Page 1 of The Queen of Roses

prologue

July 2, 1960

Across the city of Pasadena, alarm clocks woke men and women who kicked off sweat-soaked top sheets, thankful that the temperature had dropped overnight from the oppressive ninety-plus-degree heat that had baked the Southland for three days in a row until they had been almost certain that relief might never come.

In little ranch-style houses and bungalows on straight, wide streets, they threw open their bedroom curtains to greet the Saturday morning. Yawning, they went to rouse any children who were not already planted in front of the television watching The Quick Draw McGraw Show or The Bugs Bunny Show.

In kitchens across town, percolators brewed coffee, eggs and bacon sputtered on the stove, and toast popped up, while around Formica kitchen tables families finalized plans for the long, sunny Independence Day weekend.

Many would gather up their things and pile into Fords and Chevys to drive to white sand beaches teeming with people on terry-cloth towels browning to a crisp with the help of a slathering of baby oil or Crisco. Some would pack picnic baskets with potato salad, cold chicken, deviled eggs, and jellied salads and wrestle the Coleman stove, Frisbees, footballs, lawn chairs, the kids, and the family dog into the back of the car for a day at the park. Anyone who had a pool of their own would pull metal and vinyl-slatted loungers around the edge to watch kids splash and play and keep the barbecue going all day, grateful that they didn’t have to battle traffic and crowds to find their bit of peace.

No one packed an umbrella, because, looking up at the brilliant, clear blue sky, no one believed there was any chance of rain.

It had not, in fact, rained for days in this city made famous by three hundred days a year of shining sun.

Every New Year’s Day, people in snow-blanketed states like Wisconsin and Illinois and Michigan and Ohio sat in front of their television sets to watch the Rose Bowl, wondering what life would be like in the land of endless sunshine. Decades before college bowl games became a national concern, citrus growers planted acres of oranges, grapefruit, and lemons while boosters evangelized about glorious sunlight and cheap land, good health and happy living.

Even as people looked forward to playing in their parks and flipping their burgers on the Fourth of July weekend, old Pasadenans—those born and raised in this arid City of Roses—would know enough to look with worry at the San Gabriel Mountains that bordered them to the north. They were in a dry year, and that could mean only one thing.

Fire.

It was not a matter of if but when something would spark and the dry chaparral that covered those brown craggy mountains would ignite.

In 1924, it was a baker camping with his wife and child in the mountains above Azusa who lit his cigarette and threw away the match, setting the canyon ablaze and burning thousands of acres.

In 1933, La Cañada and La Crescenta burned in the Mount Lukens fire, followed by Brown Mountain in 1934, and Las Flores Canyon above Altadena in 1935.

Those old enough to remember the glow of flames against the night sky and the fall of ash like a poisoned snow looked to the foothills and the mountains and said a silent prayer that they would make it through the hot summer and the surety of the autumn wildfire season until once again the winter rains might come. Only then would they breathe a little easier.

Fire was the last thing on Charlie Herold’s mind as he woke up and stretched inside his canvas tent, his hand nearly touching the sides. He had only moved to Los Angeles five years ago from his hometown of Boise to start a job at an accountancy firm nestled in a tall building in Downtown.

The moment the clock struck five the previous day, he’d changed in the men’s room at his office before hopping into his Dodge, taking the twisting, winding Arroyo Seco Parkway to where the freeway dumped out at Fair Oaks Boulevard. He’d headed toward the mountains before turning right on North Altadena Drive, then on to Lake Avenue and parking. He’d sat on the edge of his trunk to lace up his hiking boots and pull on his pack. Then he’d picked up the Sam Merrill Trail, walking past the sign reminding hikers that the fire danger conditions were extreme, and struck out in the direction of Echo Mountain.

He’d wanted to stretch his legs after a week of slowly cooking alive at his desk in a white shirt, thin black tie, and black suit. As he’d climbed, he could feel his boss’s nagging and the endless stack of papers in his inbox fall away until he reached the ridge above Echo Mountain, pausing to take in the beautiful view in transcendent peace.

He then crossed the ridge to pick up Idlehour Trail, passing Inspiration Point and making it to Idlehour Trail Campground just before dark. The dry winter and spring meant the Eaton Wash where he pitched his tent was a mere trickle, but he managed to cup enough water to splash the dust off his face before cooking dinner on his gas stove. That night, he’d stayed up for hours, watching the stars.

Now awake, he reached for his pack of Marlboro Reds. He lit one with a match as he climbed out of his tent and went to take a piss against the trunk of a scrub oak. It was bliss, the first drag of his cigarette mixed with clean mountain air, and he inhaled deeper and deeper with every draw.

When he was done, he zipped himself up and threw away his cigarette. It sat, flickering orange and black against a chunk of granite before it smoldered out and died.

Charlie cooked himself breakfast and then lit another cigarette as he broke camp. When he pulled his pack onto his back, he flicked away his second cigarette butt of the morning before hiking back down Idlehour Trail.

chapter one THERESA

May 1960

Theresa glared at the metal fan on her desk as she banged out the last words of her article on her Olympia typewriter. The damn thing wasn’t doing a thing in this heat.

She whipped the paper out of the platen and stood, straightening the hem of her skirt before walking on low heels over to her editor Phil’s desk.

“Here’s the Goldberg obit,” she said.

Phil didn’t even bother to look up from the article he was correcting in red pencil. “Funeral?”

“Happened three days ago. He was Jewish. They bury the body as soon as possible after death,” she explained.

“Then there’s no rush.”