Page 3 of Burning Caine
As a claims adjuster, I’d witnessed the aftermath of many fires, from small ones that didn’t meet the deductible to the utter destruction of whole neighborhoods during wildfire season. The living room would be a complete loss, everything scorched to some degree, and needing repairs to the structure itself.
“Fire team did a good job.” Janelle walked through the living room, past the burned remains at the center of the room, to the broken picture window at the back. “They got the blaze down fast and stopped it from spreading past this room.”
There was something peculiar about the burn pattern. The sofa and chair backs were blackened frames and springs, but the seat pans and legs had survived—like the fire started at the top.
I walked over to the remains of a love seat, and my hand hovered over the frame. Why was it crammed against the other love seat and the sofa? And was it the same sofa as twenty years ago? Same tables, same chairs, same baby grand? “The furniture’s not right.”
“What?”
I gestured to the love seats. “Those were over there.” I pointed to where they’d been before, by the front windows. “The piano should be in the corner. And the wing chairs should be over by the fireplace.”
“How do you know?”
“I was here before.” On the east wall, a painting hung above the fireplace mantle. It was darkened from the soot, but I knew the size and shape of the frame. Trees on a hill, focused around a man and woman having a picnic. Nice, but nothing special.
And hanging over a fireplace would have meant it was probably filthy to begin with. Serious cleaning required.
“When?” Her voice was thick with skepticism. Of course, it was. She didn’t want to be there any more than I did.
Don’t bother with the details. She doesn’t actually care.“A long time ago.”
Janelle looked at me for a moment, gloved hand touching her hooded head, the way she always used to when she was frustrated. “There was a crew of painters prepping for some touch-ups. They moved everything to the center of the room and covered it with a canvas tarp.”
The fire must have traveled along the cover, burning the furniture from the top down.
She beckoned me to the far side of the room, next to the rear windows. Behind the remains of the couch, on the ground, she pointed to a long, narrow swath of raw canvas, six feet in length, with a dark stain on it. It was the only part of the room untouched by the fire. “This is where they found Mr. Scott.”
Mr. Robert Scott. AKA Bobby Scott, owner of Bobby’s Books. But more importantly, the man who’d kindled my love of art. He’d shown me each painting in the living room and office, one standing out far above the others: Marc Chagall’sLes amoureux dans le ciel,French for “Lovers in the sky.”
I’d compared it to a dream, all fuzzy shapes and imagination. He’d told me I had a good eye and should consider a career in art. That moment had inspired so much.
Janelle snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Samantha.”
I took a steadying breath.Don’t let her see you upset.“Is there a theory yet?”
“It’s early. We have to wait for the report, but the initial impression is that it doesn’t look suspicious.”
“I’m guessing the dark spot is blood?” I squatted next to the area she’d indicated and touched where he’d died. Two feet away, the shattered remnants of a glass table sat. “Probably from hitting his head?”
“Seems reasonable.”
“So, he was either dead or lying here when the fire got going?”
“Looks like.” She folded her arms, cocking her head to telegraph her displeasure at being there. Why hadn’t she called over one of the other officers to escort me in? “Bit of a step down, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?” I closed my eyes in a silent moment for Bobby.
“FBI Art Crimes star recruit—” The venom dripped off her words. “—to insurance adjuster.”
So few words, so many years of anger and regret tied up in them. More than a decade of not speaking should have tempered some of that. But she’d always been stubborn. Even more so than me.
I lifted my hand off the canvas on the floor and stood. Time to get to work, not waste time with petty squabbles.
“The First Notice of Loss says the painting is in this room.” I walked toward the front window, where the piano had originally been. “If it was hanging in the same place it was when I was here before, it should be here.”
I stopped by the wall where the painting had hung twenty years ago. There was no Chagall, but the hanger was still there. I looked at the piano, lying flat on the floor, its legs burned and cracked in the fire, and back to the wall.
I could still see it, clear as the day I’d been here. Vibrant blue background, a vase of flowers taking up most of the right side, and two faces in the top left. Just floating heads, one man and one woman. The red and yellow flowers were surrounded by greenery, all green smudges with a few defined leaves. A small table with a bowl of fruit and a violin. The thick frame was gold, edged with beads, leaves, and rosettes.