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It was hard to say what, if anything, this meeting would produce. As Bri had noted, the visit could be a bust. James Wallace had already relayed whatever information he had to Les Kavanaugh, and apparently it had led nowhere.
But if nothing else, two positives had come out of today’s news and insights.
First, the investigation had legs.
And second, he now had a legitimate excuse to stay in touch with the beguiling County fire investigator who’d captured his interest.
Not a bad end to a Monday.
JAMES WALLACE LOOKEDlike he’d been through the wringer.
As the slender older man welcomed them into his tidy, modest home, Bri surveyed the deep crevices around his eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the dark circles beneath his lashes.
He seemed in need of a caring word, a comforting hug, and an infusion of hope.
Unfortunately, it was doubtful she’d be able to provide anything but the first one.
After she introduced herself and Marc, the man motioned toward the living room. “Please have a seat. May I offer you a beverage?” He paused on the threshold as they entered the room.
“No, thank you.” Bri sat on the sofa as Marc also declined the offer and dropped down beside her.
“I appreciate you both coming today.” The man perched on the edge of a chair across the coffee table from them and leaned forward, hands clasped, distress etching his features. “I sure was sorry to hear about Detective Kavanaugh.”
“It was a shock to all of us.” Bri opened her notebook.
“It’s strange how he died in a fire. Like my Michelle.” His voice caught.
Bri pulled out her pen. Prolonging this visit wasn’t going to make it easier for anyone. “Yes, it is. Why don’t you tell us about your daughter?”
His shoulders slumped, and he stared down at his clenched fingers. “She was a wonderful person. Never gave me or her mom a lick of trouble her whole life. Straight A student, talented pianist, volunteered at the church food pantry every week. Resisted peer pressure and stayed away from drugs and alcohol as a teen. She watched over me real careful after her mom died three years ago too. I wouldn’t have survived without her and Daniel. That was her husband.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“I saw in the report that she was a widow.” Bri gentled her tone.
“Yes. Daniel died a year ago after suffering a traumatic brain injury in a car accident that left him in an extended coma. That was a few months after Michelle was diagnosed with diabetes.”
Bri glanced at Marc, whose wince said it all. That was a boatload of tough breaks to cope with in a very short period.
No wonder the woman had needed sleeping pills and counseling.
But that also meant the obvious explanation for the fire was plausible. If she’d been in a groggy state from the pills, it was reasonable to presume she’d not only double-dosed on her insulin and mistakenly taken her more potent morning dose, but that she’d also knocked the candle that had started the fire off the table beside the bed and into the trash.
That had been Les’s conclusion, and after reading his report, Bri saw no reason to question it.
Just as no one would see any reason to question her report on Les’s death, either, nor an accidental ruling if she chose to go that route should her doubts prove untenable. The case would be closed, filed away, and forgotten unless someone down the road found cause to raise concerns about the conclusions, as James Wallace had in Michelle’s situation.
“I’m so sorry your daughter—and you—have had such a difficult time.” Bri twined her fingers together on top of her notebook.
James Wallace raised his head, and the anguish in his eyes tightened her throat. “Some days I wonder why I get up in the morning. But the goal to see justice done keeps me going. The fire in my daughter’s house wasn’t an accident, Detective.”
“How can you be that certain?”
“Because I knew Michelle.” He raked his fingers through his thinning gray hair and took an unsteady breath. “There was too much of that sleeping drug in her system. She never took more than the prescription dose, and in the weeks leading up to the fire she’d begun cutting back on it. She was finally beginning to come to terms with her grief. And she never, ever made a mistake with her insulin. Also, her being in the master bedroom, and the open window, don’t make sense,either—as I told you. For someone who knew her, there are all kinds of pieces that don’t fit.”
“Why is the master bedroom an issue?”
Bri turned toward Marc to answer his question, but Michelle’s father spoke first.
“She and Daniel were high school sweethearts. True soulmates, like her mom and I were. She told me that sleeping alone in their bed made her cry.” The older man’s eyes began to shimmer. “I felt the same after my wife died. I stopped using our room too.”
