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ten of twelve I pulled on my coat and headed out for my lunch meeting. Not a date, nope. James and I arrived at the door to the restaurant at the same time. Every time I saw him, I was amused at how well he filled the role of FBI agent. He looked well tailored, strong, and decisive. And he was in fact every one of those things. I had to admit, the combination was really quite sexy.
    He held the door for me. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Nell.”
    “I assume you wouldn’t have asked unless it was important, James.” My, weren’t we formal? I sneaked a peek: yes, he was smiling, as was I. Business as usual.
    We waited until the maitre d’ had escorted us to a table and handed us menus before resuming our conversation. “So, what’s this all about?” I asked. “Can you release the items from the Terwilliger Collection yet?”
    “It’s not that, it’s about that warehouse fire. You know about it?”
    That was not what I expected to hear. “I do. Don’t tell me there’s terrorism involved?”
    “No, but we do consult with the police on a variety of issues. We’re interested in this particular investigation for several reasons. One, it was a major fire event, and there were materials from a range of owners involved. Two, someone died. Three, we have facilities for arson investigation that the local authorities may lack.”
    I held up a hand. “That’s plenty, thank you. So it is officially arson?”
    He nodded. “Yes, that much was established early, as soon as the local investigators could get into the building.”
    “So why do you need to talk to me?”
    “I understand that the collections from the Fireman’s Museum were housed there temporarily.”
    I saw a glimmer of logic. “Yes, I was told that. By the museum’s president, actually, yesterday morning.”
    “Peter Ingersoll,” James said.
    “Yes. I assume you know him?”
    James’s mouth twitched. “You mean, through Marty? No, I did not know him before the fire. Did
you
know him?”
    “Not until yesterday.” I didn’t mention that I’d seen him at the luncheon a day earlier; we hadn’t actually met then anyway. I had forgotten to ask Peter, but it seemed likely that the phone call he had taken there might have been his first notice of the fire. “He came to me to ask for documentation about the museum’s collection, since apparently his records burned in the fire. Bad planning, no? When I saw him, I think he was still hoping that something had survived, but that picture in the paper this morning…”
    “The Terwilliger fire engine? That I do remember—we thought it was really neat, when we were kids, and naturally we wanted to climb all over it, but we weren’t allowed—in theory. Of course, we did when none of the grown-ups was looking.”
    Marty had told me about the gang of cousins who’d roamed the various family estates years ago, and I knew that James had been one of them. Sometimes I wondered how much that family network had helped him in local investigations, although I knew he regarded Marty as something of a loose cannon. But then, Marty didn’t have to follow FBI rules.
    “It looks like a total loss, which is really a shame. Does your personal connection to the fire engine mean you have to recuse yourself or whatever?”
    “No, nothing like that. It’s just a fluke.”
    “So, apart from the pleasure of my company, why am I here?”
    “Because you’re officially part of the local museum community, and I appreciate your insights. And any information you might happen to hear. For example, what you find out from Peter Ingersoll.”
    “It sounds as though you don’t trust him. When I spoke with him yesterday, he seemed devastated by what’s happened. Is there something I need to know about the dead man, that wasn’t in the papers?”
    “He was a retired firefighter named Allan Brigham. He retired early—rumor was that he had a drinking problem, but other than that, nobody’s had anything bad to