Fire Raiser by Melanie Rawn

second time was in Flynton, just outside the bank. Lachlan had been called out on a domestic disturbance—this was before the county in general had developed sufficient understanding of his attitude toward spouses who hit each other and parents who hit their children—and was coming out of the Dairy Queen with a cold soda that he wished was a jigger of single malt so he could get the taste out of his mouth. Weiss was getting out of his Mercedes and ten or so of his employees were getting out of the Westmoreland courtesy van. Upon seeing Evan, Weiss had paused while his workers entered the bank. A brief conversation about the virtues of saving one’s wages and the advisability of shopping around for interest rates ensued. Evan then excused himself to take Polly Henderson to the county lockup for attempting to carve her husband a new one, and the whole drive kept asking himself just what it was about Weiss that raised his hackles. It wasn’t as if the man had a comic-opera German accent, a monocle, military bearing complete with heel-clicks, or the blue-eyed-blond Aryan look about him. He was pleasantly spoken, polite, handsome enough in a thin-nosed, sharp-cheekboned way, and seemed genuinely charmed by rural America.
    The grand opening of Westmoreland in November 2004 was the third time Lachlan had encountered him. Holly and Lulah were introduced, hands were shaken, and that was it—except that Lachlan felt like he needed a shower.
    The fourth time had been in the Sheriff’s Office again, the day after the fire at the Lutheran church—which was, in fact, the church Weiss himself attended. After a reasonably subtle but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to learn what Evan knew about the arson, Weiss had issued a personal invitation to the Lachlans to be his guests at the Westmoreland luncheon buffet the following Saturday. Evan declined with a polite smile; they were already engaged, but thanks very much, and so forth. Weiss accepted defeat on all counts and left.
    Before Evan could find his host this evening, he caught sight of Holly. She had paused in the ballroom doorway, scanning the crowd. He was the one she was looking for, no doubt of it. He smiled as she found him, both smug and grateful, because he was the only one who could put this look onto her face. To use an old-fashioned phrase, she prided him. She did him honor.
    As she approached, he took in the latest version of her Candidate’s Wife look. Denim skirt, sort of a dark butterscotch color, off-white silk shirt, and dark green corduroy jacket: sleek, classic, and modest, until your eyes got to the hem of her skirt and followed the legs down to the Fuck Me shoes. As he dragged his gaze back up—was it okay to ogle one’s own wife in public?—he noted the usual ensemble of jewelry: engagement and wedding rings, signet ring, and Susannah’s diamond bracelet, augmented tonight with small hoop earrings and the Fortis et Fidus castle-and-crown brooch at her lapel. As she took his arm and leaned up for a kiss he murmured, “The Lachlan crest on your hand, the Lachlan badge on your jacket—what, the Lachlan hunting tartan’s in the laundry?”
    Her tongue flicked out to lick his upper lip before she drew back and smiled her sweetest. “I’m making sure everybody knows who I belong to, O Light of My Life.”
    “Remind me to have your clan badge tattooed on my—Evening, Judge Schaefer,” he said hastily.
    “Nice to see you, Evan. Holly, you’re looking as stunning as ever. How are the twins?”
    “Rambunctious,” she said. “And don’t think you can sweet-talk me into believing you really want to hear about the rug rats, Your Honor—I know very well you’re hiding from Dulcie Whittaker.”
    The judge pulled a mournful face. “I see the good counselor quite often enough in my courtroom, thanks. I swear to you, Holly, two minutes into that woman’s opening statements, I expect the CSI crew to come in and lay down the chalk outline around the whole