22

D EBBIE PUGLIA MET THEM AT THE deck gate. “How do you do,” she said to Paul. “Hi, Nina. So. I can’t believe what you told me. Come sit down.”

In Nina’s memory, the party flickered, orange fire and black night, voices howling in the forest, bodies writhing together. Now, in this same landscape, a warm California evening descended, the sun changing from yellow to gold where it flashed low through the trees, substituting a peaceful emptiness. A pair of squirrels ran along the branches of the big oak that overhung the deck.

From where she sat in one of the plastic chairs at a small glass-topped patio table with Debbie and Paul, Nina could see Darryl and Tory Eubankses’ backyard on the left. A dog scratched on their back porch; the screen opened via an unseen hand and the dog went in. Clashing plates and children’s voices drifted out through the window screens. Dinner must be in progress over there.

Crockett had told Paul, ordered Paul, to say nothing about the possible threat to the children. He wanted to confirm it first somehow. But hearing the Eubanks kids’ laughter next door, Nina felt uneasy about that order.

Farther to the left, past the Eubankses’, she could see the corner of Ben’s house almost hidden in the brush and trees, and, past that, deeper in the woods, Britta and David Cowan’s manicured back patio, all traces of nature meticulously removed.

On her right the deck faced a blank stucco wall that abutted a house with a roof higher than the Puglias’. That would be the home of Ted and Megan Ballard. Debbie and Sam enjoyed no views in that direction anymore.

“What shall we drink?” Debbie said. “Paul?”

“What have you got on hand?” Paul said.

“Well, Corona, Dos Equis, Coors. Red or white wine. Vodka gimlet or collins or straight up. Jack Daniel’s. Rum and Coke. We have some good tequila. I make a mean margarita.” She smiled uncertainly at Paul, playing the hostess, worried about what the hell they were up to.

Paul smiled back, and Nina noticed how warm and reassuring his smile was, how easily he sat in the chair. “I haven’t had a margarita in a while. Nina?”

“Sounds terrific,” Nina said.

“I’ll be right out. Don’t go ’way.” Debbie disappeared through the kitchen door, and Paul leaned over and whispered, “Could this woman by any stretch of the imagination be our arsonist-murderer?”

Nina shushed him. She had heard steps coming up the stairs to the deck.

Britta’s flushed face appeared at the gate. In her low-slung jeans and tight top she looked taut and tightly packed. Paul sat up in his chair.

“We-hell,” she said. “So you were the spy, not Elizabeth. Debbie called Tory right away, and Tory told Darryl. I just passed Darryl in the street. I was curious. Thought I’d stop by. And who are you?”

Paul got up and introduced himself. Britta preened and smiled for him, before turning her furious green eyes on Nina. “I knew you couldn’t be with Ben,” she said. “Now, Paul I understand.” She reached up to touch his shoulder. “What the hell happened to your arms? They’re awfully red.”

“Poison oak.”

“Yuck.” Britta moved a chair up close and sat down beside Paul, giving him a long glance from the corner of her eye. A small twinkling red jewel in her navel caught a ray of sun.

Debbie came out with a tray and stopped cold. “What are you doing here?”

“Sammy wanted to make a plane reservation or something,” Britta said, winking at Paul and Nina. “He wants me to wait for him.”

“He’s not due home for half an hour.”

“Ooh, margaritas! So Paul and Nina are trying to prove Danny didn’t set the fires, right?”

“How’d you know that? Oh, never mind.” Debbie seemed to accept that Britta wouldn’t go away and set the tray down with its pitcher and enormous stemmed glasses. She poured them out the pale green slush and they all said no to a salty rim.

“Cheers,” Debbie said glumly, and they all drank. The margaritas were phenomenally good, refreshing and strong.

“Mighty fine drink,” Paul said.

“Deb’s the hostess with the mostest,” Britta said.

Nina hoped Britta was not referring to Sam, but the mean sparkle in her eyes said otherwise. She cleared her throat. “We appreciate your letting us talk with you, Debbie,” Nina said. “I do apologize for coming to your home on Saturday under false pretenses.”

“That’s all right. But I’m awfully confused. What do you want from Sam and me?”

“You and Sam are the heart of the neighborhood, it seems to me.”

“We try to be good neighbors.”

“You might know something that would help our client, Wish Whitefeather.”

“Danny’s friend? I think I saw him with Danny once.”

“If Danny’s innocent, then Wish will be released,” Nina said. “You liked Danny, didn’t you?”

Nina sensed a certain amount of discomfort in Debbie’s hesitation. “Pretty much. He was about the age of my younger son, Jared. Jared is at Chico State. I always felt sorry for Danny. I’d like to think he didn’t do it.”

Britta, for once listening intently, sucked fast on her icy margarita.

“Unfortunately, someone else from Siesta Court might be involved,” Paul said. In the still air, Nina could hear the two women breathing, hanging on his words. “I can’t go into details, but someone from the neighborhood may have paid a friend of Danny’s over six thousand dollars to set the fires.” Debbie set her glass down carefully while Britta drained hers.

“A friend of Danny’s?” Britta said.

“Now, who would that be?” Debbie asked.

“I can’t say right now.”

“What did this friend tell you?” Debbie asked.

“Nothing. He has disappeared.”

“Really,” said Britta. She turned the empty glass in her hand. “So you don’t really know anything.”

“A young man has provided some information,” Nina said. “A boy named Nate. His, uh, caretaker had shackled him to a tree to prevent him escaping and talking about some things he overheard.”

Debbie said, “How awful. How old is this boy?”

“Thirteen. He’s disabled.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m no expert,” Nina said. “He has mental problems.”

“So he can’t tell you anything either,” said Britta. “That must be frustrating.” Nina had the distinct impression Britta was laughing, but her face was dead serious.

“You didn’t leave him tied to a tree, I’m sure. What happened to him?” Debbie asked.

“He’s at Juvenile Hall in Salinas while the county looks for temporary housing for him.”

“That’s terrible.”

“There’s nowhere else to put him.”

“She can’t stay on topic,” Britta said, “but I’m curious. You say somebody on the block took out six thousand some odd dollars and paid it to this guy and he set a bunch of wildfires.”

“Right,” Paul said.

“Who? Any idea?”

“We’d like to narrow it down.”

“You really believe it’s one of us, one of the Siesta Court Bunch that hired an arsonist and got Danny killed?” Debbie said. “Why would one of our neighbors do that?”

“There’s a lot of animosity about the Green River development. It’s possible that’s the real focus of these fires.”

“Well, of course there is. That doesn’t mean we killed people because of it!” Debbie said, her eyes welling. “It’s just too much. Now you’re accusing my friends-my family-of doing these things, when we’re all scared to death ourselves. Just last night Sam thought he saw a prowler and the men went out back and looked for him. I was so frightened.”

“No, now, Debbie, sweetie, let’s stay with this. Look at us! The bunch of us. Who’s got a chunk of money that big to burn?” Britta said, giggling at her joke, as if playing a game. “Count Ben out. I doubt he could put a down payment on a bicycle on what he makes. And it can’t be George and Jolene. The Hills shop at the Wal-Mart and George’s too cheap to spend that much money just to set a couple of fires and off some people.”