Tressed to Kill by Lila Dare Page A

she’d hook up with the guy and regret it in the morning. “I’ll drop you and take the sitter home.”
“No sitter. Ricky’s got RJ for the weekend,” she said. The fact that they still lived in the same house, albeit on opposite sides of the twelve-bedroom B&B, made joint custody easier. She pushed back from the table. “I miss him.”
I didn’t ask if she meant RJ or Ricky. “I know. C’mon.”
The parking lot was only steps from the door, but we were drenched by the time we got to my car. The cold water pinging our skin and ozone-scented air jolted Vonda out of the doldrums, and she was laughing as we slammed the doors shut. “Thanks,” she said, shaking her head like a blond spaniel and flinging water drops onto the windshield and dash. As frequently happens, the rain let up as soon as we were in the car.
“Timing,” I said. “Everything in life is timing.”
Her Magnolia House B&B was three blocks from my apartment. As I dropped her, a fire truck surged past, its siren shrieking. “See you at church tomorrow?” Vonda asked.
“Sure. Maybe we can do brunch afterward.” The ladies from Violetta’s—Mom, Althea, Stella, and sometimes Rachel—had a tradition of doing brunch after Sunday services at the First Baptist Church. I’d been joining them more often than not since I came back.
“It’s a date,” Vonda said. She looked out the side window at the darkening sky. The rain had tapered off to not much more than a drizzle. “Thanks, girlfriend.”
“Anytime,” I said as she leaned over to hug me. With a quick smile, she pushed open the door and dashed for her front porch, dodging the raindrops in a ridiculous serpentine we’d invented as teens. I laughed and waved as I put the car in gear.
Mom’s house was on my way home, and I debated stopping in for a cup of herbal tea and a chat. As I turned onto her block, I spied the fire truck and a mass of firefighters, cops, and onlookers blocking the street. What the—? Then I saw the flames leaping from the front of Mom’s house.
    Chapter Eight
     
     

     
    I STOMPED ON THE ACCELERATOR, AND THE CAR shot down the street. I forgot to calculate the effect of wet streets, and the car slid, almost T-boning a police car, when I hit the brakes. I tumbled out. An ugly smell of gasoline and wet, burnt wood enveloped me.
“Mom!”
I dashed toward the house, heedless of the fire. My feet slipped on the wet grass and I sprawled flat on my stomach. I scrambled up again. A strong arm grabbed me around the waist and hauled me backward.
“My mom!” I struggled to free myself, clawing at the arm.
“Violetta’s just fine, Grace,” Hank’s voice said in my ear. “Your mom’s fine.”
The words finally got through, and I stopped kicking back at his shins. His hands on my shoulders turned me forty-five degrees, and I could see Mom sitting between the open doors of an ambulance, a uniformed EMT doing something to her hands. She hadn’t seen my arrival.
I wrenched myself out of Hank’s grip and trotted toward her. “Mom! Are you all right?”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “I’m fine, dear, but this nice young man insists on putting ointment on my hands.” She held up her hands, displaying pink palms.
The EMT smiled and said, “First degree. Not much worse than a sunburn.” He tucked a tube of ointment and a roll of gauze into the box at his side.
“You’re burned! What happened?”
“She very foolishly tried to put out the fire herself with a fire extinguisher.” A stocky man of about sixty came around the far side of the ambulance. He had crew-cut hair and ruddy skin, and wore a fire hat that said “Chief.”
“Roger MacDonald,” he introduced himself, holding out a square hand. “Fire’s out.”
I shook it, liking the strength in his grip. I looked toward the house where, sure enough, the flames were gone and tendrils of smoke, slightly grayer than the night, wisped from the veranda. Two firemen were coiling a hose. “What happened, Chief?”
“It’s not foolish to try to save your home,” my mom