Renner asked the value of the cake. Eleanor told him the bakery invoice was four hundred eighty dollars. Sloan laughed once and said that was “not even close” to the value of her bag. Renner said the values might matter for charging and restitution but not for deciding whether each act was intentional.
Harrison finally spoke. “Can we not do this?” Renner looked at him. “Sir, I believe that decision was made before we arrived.”
Nobody was arrested that evening. The officers documented both allegations, advised all parties that the county attorney could review the matter, and suggested they avoid further contact until emotions cooled. Sloan took the scorched remains of her handbag in a paper evidence sack, which offended her almost as much as the fire had. Eleanor accepted a case number.
Harrison said nothing as he left the second time. After everyone was gone, Eleanor stood alone on the patio while Margaret washed serving spoons inside. The lawn had returned to its expensive calm. The string lights were still on.
A few paper napkins moved gently in the evening breeze. Someone had left a half glass of rosé near the planter. From the far side of the fence came the ordinary sound of a neighbor’s television through an open window. Eleanor looked down at the pale frosting stain.
She had no regret yet. That worried her. Not because she thought Sloan deserved sympathy. Because Eleanor had spent a lifetime believing self-control was one of the few powers no one could take from her.
At sixty-five, she had dropped a two-thousand-five-hundred-dollar handbag into fire in front of children and guests. The act had felt clean in the moment. Clean acts are often the ones that create the messiest paperwork afterward. Margaret joined her carrying two cups of tea.
“You know you’re going to have to pay for that bag,” she said. “Probably.” “Possibly more than the bag.” “Probably.”