Buried In Buttercream

community if you couldn’t be there, firsthand, to watch the calamity?
    This was his fourth fire in less than a month. They had to catch him before he burned the whole county down.
    After a long, dry summer, Southern California had enough problems with wildfires without a pyromaniac getting his jollies by setting more.
    “The wind shifted two hours ago,” Jim said. “And they announced it on the local news.”
    “He had to know it was coming this way,” Savannah added. “Plenty of time for him to get here.”
    Dirk switched from his Grumpy, Thwarted-Bridegroom Mode to his usual—Harried, Cynical Police Detective Mode.
    His modes didn’t vary much.
    “Let’s socialize,” he said to Savannah, “mingle a bit.”
    “Yeah, you do that,” Jim told them. “I’m gonna get back to work, if I’ve got your word, Coulter, that you won’t be trying to rescue any more bridal apparel.”
    But Jim didn’t need to finagle any promises out of Dirk. Ruined wedding plans pushed aside for the moment, Detective Sergeant Coulter and his still bride-to-be were on a mission. They had an arsonist to apprehend and a strong, personal investment in his capture.
    “If I get my hands on him,” Savannah said, as they headed for the crowd of onlookers, “I’m gonna mash him like a spider on a sidewalk, until he’s nothing but a big, greasy spot.”
    “No, you’ve gotta save me some.”
    Dirk took her hand and led her over the uneven, rocky ground with a paternal tenderness that was sweet and touching.
    Three months ago—when both of their lives had been changed forever—all that loving concern had meant the world to her. His constant attention and unfailing devotion had been exactly what she had needed to survive her ordeal and heal the damage that had been done to her body and spirit. She never would have made it without him.
    Two months ago, his endless support and help had been comforting, even convenient, as he had scurried about, running errands for her, waiting on her hand and foot.
    But now, she was getting tired of being treated like a victim. She was a survivor. And all this solicitous hovering was getting to be a bit much.
    Gently, she withdrew her hand from his. “Let’s split up,” she said. “We’ll cover more ground that way. You work this end of the crowd, and I’ll take the other end. Meet you in the middle.”
    Instantly, disapproval registered on his face in the form of his standard-issue showdown-at-high-noon cowboy scowl. “You’re gonna go by yourself?” he said.
    “Yes. I am. Just like I go to the little girls’ room all by myself.” She gave him a smile that was sweeter than her words. After all, he wasn’t deliberately being a pain in the rear end; he meant well.
    So, she wouldn’t smack him upside the head ... this time.
    But he wasn’t going to let it go. “I don’t know how happy I am about you going off by yourself so soon after—”
    “Then, darlin’, you can just get happy in the same bloomers that you got unhappy in,” she said as she started to walk away from him.
    “Be careful!”
    She smiled back at him over her shoulder, and lightly scratched the tip of her nose with her middle finger.
    Chuckling, he shook his head. “Well, at least don’t tackle anybody. You know what the doctor said.”
    As she left him behind and worked her way to the opposite end of the crowd, she tried not to think about what the doctor had said.
    “Ms. Reid, you’re a very lucky lady. Three of those five shots could have easily been lethal, had they been an inch or two to the right or the left.”
    No, some memories should remain on the shelf marked, “Best Left Alone.”
    “The worst is over, Savannah girl,” she whispered to herself, as she had so many times during the past three months. “The worst is over and done with. Move on.”
    She passed a group of teenaged girls wearing far less than their mommas should have let them out of the house in. She checked them off her mental list.
    Most arsonists were male. And the majority of them had practical reasons for setting their fires. Revenge, insurance fraud, or to destroy the evidence of other evil-doing ... those were the most usual reasons for blaze-setting.
    But Savannah remembered, all too well, the class she had taken while still on the police force, the points the arson specialist had made when profiling what he had called the “pure arsonist.” Though rare, there were individuals who derived their own strange brand of sexual