The woman proceeded to stomp on the tape dividing us. “But I know who did it. I knew that woman wasn’t quite right in the head. I knew it. I told everyone so. I have a great eye for this sorta thing.”
"I want to hear all about her, but first we need to move to a safer location." I guided her over to my car.
“I think her husband was beating her. She must have finally snapped and blown the place up.”
“What woman blew the place up?” I asked.
“The one who lived here.”
Lived. In the past tense. It would be fitting if the woman responsible was killed in her own death trap. “What did you say your name was?” I asked.
“Sally. Sally Bennett. I know everything that goes on in this neighborhood. And she was having an affair with her gardener. Who just so happens to live right down the street.”
“And how is it that you know all this, Ms. Bennett?”
“Mrs. Bennett.” She held her head up a little higher. “People like to tell me things.”
“The woman who lived here told you she was having an affair?”
“No, but it was so obvious. She and Ben were always together. It was as clear as day. Don’t know how her husband didn’t know. Or maybe he did. Oh! Maybe he was the one who set off the explosion!" She seemed so excited by the prospect of such juicy gossip.
“What did you say this woman’s name was?”
“Aren’t you supposed to know that? By the way, I'd be happy to identify the body...bodies?”
I bet you would. She was totally fishing for information. “Yeah…I…” I looked down at the papers.
“Adeline Bell is her name. Oh and that right there is her gardener.” She pointed to the paper in my hand.
“Benjamin Harlow?” I lifted up the picture of the detective.
She shook her head. “You have the last name wrong. His name is Ben Jones. Such a gentleman. But yes, that’s definitely him. My God. Did he have a secret family? He did, didn't he? It's always the ones you least suspect.” She shook her head.
I rubbed my eyes. It would have been hard to pick out the truth from this woman's gossip when I was fresh. It was nearly impossible after a twelve-hour shift. By the morning she would probably have everyone in the neighborhood believing that Mr. Bell had blown up his cheating wife and that Ben Jones was a polygamist. “What did Adeline look like?”
“Long blonde hair. She was quite beautiful. If you ask me, she could have been a model in her prime.”
“And you think she died in the explosion? You said that she lived here. Not lives.”
“Oh, no. I just meant I doubt she’ll be coming back anytime soon. I wouldn’t come back if I was her. And there isn’t much to come back to." She gestured towards the still-burning shell of a house. "Her house is basically dust. And she took off so fast…”
“Wait, you saw her?”
“I’ve been trying to tell the cops, but they haven’t been listening. She took off in the woods a few minutes ago. Saw her with my own eyes.” She pointed towards the woods.
I glanced over at Damien still flirting on the phone. And all the cops were just standing around. I could easily catch up to the culprit if she only had a few minutes head start. This was my big chance. “Thanks for the tip, Sally.”
“Any time, officer.”
I didn’t have time to correct her. I was a detective. Not a beat cop. And I was about to prove it to her and Officer Prick. I folded up the picture of Ben Harlow or Ben Jones or whoever he was and shoved it into my pocket. The guilty woman would crack over a picture of her dead lover. Not that there were going to be many beautiful blondes who smelled like kerosene out in the woods on a cold night like tonight. I shoved the rest of the printouts into Damien’s hand as I ran past him.
“Where are you going?!” he yelled from behind me.
I ignored him as I ran toward where Sally had pointed. It didn't take long to find the trail. It had rained earlier, and there were clear shoeprints in the muddy, crunchy leaves. I turned my phone's flashlight on and ran into the woods.
***
Gotcha. The house was clearly abandoned. Paint was chipping off every visible service. There were dozens of cracked boards on the porch. It was practically as dilapidated as the house that was on fire. Yet, the lights were on in one of the rooms upstairs. And I could see the silhouette of someone walking around inside.
The trail from the crime scene had led straight here. It was like she was begging to get caught. In a lot of ways that aligned with what Sally had said. This woman could be lovesick. Dying to be caught after her regrettable decisions killed the man she was having an affair with. I looked over my shoulder and noticed how good the vantage point of this house was. It was located on top of a hill that looked down on the woods surrounding it. But it also gave a damn good view of the neighborhood where the fire was still being fought.
I paused by the rundown pickup truck and pulled out my gun. Maybe this situation wasn’t so black and white. It felt sinister up here. A chill ran down my spine and I tried to ignore the feeling. I was tired. I needed to wrap this up so that I could go home. To my cold bed. Get a grip.
I lifted my gun and tried to quietly walk up the decrepit porch steps. Each creak echoed in the quiet night. I should have told Damien to have my back. As far as I knew, he was still on the phone with the captain, though. I was out here all alone. All my backup down the hill was at least ten minutes away. I should have called in a bomb squad. But then they'd get all the credit. If I got blown up...well, the odds of that were pretty small. She wouldn't have trip-wired two houses. Right?
Before I could lose my nerve, I banged on the door. "Police! Open up!"
No answer.
Of course. The arsonist wasn't just going to invite me into her lair. I lowered my gun and was about to kick down the door when it squeaked open.
A woman stood there with her gaze trained on the ground as she pulled the silk sash closed around her robe.
“I’m Detective Reed,” I said, keeping both hands on my gun instead of offering a handshake.
She didn’t respond. Instead, the silence stretched between us as she tied the sash three times. Not that the sash being tight hid a damn thing. Her thin, silk robe didn’t leave much to the imagination. My eyes snapped back up to her face.
She was staring at me staring at her. And even though the accusing expression on her face should have made me look away, I just couldn’t. She was indeed beautiful. High cheekbones, full kissable lips, a perfect pale complexion with rosy cheeks. But her hair was brown, not blonde. And I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief.
“Can I help you?” she asked. I thought her voice would be filled with indignation based on how she was staring at me. But it wasn’t at all. She sounded timid. Scared.
I realized I was probably terrifying her. I slid my gun back in its holster. “What are you doing out here?” In the middle of the woods? In a robe?
“I live here.”
I wanted to laugh. But it didn’t look like she was joking. And she was…wet. Her damp hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun. And there were splotches on her robe like she had thrown it on instead of taking the time to dry off properly after a shower. A very recent shower. Here in this house. She really lived here? “You live out here in the middle of the woods?”