For some reason, that was more unsettling than having Charlie ask us for our help. It was more like Charlie to tell us we were meddling old shits whom he’d like to lock up in an institution for Idaho’s criminally insane old geezers. I had a feeling if we were to jump sideways, Charlie’s request would reveal itself as a dire warning, a suggestion that perhaps he was wagging his tail but bearing his teeth.
We rounded the pine covered knoll that marked the west side of Hammersmith’s cozy meadow. His 1930s bungalow with its sweeping porch came into view, and Smoke parked haphazardly in the mowed field. In front was a white Ford Expedition I didn’t recognize. There were no logos on its doors, but a radio whip stuck from the center of its white roof.
“Looks like there’s a meeting of minds going on,” Smoke mumbled.
“Fed?” I said.
“Nope. Look at the plates. He’s a Stater.”
Smoke killed the engine and sat looking at the front of the house.
“You know,” he flipped his half finished cigarillo out the window, “I have a feeling the people who killed Donny didn’t consider killing him the main objective.”
He turned and looked at me.
I shook my head slightly. “And the pub? Burning it to the ground was not the main objective?”
“Nope.”
He pushed open the door and got out as smoothly as an overflowing tub and started off for the house.
I fell in behind. In his usual way, he simply opened the heavy front door and walked inside without even tapping a heads-up on the window.
I loved the Hammersmith house. Hard wood floors with Persian and Southwest rugs; richly varnished dark oak trim and built-in cabinets with glass doors; light tan plaster walls hung with framed landscapes, and heavy Stickley mission style arts-and-craft leather covered furniture that surrounded a large low round coffee table, and a rock fireplace that dominated the inside wall.
And sitting around the table looking up at us were MacAvity, Hammersmith and a man in his sixties sporting the whitest head of hair pulled back into a thick ponytail I’d ever seen. He was trim and muscular with very pale eyes the color of opals, and a face tanned and wrinkled from a life outdoors.
Hammersmith got to his feet.
“Well, Rob, these are the two we were just discussing.”
The head of hair got to his feet as we came over. I could see he was wearing round toed cowboy boots like Charlie wore. Working boots. He gave us a faint smile and looked us over.
“This is Smoke Something-Or-Other,”Hammersmith gestured, “and this is our lazy retired journalist from the Confluence Tribune, Paul Melton.” He turned. “This is Fire Marshal Robbins Bruun--here to pay a visit.”
We shook hands. Bruun’s shake was muscular but gentlemanly. However, I could imagine it being folded up into a fist the density of a splitting maul.
Smoke and I eased into the couch facing the fireplace across the coffee table and waited. I could hear Shiela and Ruthie talking quietly in the kitchen off to my left through an arched doorway.
MacAvity started off.
“Robbins, here, is more than the Idaho Fire Marshal. He was part of Special Ops in the first Gulf War, then went to the University of California, Davis, for his Masters in Forensic Science, and studied DNA typing, arson inspection, and forensic science research methods. In short, he’s a Fire and Explosion Analyst with a gold shield in homicide. He was also one of the boys from the outfit I use to train, but after my time. His daddy, however, wasn’t lucky enough to escape my grip.
Rob smiled faintly and watched Butte.
Hammersmith joined in. “Rob, could you bring these two up to date on what we’ve been discussing?”
He nodded.
At that moment, Sheila and Ruthie came into the room and placed a tray of cups, a decanter of coffee with the makings, a plate of shortbread cookies on the table and pulled up seats from the side wall. Apparently Smoke and I had stolen their places.
There were now seven of us circled. I marveled how the Hammersmith’s house seemed to flex comfortably to accommodate however many came through its doors.
Ruthie poured and we reached for our cups.
Bruun sipped and sat back easily in his seat before speaking in a smooth, deep voice.
“Well, we were discussing the tragedy that befell you folks last night.”
He looked over at Butte and Shiela who sat closely together. “I flew in this morning with a pal of mine in his company plane, and it was apparent that MacAvity’s was firebombed in a rather crude fashion. Whoever did it emptied two five gallon jerry cans of gas over the back wall and then ignited it. But I haven’t found evidence of how they did that without torching themselves. Hucking a road flare into the fumes would have been disastrous for them.”
He took a second sip and leaned forward to set his cup down on a coaster, and stayed that way with his elbows on his knees. He certainly had a way of riveting our attention.
“Now, I suspect, even if they were fifty feet back, the ignition would have given them quite a start because the fireball had to have come damn near close to torching them as well. I suspect one or more of them had had military training. If so, they could have ignited the gas by shooting a tracer bullet at the back of the pub from, say, a pickup parked 500 yards away, and been on their merry journey back to wherever.”
He stopped to gather his thoughts as if considering the delicate nature of what he wanted to say next.
We waited.
“Now,” he began, ”The problem with this whole thing is Pastor Donny Larken’s murder. You’re County Coroner, a Sherman Vics, and I agree that the pastor was killed immediately following the firebombing, and that his murder--the seizing, binding and shooting---took nearly twenty minutes to complete. Which means those responsible for the firebombing and the killing could very well be the same men...or at very least been in collusion. And, we both agree that there were at least two men because of the difficulties involved in taping a person to his own pulpit.”
It was MacAvity who spoke.
“So, in your opinion, do you think torching my pub was a diversion?”
“You mean to tie the whole town up while they leisurely whacked Pastor Larken,” Bruun said. “I don’t think so. The whole thing took less than thirty minutes, and by the time they left, so many people were arriving in town their escape route would have exposed them to a heap of notice.”
We considered this.
Smoke sat his cup down and leaned forward and looked past me at the marshal...who looked back at him and waited.
“You’re not saying they’re locals, are you,” he said.
“No.”
“But you’re saying this thing was well planned, escape route and all. Right?”
Bruun
