Murder on the Horizon by M.L. Rowland

freshly painted white, new white refrigerator, stove, dishwasher, and sink. The entire house down to the width of the doorways had all been efficiently redesigned and reconstructed with great care, everything raised, lowered, widened, or removed for someone in a wheelchair.
    Vivian wheeled out the back door and down a ramp into the backyard, a work in progress with sawhorses and wood planks, a wheelbarrow and piles of gravel.
    Near the back door sat a pint-sized picnic table covered with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and set with white plastic plates and utensils. Standing at a propane grill, wearing a chef’s apron that said, KISS THE COOK , John acknowledged Gracie’s appearance with a lifting of the spatula and returned to flipping burgers.
    John’s cool reception didn’t particularly bother Gracie. Aloofness or even animosity with no previous emotional investment on her part rolled off her back. Until he made it hers, whatever was going on with John was his problem.
    â€œMinnie!” Acacia cried. Dressed in bright yellow, with pigtails bouncing, the girl ran over, ball in hand, and accepted the leash from Gracie. For the rest of the evening, girl and dog were inseparable.
    During a meal of hamburgers accompanied by corn on the cob, baked beans, and the potato salad, the conversation was light, general, during which Gracie learned that, three years before, Vivian’s twenty-six-year career of teaching high school had been cut short by a stroke. Also that Acacia was the only child of their youngest daughter, living with her grandparents for a year, an experiment to see how she fared in an environment less urban than Pasadena. Sensitive, art and nature loving, the girl seemed, so far, to be thriving in the mountains.
    As Vivian scooped Neapolitan ice cream into paper bowls, she asked, “So this Search and Rescue work is your job?”
    â€œNo, that’s all volunteer,” Gracie said. “I work as the manager of a residential camp, Camp Ponderosa. On the west end of the valley. You should come visit sometime. It’s beautiful. Lots of big trees with its own little lake.”
    â€œThat would be lovely. Wouldn’t it, John?”
    Her husband gave a noncommittal grunt and dug his spoon into his bowl of ice cream.
    â€œVolunteerism is a noble and necessary thing,” Vivian said.
    Gracie winced. “I don’t think of it as noble.”
    Vivian gave her a look. “Don’t kid yourself, child. Isn’t some of what you do dangerous?”
    â€œSometimes. But you know what the job entails when you sign up for it. We train often and hard. Rescuer safety is always the number one priority.”
    â€œWhat types of things do you do?”
    â€œWe search for lost kids, mountain bikers, hikers, downed airplanes, vehicles over the sides. We also help with evacuations. If the Shady Oak Fire comes up to the valley, we’ll help with that.”
    â€œLord forbid,” Vivian said. “You think that will happen?”
    â€œThere’s really no way to tell right now. It’s always a possibility.”
    â€œSomething to think about, John,” Vivian said.
    No response from her husband.
    â€œIt’s always good to think ahead of time about having to evacuate,” Gracie said as a gentle suggestion. “What you would or wouldn’t take.”
    â€œMy, yes, I suppose it is,” Vivian said.
    â€œBecause I don’t trust myself to remember everything in the moment of crisis,” Gracie said, “I keep a list on the refrigerator. If I have only five minutes to get out, what would I grab? If I had fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. Two hours.”
    â€œWe don’t need any advice,” John said, sending her a sharp-eyed look as he pushed himself to his feet and started gathering up the dirty dishes. “We know about fires. We’ve lived in Southern California for forty years.”
    â€œLand sakes, John,” Vivian