Riley was a regular Boy Scout, loyal, industrious, and well prepared. Most people would call him a hard worker and a smart guy, nice if not a little bit weird. He always laughed at the wrong places and never knew when to end conversations. Riley was just awkward. Tablet tucked under his arm, he walked up the long curved driveway to the Baconer house or at least what was left of it. The house, a late Victorian mansion with original cedar shakes, wraparound porches, a turret, and widow’s walk, had been a grand lady. Now it was soaked burnt skeleton. Whistling, Riley stood by the yellow police tape and put on his bunny suit. He smiled to himself.

Riley had ridden his bike past the house each day on the way to school. The Baconers were the old money and country club set while his family was paycheck to paycheck and backyard barbecues. Legs pumping, he rode by and wondered about the people inside. There were three Baconer daughters, triplets, gorgeous triplets. Riley had gone to school with them for twelve years. Bruna was the jock, all tennis skirts and face punching. The high school even the teachers avoided the Queen Bee and her muscle bound coterie. Head cheerleader, prom queen, class president, Alba was simply the skin of evil. Riley shivered as he remembered Alba with her big glittery hair ribbons was never satisfied until she made someone cry. Riley snapped photos of the charred stove top. Then there was Jett, the third sister, the artist. Riley had been even more weird in high school. Peasant skirts and a cloud of patchouli and rose, Jett had always been kind to Riley. Jett smiled at him with passing in the hallway. Jett let him help her with her science homework. And once Jett waved to him from this very house. Riley shined his flashlight on the disconnected stove gas line.

The Baconer girls’ parents had passed and Bruna, the oldest by eleven minutes, inherited this house and control of the family wealth. Remembering Bruna died in windstorm climbing Mount Merapi, Riley headed to the point of ignition. Alba inherited and had been remodeling the family home. Jett had told him. She was back in Remusville to sign some papers, she said. They ran into each other, literally, at the art house movie theater at the Harold Lloyd festival. They shared a jumbo popcorn in the silvery darkness. Jett asked him out for coffee and for the first time ever with a woman Riley was completely at ease. Jett had touched his arm when we caught the matinée of Von Stroheim’s Greed.

Riley knelt at the remains of the dryer. The fire had destroyed the 100 year old mansion and Alba and Alba’s husband and their baby son. Riley poked at the dryer’s innards. Jett had asked him to her brownstone for dinner to keep her company since her terrible loss.

Riley snapped more photos. Riley smiled again. He knew why he was so comfortable with Jett. He was weird not stupid. Jett was pretending to like him to get something. She always had. It was easy to be comfortable when it was all an act. She probably thought she could get info on the arson investigation. But Riley was a regular Boy Scout and he knew kitty litter soaked in kerosene was a great way to start a fire. Whistling merrily, Riley gathered his sample.