Rescued By The Firefighter. Catherine Lanigan
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welcome,” he whispered but didn’t give her a second glance.
He turned his attention to the children. His “official” hat was back on.
“The first thing I want to assure you kids is that the fire has been extinguished. To make doubly certain, later this afternoon, our crew will be out here to cut down any remaining trees that appear to be a hazard. At this moment, our forensic team is in the forest to ascertain the origin of the fire.”
Little Jessica Kettering raised her hand high above her cropped carrot-red hair. “Sir! Sir!”
Rand looked at Beatrice.
“Her name is Jessica.” Beatrice smiled. “Yes, Jessica. What’s your question?”
Jessica shoved her thick glasses back up her nose, and angled her unpatched eye directly at Rand. “Do you think someone started it?”
“We can never be sure until our investigation is complete. But since there were no thunderstorms or lightning strikes anywhere in our area last night, we felt we needed some expert eyes on the situation.”
“Sir!” Little Ricky threw his hand up. “I think it was gangs.”
“Gangs?” Rand questioned. “What’s your name, son?”
“Ricky. I’ve seen all kinds of things on the news about the gangs near Indian Lake. We have to be careful because they try to give drugs to little kids.”
Beatrice realized there were more fears buzzing in her camp kids’ heads than hornets in a nest. Camp was supposed to be an oasis for children. Their summer idyll. “Ricky, you are right. We all have to be very careful. That’s why we have camp rules about lights out and being in your cabin at sundown. We take special care to make sure all you kids are safe. That’s why Miss Cindy, Miss Maisie and Mr. Bruce are always close to you. We don’t ever want you to feel that you are alone.”
“We don’t feel alone, Miss Beatrice,” Susan Kettering said, grasping Jessica’s hand. “This is the best place. You make it the best for us.”
“Thank you, Susan.”
Beatrice felt yet another tiny tear fall from her eye. She blamed the fire for her highly charged emotional state this morning. As she lifted her finger to slide it off her cheek, she noticed Rand watching her. His face was expressionless. Part of his stoic on-the-job mask, she guessed. But his eyes probed her more deeply than she ever remembered a man doing. She felt her knees weaken, but this time she was glad she had the air boot, because it helped her maintain her balance.
“And thank you for listening, kids. Finish your breakfast and take your dishes to the kitchen for Miss Amanda. You all know your next activities.” She nodded for Bruce, Maisie and Cindy to gather their groups.
“Except for Chris and Eli,” Rand said in a loud tone that caused both boys to stop in their tracks. “I need to talk to both of you. Miss Beatrice has said that I can use her office.” Rand walked over and put strong hands on each boy’s shoulder. “Where is it?”
“This way,” Eli replied, looking up at Rand.
Beatrice held her breath as she watched Chris blanch to a ghostly white.
“Um, Mr. Nelson, didn’t you say you needed to speak with me, first?” she asked.
He glanced at Chris and then raised his eyes to Beatrice. He dropped his hands off their shoulders. “I did.”
“Okay, boys. You go out and join Mr. Bruce. I’ll call you later if we need you.”
Chris nearly shot to the dining hall’s back screen door. Eli raced after him.
Beatrice hobbled over to Rand, one hand on her hip. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you, now?”
“I do. But until I get a formal forensic report from your guys out there in that forest, I’d rather you didn’t upset the children.”
“Fair enough.”
“If there’s any hot seat you’re cooking up, I’ll be the only one occupying it.”
“Look, Bee—”
“The name’s Beatrice.”
He frowned. “All right. I’ll focus the questions on you. For now.”
Questions that can trip me up, she thought. Her dad had been a cop. He’d always said that anyone who disclosed personal information was at risk. People didn’t understand how ordinary actions in one’s life could be twisted by a prosecutor against them. He’d told her he’d seen innocent men sent to prison and murderers set free. She didn’t have anything to hide from Rand, or anyone, but an investigation of any kind made her nervous. It rattled the bars of her carefully built security gates.
Curiously, trepidation filled his face and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he didn’t want to go through this any more than she did. But how could that be? He was so formal. So official.
She knew he had a job to do, but could she trust this feeling of hers that he was uncomfortable enforcing codes and regulations? Did he always feel this way about this part of his job, or was it just her camp and this particular fire that bothered him? And if it was, could she trust that he might be lenient with her if he did find her culpable?
“Let’s go to my office,” she said, then led the way down a wood-paneled hallway.
Her office was quaint and situated in the southwest corner of the building with casement windows on two sides of the room, which allowed dappled light and patterns of maple leaves to splay across the plaster walls. There were no drapes or blinds on the windows, as Beatrice wanted as much sunlight to enter the room as possible.
Her desk was like most of her personal furniture—old, distressed, battered, in need of reupholstering and bought at yard sales, though loved and adored by her. The lamps were another thing altogether. They were true antiques. Most were Frank Lloyd Wright designs in stained glass and she’d sat in the rain for hours at area estate sales to win them. Luckily, she’d never paid more than a hundred dollars for any of them, but they were her treasures. Where other women fancied jewelry or leather handbags, for Beatrice, her Achilles’ heel was the lamps—these illuminations that glowed with colored lights through dark nights or gloomy days. They made her smile and gave her hope when she banged away at her electric calculator and pulled up a white tape with globs of red ink.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to a rumpled linen-slip-covered club chair that sagged, but whose bones were pure 1940s craftsman-designed hardwood.
Rand lowered himself into the chair. It groaned with his solid weight. He laid his hands on the rounded arms. “I like this chair. A family heirloom?”
“Not quite. There’s nothing heirloom about my family,” she said, sitting in the swiveling wooden desk chair.
Though the desk chair was circa 1930 and she’d seen replicas in box stores selling for hundreds of dollars, she’d snagged hers on Maple Avenue in Indian Lake during the spring cleanup days—an event in April where residents put out unwanted furniture and the city garbage trucks picked them up for free. Mrs. Beabots, whom she’d known since she bought the camp and was a true believer in her mission, had phoned her to tip her off to some special finds down the boulevard, at Katia and Austin McCreary’s house.
Beatrice hadn’t wasted a minute. A call from Mrs. Beabots, who’d obviously prescouted Maple Boulevard for her, was never taken lightly by anyone in town. That day, Beatrice came back to camp in a rented truck with end tables, a Ping-Pong table, a set of twin beds with headboards for the women counselors’ cabin, one walnut bookshelf and a credenza for the far end of the dining room near the stone fireplace.
The following week, Mrs. Beabots had donated the tables and chairs the children now ate at for every meal. Just thinking of the octogenarian’s generosity brought an emotional lump