Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

“Just her boyfriend, Eric. A noxious little twerp in white oxfords.”

Mort’s mouth tightened, “Twenty going on twelve, good build but a little pimply? Eyes like a dead cat?”

“You’ve met.”

“An orderly at Summit Memorial. We’ve crossed paths. Anything else?”

McLean stretched. “This fire smells like week old carp. Firth was setting up an insurance scam.”

“And he got caught in his own bonfire?”

McLean shrugged and thumbed the printouts. “We know Firth had a fire in Orlando. He netted just over thirty thousand dollars. Our contact there thinks the fire was deliberate, but officially it was an overheated extension cord. Firth’s name keeps popping up in insurance reports. The adjusters are convinced he was a con artist, but so slippery he’d never been tagged. Arson may have been his latest hobby.”

Mort scratched Caleb’s ears. “So Zoe’s store was just the latest? He takes over, inflates the building’s value through shoddy rebuilding, torches it, and collects?”

“I think it was more devious than that. He knows fire insurance will generally only pay to rebuild. Seldom hard cash to travel on. But inventory is something else. Provided it’s destroyed. I think he remodeled the store intending to bum it to the ground. He had some genuine antiques, Zoe’s at least, and jacked his inventory insurance way up. Funny thing happened on the way to the fire, however. He slipped the good stuff out the back door, possibly to Regina’s. That’s why Zoe was forced to take a vacation. He couldn’t risk her figuring out what he was up to.”

“Only he screwed up and basted himself setting the fire?”

“That’s how it looks.”

Mort nodded. “I had a chat with the medical examiner this morning while you were clumping around the bum site. They ran a blood gas on him, and Clement’s carbon monoxide reading was high enough to kill two men.”

“Drugs, anything like that?”

“It seemed pretty straightforward, so they didn’t run any tests.”

McLean turned the information over. Smoke, specifically carbon monoxide, is the biggest killer in a fire. You don’t get fire gases in your blood if you’re not breathing, so Clement was alive when it started. So far it fit like a cheap boot. All you had to do was pull hard enough.

Skimming Mort’s printouts, he came to a dead stop, picked up Summit Fire’s official reports, then compared numbers which he showed to Mort. “Why don’t you play dial-a-database again in Florida while I make a call.”

McLean punched out Zoe’s number, let it ring twenty times, then hung up, puzzlement creasing his face.

He left Mort battling with a Ma Bell clone and on a hunch drove downtown. He circled City Center Antiques twice and was about ready to go home, convinced his imagination was in overdrive. On a whim, he parked, skirted a delivery truck blocking the way, and walked down the alley behind the building. Regina’s little blue Miata peeked out from behind a dumpster.

He sidled around to Main Street. The shop was secure, but someone had forced Zoe’s door, then wedged it shut. He slipped into the downstairs foyer and at the sound of shattering glass overhead broke into a canter. He topped the stairs and barrelled toward the open apartment door.

Eric stood in the middle of the living room, a violently struggling Tina Zack clasped around the stomach while he fumbled in a coat pocket. Shards from a shattered vase littered the floor. She planted an ineffectual elbow into Eric’s midriff just as he propelled his angry load into McLean’s arms.

Scuffling, followed by a sharp slap, came from down the hallway. Tina whirled around but faltered before Eric’s soulless gaze above the .45 he’d wrenched from his pocket. Regina appeared a few moments later, gripping the telephone. “Old fool didn’t want to part with it.”

“What have you done to my grandmother?” Tina would have lunged for Regina had McLean not held her arm. Zoe’s voice rolled down the hall assuring them she was fine, although her walker had been moved out of reach.

If McLean’s sudden appearance upset Regina’s plans, she made no sign. “The pair of you lie on the floor and hold hands. Eric, watch them while I finish this up. If either one lets go, shoot them both.”

For the first time Eric looked genuinely scared. “I never shot anybody before. Why can’t I tie them up?”

“Just watch them, dammit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She picked up a small toolbox and a short length of flexible copper pipe and slipped down the front stairs. McLean waited, but the bell didn’t sound.

Eric coughed violently, wiped his forehead, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He plucked one out with his lips. “Stay down, you two.” He was so congested he could barely be understood.

A metallic clink from the basement, followed by a faint hissing drew McLean’s attention away from Eric and toward a small piece of paper fluttering away from a gas jet. He lifted his head at the sound of the door buzzer, but Eric’s shoe caught his ribs a sharp jab. “Stay down, you heard her.”