Amateur Night

by K. K. Beck

  He was dutifully hanging over the counter and looking appealingly desperate. She sidled up to him and gave the clerk a nervous smile. Trevellyan was obviously irritated that she was standing next to him, and shifted his weight a little from foot to foot.

  “Without the guest's name,” said the desk clerk, an appealingly well-scrubbed-looking young woman in a peach-colored blazer that matched the decor, “I'm afraid there's not much we can do.”

  “Oh, it's all my fault,” said Jane. “I'm the one who gave her the wrong envelope.”

  The clerk looked puzzled, but Jane plunged on, wishing she'd stuck to Trevellyan from the beginning. She wasn't quite sure what he'd said. “Did you explain it?” she said to him.

  “Just briefly,” he said, mercifully catching on. “I told her we delivered the envelope for Mr. Clark to this American by mistake.”

  “You see,” said Jane, “I put the Clark papers in the wrong envelope, and Lucy was going to put the American's name on it, but she was the only one who knew his name, and now she's gone on vacation, and Mr. Clark will be furious.”

  The clerk didn't seem sufficiently moved by the urgency of the situation, so Jane took a deep breath and added, “It took us forever to get his ex-wife to sign off and now we have the buyer, but without the papers with her signature...”

  “There's a substantial real estate transaction going here,” said Mr. Trevellyan. “Hong Kong money. Cash.”

  “My God, I feel terrible,” said Jane.

  “You should,” snapped Mr. Trevellyan with a vehemence that startled Jane.

  “She brought it in yesterday?” said the clerk, frowning disapprovingly at Trevellyan for yelling at Jane.

  “Yes,” said Jane. “He's Lucy's client. All we know is he was an American, staying here. She said he was quite attractive.”

  The girl was sounding more interested in Jane's problem. “We get a lot of Americans here, naturally,” she said. “Let me just go ask if someone else remembers handing an envelope to an American guest.”

  After a second, she came back. “Could it have been Mr. Johnson? Caroline remembers handing an envelope to Mr. Johnson. He was here from San Francisco.”

  She clacked away at her computer. “There was a message for him yesterday that there was something for him at the desk.” She looked apologetic. “We have a lot of guests. I can't run through them all, I'm afraid.”

  “We'll give him a try,” said Trevellyan, taking hold of Jane's elbow and trying to pry her away from the counter. “We'll just give him a ring on the house phone.”

  “Oh, but he's checked out,” said the clerk. “I remember him now. I checked him out myself. This morning.” She paused for a minute. Jane figured she was deciding whether he had been attractive. A little half smile told Jane she'd decided he was.

  “Did he say where he was going?” said Jane.

  “I don't think so. Oh, wait, the concierge had arranged a booking for him. I remember, because she was gone for a second and he wondered if she'd taken care of it or not.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Jane.

  Trevellyan was looking very uncomfortable. Jane got the distinct impression he hadn't wanted her to find out about Mr. Johnson. “May not be the right fellow,” he said gruffly. Which made Jane suspect they had the right man and he knew it.

  She stepped away from the counter and turned away, so the clerk couldn't see her facial expressions. She wanted to be firm with him, and so she had to abandon the persona of the remorseful and browbeaten clerical. “I'll take care of it from here on,” she said.

  “All right,” he said. He seemed ever so slightly put out, as if he'd lost face. Perhaps it was because she'd horned in on his attempt to get information about the other person who was looking for Brenda. He managed a pleasant good-bye and said he'd be glad to help her anytime she needed it. “And give my regards to Mr. Mason,” he said, as if he and Calvin were old chums, which Jane knew wasn't the case, but which she assumed was his way of trying to make himself seem more legit. She was delighted to see him go, and found it incredibly easy to find out from the concierge where Mr. Johnson was headed.

  Mr. Johnson, whoever he was, was going to Tofino. One of the places where Trevellyan had uncovered a Brenda MacPherson. Jane had planned to do some phoning from Victoria. Call those Brendas with some story, still vaguely forming in her mind, and check out the most obvious possibilities first.

  But Mr. Johnson had the jump on her. Presumably, he'd done some legwork and decided to start with Tofino. Or maybe he wanted to find Brenda without warning her. Jane was intensely curious about who he was and why he wanted to locate Brenda. Maybe, if she made it to Torino in time, she could find out.

  She went out to her car and reached for her map of the island. Tofino, a small town on the west coast of the island above Pacific Rim National Park, looked very far away, and as if it were at the end of a long and winding road. She estimated the distance at over three hundred kilometers. She checked her watch. She'd have to start right away if she wanted to get there before dark.

  She drove along the harbor to the tourist information kiosk, which she'd spotted earlier. It was housed in what looked like a restored art deco gas station. Art “Deco” Nazimova, she felt, would have approved.

  Inside, she picked up a handful of brochures on Tofino, glanced quickly at them, and got a quick impression of long sandy beaches, crashing waves, rain forests and whales. She also asked a young man with red hair, who looked like a college student, about the drive to Tofino.

  There was only one road to the west coast of the island, with the exception of some rough logging roads. He told her it was paved, with just two lanes with the occasional passing lane. There was virtually nothing on it after Port Alberni except fabulous scenery, so she'd better gas up there. And he warned her that as it was tourist season, “You should probably book a room as soon as possible.”

  She made a phone call, got the last room available at what sounded like a nice enough place on the water, and headed north on the highway that ran up the east coast of the island, then turned inland to Port Alberni.

  It was around seven o'clock, and still light by the time she got there. She drove through a McDonald's and ate as she drove, filled the tank and had them test the tire pressure and check the oil, wished she had a more powerful car than Uncle Harold's old Chevy, and headed west.

  Within a few miles she found herself traveling through postcard country, each curve bringing forth a new vista that could have come off of one of the innumerable brochures she'd picked up at the tourist information center.

  Vast lakes, looming mountainsides full of fir and cedar bluish in the evening light, and, at the side of the road, sculptural compositions of rock and gravel, interspersed with wildflowers- the bright yellow of Scotch broom, blowsy wild rose and blue lupine, the occasional early daisies and Queen Anne's lace among grasses with reddish clouds of seeds hovering over the stalks.

  Traffic wasn't too heavy, but she found herself frustrated to find herself stuck every once in a while behind slow-moving campers and trucks. Because the road twisted and turned, it was hard to find the opportunity to get around them. Negotiating past these slower vehicles became kind of a game to help her pass the time.

  As night fell, around nine o'clock, when the signs told her she was about a half hour out of Tofino, she saw the full moon, appearing and disappearing behind mountainsides now silhouetted black against the sky, and, when she passed a huge lake, making a shiny path across the water.

  Besides the occasional boat-launching or camping signs, and the red taillights in front of her as she negotiated the broad arcs, climbed hills and descended on the other side in corkscrew turns, there was no sign of human habitation. Logging, though, had left its mark. Vast tracts on the hills were completely clear-cut and bare; other areas were full of heavy stumps, recently burned over, dotted with magenta fireweed and young alders.

  She put herself on a kind of automatic pilot, as if the car were being draw
n through these mountains, and watched the moon set, almost as if it were a sun, over the mountains until it was finally just a sparkling dot like a star, then vanishing altogether.

  She stopped thinking about Brenda, about Jennifer, about Kevin, presumably lying on his bunk in Monroe while she swooped like an owl through this landscape. She had a single focus now, to get this ribbon of road past her, to get to Tofino, and once there, to think of her next move.

  But until then, she relaxed, lulled along by the feeling of heading to the end of the road, the end of the world.

  When the road did end, with the open Pacific presumably somewhere in front of her in the dark, she turned north again, through the park on a straight road into the town itself, which seemed to consist of a main street with a few spurs off to the side. It gave the impression of something fairly recently thrown up for the tourists. The buildings were low, squarish and simple, some set in grassy, unweeded patches, the whole managing to impart a sense of impermanency. After all, it was nature they were selling here—the buildings were just afterthoughts.

  It was easy to find her motel, one of the largest buildings in town, stained a gray-blue and facing a dock shooting out into a bay.

  She carried her suitcase up some stairs to the lobby. A young woman, with the kind of polite, gentle, patient Canadian inflection Jane was becoming accustomed to, was explaining whale watching to some elderly German tourists, who, with German thoroughness, wanted to know exactly what to expect about the expedition they were taking the next day.

  The wife translated simultaneously for her husband, and Jane, still a little buzzy from her drive, listened in two languages.

  The guides took you out in Zodiacs among the reefs and islands nearby. The guide service didn't guarantee you'd see whales, but the word was whale watching had been good the last few days. A few of the grays stuck around all season. In any case, there were other things to observe—sea lions and seals and puffins and eagles if you didn't see whales.

  They should walk over to the office across the street and up a ways to confirm their reservation. Somebody might be there now. If they wanted to visit the hot springs, they should bring towels and something to eat, which they could get at the Co-op supermarket next door. Yes, the hot springs were lovely, at the end of a short trail through rain forests. You could sit in rocky pools and stand under a hot waterfall.

  The couple debated the merits of the hot springs expedition. They seemed to have a German confidence in the therapeutic qualities of mineral waters.

  Finally, they completed their interrogation, and Jane checked in, vaguely wistful she couldn't get out on the water and look for whales. Standing under a thermal waterfall in a rocky grotto in a rain forest sounded even better.

  Her room was neat and pleasant, a definite step up from the Ye Olde Tourist Trappe where she'd spent last night. And there was a real bathtub and shampoo and conditioner.

  It was too late to look for Brenda right now. Her plan was to just show up. Phoning people just put them on their guard.

  She'd go down to dinner, but first she lay down on the bed and flipped on the TV. There were about a million channels— she'd noticed a big satellite dish outside the motel—and she picked up some news from Seattle. After only two days in Canada, where everyone seemed so well scrubbed and wholesome, the American female newscasters looked a little cheap—overcoiffured and over-made-up.

  She let her mind wander a little. She had to come up with some story for Brenda, some way to get her confidence before she tried to get her to talk about what Jennifer might have seen. Saying she was a friend of Jennifer's might not be that terrific an idea. After all, they'd parted on less than amicable terms. Besides, from what she'd heard, Jennifer hadn't really had any friends.

  Suddenly, she felt a frisson. They were talking about Jennifer Gilbert on the Seattle news. Jane heard her name and turned her attention back to the broadcast.

  “In a new development in the University District slaying of office manager Jennifer Gilbert, police have released an Identikit drawing of a man wanted for questioning in the case.” A black-and- white drawing popped up on the screen. Jane was sure it was the man Arthur had seen visiting Jennifer a few days before she died. He had a suggestion of a cleft chin, a neat haircut of dark, thick hair, good brows. Of course, like all those police artist pictures, he looked crude and scary. The picture was just there for a frustrating second. Jane thought he looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. Maybe he was Sean's father, the dentist. She imagined Arthur had provided the description, and probably found the process thrilling in a morbid way.

  “Police emphasize that the man is just wanted for questioning and is not a suspect at this time,” said the announcer. Her solemn face transformed instantly, like some victim of multiple personality. Now she was perky and cheerful. “In a lighter vein, our roving reporter Chuck Lundquist found a man who collects gum wrappers—that's right, gum wrappers. And he's been doing it for a long time.” She clicked off the set just as an image of an old codger in a baseball cap standing proudly next to a huge silver ball came onto the screen.

  She wanted to see that composite sketch again. Maybe Calvin Mason could get a copy and fax it to her here. But later, when she went down to dinner, she realized why the face looked familiar. It was the man she'd checked out at breakfast this morning in the Empress Hotel. The one who looked so nice and clean and freshly shaven and prosperous and respectable. She knew she was right—as right as anyone could be about one of those composite sketches.

  Because the man was here, in the dining room at her hotel. He was wearing a yellow lamb's-wool sweater and khaki trousers, and he was eating a large piece of salmon and reading Time magazine as if he didn't have a care in the world.

  Chapter 16

  She took a deep breath. Should she call the police? She rejected the idea after about ten seconds' thought. It was absurd. Sure, he resembled the composite, but so what? So did a million other guys. And he wasn't even in Seattle. All she knew about him was that he'd been at the Empress Hotel in Victoria this morning.

  At first, she'd planned to arrange herself at her table so she could observe him in profile, and so he couldn't see her without turning around. Now she decided she'd let him see her.

  “Could I have that table there?” she asked the hostess, pointing to the one next to him.

  “Sure.”

  Jane made a slightly noisy deal of scraping her chair and thanking the woman, and, sure enough, he looked up from his magazine. To her surprise, he gave her a big smile. She found that rather chilling.

  But she smiled back.

  “Didn't I see you in Victoria this morning?” he said, putting down the magazine with the air of someone who expects to have a long conversation.

  “I think so,” said Jane, lowering her eyelids in a shamelessly coy gesture-the sort of cheap trick she used to incorporate into her act when she sang in clubs in Europe.

  “You aren't following me, are you?” he said easily.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” she said with a sideways smile.

  The waitress handed her a menu.

  “The prawns are pretty good,” he said. Something about the inflection on the word “pretty” convinced her he was an American.

  If she were actually trying to pick him up or something for personal, rather than business, reasons, she'd be more restrained. Jane felt that most men, no matter what they said about wishing women would call, were secretly appalled if they actually did, and still basically liked to think the whole thing was their idea. But she forced herself to be a little more forthright. “What are you doing in Tofino?” she said.

  She had a silly flash of the man saying, “I'm here to stalk a woman named Brenda. Last week I killed her ex-roommate in Seattle. Perhaps you saw the composite picture of me on TV.” Here she was, acting like Mata Hari with this perfectly nice tourist.

  “Just looking around,” he said vaguely.

  “I'd have thought you were her
e on business. Weren't you wearing a gray suit this morning?” Let him know she'd checked him out enough to notice what he wore.

  He smiled. “It's a formal town. What about you? Here on business?”

  “I'm going whale watching,” she said. “I'm crazy about killer whales.”

  “That's too bad,” he said with a little gleam. “Because they mostly have gray whales around here. The orcas are more on the east coast of the island. In the Strait of Georgia.”

  Now she felt like an idiot. “I thought I'd do the hot springs too,” she said, struggling to maintain her dignity.

  He laughed. “I only know about the whales because I just read it in a brochure,” he said, apparently aware and amused she was slightly embarrassed. “Apparently, we just missed their big migration.” The waitress came back to take her order, and brought him a cup of coffee. She ordered the prawns and a glass of wine.