Free Fatal Feng Shui by Leslie Caine

way.” He glanced anxiously at the ceiling.
    “My artwork! I can’t leave it! Mike,” Shannon cried to her husband, “carry these pieces out. I’ll get the ones on the far wall—”
    “No! Shannon, get a grip!” he snapped. “You can redo the paintings, if you have to. We’re all leaving this house
now
!”
    “Fine! Fine!” she shrieked. But she didn’t move an inch closer to the door. “So we’ll all just grab a
pair
of paintings and go. Come on, people!” she cried over her shoulder as she dashed into her studio. “Let’s move! Each of you grab one of these paintings against the wall. Now! Hurry!”
    The three of us exchanged shocked looks, but then raced after her. Michael reached for an oil painting near the door. Shannon cried, “No, not those! They’re not my best work! I said the ones against the wall.”
    Figuring it would take longer to chastise her than to grab a painting or two, I complied, as did her husband and a glowering Sullivan. Dragging as many of the awkward wood-frame-backed canvases as we could, the four of us finally made it out of the house. Shannon set her two paintings down on the front lawn. “Put them here, everyone. We’ll stack them up. They should be safe this far away from the house.”
    But Sullivan didn’t move to obey. Instead he was eyeing Pate, who was standing on his porch, speaking on his cell phone as he watched the Youngs’ roof. I turned to look. Six-foot-high flames were shooting out into the deep blue sky.
    Shannon tore across the street toward him.
    “I called nine-one-one.” He pocketed his cell phone. “They were already on the way.”
    “You bastard!” Shannon screamed at him.
    Pate took a step back. “What!?”
    “You did this!” Shannon shrieked. She started to pummel his chest with her fists. “You set fire to my house! You’re trying to
kill
me!”

chapter 6
    M
ichael dragged Shannon away from
Pate and tried in vain to get her to calm down. Within minutes, sirens were once again wailing. Two chartreuse fire trucks arrived, along with a smaller emergency vehicle. A team of firefighters hooked up a hose to a hydrant. Soon a steady blast of water slashed across the flames. Shannon was in tears, all the while harping at the firefighters: “Save the
north
side of the house first! That’s where I do my painting!”
    Though my client’s wishes were paramount,
my
heart was invested in the new construction on the southwest side. David’s team had started in on the “deconstruction” (as I liked to call it), which would allow us to install the column of glass bricks. Sullivan and I had redesigned the room as a combination art showroom/living room, and it was going to look amazing.
    Provided it wasn’t burned to the ground.
    In any case, that skuzzy Ang Chung was going to be doing his happy dance at how badly this fire would delay the remodel. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d sunk so low as to torch it himself. That was a preposterous notion, though. How could he have gotten away with climbing into the attic this morning, unnoticed?
    The temperature had dropped rapidly. Sullivan and I huddled together for warmth as we stood watching on the front lawn—a not entirely unpleasant sensation. Michael, the two-timing hypocrite, kept trying to coax his wife into his arms. She wasn’t even wearing a coat. Maybe her adrenaline was keeping her sufficiently warm.
    Minutes later, the leaping flames had been extinguished, and the firemen were entering the house. The charred, gaping holes were sorry evidence that the roof had sustained considerable damage. Thankfully, judging from what I could glimpse through the open front door, the blaze hadn’t spread into the Youngs’ living quarters.
    A police car parked in front of the house. Shannon dashed over to the first officer as he emerged. Pointing at Pate, still standing on his porch, she shouted, “
That’s
the man who set my house on fire! Arrest him!”
    “Hey! Whoa!” Pate said, holding up