Daughter of Ashes

TWENTY-NINE

‘Except for this explosion, the interview was very successfully conducted.’

Robert Louis Stevenson, The Master of Ballantrae, 1889

Grace and I parked our cars nose-to-nose at the entrance to the parking lot. If BioClean wanted access to the delivery doors at the back of the shelter they’d have to pry the car keys out of our cold, dead fingers, push our cars aside or have the vehicles towed. Either way, our historical records would gain a few precious minutes of life.

While we waited for their vans to arrive, we sat at a circular picnic table on the back lawn where, Grace explained, on pleasant days staff would gather to eat lunch and supervise the animals as they frisked and frolicked in the galvanized dog runs. As night gathered in around us, a full moon began its slow rise over the vineyard, casting long shadows and gilding the vines and the leaves on the nearby trees with silver.

I tried Jack Ames’s cell phone again, but failed to reach a live human being. After that, Grace and I talked, killing time. I told her about my family – my husband, daughters and grandchildren – and she outlined the long path to recovery that Rusty’s team of doctors and therapists had designed for him.

‘Will he be able to return to work?’ I asked, selfishly thinking about the renovation at Our Song that had been falling further and further behind schedule. During his absence, out of stubbornness, or perhaps deep denial, Dwight had refused to replace Rusty with a temporary worker.

‘Because of his inability to concentrate, he may require a bit more supervision, but, yes, Rusty should be able to go back to work eventually.’

I didn’t ask how long ‘eventually’ might be.

‘I’m praying for that boy,’ Grace told me. I thought she was referring to her own son until she added with a sigh, ‘It can’t have been Tad’s idea to hurt Rusty. Somebody must have put him up to it.’

Jack Ames stood at the top of my suspect list – both for Rusty’s accident and Kendall’s murder – but I could always use a second opinion. ‘Who do you think it was, Grace?’

‘God may punish me for this, but on my bad days, I sometimes think it might have been his mother.’

We sat in silence while I let the significance of what she’d said sink in. Grace was all ‘do unto others’ and ‘turn the other cheek.’ But what if she’d crossed over into Old Testament ‘eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth’ territory? Had Grace been angry enough at Kendall to kill her? I hadn’t seen her at the picnic, but thinking about the missing nametag, that didn’t mean she hadn’t been there.

Grace was explaining how repetitive tasks, like installing drywall or painting the siding would help rewire her son’s brain, when something caught my eye. A pinpoint of orange, followed by a dark shape moving slowly along one of the rows of grapevines. ‘Who the…’ I started to whisper when the distinct odor of a Bonnie and Clyde cigarillo – burned coffee with overtones of ashtray – wafted our way. I grabbed Grace’s forearm and squeezed. ‘Shhhh.’

As we watched, the figure emerged from the grapevines and headed in the direction of the shelter’s back door.

‘Does Clifton Ames have a key to the shelter?’ I whispered directly into Grace’s ear.

‘Somebody on his staff does,’ she whispered back. ‘They have a huge incinerator for dead birds at Clifton Farms but they use ours from time to time for overflow.’

‘Charming,’ I muttered.

Suddenly, we were bathed in light. The BioClean vans had arrived, angled into the driveway, spotlighting our vehicles. The lead van began to honk its horn.

We stayed put, hardly daring to move.

After a minute, when no one had responded to his impatient summons, the driver gave up on the horn. He hopped out of the van, walked around to the front and, silhouetted against the headlights, inspected our cars. I recognized Owen. He swore, unzipped and reached inside the top of his white overalls, then put his right hand to his ear. ‘Looks like he’s calling someone,’ Grace whispered.

After a moment, a nearby cell phone began to play, ‘Do The Funky Chicken.’

My head snapped around.

The song cut off. Clifton Ames had answered his phone. ‘What’s up?’ we heard him say. The tip of his cigarillo glowed red as he sucked on it, listening.

Apparently, Owen had outlined a plan. The BioClean supervisor disappeared around the front of the building and, one by one, lights inside the shelter were turned on.

When the light at the back door snapped on, Ames headed for it.

I replay the scene often, sometimes in my dreams, sometimes while simply sitting on my back porch, but when the action begins, it’s always in slow motion.

Ames heading for the door that Owen is holding open for him. He takes a drag on his cigar, withdraws it from his lips with thumb and forefinger then turns it toward him, considering the tip. He flips the cigar away, and it tumbles end over end over end…

‘No!’ I shouted, but it was too late. There was a flash of light and a deafening whoosh! as the lit end of Ames’s cigar ignited the invisible cloud of propane gas that had leaked out of the tank and settled over the grass. A wave of heat rolled our way. When we looked again, Clifton Ames lay on the ground, his clothes smoldering.

Owen and I reached Ames at the same time. ‘Roll him over!’ I shouted. While Owen did as I asked, I used my phone to call 911.

Grace disappeared into the shelter, returning with some wet towels which she draped carefully over the victim.

I was kneeling beside Ames, feeling for a pulse, when the old man moaned. The explosion had torched his eyebrows and burned off his hair. In the ruined landscape of his face, one eyelid opened. ‘Wha…?’

‘Shhh,’ I told him. ‘An ambulance is on the way.’

‘What the fuck you doing here?’ Owen growled from behind me.

I swiveled to face him. ‘Why don’t you send your crew home, Owen? Nobody’s going to burn anything more here tonight.’