Whiskers & Smoke (16 page)

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Authors: Marian Babson

BOOK: Whiskers & Smoke
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It was not the comforting prospect he seemed to imagine. The thought of Tessa and Timothy in a small boat on a lake ringed with fire made me clench my fists until my nails bit into my palms. I told myself to keep calm. These people faced the hazards of forest fires every time they had a drought. Surely they must know the best way of dealing with it.
Celia made an indeterminate dubious sound; I knew she was picturing Luke in the same circumstances. No, we were not the least bit comforted or reassured.
The children came forward to pull us towards the edge of the lake, pointing out their favorites among the boats. Celia and I exchanged a glance of reluctant accord: we would not spoil the occasion by frightening the children. We would stay and cheer the races, but be ready to move if danger seemed to threaten.
As the afternoon wore on without mishap, we relaxed slightly, no longer turning so often to scan the horizon for betraying wisps of smoke. The air seemed clearer, the hint of smoke had dissipated. A small breeze seemed to be springing up off the lake. It was not so welcome as it would have been this morning. The long triumphant blasts signalling that the fire was out still had not sounded. We weren't out of the woods yet—and neither was the fire.
The staring gun went for the final race of the afternoon. The races had gone on a little too long to keep their audience
enthralled. Some of the campers had already drifted away; others were growing restive.
“You don't happen to have a chocolate bar on you, do you?” Dexter wheedled hopefully.
“If I did have, it would have long since melted in this heat,” I pointed out practically. “How about a peppermint?”
“Aw, I'm starving.” He took the peppermint, it was better than nothing. “Thanks.”
“You'll be eating soon, won't you?”
“Yeah.” He made a face. “If you can call it that. Usually we roast hot dogs after the races and sit around the campfire and sing songs. But Greg won't let us have any fires now. So we're going to have boring old boiled hot dogs—at least when you cook them over a campfire, the scorching adds a bit of zing.”
And, under cover of darkness, the Counselors could not keep count of his intake.
“That's too bad,” I said. “I'm afraid you'll just have to tell yourself that you can't have Steak Diane every night.”
“When I'm grown up I can.” His eyes gleamed greedily. “I'll eat in all the best restaurants and eat everything I want. Once I'm of age, nobody can stop me. I'll have Steak Diane, crêpes Suzette, bananas flambé …”
Every dish requiring flickering flames. I looked away uneasily lest he catch the thought. Was Dexter a gourmet or a pyromaniac?
I didn't want to think that Dexter was the arsonist, but he certainly had quite a few earmarks of the breed. Nor could I exonerate him from suspicion on the grounds that
the mechanics of delayed action devices might be too complicated for him. Adolescents these days had a level of technical achievement that left adults standing.
A burst of cheering brought me back to reality. The last race had been won.
“Thank heavens,” Celia breathed. “Now we can go.”
As we mounted the crest of the hill, a police car was pulling to a stop outside the Administration Building. I was suddenly thankful that the children had lingered at the shore to help a friend beach his boat.
Chief Rogers got out of the car and looked around, frowning.
“Now, see here—” Greg came striding out of the cookhouse to meet him, with a face like a thundercloud. “You can't pin this one on Camp Mohigonquin. Every one of my campers has been here all day. We've never been out of each other's sights. This time you're going to have to stop trying to take the easy way out and go and find the real firebug.”
“Oh, Chief Rogers,” Celia stepped between them quickly. “Do you have any news? Is the fire out? Was it one of the log cabins or is it in the woods?”
“Hello, Miz Meadows.” The chief acknowledged her while ignoring Greg. “No, it's not out yet, but the boys have it pretty much under control. It was one of the Hikers' Shelters on the Old Mohigonquin Trail.” He shook his head. “Won't nobody be sheltering there again in a hurry.”
“My campers had nothing to do with it,” Greg insisted.
“Sure of that, are you?” Captain Rogers turned cold eyes on him.
“Positive.” Greg met his eyes with equal coldness. “Half the kids have been out on the lake all afternoon, the other half have been watching them. You can ask these ladies here, if you don't believe me. There's no way you can link that fire with anyone at this camp.”
“Maybe just one way.” Chief Rogers reached into his hip pocket and drew out a folded handkerchief; he peeled back the folds carefully. “Recognize this, do you?” A small charred object on a blackened chain was exposed to view.
“Why, uh, I don't know …” Greg bent closer. “It sort of looks like …” He began shaking his head.
“Like what?” Chief Rogers prompted.
“Uh … just vaguely … like that jade frog Lois wears around her neck. Oh no—you can't think that. Not Lois! That's even crazier than suspecting the kids. No. She must have lost it. I mean—long ago. Or—or it's been planted by someone with a grudge against Camp Mohigonquin. Lois would never have started those fires.”
“Maybe not.” Chief Rogers covered the frog again and replaced it in his pocket. “Do you think I could speak to the lady? I'd kinda like to ask her a few questions.”
“Sure,” Greg said. “No, wait. She went into town on some errand. She's not back yet—Oh, listen—she wouldn't run out on us. She'd have no reason to. I promise you, there's some good explanation. She's as innocent as the rest of us.”
“Ay-yuh,” Chief Rogers sighed. He did not seem in any hurry to put out an alarm on a missing suspect. He stared out over the lake sadly.
“Listen,” Greg said. “Listen, where did you find that … that thing?”
“There was a body in the shelter. The chain was around its neck.”
“No! No, listen—it couldn't have been Lois! Look, she's due back any minute. She went into town. There'll be some explanation. What you're thinking is impossible. What would she be doing in a shelter on the trail? There was no reason for her to go up there.”
I could think of a reason: she might have gone up there to meet someone. My eyes blurred with tears. Poor Lois. She was never going to find that Prince, after all.
“Ay-yuh.” Chief Rogers sighed again. “You don't happen to know the name of her dentist, do you?”
T
hat night I sat for a long time in the rocking-chair by the open window, fighting sleep.
What dreams must come
I did not want to face, nor the even more painful moments of awakening to find that they had been but dreams.
A fitful breeze danced through the smoldering woods bringing the scent of smoke through the screen window.
If worst comes to worst
, Chief Rogers had told us, we would be evacuated from our homes in good time before the fire reached them. We would be asked to take only our most precious—and portable—possessions with us.
But it was not my house, it was Nancy's. What would she most want to be saved? Usually the sentimental items were the most valued. What did I know of her private life and the things she most cherished? I could only guess.
Errol, of course. There was no question about that. He was curled up on my lap, purring loudly and apparently resigned to the fact that, for some mysterious reason, he
was not going to be allowed out of the house tonight. He had used his indoor litter box with a couple of bitter complaints, then followed me upstairs to leap into my lap, graciously forgiving me.
We would have ample warning to evacuate, Chief Rogers had assured us. But would we? If that errant breeze were to stiffen into a high wind, fanning the smoldering ashes and sweeping the fire before it?
What if another fire were to be started? In another part of the woods—somewhere closer? There was no doubt now that we had an arsonist in the community. An arsonist—and a murderer.
A multiple murderer. Those two still-unidentified hikers had been the first victims, probably just because they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lois's death was more sinister. The fact that she had been found in a place she would not normally have gone near, after having started out for some other place, gave rise to another question. Had she died because she would have been able to identify the arsonist?
There were flickering lights in the distance. I leaned forward, peering towards them intently. Errol gave a muffled cry of protest at being squashed and I soothed him absently.
Heat lightning? We had had that several times, giving rise to false hopes of a thunderstorm and a saving downpour which never materialized. Perhaps the Aurora Borealis? It was not an unknown phenomenon in this region.
Not fire. Please God not fire.
The low rumble of thunder answered me and I fell back
against the chair limply. The chair immediately began a wild rocking. Errol protested again.
“All right, all right.” I cuddled him, comforting myself as much as him. “It's all right … this time.”
At some point, I must have dozed. I had been dreaming, another dream I could not quite recapture as it dissolved into the mists, but it had been ended by what I had learned to recognize as the nightmare
finale
of all my dreams: the sound of a coffin lid falling.
I opened my eyes, momentarily disorientated, conscious that something was peculiar and extraordinarily unsettling. I was still sitting up in the rocking-chair. Errol was poised, hind feet on my lap, front paws on the window seat, looking out alertly, far more awake than I.
I blinked at him, still trying to shake off the dream phantoms still clinging round me. Then Errol's attitude registered. That, and the way he turned his head questioningly towards me.
Errol had heard it, too!
He was a smart cat, but not smart enough to tune in on my dreams. There
had
been a noise somewhere outside, a hollow thud I had transmuted into the sound of a coffin lid falling. I wondered: just in this dream—or in all of them?
I lifted Errol to one side and stood up, raising the screen and leaning out of the window. The air was hot and breathless, the breeze had disappeared. So had the moon. There was no sound now but the small normal night sounds.
Could it have been a shot? Some hunter in the woods after rabbits or squirrels? Or, illegally, because the season
had not yet opened, hunting deer? Or was it someone hunting quite different prey?
It couldn't be our avowed friend and nearest neighbor prowling around trying to catch Errol again, could it? I wouldn't put it past him. Noah Peterson might have dropped a trap he was carrying—or some sort of box he had intended to hold Errol.
That reminded me. I must look around for Errol's carrying case. If we had to evacuate in a hurry, I didn't want to try to cope with a struggling cat in my arms. There must be one somewhere around for him.
Meanwhile, whoever or whatever had been outside, it was there no longer. I lowered the screen thoughtfully and turned away from the window.
 
I awoke with a headache which the baking heat did nothing to alleviate. The children were fractious and argumentative. They could see no reason why they should not attend camp as usual. The television promised that the fire was under control, even though it could not be extinguished, and was being monitored by firemen and Park Rangers. The weather forecast held out a halfhearted hope of relief soon. I had the impression that the hope was offered more as an encouragement to morale than an accurate prediction of conditions.
Celia rang to see what I was doing and was not in the sweetest of moods herself. Luke also considered a little thing like a forest fire a poor excuse for missing camp.
“It's this Benjie,” Celia complained. “He's promised to start giving archery lessons today and Luke is frantic to learn.”
That also explained why Timothy was so keen to be there today, and Tessa was determined not to be left out of any excitement.
“We might as well let them go,” Celia said. “They'll have to hear about Lois sooner or later and it will be easier for them if they're with the others when they hear. Peer group support is very important at these times.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, thinking that Celia sounded completely Americanized at times.
“And frankly,” Celia's voice was shaky, “I'd rather not be the one to tell Luke about Lois. Let him pick it up at camp where he'll have the other kids to help him handle it. It will be easier for Tessa and Timothy that way, too. And you.”
She was right. If I broke it to the children, it would inevitably become entwined in their minds with their memories of their father's death; whereas, if they learned about it at camp, it would simply be another incomprehensible event in a strange and bewildering summer.
And Celia had her own reasons for not wanting to break any more bad news than was necessary to Luke.
“I'll collect Tessa and Timothy, then,” Celia said. “Why don't you come along and we'll go to Nashua after we leave them off? We can have lunch there and explore.”
“Not today,” I told her. “I have a raging headache. I just want a quiet day.”
“It would do you good to get out and forget about it.” Celia sounded affronted. “Take a couple of aspirin and come along.”
“Sorry, Celia, I'd rather not.”
“I think you're being silly.” It was not like Celia to argue so much. I wondered what she had really planned for us to do in Nashua.
“Anyway,” I said, “Pixie Toller is coming over later this morning. I've told her I'll be here.” It was not strictly true, Pixie had only said that she might drop by, but it sufficed to satisfy Celia.
“Oh, very well,” she said, with bad grace. “Why didn't you say so at the beginning?”
“Because I honestly do have a headache—” I was talking to the dialling tone. Celia had rung off.
 
CONSERVE ENERGY—The headline of the advertisement screamed at me. I turned the page. DO NOT USE HOSEPIPES OR SPRINKLER SYSTEMS. YOU CAN BE FINED UP TO $200.00.
I was getting that feeling of a giant elbow in my ribs again. Even the news headline had been: WOODS CLOSED TO CAMPERS AND HIKERS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
A car drove past as I looked up. The bumper sticker read: HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR KIDS TODAY? Even the state license plates exhorted: LIVE FREE OR DIE.
I was not in the best of moods when Pixie arrived. She looked around the veranda critically.
“Have you been talking to the plants?”
“No,” I said defiantly. “But I've had several meaningful discussions with Errol lately.”
“Errol doesn't count. It's too easy to talk to him. He answers back. Errol will always be all right, but I don't know what Nancy's going to say if she comes home and
finds all her hanging baskets have died. She always talked to them for ten minutes every morning. They're pining for her.”
“This state,” I said coldly, “is in the middle of the worst heat wave and drought in recorded history. There's no water to spare and everything is parched and burning up. I very much doubt that a few kind words will do anything to change that situation.”
“You don't have to conserve that much water,” Pixie said. “No one will mind if you water the house plants.” She lowered one of the hanging baskets and gazed into it.
“Poor little thing,” she cooed. “You miss your mother, don't you? And your poor little roots are all dry and gasping for moisture. Here—” she tipped her glass into the basket. “Aunt Pixie will give you her own lemonade to drink and then you'll feel a lot better.”
I watched incredulously. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who was plagued by violent dreams which betrayed the seething mass of hatred deep within her.
“There—” She swung the basket up again and hitched the cord around the hook in the pillar. “Now I'll just get some water and take care of the rest—”
“Don't let Errol out!” I blocked him with my foot as he tried to sneak past when the screen door opened.
“What's the matter?” She returned with a jug of water. “Has he been a bad boy—as usual?”
“No. It's just that I don't feel it's safe for him to be out in the woods with that fire still burning. If it should get out of control and we have to leave in a hurry, I want him where we can pick him up and take him with us.”
“Yes,” Pixie said thoughtfully. “That's a bad scene. Did you hear the latest?” Pixie would always have the latest—accurate or not. “They say that girl was strangled before the fire was started. So she couldn't have set it.”
“I never thought she had.”
“I guess none of us did, really. It's just that it was more comfortable to think that, maybe, she was the firebug and got hoist by her own petard. Only now—” Pixie shuddered—“it looks like she caught him starting the fire and he strangled her.”
I watched Pixie's strong capable hands as she raised the last basket and lashed the cord, pulling it a little too tightly. The flash of suspicion was momentary, but it shook me. Was this what we were coming to—suspecting each other?
“So now we have to look elsewhere,” Pixie continued, unaware that I already had. “But I hate to think it could have been somebody from the town. Or one of the kids from Camp—” She looked at me and glanced away quickly.
It was the first time I realized that the Blake Family might come under suspicion. We were unknown, foreign, with only Celia—who was, after all, another foreigner—to vouch for our background. How did anyone know that I was all right? That Timothy had not been in trouble with the Juvenile Authorities at home? Or how Tessa had really broken her arm? Once suspicion began to infiltrate a community, there was no end to it.
“One thing I've been meaning to tell you,” Pixie said hastily, as though to make amends. “If we
do
have to get out in a hurry, I'll come round with the Welcome Wagon
and get you and the kids. I'm nearer than Celia and we may have to move fast. Tell Celia we'll meet them at the Emergency Center.”
“Oh, thank you—” I'd been worried about that. Celia was half way around the lake and the fire might cut us off.
“It probably won't come to that,” Pixie said. “There are a couple of emergency measures they'll take first. They haven't even dynamited a fire-break yet. It may never happen.”
“I know,” I said. “But it's the thought that … out there … the woods are still burning … and there's nothing we can do …”
“We can pray for rain,” Pixie said. “That's what I've been doing all week. I've gone into every church—of whatever denomination—for miles around and said a prayer. And just in case—” She glanced at me obliquely. “I've got a book from the library and tonight I'm going to do the Mohigonquin Rain Dance. You never know—it was their territory, after all.”
“I suppose it can't do any harm.” I carefully refrained from saying whether I thought it would do any good.
“There's a full moon tonight, too. That's supposed to be heap big medicine.”
It was also supposed to bring out the nut-cases in force. Again, I felt it would be more tactful not to comment.

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