One Careless Moment (18 page)

I find Telson at the Super 8 at the edge of town. As I park the Corn-binder, it occurs to me that I should bring flowers or something. There's a lovely arrangement waiting in the motel planters but I restrain myself, avoid becoming a cliché. I'll take her out for a nice dinner, maybe do a little dancing. When she answers the door, I wear my best make-up smile. It's a little rumpled from storage, but it's a classic.

“What are you grinning about?” she says.

“I'm just happy to see you.”

“Really.” An eyebrow goes up. “You didn't seem so happy when I found you in the hot tub. In fact, you seemed a little scared.”

I'm a little scared now. She's shorter than me, and half my weight, but she's a woman scorned.

“What you saw in the tub was nothing. We were both just cold, and she's a client.”

“A client?” The other eyebrow goes up. “She hired you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“For what?”

“She's Bert Brashaw's daughter.”

The name has a sobering effect. Telson's frown softens. “Really?”

“Yes. I thought you would have figured that out already, being the big investigative reporter.”

“I might have recognized her with her clothes on.”

“Look,” I say quickly, putting an arm around her shoulders, “I explained that already. Let's go for something to eat, maybe do a little dancing.”

“You don't know how to dance.”

“You can teach me,” I say, attempting to direct her out of the room. But she's not ready to go. Her mood has changed and she looks at me with an unusual expression. Her brow furrows.

“I heard about a wildfire in Montana that killed a firefighter and I started to worry. I always worry now when I hear about wildfires. They mentioned a Canadian was involved. Naturally, I assumed the worst.”

“I called you, left a message.”

“I got it on my way up.” She hugs me suddenly, whispers into my shirt. “Christ, Porter, for a while there, I thought I'd lost you.”

A tremor runs through her. I hold her, standing in the doorway of the motel room. Her hair smells like peaches and she feels good, pressed up against me. I remember thinking about her in the fire shelter, how I swore to myself I'd marry her if I made it out alive. After a few long minutes, Telson lets go and sighs, looking at me.

“Porter ...”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.” She frowns. “I'm just glad you're okay. Let's get something to eat.”

We drive around for a while. I'm not keen on returning to the Filling Station just yet — too many people recognize me there and I want a quiet supper with Telson. It's a toss-up between Pop's Family Restaurant and Mom's Grill and Souvenir Shop. Telson picks Mom's, saying she doesn't trust a man in an apron. It's a nice enough place, built with milled logs. Souvenirs are tacked to the walls. We select a table next to a four-hundred-dollar framed print of a cougar. I hope the food here is cheaper than the mementos. The menus are bound hardcover. The tablecloths are real.

“The lobster and steak sound good,” says Telson.

I look for the lobster and steak. Forty-five dollars.

“I think I'll just have the child's plate.”

“Live a little,” Telson says, peering over her menu.

“Okay. I'll have a side of gravy.”

She sets down her menu and gives me a benevolent look. “I'll buy.”

“Well, then, for starters, I'll go for the rack of ribs ...”

Telson tells me she's expensing it back to the paper she's working for. They never know where she is — one of the benefits of being a roving reporter.

“What happened out there, Porter?”

I'm suddenly reluctant to tell the story again, but she has a right to know. I tell her most of what happened at the fire, my decision to go up on the ridge, but skip over the worst of it — being trapped in the firestorm, finding Brashaw. Her expression goes from concern to horror.

“You blame yourself, don't you?”

I shrug, try to look noncommittal. Which doesn't fool either of us.

“It's not your fault, Porter. Fires are unpredictable.”

I nod, don't want to argue. Thankfully, the main course arrives, bringing the usual lull. When the waitress leaves, I quickly change the subject. “How did you find me, at the greenhouse?”

“Oh, that was easy,” Telson says, waving a fork in my direction. “I just called the local Forest Service office, asked for the guy in charge and told them I was your sister. He said you were staying at a place a few miles out of town, even gave directions.”

Grey. It could have been worse. She could have found Noble.

“This client of yours, Brashaw's daughter — what did she hire you for?”

“Well, she didn't really hire me,” I say, trying a rib.

“So, this hot tub thing is pro bono?”

“Let's forget the hot tub. She just wants me to investigate a little, keep her up-to-date. It was her father that was killed, after all. She seems to think that since I was on the fire, I have some sort of advantage over everyone else.”

“Do you?”

“Not really. I saw the origin before it was disturbed, but other than that, I'm pretty much working blind.” I don't tell her about Kar, or the marijuana gardens. I don't really want her involved in what I don't fully understand. That she's here to see me is enough. “In some ways, I'm at a disadvantage. I'm an outsider and don't know the system or any of the local politics.”

“I didn't know the origin was disturbed,” she says, chewing thoughtfully.

“Well, if they haven't let that out, you'll have to keep it under your hat.”

“No problem. What else haven't they released?”

I hesitate. She seems relaxed, confidently inquisitive. Same old Telson.

“Look, Christina, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want you involved.”

She shrugs. “Okay — but I'd love to help. I thought we made a good team.”

“I almost got you killed the last time.”

She shrugs again, pops a piece of lobster in her mouth. “An occupational hazard.”

She's so nonchalant it's infuriating. “I'm glad you're here to see me. I appreciate your concern — and your offer to help — but this is something I need to do on my own. Let's not talk shop tonight.”

She nods, smiling. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

I relax a little. There's only one thing left to do tonight, and tomorrow I'll see Castellino. Then I'll take Telson away from here and go for a little holiday. Maybe we'll see the Grand Canyon, do a little rafting. After supper, I'm ready to head back to the motel, but Telson tells me to slow down a little.

Didn't I promise dancing?

I tell her I know just the place.

11
•

TELSON LOOKS DUBIOUS when we pull into the parking lot of the Paradise Gateway Motel. I thought we were going dancing, she says. I assure her there will be dancing tonight — I just want a place where my ineptitude won't be so conspicuous. Her mood doesn't improve when we go inside. It's not that busy this early in the evening. Men with ball caps on backwards sit at gambling machines. Older men sit hunched at the bar, nursing drinks. A one-man-band is setting up in the corner. Country music seeps from a jukebox.

“This isn't quite what I had in mind, Porter.”

“One drink,” I tell her. “I was here a few nights ago. People were dancing on the tables.”

“Table dancing. How romantic.”

We find a table in the corner, away from the gambling machines. I ask her what she wants and go to the bar to get the drinks. It makes me look like a gentleman and I get to ask about Kar — nothing wrong with accomplishing two things at once, but Roy isn't very co-operative.

“She's not here,” he says, rubbing his imaginary moustache.

“Is she working tonight?”

“I thought I told you to stay away.”

“How would you like to get arrested, Roy?”

Roy freezes. If he knows as much as everyone else around here, he knows I'm an arson investigator. Obviously, he doesn't know that I can't actually arrest him because he looks very suspicious. Maybe he's on parole. “I don't want any trouble,” he says, raising his hands like he's surrendering. “She's on in like a half-hour. I can get her down earlier, if you need.”

“No problem, Roy. I'll wait. Now give me a beer and a red wine.”

He hands me the drinks. “On the house, man.”

On the way back to the table, one of the guys at the bar gives me a nod.

“You're a regular already,” says Telson. “I can see the attraction.”

She gestures toward my frosty mug. “Are you drinking again?”

“Not seriously. I'm past all that.”

“This has got to be pretty stressful — the fire and the fatality.”

“I thought we weren't going to talk shop.”

She apologizes, hesitates for a second before she excuses herself, heads for the ladies' room. I head in the other direction, out the door. If I'm quick, I can catch Kar before she starts her shift. I don't want to talk with her inside the bar — that didn't work out so well last time. I run up the metal stairs to the second-floor landing, knock on her door. There's a delay, then the bolt rattles.

She peers at me through the crack allowed by the safety chain. “You again,” she grumbles.

“I need to talk to you, Kar.”

“I'm just getting ready for work. And I don't want to talk to you, anyway.”

The door closes and I knock again. Her response is muffled but unmistakable. “Go away!”

“I know about the gardens, Kar.”

For a minute there's no sound from within, then the bolt rattles again. This time, the door opens further. She doesn't exactly invite me in, just leaves the door open and stands by the bed. Textbooks and papers are scattered over the sheets — a little last-minute cramming. She's in her work uniform, hair pinned back, her expression tense. I close the door. Looks like it's my move.

“I know about the pot-growing.”

“Yeah?” she says. “And what do you want?”

“I just want you to be honest with me.”

She laughs. “Right.”

“Was the fire started to burn out the pot gardens?”

For a few seconds she watches me. “How should I know?”

“Because you know the people that are growing the pot.”

She gives me a blank stare — a good one; she's had some practice.

“Kar, look, you're a smart girl. Obviously, you have plans.” I gesture toward the books scattered on the bed. Kar follows my gaze, begins to collect her books, her gaze averted like someone found out her dirty little secret. She shoves the loose bundle of papers into a nightstand and regards me cautiously from across the expanse of her bed. Waiting for me to leave. I don't move.

“It's getting late,” she says. “I have to go to work.”

“Those people you know, Kar, out in the bush, don't have plans like you. How do you think it's going to look when you finish your schooling and apply for a job, and you have a criminal record? Do you think it's going to help your chances? Because sooner or later, you'll have one if you keep hanging around with those kind of people.”

“Those kind of people,” she says bitterly, shaking her head. “What do you know?”

“Nothing. I don't know anything. Tell me about them, Kar. Who are they?”

“Nobody,” she says. “They're nobody. Now I really have to go to work.”

She moves toward the end of the bed. I step back, blocking the door.

Her voice is sharp. “I'm going to be late.”

“If the fire was set to burn out the gardens, that may be the least of your problems.”

“Listen buddy — you're the only problem I got. Now get out of my room.”

There's a tense silence as we face off. I glance at my watch. We're both running out of time.

“Why won't you talk to me, Kar?”

“Listen,” she says slowly, so I don't miss anything. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

She's made her decision and I've lost her. One more try.

“Kar, I know you're involved. I saw you get out of that truck.”

“What truck?” she says. Smoothing her hands on her skirt.

“This morning. I was watching when you came back to the motel.”

“Oh — that.” She laughs, but it sounds strained. “I hitched. Caught a ride.”

“Really? Where were you coming from?”

“None of your damn business.”

“You helped me, Kar. I just want to return the favour.”

“Look — I gotta get downstairs.”

“What are you afraid of?”

She won't look at me. I try to meet her gaze, but she glances away.

“Just one minute, and I'll be gone. I just want to talk for one minute. You heard me the other night, in the bar, so you know who I am and why I'm so interested in who set that fire. I'm going back to Canada real soon, in fact, I'm out of this tomorrow. I know the squatters are growing pot in the canyon, and probably several other places, and I'm pretty sure that's why the fire was started.”

She's staring at me now, her voice scarcely a whisper. “What are you going to do?”

“Tomorrow morning, I'm going to the sheriff and tell him what I know.”

Kar's eyes widen and she shakes her head. “You can't do that.”

“I can and I will. And then what do you think is going to happen? That fire killed someone, so it's a homicide. If you're covering for the killer, for some misguided reason, you may as well give up on your studies, because you'll be travelling in a different direction. And your friends out in the bush won't fare much better. At the very least, they'll be charged for growing. So, if you know anything about who started the fire, you need to tell me. I won't use your name and I won't mention the pot growing. You can prevent a lot of problems for your friends. Or you can talk to the sheriff tomorrow.” “Shit!” she says, staring at the floor. “I knew this would happen.” “Talk to me, Kar. Who would want to wipe out the gardens?” Kar paces for a moment, then sits on the edge of the bed, begins to massage her forehead. Her hands are narrow, delicate, but calloused. She's trembling, trying not to cry. I pull up a chair, sit across from her. She flinches away when I touch her elbow.

“Kar, please believe me — I'm just trying to help.” The phone rings, shrill and demanding, and we both jump. “Shit,” she says, “it's Roy. I'm late.” She reaches over and grabs the phone. “I'll be down in a minute —” It's not Roy — I can tell by the look on her face, the way she suddenly glances at me. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No — no, he's not ... I would never ...”

I take a quick step, grab the phone, pulling it from Kar's grasp. She shrinks away from me, backs onto the bed. “Who is this?” I say into the receiver. A few seconds of breathing on the other end, then a click. I stab in the numbers for call trace, get nothing but a loud buzz — they must route through a switchboard. Whoever was calling knows where I am and must be close. I dart outside, peer over the second-floor rail. Nothing. They might have called from the lobby, and I thunder down the metal steps and yank open the door. The lobby is empty, the handset on the phone cold. Discouraged, I return to the bar, glance around. Nothing has changed. Telson is at the table, staring at me. I want to search the parking lot, but there isn't much use — the caller was probably on a cell and miles from here by now.

I wander back to the table, trying to come up with a good story. “Where were you?” says Telson. “Had to use the can by the lobby. Plumbing problems.” She nods, but I'm not sure she believes me. I sip my beer, try to slow my heart rate; I'm definitely in the target zone. A few minutes later Kar comes in, gives me a sharp look. I pretend not to notice and she turns away.

The one-man band steps onto the stage, taps the microphone, introduces himself as Rusty something-or-another, and asks for requests. I holler for some Clapton and he grins, starts playing “Knocking on Heaven's Door.” Rusty can play. I pull Telson to her feet, create a dance floor. Kar watches. Telson holds me tight and I stop worrying about tomorrow.