrapped around her, and a lunge not of her own volition carried her out of the path of the vehicle. She and her rescuer landed together on the pavement several feet away, rolling and sliding, collecting scratches and gouges from the rough surface.

The car roared past, out of the parking lot. Cathy twisted her neck to look at it and tried to lever herself to make out the license plate. The body sprawled across her own defeated her attempt as the two of them decided to get up at the same time and, instead, managed to end up tangled together in a knot of limbs. The man gathered his breath and collected himself enough to roll over and away, swearing fluently but without malice. He rose to a sitting position on the pavement and stayed there, surveying her with a frown which finally melted into a crooked grin. Cathy shook her hair back and pushed up to face him.

He seemed content to examine her wordlessly, so she felt free to do the same. He was worth a stare or two. Curly black hair and aquamarine eyes graced the sort of face that belonged on a television or movie screen. He was almost too beautiful to be true, but a touch of sardonic humor in the lines around his eyes and mouth redeemed his features from perfection.

She broke the silence when it threatened to become uncomfortable. I haven't had much practice thanking someone who's just saved my life, so this may be less than graceful. But my appreciation is heartfelt, believe me. She rubbed a bruise on her leg. Felt a few other places, too. She tried to finger-comb her hair back into place.

The frown reappeared. Are you all right? he asked.

Fine, thanks.

He got to his feet and offered a hand. She accepted the assistance and winced as he helped her up.

He looked worried. You're sure you're not hurt?

Nothing ten minutes in a ladies' room won't cure.

Good. His expression lightened, and he smoothed back his own hair. It was a near thing, though. Careless bastard, zipping along the parking lot like that, not watching where he was going.

Careless? Cathy looked up and down the strip of parking spaces separating one block of apartments from another. I wonder.

The man stared at her. What else could it be? Does someone have a grudge against you?

She shrugged. Not that I know of, but...

But what?

Just... I don't know. Probably my imagination. Hey, look, I really appreciate your help. Do you live around here? I'll be glad to pay for cleaning your clothes.

He shook his head. I'll take care of it. No, I don't live here. And I came to see someone.

Oh. Well, I don't want to hold you up any longer. I'd better run, I'm late for work already, but thanks again.

He didn't move, just watched her steadily, a small grin playing around his mouth. You're not holding me up. You're Catherine Bennett, aren't you? I came here to talk to you.

Me? Why?

It's a long story. Can we go somewhere more... private to talk?

Cathy glanced at her watch. I owe you a lot, and I really am grateful, but I'm also really late for work. Do you think I could meet you somewhere later on?

The lines around his mouth tightened and deepened, but his tone remained even. Do you get a break for dinner?

Yes.

Good. What time? Can I pick you up at your office?

"You know where the Journal office is? Seven okay?"

He agreed. Cathy said goodbye and got into her car. No one commented on her tardiness at the office. On the whole, she would've preferred they had—compared with what would be said later.

Ray's door was shut when she arrived, and she knew better than to disturb him. A message waiting on her desk requested she call Peter Lowell's office. It didn't surprise Cathy to learn the lawyer wanted to see her. His secretary gave her an appointment for four that afternoon, which she accepted, hoping she'd be able to wangle the time off.

She also called the police to report the attempt on her life. The officer dutifully recorded the details but warned her that, failing a license number or adequate description of the driver, they couldn't promise any results. They'd try, though. And, no, Lieutenant Norfolk wasn't on duty now. Call him back this evening.

Ray's door remained closed, so she tackled the rest of the junk on her desk: a memorandum about leave policy, the latest update on the newspaper's group health insurance plan, assorted press releases she put aside to sort later, two letters in response to columns she'd written—one outraged, the other complimentary—and a chance to win five million dollars in somebody's sweepstakes.

Finally, the door opened and Cathy started towards it. She stopped when she saw who occupied the other chair in Ray's office. Despite her ultra-ladylike air, Adelaide Stinson, society editor, could be a human volcano when aroused, and the noises emanating from the room indicated an eruption was pending, if not already in process.

Cathy tried to back away, but too late. Ray saw her, gestured her into the room, and didn't ask the other woman to leave before he shut the door again.

Adelaide was a picture in a short-sleeved knit top whose shade of pink echoed precisely the color of the flowers printed on the spring-green wraparound skirt. Pink espadrilles of the same shade as shirt and flowers completed the ensemble. Every strand of her rinsed blonde hair occupied its assigned position. Adelaide was pushing fifty, but still trying to convince the world she was under forty.

There were three chairs in the room, so Cathy took the last one. Adelaide watched, blue eyes shooting sparks; she was the only person Cathy knew who could look demure even when furious. The woman didn't wait for Ray, but started in as soon as Cathy settled into the seat.

Young lady, don't you know that when the newspaper sends you to a social function in the community, it's placing the highest degree of trust in you? You occupy a position of utmost delicacy and responsibility. The people who accept your presence at their functions trust the paper will send someone who knows how to behave with decorum, someone who won't embarrass them.

She stopped to draw a quick breath. Last night you were placed in that position, and you betrayed that trust disgracefully. You created an awkward and embarrassing scene for the hosts; you completely ruined their party, in fact. Adelaide was warming to the subject. You had no business being outside alone in the darkness, and you most certainly shouldn't have been consorting with some low type who had the bad taste to bring his sordid affairs to an event where they didn't belong.

Bad taste? Cathy sputtered, torn between fury and astonishment. Bad taste? She drew a deep breath. Okay, I suppose murder is in bad taste.

Ray lowered his face into his hands and said nothing.

Adelaide missed the sarcasm. It most certainly is, and your part was even worse. I intend to see the paper never allows you to cover an event of such importance again. I don't know what they teach young ladies in college these days. Certainly not proper behavior.

Cathy looked at