Free Murder in Burnt Orange by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

much to the fire atall.” Patrick shrugged out of his raincoat, which was not only wet, but sooty. “It was in the little storeroom at the back. You know, where we keep boxes and wrapping paper and that?”
    Hilda nodded. “But there is much there to burn!”
    â€œSometimes, but not just now. We’re gettin’ low on boxes and our new order hasn’t come in yet. Lucky, that was—the fire might’ve been much worse with that extra fuel. What was there mostly made a lot of smoke, and the night watchman smelled it and turned in the alarm, though he passed out just after—from the smoke or somethin’. He just managed to get back to his cubbyhole before he fell. He would have been burned up, too, but for that. Anyway, the firemen got there right away, and they had it all under control before I even got there.” He stopped abruptly. “Is there coffee, still?”
    â€œIt is cold. I will make more. Patrick, there is something you are not telling me. It—it is not Uncle Dan?”
    â€œNo, darlin’. Uncle Dan’s fine, and the store wasn’t hurt atall, barrin’ a lot of smoke smell we’ll have to wash out of the linens.”
    â€œThen what is it?”
    Patrick spread his hands in a weary gesture of resignation. “Someone was killed in the fire, Hilda. A man. We don’t know who, yet, nor what he was doin’ at the store at that time of night. Now I’m goin’ up to get a little sleep. I need to get back to the store in an hour or two to start puttin’ things to rights.”
    He knew more by midmorning. Uncle Dan came back to the store as soon as he had finished talking to the police. He sat down wearily in his office to talk to Patrick. “His name was Bill—William—Beeman. His father came to the police station to say he hadn’t come home last night, and they had him identify the body. By the belt buckle, a present for his birthday in April. That was all—well.” Dan wiped his eyes; the handkerchief came away with soot on it. “He was only a boy, it seems, eighteen years old and just starting his first job, up at the Merchants’ National Bank.”
    Patrick frowned. “But, if he didn’t work for us, what was he doin’ in our storeroom in the middle of the night?”
    â€œThat we don’t know. The police did find one thing, though, in the corner of the room: the remains of a Roman candle. They’re guessin’ that the boy was settin’ off fireworks, it bein’ the Fourth, and maybe got into the storeroom to shelter from the rain. There’s an outside door, y’know.”
    â€œIt’s kept locked, though. And why would he try to set off fireworks in the rain, anyway?”
    â€œI don’t know, me boy. I’m past thinkin’. I need to get home and clean up and get to bed for a bit. Can you manage here for an hour or two?”
    So Patrick telephoned that he would not be home for lunch, and Hilda, who was longing for news, was forced to wait, though not as long as she had feared. In midafternoon, Eileen showed Aunt Molly into the parlor.
    â€œYou’re feeling better, my dear,” Molly said. Her hat was damp, but not soaking wet; the rain had moderated. “I’m so glad.” Her voice was warm, but her attention seemed not to be entirely on Hilda.
    â€œIt is cooler. I can sleep.” She brushed the topic aside. “Aunt Molly, what happened at the store last night? Patrick has not had time to tell me, only a little.”
    â€œWell, it’s all a bit strange.” Molly related what she knew. “What no one can figure out,” she concluded, “is why that boy was where he was. Setting off fireworks, the police say. In the middle of the night? Indoors? What claptrap!”
    â€œThat is maybe what someone wants the police to think,” said Hilda after a pause for thought. “About the fireworks, I mean. Me, I