Flashover. Dana Mentink
the table. He mumbled something.
“What did he say?”
Tim shrugged. “Numbers, I think. What did you say, Moe?”
The man’s mouth worked for a second until he muttered again in a louder voice. “M4e2d7s9c3i6z5t5r472cla0n7noe6r5y9r9o7w2.”
Ivy stared. “That’s really, er, interesting, Moe. Do you want to come out from under there? I wanted to ask you something. I thought I saw you at a fire. Was that you, Moe? Were you near a house on Alder Street yesterday?”
He scuttled out the back end of the table, dropping a soda can in the process. With another look in their direction, he snatched up the can and ran.
Ivy sighed. “I check on him once in a while to make sure he’s okay and bring him my cans so he can recycle them. He’ll come home later, I’m sure, because he’s completely addicted to The Song and the Sorrow.”
Tim blinked. “That soap opera?”
“Yeah. It comes on every weekday at two o’clock. He’ll be in his apartment watching it at that time, come rain or shine. I usually just poke my head in and make sure he’s all right.”
“What does he do on the weekends when it’s not on?”
“His mother, Madge, put all the old episodes on tape for him. Fortunately, there are plenty of them. He watches the repeats on Saturdays and Sundays. She checks in pretty frequently. She’ll probably call tonight, as a matter of fact. I’ll talk to her about seeing him at the fire. Maybe I was mistaken.” They stepped into the elevator and pushed the sixth-floor button.
“Oh, wait a minute.” Tim poked around in his pocket. “When I came to feed your fish last night, I wrote down a message for you from Madge. I forgot all about it until you mentioned her name.” He pulled out a slip of paper. “She said to tell Moe his friend canceled their meeting. Madge asked if you’d seen him around. He’s a hippie, a little on the odd side, she said.”
The elevator doors opened and let them out into a cream-colored corridor.
“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone like that hanging around with Moe, but I’ve been working overtime a lot lately.”
“I know.” Tim gave her a smile. “If I want to see you, I have to go to the station. Anyway, Madge says Moe’s friend is an okay guy.”
“You and Madge think everyone is okay.”
He laughed. “I think you’re more than okay.”
“Flatterer.”
Seeing the flush rise in her cheeks, he knew he’d said too much. He took the keys from her hand and unlocked the door.
Ivy stepped into her cozy apartment and sighed. “It’s good to be home.”
“Your mom sent over food. I piled it all in the fridge on my way to pick you up at the hospital. She must have been cooking all night.” He handed her the keys. “Call me if you need anything at all. I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.” Don’t get ahead of yourself, Carnelli. You’ll push her further away. You’ve got a chance, that’s all. A chance. “If that’s all right with you, I mean.”
“Sure. It’s not like I’m going to work or anything.”
Tim wanted to fold her into his arms and kiss the sad look off her face. Instead he ventured back into the hallway. She had almost closed the door when a thought popped into his head and he stopped her. “Hey, Ivy. I remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“The name of the guy who canceled the meeting with Moe. It’s Cyril.”
FOUR
Ivy endured a sleepless night. It was more the mental acrobatics that kept her awake than her injury, although her throbbing shoulder did not help. She could have taken the painkillers prescribed by the doctor, but she figured that mental toughness was a better way to deal with it.
She couldn’t get Cyril out of her mind. And Moe. What was he doing at that fire? What was the canceled meeting about? She had the oddest feeling Moe knew something about what happened, something he didn’t want to tell. The thoughts finally drove her out of bed.
Before the sun came up, she sat drinking coffee, listening to the fire department traffic on her radio, long before the hallways became busy with the sound of Saturday-morning comings and goings. Someone, her mother most likely, had arranged for a stack of magazines to be left for her with such uplifting content as gardening tips and the top-ten fashion trends of the year. Sandwiched in between the issues was a photocopied article titled, “Dating and the Christian Woman.” Her mother’s scrawl in the margin said it all.
Ivy, honey, since you’re off work for a while, you’ve got time to have some fun. Kisses, Mama.
Her mother had thrown her matchmaking efforts into overdrive since Ivy’s relationship with Antonio went south. She had the sneaking feeling that Mama hadn’t approved of her former boyfriend for some reason. Thinking about Antonio set off a memory.
Structure fire. Three alarms before they’d made it on scene. Her crew was providing manpower, she was new, a probie. The old house was a wreck by the time they got the fire out. The overhaul was nasty, heat trapped in the walls and floors sucking the life out of the on-duty personnel. The call came for them to relieve the attic crew. She found piles of insulation and heavy smoke, blurry figures wielding tools.
Then came Antonio’s voice, loud against the din. “Watch out. Holes cut all over this floor, probie.”
“Right, Cap,” she’d said before she promptly fell up to her waist in a hole. Trapped, unable to raise her arms, she slowly slipped down through to the next floor. Panic, darkness, fear. And then suddenly he was there, catching her by the straps of her airpack and hauling her back up through the hole.
Weeks later, she thanked him again. “I was so scared. Being trapped like that reminded me…well…”
“Don’t get all angsty on me, Ivy. I don’t deal with worry well. You’re much more fun when you’re happy.”
They’d had fun all right. Until he’d found more fun somewhere else.
She threw the article into the wastebasket. First, she had no desire to date after Antonio took off with another woman. It had taken all her strength to commit to him in the first place and look where that had gotten her. But had she really loved him or merely been drawn to his macho, fun-loving, larger-than-life persona? She wasn’t sure, and her uncertainty was another good reason to keep to herself. Her sole concern should be getting her job back.
Second, she wasn’t sure she could trust God anymore. She could not stomach giving her faith to such a cruel and indifferent God after what He’d done to Sadie.
She flipped on the TV and settled down to watch something, anything that would take her mind off her troubles. The cheerful lady chatting about how to put some zing into the summer with a snappy new method of faux-finish painting did not engage her. Nor did the old Western or Oregon’s newest morning-news duo. Her mind wandered again to the fire.
She could feel the panic at being buried under the piles of debris, the fear just as tangible as it had been that night. Did Cyril set fire to his own place? Wouldn’t be the first time someone had done such a thing to claim the insurance money. The thought sat in her gut like a live grenade. “When I get my hands on that guy, he’s going to answer for the damage he’s caused.”
The ring of the phone startled her.
Tim’s voice was cheerful. “Hi, Ivy. I hope I’m not calling too early.”
“No, sadly, I’ve pretty much been up all night.”
“Uh-oh. Shoulder hurting?”
“Not much. Mostly I was thinking about Cyril.”
“Who?”