Page 43 of Burning Justice

“No causation determined,” he said.

The deputy shook his head. “Like I said, we don’t have a fire investigator anywhere near here. We have a request in with the state, but they haven’t been able to make it out here yet from Denver.”

Gemma pointed to the report. “Anyone get in touch with the owners? The Millers?”

Maws nodded. “I’ve been calling. They never answer, and there’s no voicemail.”

She and Brett exchanged knowing glances. The pattern of unavailable homeowners was repeating itself.

“Blaze and I should check out the perimeter.”

Gemma and the deputy watched Brett and Blaze as they began their perimeter search, spiraling closer and closer to the debris field, pausing to examine the cylindrical propane tank next to the foundation. Not once did Blaze sit. Finally, Brett waved Gemma over to a burned-out stove.

The stove’s metal sides were blackened and charred, the front door gone. Three of the four plastic knobs were half melted. “Given their condition, I can’t be sure, but one of these knobs may be in the open position.” Brett pointed to one of the center knobs. “The house could have filled with gas. All it would have taken was a spark to set it off. An explosion followed by a fire.”

Gemma took a few closeup shots. “A spark from what?”

Brett looked at Deputy Maws. “Any lightning storms the night of the fire?” Maws shook his head. “Then we may never know what caused it.”

Gemma opened the folder. “Was Harold Briggs interviewed?”

Again, the deputy shook his head. “I was on my way to do that right after we finish here.”

“Mind if we tag along?” Brett asked.

“No, but be warned. Briggs is ornery and sharp as a tack.”

A corner of Brett’s mouth lifted. “Noted.”

Minutes later, they pulled up in front of another farmhouse, this one a quarter mile down the road and situated on the other side of a thick stand of tall trees. Before they’d even gotten out of their vehicles, the door to the house opened, and a short, elderly man with a full head of gray hair appeared, leaning heavily on a cane.

While Gemma grabbed her portfolio, Brett leashed up Blaze and let him out of the kennel. “Mr. Briggs?” he asked as they met the older man at the front stairs.

“Who’s asking?” he snapped, eyeing Blaze warily.

Deputy Maws stepped in. “They’re with the ATF, Harold. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”

“I know what the ATF is.” When Briggs rolled his eyes, Gemma choked down a laugh. She’d never seen someone pushing eighty roll their eyes before. “Are you here about that danged fire? I’ve been waiting for someone to come and talk to me.”

“We’re sorry we took so long.” Gemma smiled, walking up the steps to shake hands with the man who so obviously craved attention. “My name’s Gemma Scott.”

She was rewarded with a lopsided smile. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

“Thank you.” Harold Briggs reminded her of her grandfather, and she knew exactly what he needed. To be the center of attention. “We understand that you reported the fire.”

“I sure did.” Using his cane, he pointed in the direction of the other farmhouse. “It was hard to miss it. The explosion woke me up. A loud boom. My bed shook. The whole house shook.”

“And what time was that?” Brett asked.

“2:05 a.m.” Briggs began shaking his head. “Those idiots. We don’t have municipal gas lines out here. You’d think they’d know how to connect a propane tank before buying a place way out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s not the first time that’s happened around here, and it won’t be the last.” He scratched his head. “All that furniture they moved in there is probably blown up or burned to a crisp, right along with the rest of the house.”

“How do you know they moved in furniture?” Brett looked in the direction of where the other house had stood. Aside from a few narrow breaks in the tree line, it would have been completely obscured from Briggs’s view.

“Spotting scope.” Briggs pointed to the far corner of the wraparound porch, where a large camouflage spotting scope perched on a tripod. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and before the Ashlands sold that farm, they’d been here for over fifty years.”

“I see.” Gemma nodded, and she did see. “You wanted to know who your new neighbors were.” And he was a nosy old coot.

“You’re darned right, I did.” He inched closer to Blaze, squinting. “What kinda dog is that?”