The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer Page 16

  Chapter 16

  Interview with a Fire Marshal

  The Eden fire marshal hunkered down in his rain jacket, surveying what was left of the Olde Eden Taphouse. A dog-walker on Colonial Towne Road had passed by the place yesterday evening and called in the fire. The E.F.D. had arrived on the scene ten minutes later, just in time to prevent the blaze from spreading to the brewery side of Farmer John’s business. His fellow marshals down at the station were leaning towards the theory that the fire had been caused by a lit cigarette dropped by one of the participants in the trouble. And that was just what was going down on the report: accidental fire, no investigation. Farmer John was the most prominent citizen in Eden, donated sackfuls of dollars to local charities, and sat on the Eden City Council. End of story.

  “Hey, Cap'n Promo,” whispered a throaty voice in his left ear. He felt hot breath on his neck and spun around—and there was Farmer John, not two steps behind him, peering over his shoulder at the scorched wreckage of the Taphouse.

  “Sorry 'bout that,” said Farmer John, though he did not look apologetic. He wore no rain-gear, and did not seem bothered by the steady drip from the leaky faucet that approximated Eden's sky this morning. “Did I scare ya?”

  “Ah . . . no,” replied the fire marshal. He looked down at the old farmer's flip-flop adorned feet, and his eyes widened. He looked up, hiding his surprise. “So how you been, John?”

  Farmer John inclined his head towards what had once been the Olde Eden Taphouse. “Not too bad, Cap'n. But thanks for asking.”

  Captain Promo chose to ignore the blatant sarcasm. “So you said you weren’t here last night when the fire started.”

  Farmer John smirked. “I already told ya everything I know over the phone last night.”

  “Humor me, and run it by me one more time.”

  Farmer John shrugged. “I had already gone home for the evening. Any of my brewery employees will vouch for me on that. It seems the fire was a complete accident. Either that or those kids started it, mistakenly or otherwise.”

  Promo could care less about the man’s opinion of whether the fire was an accident or arson—that was his department. “Yeah, you think your bartender would've noticed the really tall guy was actually two kids stacked one on top the other.”

  Farmer John let out a wry laugh and shook his head.

  “And I'm still curious as to why he didn't call the fire department,” said Promo.

  “There was no time. He ran to the brewery side of the building, warned the employees working there, and they evacuated the building. One of 'em called me, and that’s when I called yer department.”

  Okay, that part of the story held up, at least. Farmer John had been the second to call in the fire, just a few minutes after the dog-walker.

  Promo sighed. “All right, John. But tell your employees to call us first next time, then call you.”

  Farmer John's smile dripped irony. “Well, let’s hope there is no next time.”

  “You feeling okay, John?” Promo peered at the old farmer, his eyes saying far more than his words. “You don’t look yourself, for some reason.”

  “I’m fine, except for the fact that me property just burned down.” Farmer John shrugged and looked away, deflecting the fire marshal's questioning gaze.

  Promo thought for a long second, rain dripping down into the hood of his jacket and onto his face. “All right, John. It’s going down in the books as an accidental fire.”

  Farmer John nodded. “That’s what it was, so it makes perfect sense to me. So can I go now, inspector? I've got big plans today.”

  “Sure. You take care of yourself, John.”

  The old farmer grinned like he knew something the fire marshal didn't. “You do the same, Cap'n.” He chuckled. “You do the same.”

  After Farmer John departed, Promo walked back through the scene of the fire. Half of the Taphouse roof had caved in, and the rest was sooty charcoal. The walls were intact, but the smoke damage was bad. A few charred chunks of what had once been wooden tables and chairs littered the scorched hardwood floor, which was covered in a small lake of ash.

  In short, the much-beloved bar was ruined.

  Kicking blackened barstools out of the way, he walked over to the thick wooden bar, about the only thing in the place that had survived the fire intact, though it was good and seared.

  All in all, the Taphouse fire did appear to be an accident—except for the two parallel lines charred inches deep into the bar-top, as if a child of Hades had ridden his demonic big-wheel down the mahogany, drizzling napalm from twin exhaust pipes.

  This strange fact was unexplainable—at least by human standards. By mythological standards, however . . . well, that was another matter entirely, wasn't it?

  Usually he would go to Farmer John when something like this occurred in town. But since the farmer had been acting strange and wearing flip-flops, this was unthinkable.

  But he had another old friend who might be able to shed some light on the Taphouse fire.

  He would stop by his cottage later.