Tressed to Kill by Lila Dare Page B

interrupted. She glared at the chief from under her brows.
“What did you always teach your children, Mrs. Terhune?” MacDonald asked. “Get out in case of a fire, right? Don’t go back in for any thing.”
Boy, he had Mom’s number. He even inflected his words like she had when she drilled me and Alice Rose about fire safety.
“Of course, but that’s diff—”
I put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” I said. “Now, would someone please tell me what happened?”
The ambulance driver indicated he needed to leave and eased Mom off the end of the vehicle. She avoided using her hands. Burned palms would make cutting hair difficult. But that was something to worry about another day.
“It was a Molotov cocktail,” MacDonald said.
“A what?” I stared at him blankly, thinking I had misheard.
“Molotov cocktail,” he repeated. “You fill a glass bottle with gasoline, stick a rag in the neck, light it, and throw it. Boom!” He flung his hands apart. “Drive by and toss it out the window. Piece of cake.”
“That’s absurd.” Mom was shaking her head. “Kids around here don’t do that kind of thing. They might egg a house, or TP it, but not fire. Maybe in Atlanta.” Sin city, as far as she was concerned.
“We don’t know that it was kids,” MacDonald observed. “Do you have any enemies?”
A vision of Simone shouting that she was going to put Violetta’s out of business flashed into my head. I ignored it. “How much damage is there?”
“You were lucky,” the chief said. “The bottle broke on the veranda. It didn’t go through a window like it was probably supposed to. And the rain helped. All you’ve got is a little charring and some smoke damage on the siding.”
“Thank God,” Mom said. She gripped my hand, then winced and pulled away.
“Why don’t you come home with me for the night, Mom? You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Certainly not. I’m not going to let hooligans playing dangerous pranks chase me out of my home. But thank you for the offer.”
“Then I’ll stay here,” I said, resigned. “We can call the insurance company in the morning.”
“And I’ll let the police know,” MacDonald put in. “They’ll probably have a detective out here first thing.”
Great. Just what we needed. More face time with the police. Speaking of police, I looked around for Hank, to thank him for keeping me away from the fire, but he had left. Most of the crowd had drifted away now that the excitement was over, but a new figure came bustling down the sidewalk. When he got close enough, I recognized Walter Highsmith, incongruous in a plum-colored smoking jacket over striped pajama bottoms. His mustache drooped a little.
“Miss Violetta,” he said in his reedy voice when he got close enough. “Are you all right?” He cast a suspicious look at Chief MacDonald.
I introduced them. They shook hands perfunctorily, giving off the vibes of rival tomcats.
“I’ve got to get going,” the chief said. “I’ll call around in the morning to finish up my report and make sure everything’s okay.”
“I can take care of Miss Violetta,” Walter bristled.
With an ironic smile, Roger MacDonald turned away and strode to his red car.
“I don’t need taking care of,” Mom said. “I need sleep. Come on, Grace.”
“I’ll escort you,” Walter said. He crooked a courtly elbow and offered it to Mom.
She took his arm willingly enough, and I realized she must be exhausted. I followed as they made their way carefully past the veranda to the rear door. The smell of gasoline and charred wood hung heavy on the air. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d find it as restful as the familiar scents of permanent solution and hairspray.
    [Sunday]
     
    NO ATTACKS OR BREAK-INS MARRED OUR SLEEP, and Mom and I slept in, getting up barely in time to dress for church. I scrambled into my choir robe only minutes before the service started. I tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the service and our glorious anthem, but the night’s events kept