She whispered conspiratorially, but with mirth,“It’s always the quiet ones.”
“We’d have had a cop at our door then, not a fire marshal.” Chuckling, I shrugged, but both our gazes fell to the folder with interest.
“Should we open it?” she asked.
My breathing felt measured. I didn’t want to betray Sybil’s trust, but I needed to know. My curiosity wouldn’t let this stand. Reaching forward, I flipped the folder open, and we both leaned closer. There was a cover page for the report; we scanned it.
“Fire started in the third-level artist studio,”Bee whispered. “Improper disposal ofartists’ oil paint rags, paper towels and other items of similar identification?” Her gaze slid to mine.
I reached out and flipped to the next page. There were several black and white printed images: A soot-caked bucket of paint tubes; a few angle shots of lateral beams that seemed to show starting points; burned and ruined easels; a giantcollapse in the center of the floor, likely where the combustible materials were of the highest concentration.
My eyes drew back to the image of a bucket of paint tubes, something there niggling at me. “Look at that,” I pointed out when I finally worked out what was wrong with it.
Bee squinted, picking up the sheet. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
I directed her attention to one of the tubes that was mostly untouched by fire. “The label looks covered on purpose, with tape.” I found another. “And here too. All of them look that way.” The metal bucket appeared to have protected them from the fire, especially since the tubes were made of aluminum.
“Why would someone cover a label like that?” Bee asked, but I felt she already had an answer in mind.“Unless—”she trailed off and her hand slapped the table.
“Unless,they didn’t want to see the names. The label, the color, didn’t matter to them,” I filled in.
She was nodding, placing the sheet back in the folder and stepping back. “But I tested Sybil,youtested her. And the nail polish yesterday, she—”
“She didn’t pick a color;youdid.” I glowered. “I remember because you kept using my favorite color on purpose, and it pissed me off.”
Her hand went to her mouth.“Holy hell,you’re right.”
Nodding, I swiped the folder from the counter and closed it. “We can’t let Sybil find out we know.”
“So you’re calling it,” Bee ventured. “You really think it’sher.”It was a statement, and not a question.
Rounding the counter, I rummaged through our junk drawerto find an envelope. Opening the folder, I removed the report and folded it, stuffing it into the envelope and sealing it with the tape strip.
“Good idea,” Bee said. “I’ll slide it under her door. Here, give it to me and give me a sticky note. I’ve been giving her things all day, so it won’t seem suspicious.”
I handed her a sticky note, the envelope and a Sharpie.
She wrote, “From the fire Marshall,” across the front of the sticky note. Rounding the island, she marched down the hall and slid it under Sybil’s door like a hot potato. She stood there for a moment, biting her nails before returning.
“We need to becertainit’s her,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Let’s see if she’ll tell us the truth about the fire. If she lies, we’ll know for certain. And if we’re right—we have to get rid of that painting you stole, return it to Henry. She can’t beliving herewith her own stolen art hanging in your office, for Pete’s sake. She’d hate us if she found out.”
I nodded. Neither of us was ready to give her up. Despite the short time frame, she was a perfect fit in this family—and the perfect fit in my arms. I refused to jeopardize what was already a tenuous but amazing situation.
“If it’sher,”Bee began, glancing from side to side, “we’ll just make it all go away. We have to protect the secret, and Sybil.”
“I agree.” I swept my hand across my face and down my stubbled jaw.
“At some point, she’ll tell us.” She was nodding, sure of it. “And then it’ll be fine. Maybe someday we can all come clean and laugh about it,” she assured.
Bee was shifting from foot to foot when I looked down, finding Mr. Beans there, rubbing up against her cat socks. How the mighty have fallen. He looked about as in love with her as he was with Sybil. I felt a little left out. I thought we’d become bacon buddies.
She nodded in confirmation, slapping hands against her thighs. “Great. Cool.Well…call off the cavalry, mystery solved. I can’t believe our initial assumption was right.”
I huffed. “We don’t know that for sure. Youjust saidwe needed to know for sure.”
Bee looked sure, regardless. She had a blank look on her face, accepting this as fact. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s her.”
Honestly, I believed it too. Sybil was shy and didn’t want to be noticed. That made sense. PERL didn’t want to be known either. Sybil knew who I was and what I did. It made sense she’d throw me off her scent any way she could. I’d have done the same.
