“Porter Cassel,” I say, but it doesn’t register. She gives me a wince of a smile and moves on, greeting other guests. I wander along cobbled paths among beds of produce. The greenhouses are humid, crowded with lush green leaves and colourful blossoms. I work my way between tables and slow-moving visitors, looking for Delise, my head throbbing with damp, earthy smells. Her daughter appears, carrying a green plastic watering can. She stands on tiptoes to water flowers, enjoying her little chore. With her freckles and red hair, she looks like one of the lilies she’s watering. I envy her smile. At her age, distraction comes easily. I squat in the aisle between the tables to talk with her.
“Hi, I’m Porter. What’s your name?”
“Melissa,” she says, holding the heavy watering jug with both hands.
“Melissa, do you know where I could find your mom?”
“She’s in the other building. The one with the big plants.”
I thank Melissa, who skips off, and start to look for a building with big plants. A door at the end of the greenhouse warns that whatever lies behind is for staff only. I can’t resist and take a quick peek. There’s nothing more than trays and bags of fertilizer. Someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Can I help you?”
It’s Aunt Gertrude, with a look like my high school English teacher. I close the door, feeling guilty, like I was caught peeking into the girls’ shower room. “I was just looking for Del.”
“Well, she’s not in there,” says Gertrude. “Follow me.”
She leads me into the next greenhouse, where Delise Brashaw is sitting at a small wooden table, surrounded by friends. I wanted to pass on my condolences — and apologies — right after the fire, when Grey notified the family, not in such a public forum, but this may be my last chance and I steel myself for what can only be an emotional scene. Heads turn as we near the table. Delise looks up, as do her four female friends.
“This young man was looking for you,” says Aunt Gertrude.
“Yes, I expect he was,” says Delise, giving me a hard look. “Take a seat.”
There’s one empty chair, like they’ve been expecting me, and I sit down, feeling awkward. Her friends are all in their late twenties or early thirties, wearing long formal dresses and wide-brimmed hats. Delise is in the same simple black funeral dress. Her hair is down, shoulder-length, wavy, and rust-red. Against a backdrop of banana leaves and ferns, she’s sensory overload. She sees her companions staring at me, waves a hand at them.
“Give us a little room, will you.”
The ladies exchange curious glances, make a production of pushing back chairs and standing up. Aunt Gertrude herds them away and Delise gives me a look that’s not easy to hold.
“How are you today, Mr. Porter Cassel?”
“Delise, I feel horrible about what happened.”
She nods, almost imperceptibly. I’ve more to say but am not sure where to go from here and glance at the table. Anger wells up — not at her for asking me here, but at myself. I need to blurt out everything or I’ll explode. Get it into the open. Then I can leave and we can both try to get on with our lives. I meet her gaze. Her eyes are unbelievably green.
“Look — I brought BB up to the ridge with me, so that makes it my fault. He didn’t want to go up there, but I insisted. I should have known better. I made a mistake — a big mistake — and your father paid for it with his life. I know this probably doesn’t help, but I wanted you to know.”
She stares at me and I feel heat creep up my neck.
“You done?” she says.
“What? Yes, I’m done.”
“Good. First off, call me Del — I hate Delise. Secondly, I know what happened and I don’t blame you. Firefighting is a dangerous business and BB knew the risks. He’s been doing this for a long time — longer than you. If he really didn’t want to go up there, he wouldn’t have.”
She pauses, watching me. I can’t believe her. No one is this forgiving.
“You don’t believe me?” she says.
“Well —”
“I can see it in your face. You think I’m in denial.”
“It’s only been a few days,” I say.
“It doesn’t really matter what you think,” she says, waving a hand in my direction. “Not to me, anyway,” she says. “That’s not why I asked you here.” She clasps her hands together on the table, pointing them at me like a battering ram. “What I want to know is who started the fire — that’s who I’m mad at. That’s who killed my father.”
She stops, a little breathless, gives me an inquisitive stare.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I don’t know who started the fire.”
“You’re a fire investigator, right?”
“Yes.” I shift in my chair, a little uncomfortable with what she’s asking. “I am a fire investigator but I wasn’t on the fire in that capacity. I was there as a suppression resource. I located the origin of the fire and determined it was arson, but that was the limit of my involvement in that aspect of the fire.”
“I know all that,” she says, waving away my explanation.
“Well, I’m not sure there’s anything else I can tell you.”
Del frowns, thinks about this for a moment. When I first saw her at the memorial service, she seemed pale and weak. Now she seems aggressive, her face full of colour and emotion, filled with an anxious energy. She’s on the warpath and wants me to point her in the right direction. “Look, Del, I wish I could help you, but I’m really not in the loop here. They have people on this from the sheriff ’s department and the Forest Service. If there’s some way of catching the creep who did this, they’ll find it.”
“You really think so?” she says, looking uncertain.
“Sure. They’re professionals.” But once more, my look gives me away.
“You don’t think they’ll catch him, do you?”
I hesitate. “It’s a tough case, Del. They don’t have physical evidence or a motive.”
“But you saw the evidence,” she says, looking hopeful. “You saw the evidence at the origin and when the other investigators arrived, it was gone. That gives you an advantage, doesn’t it?” She looks dangerously optimistic.
“It was just fusee residue. I’m not sure that helps.”
For a minute, neither of us say anything. I hear the drip of irrigation, the sigh of forced air.
“I want to hire you,” she says suddenly.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? You’re an investigator, and I have money.”
The pause this time is longer. I don’t want to get her hopes up. An isolated arson is difficult to solve — even when the evidence hasn’t vanished — but from the determined look on her face, I can see she won’t let this go without a fight. I take the easy way out.
“I’ll look around a bit. But I’m not taking your money.”
She nods. She seems fine with this.
It’s dusk as I drive the winding road back to town, a rising moon casting craggy shadows. Cool air scented with woodsmoke blows in the open window, tugging at my hair — smoke from Holder’s Canyon. Cursed smoke. I want to catch the bastard who started this fire, for my own peace of mind as much as Del’s, but being excluded from the official investigation is a definite handicap. And sitting around waiting for a report from the investigators would be pointless — it could be weeks before they make an announcement.
Once again, I’m on my own. But where to start?
I brake as a shadow flickers across the road, catch a glimpse of the ruby eyes of a deer. Where there’s one, there’s usually more, so I wait.
Sure enough, three more trot across the road, their backs lit by moonlight, and vanish into dark underbrush. Lots of game around here; I’ll bet the squatters do a little poaching to supplement their grocery bill. I ease the truck into gear and it comes to me suddenly where I’ve seen the face in the trailer window. I was drunk and more than a little distracted, but I’m sure it was the waitress f
rom the bar at the Paradise Gateway Motel. She must work in town to help with the bills and, if she was there once, chances are she’ll be there again.
The motel parking lot is full and I park in the alley, step around broken glass to get to a metal fire door announcing in faded red letters that Minors are Not Permitted. The thump and twang of country music seeps through the wall. I enter next to a bank of video gambling machines, temporarily blinded by the gloom. Men in cowboy hats materialize, hunched on chairs, staring at digital displays, waiting for the big payoff. I glance around the bar, looking for the waitress. She’s not here — maybe it’s her night off. Maybe I’m just early.
“Well, if it isn’t the Canadian fuck-up —”
It’s Cooper, standing by the bar, swaying unsteadily. He’s rumpled and unshaven, a bottle of beer in his hand. A crescent of stitches track across his glistening cheek, a souvenir from his fall off the table two days ago. His eyes are glazed, his jaw hanging slack; he’s on an extended holiday — a look I’ve seen in the mirror a few too many times. He gives me a wicked grin, drapes a sweaty arm over my shoulders, breathes sour beer and pretzels in my face.
“How you been, buddy?”
“Just dandy, Mr. Cooper. They released you from the fire?”
“Oh yeah,” he says leaning heavily on me. “All of us, thanks to you.”
The room is full of firefighters, all watching me. Even the boys from the volunteer fire department are here — Hutton and his sidekicks. Hutton is still wearing his dark, wrap-around sunglasses.
“Wassa matter?” says Cooper, still hanging on me.
“Oh, nothing. I was just going to buy a round.”
Cooper straightens himself, more or less. “Hey guys, the Canadian is buying.”
There’s a cheer — I’ve been elevated to hero status again, for a few minutes anyway. I take the opportunity to distance myself from Cooper and bump into the waitress I’m looking for. Her long brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and she’s wearing a black skirt, white shirt, and green apron with the motel logo on it.
“How will you be paying for this round?”
“Plastic, I guess. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it to you,” she says, smiling professionally.
“Well, that would explain it.”
I rummage in my pockets for a wallet. “That’s quite a bumpy drive you have, getting to work.”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
I hand over my abused credit card. “I could have sworn I saw you yesterday.”
“Really?” She slips the card into her apron.
“Out of town, up a long winding road.”
“I doubt it,” she says. “I live here, at the motel.”
“That’s interesting, because I would have sworn it was you, looking out a trailer window.”
“Maybe it was my evil twin,” she says, grinning, but it’s not a very good grin. I’m about to call her on it, explain what I’m after, but she interrupts me, asking me what I want to drink. Rye and Seven, I tell her automatically. She’s moving away already.
“Just the one round,” I call after her.
She nods — at least I think it was a nod.
Cooper is searching for me when Hutton flags me over.
“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for the drink.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, wishing I had my own drink.
He gives me a crooked smile. “You find what you’re looking for?”
“What?”
“The other day, at the fire, you were looking in peoples’ pockets.”
“Right. No — I didn’t find anything.”
“That’s not what I heard,” he says, glancing toward Bickenham.
The kid sees us looking and turns away. Hutton takes off his sunglasses, tucks them into a shirt pocket. Must be a special occasion. He has shadows under his eyes.
“I hear you’re a fire investigator.”
“Occasionally.”
“Is that why you were on the fire?”
“No,” I say, looking for the waitress. “I was just another grunt.”
“Another grunt?” Hutton looks amused. “I thought you were the commander.”
“Yeah, well, it’s just another job.”
There’s an awkward pause. Hutton’s two companions sip their drinks. One guy is stocky, with a balding brush cut, looks to be in his early forties. He’s got a fleshy, pocked face the texture of pumice, skin burned brick red. The other fellow is younger, late twenties, with limp black shoulder-length hair and a lot of stubble. They’re both very quiet, no doubt waiting for a cue from their leader.
“I do a little of that myself,” says Hutton. “Took some training a few years ago.”
“Incident command?”
“Fire investigation. I do most of the investigations for the department here.”
“You ever have a fire started with a fusee?”
“No. We do building fires. Kids with matches goofing around in abandoned houses. People smoking in bed.” He shakes his head. “You’d think they’d learn. You see those charred corpses in the bedsprings man, you’d never light up again. They should do commercials, show them on TV.”
“Sure. That’d go nicely on prime time.”
Hutton gives me a humourless smile. “You investigating the Holder fire?”
“They’ve got plenty of people on it already.”
“Yeah, but are they getting anywhere?”
“Who knows,” I say, watching the waitress balance a loaded tray as she manoeuvres through a labyrinth of tables and groping hands. I’m positive it was her I saw at the squatters’ camp and wonder why she’s being so evasive. Maybe she’s just ashamed of living like that — I hope she doesn’t think I was hitting on her. I nod toward Hutton and his buddies, start to move in her direction.
“You need anything,” Hutton calls after me, “you let me know.”
I wave an acknowledgement, circle around as the waitress stops to pick up empties.
“Oh right,” she says when she sees me. “I forgot your drink.”
“No problem. Look, I wasn’t trying to hit on you. I just need to talk.”
“Sure,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away. “That’s how it starts.”
She’s playing hard to get. I circle around a group of tables so I don’t have to talk to her back, but she diverts left. I alter course to intercept but she’s weaving and dodging, stopping to deliver another round at a busy table. But she’s out of booze now, so I meet her in front of the bar.
“I’m investigating the fire in the canyon, and I need to talk to you.”
“Rye and Seven,” she says. “Right? Roy, give me a Rye and Seven.”
The bartender, a young guy with a pencil-thin moustache that looks drawn on with mascara, hands her a drink, which she hands to me. Customers are piling up at the bar like waves hitting the beach and I’m pressed closer to the waitress, nearly upsetting her tray, which she’s loading with the efficiency of an assembly-line robot. “And three more draft, Roy —”
It’s noisy enough I nearly have to shout.
“Look, maybe we can talk later. When do you get off?”
She gives me the briefest look. “For you buddy, never.”
“Look, like I said, I’m not hitting on you.”
“Hey, Roy.” She jerks her head toward me. “This guy is bothering me.”
Roy gives me his best tough guy look. “Leave the lady alone.”
“Mind your own goddamn business, Roy.”
Roy looks shocked, tries to puff up, but I turn my attention to the waitress. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting a little cranky. We need to talk. I need to know why your friend chased me off at gunpoint. If that fire had anything to do with your friends being out there, it could just be the beginning. Things could get worse. Look, I’m not a cop or anything, I’m just helping the dead guy’s family.”
For a second, she looks scared, then shakes her head. This is where a re
al investigator would relent, offer her a card so she could call if she thought of anything, but I don’t have a card. I don’t even have a pen. I pluck one from her shirt pocket — her hands are full — and look for that pad of paper she had earlier. I don’t get a chance to find it. Roy’s little army has arrived: two guys in cowboy hats and sleeveless denim shirts. “This the guy?” says the biggest of them.
“Yeah, that’s him,” says Roy, from behind the safety of the bar.
“Okay buddy, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Bouncers everywhere have the same expression when they deliver that line, but most of them really don’t want to deliver what their faces are promising. It’s hard work doing this all night, and there’s nothing wrong with a walk-out. “Just a minute fellas —”
“Dump him!” shrieks Roy. “Toss his ass.”
The big guys are paid to move, not think, and they grab me by the arms and drag me through the crowd, much to everyone’s delight. I’m tossed on the ground outside the back door, just like you see in a western. Only in a western, the street is dirt, not asphalt. I roll a little, take it mostly in the shoulder.
“Stay out!” says the bigger bouncer, pointing at me, trying to look mean while he wheezes.
“Where’s my card?”
“What?”
Now I’ve gone and confused him. “My plastic. My credit card. The waitress has it.”
“You just stay here.”
The door slaps shut and I lay on the asphalt a moment longer, wondering if anything is broken. I want to go back in, kick Roy’s ass, talk to the waitress, and get my plastic back, but I don’t think my lower back will agree. So, when the door opens again and the bouncer flicks my card at me, I just let it go.
At least I only paid for the one round. I hope.
When I finally scrape myself off the pavement, my truck doesn’t start. I groan, pop the hood, peer into shadow. Whatever is wrong, I won’t see it tonight and debate checking into the motel. I’m somewhat disenchanted with the hospitality here and decide I’ll hitch my way back to the cabin. Or walk — it’s just a few miles and I’m only half-crippled. If I don’t make it, I’ll just roll into a grassy ditch somewhere and catch a few winks — it wouldn’t be the first time.
One Careless Moment Page 11