Murder Under the Covered Bridge by Elizabeth Perona Page B

snap out of her trance. “Where are we going?”
    â€œRoseville Bridge,” Marcy responded. “It’s burning down.”
    Francine rattled her key chain. “I only have a Prius. I can’t take everyone.”
    â€œWe can take two cars,” Marcy said. “I’ll follow you.”
    â€œWhy are you going?” Alice said.
    â€œI’m going because my star client is going to do a live remote from a spot where history is being made for the second time. This is the biggest story in covered bridge history since the Bridgeton Bridge got torched.”
    â€œShe’s right about that,” Charlotte said. “2005, if I remember correctly.”
    â€œI don’t need to go,” Alice said. “Sounds depressing. I’ll stay back and drizzle the scones.”
    Charlotte put her arm through Alice’s. “I think you should be there,” she said under her breath, “to encourage Joy. I’m betting that handsome Sheriff Stockton will be there.”

    The Channel Six news van drove speedily, leaving them in the dust. The women drove in tandem—Francine with Charlotte, Alice and Mary Ruth in her Prius, and Marcy with Merlina in her Malibu. They made their way to Coxville Road, but couldn’t get within a quarter mile of the Roseville Bridge before they were stopped by police. Smoke billowed in the sky above them. Swirling red and blue lights surrounded the immediate vicinity. Beyond that, close to the bridge, they could see firefighters moving about in the dirty haze. They moved slowly in their bulky firesuits as they handled the hoses spewing water toward the inferno. It seemed to be a futile effort.
    A sheriff’s deputy forced them to park on the grass off the side of the road. A pumper truck edged by them, heading for the fire. Francine figured there wouldn’t be any fire hydrants nearby, but she hoped they could pull water from the creek. She knew some fire departments had special devices that could do that. The bridge was too remote from Rosedale, which was the closest town.
    Joy got out of the news van and forced her way around the blockade, trying to get closer to the fire. She held her iPhone aloft as though it were a microphone. “But I’m a reporter,” she insisted.
    The deputy was a man with wide shoulders and a thick neck. It was clear he wouldn’t budge. Finally she dug around in her purse and located her station ID. She flashed it at him. “See! Channel Six news. Now please let us through. That’s my cameraman behind us.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter who you are, you’re going to have to do your broadcast from back here.”
    â€œBut if you’ll just let me get a little closer … Maybe you can let me through to the Rock Run Café? I could set up in their parking lot. I’d be out of the way.”
    The deputy shook his head. He used his night stick to draw an imaginary line from the barricades through where they stood. He didn’t say anything, just walked back to where other emergency personnel had gathered.
    The women clustered helplessly at the invisible barrier the deputy had drawn. Joy stamped her a foot on the grassy landing. “I bet they wouldn’t treat Barbara Walters this way.” They watched as smoke and soot raced from the lick of the flames and swirled away into the sky.
    â€œNo, they probably wouldn’t,” said a male voice. They tried to locate where the voice had come from. Then they noticed an older man pushing through the crowd.
    Detective Stockton took off his cowboy hat and nodded at the women. “Lieutenant!” he called, returning the hat to his head. The officer returned to the barricaded area.
    â€œYes, Detective.”
    â€œPlease escort these women over to the Rock Run. Allow the Channel Six van to get through. We’re setting up an area in the parking lot for the press.”
    The deputy saluted, clearly unhappy with the order.