One Careless Moment (11 page)

Grey catches up with me as I stand next to the empty crate.

“You got a few minutes, Porter?”

I nod, still a bit disoriented by Delise's unexpected invitation. Grey leads me to a small conference room at the back of the community hall where Noble is waiting. He's wearing a charcoal grey suit and very wide red tie. His tanned scalp reflects the fluorescent lighting. He leans back in a cheap stacking chair, his legs loosely crossed, a sheaf of papers on the table in front of him. He doesn't bother standing when I come in.

“Cassel — we've got a chronology of events on the fire we'd like you to review.”

“Sure. When do you need this back?”

“Take a seat. We're on a tight timeline.”

I'd like to take the papers with me, or make a copy, but neither seems likely so I sit down, pull the papers closer and start reading. It's pretty thorough, contains dispatch information prior to my arrival at the fire. I read this section twice. Reported by Kershaw Lookout at 12:37, well into the daily burning period. This means, if it was a half-hour fusee, the arsonist lit up right after lunch. If he was from town, he would have to leave a half-hour before this — all of which is interesting but useless without a suspect. Smokejumpers were dispatched from the Aerial Fire Depot in Missoula at 12:41 and jumped in about twenty minutes later. Brashaw's crew was dispatched about ten minutes after the smokejumpers. Nothing especially revealing here.

Further along, I see my call requesting a fire investigator logged into the dispatch record, which makes me feel a bit better considering the disappearance of all the evidence at the origin. So are my repeated requests for aircraft. I reach the end of the lengthy summary and flip back a few pages. Grey is staring out a window. Noble is cleaning his nails with the end of a bent paperclip.

“There's no mention of the origin disturbance,” I say to Noble.

He shrugs, looks unconcerned. “That's a separate matter. This is just chronology.”

“That's part of the chronology. The evidence vanished within two hours of my identification.”

Noble uncrosses his legs, pushes himself upright. “We've purposefully left out all reference to the arson in this report, other than your initial call. We don't want any particulars getting out at this point. In fact,” he says, pointing the paperclip at me, “we'd prefer if you didn't discuss this with anyone.”

“Why? Do you think Forest Service staff could be involved?”

Grey turns and looks at me. He isn't impressed with my suggestion.

Noble shakes his head. “Anything's possible, but at this point we doubt it. As you're probably aware, withholding crime scene details is a routine practice. We don't like the bad guys keeping up on what we know. And it makes it easier to sort out the copycats and crackpots.”

“What about your own determination of origin?”

“I think I mentioned before that it was inconclusive.”

“The pin flags you left out there — were they potential origin locations?”

Noble glances at Grey, who shrugs. “Yes, they were.”

“What about the squatters? Did you question them?”

Noble frowns, looks irritated. “They don't claim to know anything.” I picture Noble showing up in the clearing, wearing his suit, questioning the Sasquatch. “What about an evacuation? Was that ever considered?” Now Grey looks irritated. “Of course. The squatters told us to piss up a rope.” “They didn't want to leave?” “Apparently not.” “And you don't know of anyone who might want to get rid of them?” “Everyone would love to get rid of them,” says Grey.“Myself included.” “Why?” says Noble, looking at me. “What are you thinking?” I hesitate; I don't like discussing my theories without something to back them up, but I probably won't be around Carson Lake much longer. “The squatters resent authority, and this fire is bringing them into conflict with plenty of authority. The Forest Service, the sheriff 's department. Probably the blm. The fire may have been set specifically to make them uncomfortable, draw attention to them so they'd pull up and leave on their own.”

“Maybe,” says Grey. “But it didn't work.”

“You haven't dealt with the kind of squatters we get here in the States,” Noble tells me, tapping a pen against the table. “They're not easily frightened. You ever heard of the Freemen? They're anti-authority. Don't pay taxes. Don't recognize government. And they're heavily armed. There've been a few confrontations in the past and the results have been disastrous, particularly for the fbi. In most cases, if they're not hurting anyone, it's better to leave them be.”

“Even during a wildfire?” “We've had our people shot at.” I picture the Sasquatch and his coach gun. “On this fire?” “Others,” says Noble, looking bored. “You seem quite interested in these squatters,” says Grey. “Any particular reason?” “I was there today,” I admit, and Noble shoots Grey an annoyed look, but I have a few comments before I'm shuffled out of the way. “What about energy interests? Is there some way the presence of the squatters could influence mineral rights or drilling or something like that? Because that wellhead is active — you should see what they've done to it. Talk about a safety concern.”

Noble raises an eyebrow, gives me a serious frown. “I know you're a fire investigator, Cassel, and you have a personal stake in what happened, but I would prefer it if you didn't involve yourself in this arson investigation.”

“I'm only offering an opinion.”

“Good,” says Noble, leaning back. “Let's keep it that way.”

Del's Greenhouse is about twenty miles southwest of town at the end of a winding maze of gravel roads. It's not hard to find; there are signs everywhere with little hand-painted pictures of azaleas and broccoli goading me on, telling me I'm almost there. I arrive at Del's Greenhouse shortly after at eight o'clock. The sign says closed, but the gate is open.

The driveway is long, meanders amid treed hummocks and dugouts filled with aquatic plants. Small handmade signs near the ponds offer sedges and lily pads. Vehicles are pulled over along the side of the driveway like the lineup at an auction sale. I create a parking space near an army of fruit bushes standing guard in plastic pots.

The greenhouses are long A-frames and arches of varying vintage and design. Most are built over a base of weathered log, covered with corrugated sheets of plastic roofing. The main building, serving as office and store, is also log, low and quaint, with carved gnomes sitting on crossbeams, wind chimes dangling everywhere. Bales of peat moss and vermiculite are stacked by the door. Trays loaded with snacks sit on a nearby picnic table. Visitors in dark suits and dresses wander among the flowerbeds.

“Glad you could make it,” says a grey-haired woman, shaking my hand.

She looks to be in her early sixties, tall and gaunt, hair pulled back by a heavy comb. I don't recognize her, but she seems pleased that I've come, squeezing my hand and giving me a companionable pat on the shoulder.

“I'm Del's aunt,” she says. “Gertrude Steinhauser.”

“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.