HIGHWAY HOMICIDE by Bill WENHAM

for another donut.

Chapter Thirteen
     
    The man who’ d murdered Maria Caspar watched from his car as flames completely consumed David Gates’ house. The blaze had been well under way by the time it had been called in to 911. David had installed smoke alarms throughout the house, but they were no good unless there was someone in the house to hear them.
    The murderer, and now arsonist, smiled with satisfaction. He’d made sure the blaze had gotten a good enough hold to destroy the whole building. Then, and only then, had he called it in from the phone booth he’d just walked away from. As he was making the call he’d been aware of another car that had driven slowly by. Someone else wanted to use the phone perhaps.
    When he got back into his car, the other car was gone. He sat in his car for a few more minutes watching the blazing building. Sirens heralded the arrival of the fire department, the police and the paramedics. As they sped past, he pulled away but he chided him self for being a day late. He’d also been there on the previous evening to set the fire, but as he’d driven by, the police were already entering the house through the open garage.
    He’ d been really stupid. He could easily have made enough time to have set the fire before he left with Maria and David. Just a little gasoline spread around, together with a length of gas soaked string and a lighted candle would’ve made an effective enough incendiary tool.
    On the plu s side, he was also certain he’d left nothing at all in the house to connect him to Maria’s death. Anything found eventually would point directly to David Gates, if his plan worked out as he hoped it would.
    He’ d still have had enough time for him to have driven David Gates’ car, with both Maria and David in it, before the house went up in flames. As it was, he’d had to wait until he’d returned from dumping them. By then, because the storm had lasted for two days, it was a little too late. In the meantime, the police had searched the house and would certainly have discovered what’d happened there.
    One thing puzzled him though. Why would the police be searching David Gates’ house so soon? He doubted whether Gates’ frozen body could have been identified that quickly , since he’d removed the wallet from Gates’ back jeans pocket himself. He’d also just returned it intact, to the house, to be consumed in the fire.
    Unless the unconscious David Gates hadn’t frozen, hadn’t died from exposure and had been found by the police alive. That would have been even better. He would then have to explain what had happened to Maria Caspar, and what he was doing there with her.
    The man smiled to himself as he drove, watching the glow from the fire light up the night sky. His only area of doubt or uncertainty was whether or not David Gates had actually seen his face when he’d burst into the room. After a moment or two of contemplation, he shook his head. He was certain Gates had taken one look at Maria Caspar’s dead body on the carpet in front of him and had passed out cold.
     
    Meanwhile, out on the highway near where Maria and David had been dumped, Lisa’s diner was doing its usual brisk trade, now the storm was over. The diner had been built by Lisa’s father and her Uncle Luigi.
    Joe and Luigi Bartolini, along with their respective wives, Rosa and Theresa, had come to America in the early fifties. They’d lived in a small village in Southern Italy and had all grown up together. Initially, they’d settled in New York City, since it was their point of entry into the United States. But after just two years of crowded living, they’d moved to Vermont, looking for something a lot quieter. Specifically to a place like Cooper’s Corners.
    In retrospect, the tw o brothers had often wished they’d located their little diner a little further east. That was where, later on, the Interstate 91 would go on to join the I95 and continue on all the way down to Florida.