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were all the other shops and offices nearby. I continued on to my neighborhood,then drove past George’s house, and Bess’s. There was no fire to be seen.
    There was only one place I hadn’t looked yet—Mission Hill. That’s the neighborhood that puts the “heights” in River Heights. The hill rises high over the town, and from the top there are amazing views of the Muskoka River. It’s the most expensive area in the whole city. I started up the winding road that led to the top of the hill. Immediately I could tell I was on the right trail.
    Police cars and fire trucks lined the side of the road, and thick brown smoke wafted through the air. The houses in this neighborhood were set far back from the road, and each place was surrounded by a lot of property. I found the flaming house about half a mile from the top of the hill. It was a beautiful old Georgian-style house with tall columns in front of the entrance. And it was being devoured by angry orange flames that leaped high into the sky. Heavy smoke poured from the fire, billowing across the manicured front lawn.
    I pulled my car to the side of the street and got out. Three separate teams of firefighters held their powerful hoses on the blaze, but the water didn’t seem to be doing much good.
    River Heights Fire Chief Cody Cloud stood near the curb, commanding his firefighters through thewalkie-talkie in his hand. He frowned when he saw me.
    “Nancy, what are you doing here?” he asked.
    “Hi, Chief Cody,” I said. “We heard the sirens on the set and I thought I’d take a drive out just to make sure the fire wasn’t at any of our houses.”
    “No, the owner of this house isn’t involved in your film,” Chief Cody said. He pointed out a middle-aged man on the front lawn. The man was racing back and forth in front of the burning house, panicked.
    From the way the owner was acting, I assumed he was worried about a family member who hadn’t escaped the fire. “Is there someone else inside?” I asked Chief Cody.
    “Nope,” he said. “That guy lives here alone. He’s worried about his stuff.”
    At that moment the owner gave up on his pacing and ran over to where we were standing. “Aren’t you in charge here?” he demanded.
    Chief Cody nodded. “We’re doing everything we can, Jeffrey,” he said in a soothing voice.
    “It’s not enough,” Jeffrey snapped. “All of my furniture is going to be ruined.”
    “We’re fighting to save your house,” Chief Cody explained. “The furniture can be replaced.”
    “No, it can’t!” Jeffrey cried, distraught. “Don’t youget it? The house is filled with antique furniture. I put all my money into the furniture collection. If it’s destroyed, I’ll be ruined. I’ll be destitute!”
    “Now, Jeffrey—” the fire chief began.
    “They’re spraying water into the house!” Jeffrey shrieked, pointing to a team of firefighters who had just turned their hoses toward the one part of the house that wasn’t burning.
    “They’re wetting everything down to try to keep the fire from spreading,” Chief Cody explained.
    But Jeffrey seemed even more agitated than before. “Water will ruin my furniture just as much as fire will!” he cried.
    I could tell Chief Cody was losing patience with this owner. After all, his firefighters were putting themselves in danger trying to save the house, and Jeffrey didn’t seem grateful at all.
    “Maybe that team can stop wetting things down and just concentrate on getting some of the furniture out?” I suggested.
    Jeffrey looked at me, noticing me for the first time. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t say anything.
    “That would mean sending firefighters into a burning building,” Chief Cody replied. “It’s a dangerous thing to do. We go inside to save people and animals, but not to save furniture.”
    “The room over there isn’t on fire,” I said, gesturing to what looked like a large hall or living room. It stuck out from the main structure, as