“Oh, no, not your Leica?” Sophie said.
“Does he have any idea how close he came to dying?” I whispered to Becker as the three graces moved in to provide comfort, twittering like sparrows. Obviously, this crew considered the loss of a Leica far more traumatic than a mere near-drowning could ever be.
“It’ll hit him later,” Becker said. “He’s stubborn, though, and right now there’s no way he’ll let himself be taken to hospital unless I arrest him.”
“Can’t you make him?”
“Victor Watson is not a man to be forced to do anything against his will,” Becker said. “We should stick around, Polly. Do you mind very much? If he goes into delayed shock, we’ll have to get him out of here.”
The cosy picnic I’d envisioned melted quietly away. Instead, I realized, we’d have our lunch in the company of a bunch of photography nuts talking about f-stops and light-levels. Other members of the Camera Club had started arriving, and some of them gathered around Vic Watson, chattering excitedly about his accident. Someone was unpacking a huge hamper of food on a nearby picnic table, and things were already starting to take on a carnival atmosphere. “Of course, I don’t mind,” I said, trying my best to sound convincing. “What about Bryan?” We looked up and saw him grinning from ear to ear, posing with Rosencrantz and Lug-nut against a background of pine trees as several Camera Club members cooed and clicked.
“In his element. He’s a born ham,” Becker said, fondly.
“So’s Rosie,” I said, reminded suddenly of another picture of the puppy that had appeared on the front page of the weekend newspaper a few months before. Then, she had nestled in the arms of actress Amber Thackeray and actor Shane Pacey, three golden-haired beauties against a pretty Kuskawa background. The photo caption had been a sombre one, the circumstances tragic. I felt a prick of superstition and had a sudden urge to dash in and grab Rosie out of Bryan’s arms before something bad happened to both of them. Becker, never one for recognizing omens, blatant or not, just smiled.
“You’re soaked through,” I said, noticing that Becker was standing in a puddle of river water.
“I’ve got a change of clothes in the Jeep,” he said. “What about you? You’re pretty wet too.”
“I’ll dry out. The sun’s baking.” It was, too. When we’d started out, it had been overcast, but as soon as we’d performed our emergency-team rescue—actually, at the moment that Vic had upchucked and returned to the land of the living—the sun had come out from behind a cloud. Lighting effects courtesy of God, maybe.
“Would you keep an eye on Bryan for a few minutes while I go and change?” Becker said.
“Sure. I was thinking of offering to be his agent, anyway,” I said. The boy was red-haired, like his father, freckle-faced and wholesome-looking. He was totally at home in front of the camera, obligingly gazing with an impish seriousness at the cluster of photographers surrounding him. The Camera Club members had helped Vic to his feet and guided him over to one of the picnic tables, where he discarded his blanket and stretched out in the sun.
“How are you feeling?” I said to him. Sophie, the tall woman whose lemon squares he lusted after, settled companionably beside him.
“Not too bad, considering,” he said. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it unselfconsciously, wringing out the water and spreading it out on the table-top to dry. I reflected that if he’d been a woman, restored to life after being tossed in the river, and had stripped down to nakedness moments afterwards, she’d have been bundled off to the hospital no matter what. Watson looked familiar, not an unusual occurrence in a town the size of Laingford, where you’ll meet everybody eventually if you hang around long enough. His muscular, barrel chest sported a thick mass of greying hair, not unattractive (I wasn’t staring or anything) and his arms were like tree trunks. The powerful body twigged my memory, and I had a sudden image of Archie Watson, leaning over the counter at the Laingford Gazette.
“Watson. You’re Victor Watson, right?” I said, inanely. “Any relation to Archie?”
“My little brother,” Vic said. “You know him?”
“Not very well. I met him last night.”
“He try to sell you one of his horse steaks?” Vic said, laughing in a way that was not exactly the epitome of brotherly love.
“Now Vic, that was uncalled for,” Sophie said. “Your brother works very hard.”
“Keeping up the family tradition,” Vic said. “That’s right. Never lets me forget it, neither. Never forgave me for ditching the grocery business and going to law school.” He sneezed explosively and gave a great shiver like a draught horse caught in the rain.
Sophie produced a towel from her camera bag (which appeared to be bottomless, like Mary Poppins’ carpetbag) and proceeded to rub him down. Vic didn’t seem to mind, although I felt like I should maybe look away. There was something proprietary about the way Sophie wielded the towel, something decidedly intimate.
“You should try to be more careful,” Sophie said to him. “That’s the second time you’ve had an accident on one of our field trips. Remember last week?”
“What happened last week?” I said.
“It was just me being clumsy,” Vic said.
“We were at the lookout tower taking bird’s-eye shots of Laingford,” Sophie said. “Vic was sitting on the railing like an idiot, leaning way out and he almost went over.” Her face drained of colour at the memory. “I happened to be nearby and grabbed him just in time.”
“She’s a strong one,” Vic said. “It was crowded up there, and I should have known better.”
“You mean you were pushed?” I said, remembering Vic’s remark about possibly being pushed at the top of the falls.
“I might have been jostled a bit,” Vic said. “I forget. Moments like that, you don’t remember much. I was lucky Sophie was there, though.”
“You don’t have any enemies in the Camera Club, do you?” I said, half-jokingly. Sophie shot him a warning look that I found very interesting indeed.
“Nope. We’re all friends here,” he said.
“Hey, Watson, get your damned shirt on. There are ladies present,” came a loud voice from behind us. I turned to see David Kane, Kountry Pantree magnate, striding down the trail towards the picnic area.
Seven
Going on a picnic? Let Kountry Pantree make the preparations easy! Not only will we provide the BBQ chicken, potato salad and all the fixins, we’ll throw in the plates, cups and utensils for free! (Some restrictions apply)
—A giveaway offer in the Kuskawa Buy ’n Sell
“I didn’t know you were a photographer,” I said, when Kane got close enough. Like all the others, he carried a camera bag, which was leather and looked new. He wore designer hiking gear from top to toe, the kind that you can only get from the outrageously priced outfitting place next to the park. He had on a bright red sweatshirt and khaki trousers, and a khaki photographer’s vest over that, its pockets bulging with what was probably a selection of expensive lenses and accessories. Tanned and fit, Kane looked like something you’d see in a glossy photography magazine, captioned “What the professionals are wearing.” It was overkill, really. Everybody else was in scruffies.
“Oh, hello, Polly,” Kane said. “Have you joined the Club too?” He seemed quite pleased, which was flattering, and I suddenly remembered Susan telling me that David Kane was a bachelor. Uh-oh.
“No, we just happened to be on the trail when Vic here needed a bit of help.”
Kane looked Vic over. “Been swimming?” he said.
“Something like that,” Vic said. I could feel Sophie bristling beside me.
“Most of us usually wear a bathing suit,” Kane said.
“I’m not most of us,” Vic said.
“Oh my God, Uncle Vic! What happened to you?” A heavy young woman of about seventeen bounded up to the picnic table and flopped down beside him, propping one bright red running shoe up on the seat to retie one of the laces.
“He
llo, Arly,” Vic said. He didn’t sound all that thrilled to see her. “I’m surprised you’re asking.”
“Well, last time I saw you, you were dry, eh?” Arly said and laughed boisterously. I didn’t have to ask her who her father was—she had Archie Watson’s curly brown hair and the same wide face and serious nose. There was a slight weariness at the corner of her eyes, though, probably caused by too many people saying “you’d be very pretty if you’d only lose some weight.” Rather than shrink into herself, as many large young women do, she had chosen instead to flaunt it. The result was impressive. She wore a tight T-shirt which showed off her generous bosom, and while her shorts were loose fitting and comfortable, they were brief, and her legs were smooth and tanned. Her fire-engine red sneakers bespoke a personality that was not going to be influenced by twenty-first century weight-ism. She looked terrific.
Vic shrugged and turned his back on her. For a brief second, Arly looked like she was going to clobber him, then the moment passed and she turned her head to bathe David Kane in a heart melting, come-hither glance that made even my heart beat faster. This girl had “it”, whatever that is, and knew it.
At that moment, a large wasp buzzed in and landed on the picnic table next to Arly’s shoe, attracted, perhaps by the strong pheromones that the girl was pumping into the air. Both Arly and David Kane reacted wildly.
“Ahhh!” Arly shrieked, backing away. “Arrrgh!” Kane shouted, lifted his foot and pulverized the insect with the sole of his hiking boot, twisting it this way and that, just to make sure.
“Geez,” I said, “poor little wasp. It was just looking for some lunch, David.” I hate it when people kill things for no reason.
“Poor little nothing,” Kane said. He was pale, and his eyes shone. “They can be killers if they sting the wrong person.” Arly had returned to watch Kane scraping the remains of the wasp off his shoe.
“My hero,” she said, doing a Perils of Pauline thing and pretending to swoon. “You allergic, too?” She reached into a pocket of her knapsack and withdrew a thick tube, like a magic marker, and brandished it. “It’s an epi-pen,” she said. “I take it with me everywhere.” I’d heard of those—the emergency hypodermic things that allergic people carry with them in case they get stung, or in case they eat peanut butter, or whatever. I’d never seen one before, but I suppressed the urge to ask if I could see it. Arly was getting enough attention as it was.
Kane grinned and patted a pocket of his own knapsack. “Don’t leave home without it,” he said.
“Some of us,” Arly said, fixing me with a steely glare, “live in real fear of those little suckers. It doesn’t mean we’re bad people. See ya.” She was off, bouncing with a kind of full-of-life energy that made it impossible not to watch her.
Kane’s eyes met mine, and we exchanged a wordless comment. “Kids today”, we silently said. Vic and Sophie, after watching the wasp episode, had retreated into a private chat, so Kane dismissed them both and focused on me. His eyes were very clear and dark, and I could see myself reflected in their depths.
“We?” he said. “You said ‘we’ were on the trail.” At that moment, Rosie and Lug-nut came up to me, tails wagging. Being well brought up, I introduced the dogs to him, and he patted their heads. I couldn’t help noticing his hands. They looked strong and well-kept. On one finger, he wore a manly signet ring, platinum, I think, with a green stone that I’ll bet wasn’t glass.
“What breed are these guys?” he said. I suspected that he came from a world where a dog wasn’t a real dog unless it had the pedigree to prove it.
“Rosie’s a purebred yellow Lab,” I said, which was possibly true, although the only papers she had were the ones she occasionally peed on. “Lug-nut is a Kuskawa Retriever.” I wasn’t going to perjure myself by using the word pure in reference to Luggy.
“A Kuskawa Retriever? That’s not a breed I’m familiar with,” Kane said.
“They’re very rare,” I said.
“Oh, well. Nice dogs,” Kane said. “How’s the mascot coming?”
“I’ll have some stuff for you tonight,” I said, feeling a bit uncomfortable, as the work I was doing for the Kountry Pantree had already got me in a bit of hot water, and I wasn’t eager to spread the word that I was working for Kane. I needn’t have worried. Vic and Sophie had slipped away to the other picnic table, where a veritable banquet had been spread out.
“Grub’s up!” someone called. A tiny sneer appeared on David Kane’s upper lip, barely perceptible and not very attractive.
“I’ve got my own stuff in my pack,” Kane said quietly, grasping and caressing my elbow. “Caviar, a demi of champagne. Some brie. Would you care to join me somewhere a little more private?”
I wondered if he’d come prepared to hit on a likely female, and I just happened to be handy. I scanned the other members of the camera club and spotted one or two younger women who could also have been likely candidates for Kane’s attentions. I was acutely embarrassed. Not that I haven’t been propositioned before, but never by someone who was essentially my boss. Kane must have assumed that my “we” referred to the dogs.
“Thanks for the offer, David, but I came with a couple of guys who’d miss me,” I said. I could have said I was there with my boyfriend, but I’ve never been comfortable with the term, and it didn’t suit Becker anyway. “Partner” wasn’t accurate, and “date” sounded dorky. I’ve never been very smooth when it comes to rejecting a proposition, which has occasionally resulted in nightmare dates with guys I’m not even remotely interested in. I hate hurting people’s feelings. Luckily, Bryan came up and saved me.
“Hey,” he said. “They got chicken and cake! Do we have to wait for Dad?”
“I don’t see why you can’t start without him,” I said, feeling warm and strangely maternal. He was a cute kid, and he’d actually treated me like I was somebody important in his life—like it mattered what I thought.
“Cool!” he said, eyeing Kane.
“Hey, big fella,” Kane said in a friendly way. “Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?” Bryan looked disconcerted for a moment, then decided to ignore the question.
“C’mon guys,” he said to the dogs and darted away again. It was Kane’s turn to be embarrassed, and he apologized gracefully, replacing one set of assumptions with another. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, standing up at once and stepping out of my personal space, which he had been invading. “I didn’t know you were married. Your son’s just like you.”
I let that go. If I had a son, I thought, he would probably be like me. The fact that Bryan wasn’t mine was, under the circumstances, none of Kane’s business. I could see Becker approaching along the path which led back to the Jeep. He stopped to have a word with Vic, then headed our way.
“Well, chicken and cake sounds good to me,” I said, standing too.
“It’s a little early for champagne, anyway,” Kane said lightly. “I’ll see you at the meeting tonight, Polly.” He touched my elbow again as if it were some secret erogenous zone that only he knew about, gave it a little squeeze and let it go. Then he walked quickly over to the picnic banquet, taking the time to tousle Bryan’s hair and whisper something to him. What a smoothie. He moved in on Arly, and I could hardly say I blamed him.
“I had an extra pair of jeans in the car,” Becker said, handing me a plastic bag and following Kane’s retreat with his eyes before turning back to me. “They may be a little big for you, but they’re dry.”
“Oh, excellent,” I said. My jeans were sticking to me in a clammy, unpleasant way, and the sun had gone in again. “I’ll just change in the bushes. Thanks.”
“I figured you’d be getting into my pants at some point this weekend,” Becker said. “It’s a little premature, but hey.” I swatted at him and he ducked, grinning.
“As you no doubt noticed, David Kane just joined the group,” I said. “I don’t think there’s any love lost between him and Vic Watson. Did you know that Vic almost fell off the Laingford loo
kout tower during a Camera Club outing last week? His lady friend saved him that time. He suggested he might have been ‘helped’ over the edge then as well.”
“Interesting,” Becker said. “You think Kane’s trying to do him harm?”
“Who knows? You might tell him to be careful, though. I wouldn’t trust David Kane any further than I could throw him.” Kane had slipped his arm around Arly Watson’s shoulders, and she put her plate down. Moments later they were slipping away from the group and heading for the trail. Champagne and caviar and a rich bachelor to boot. I just hoped she knew what she was getting into.
“Hungry?” Becker said. “I have picnic stuff in my backpack, but there’s all that food over there. Vic said to help ourselves.”
“Perfect,” I said. “You go ahead. Bryan’s already in there somewhere. I’ll just go do the Superman quick-change thing.” Becker had seen the elbow squeeze from Kane, and it had made a tiny worry line appear between his eyebrows. I hoped that he hadn’t read anything into it, but just in case, I put my face very close to his and stared into his green-gold eyes.
“My jeans aren’t the only thing I’m wearing that’s soaked,” I whispered in my best phone-sex voice. “I want you to know that when I come out of the bushes in your pants, I won’t be wearing any underwear.” The green eyes got a shade greener.
“You are an evil woman,” he whispered back and kissed me. Kissing is an art that can be taught, but only up to a point. You have to have a natural talent for it, and only instinct will tell you what kind of kisses are appropriate in public. Becker is the greatest kisser I’ve ever met, and I don’t think it was a required course at cop-school. He’s a cup-your-face-in-his-hand kind of kisser, as if the lips he’s kissing are slightly fragile and require special care. We hadn’t displayed much physical affection in public—both too shy, really, and the matter had never come up, so to speak. This was the kind of kiss that you could do in front of your grandmother, but it left me weak-kneed and slightly out of breath. I tottered up the rocks to the trail to find an appropriate bush for changing behind.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 55
