The Last of the Moon Girls(56)

She was wrong.

Her heart sank as they approached the orchard, her throat raw as she took it all in: row upon row of ruined trees, their charred trunks and gnarled limbs reminding her of something from one of those gruesome fairy tales with the haunted forests and poison apples.

But somehow the shed was harder to look at, its blackened shell splayed like a dead thing at the edge of the orchard. There was something vaguely macabre about its remains, lying cold and wet in the afternoon sun, bits of wood jutting like blackened bones. It had endured countless New England winters, weathered scores of nor’easters, but had in the space of only two hours been reduced to cinders.

How?

The question hummed in her head as she scanned the rubble. There were remnants of a spade and several rakes among the ashes, their wooden handles burned away. Bits of shattered glass glinted among the soot. Lizzy shuddered, recalling the sickening pop of windows exploding over the windlike rush of the flames.

McCardle’s men were already at work, one brandishing a camera, taking shots from various angles, the other walking gingerly around the perimeter of the rubble, eyes glued to the ground. Both wore latex gloves.

She turned to McCardle, who was scribbling something on a small notepad. “What are they looking for?”

“Evidence. Footprints, accelerant containers, a scrap of clothing, anything the culprit might have left behind. It’s too early to say for sure, but it looks like the fire originated in the shed, with the trees catching later.”

“But how did it start? No one’s used the shed in years.”

“That’s what we’re going to try to determine. Do you know if the structure was used to store chemicals of any kind? Paint, fertilizer, gasoline? Even oily rags can pose a danger if they’re stored in a closed container.”

“No. Nothing like that. It was just picking poles and apple baskets. A couple of old ladders.”

McCardle tipped his head back, surveying the area overhead. “No power lines running to the structure, so it wasn’t electrical. That’s the first thing we rule out for a structure like this. Old wiring, dry wood, only takes a spark. Next, we look at the weather. Lightning strikes are more common than people think, but there weren’t any storms in the area, which means we can rule that out as well.”

Lizzy felt a prickle of dread. “What does that leave?”

“Arson.”

The word seemed to hang in the air as one of McCardle’s men approached. “Thought you’d want to take a look at this.” He was holding what looked like a glass bottle top, broken off at the neck. A scrap of checked yellow cloth had been twisted into the mouth. A piece of dish towel by the look of it, partially singed. “Found it just off to the right there, outside the zone.”

McCardle pulled a pair of blue latex gloves from his back pocket and wrestled them on with a snap at each wrist, then took the proffered bit of glass and fabric and raised it to his nose. “Kerosene,” he announced, turning to Lizzy. “And an old glass milk bottle. Better known as a Molotov cocktail. Crude, but effective, although apparently not in this case, since the rag is still intact. Probably went out before impact.”

“It was effective enough,” Lizzy pointed out. “The shed’s an ash heap.”

“Which is why we’ll keep looking. We’ll sift through every square inch if we have to.” He looked away briefly, handing back the broken bottle top. “Good job, Ward. Bag it for the lab.”

Lizzy watched as Ward produced a heavy poly bag, slid the bottle fragment and rag inside, and zipped it closed. “What happens at the lab?”

“We’ll do an analysis on the rag to confirm the accelerant, and run the bottle for prints. Sometimes we get lucky. Do you know anyone who’d have a reason to do something like this? Someone who might be harboring a grudge?”

Lizzy stared back at McCardle, beginning to grasp the gravity of the situation. She’d been holding on to the slim hope that the doll had in fact been a prank, rather than what it looked like—an outright threat—but there was no explaining this away. Was the timing a coincidence? Or had someone—Fred Gilman, perhaps—gotten wind of her sit-down with Louise Ryerson, and decided she needed another scare?

It was certainly possible. Someone from the school library could have mentioned her visit, or one of the kids from the lunchroom, though she doubted any of them knew who she was. Or who Fred Gilman was, for that matter.

The truth was, Fred Gilman wasn’t the only one who had a problem with the Moons. The icy stares she’d been receiving since her return were proof of that. It was tempting to jump to the most obvious conclusion, but bringing Fred Gilman into it without any kind of evidence would be rattling a door she wasn’t ready to open. The locals were already taking sides. Accusation would only entrench them further.

“Ms. Moon?”

Lizzy had been watching Ward pick through the ashes. She dragged her gaze back to McCardle. “I’m sorry. You asked if I knew anyone who might have a reason to do this. I’d have to say no.”

“So no recent altercations? An angry boyfriend? An argument with a neighbor?”

“No,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Nothing like that.”

“Looks like we’ve got another one, boss.” It was Ward, down on one knee this time, hollering over his shoulder. “No rag, but it’s the same type of glass. I’m guessing this is the one that did the trick. Pretty smashed up, though.”