by Louise Clark
“The accident happened at the Loyal Scotsman’s Falls, didn’t it?” Quinn asked.
Sheila nodded “After Corey was so badly injured, all of the teens at the Falls that day regretted their actions, of course. How could they not? Through the years Shane did his best to be kind to Corey and to brighten his life. And he did! He came to visit at least once a month and Corey so enjoyed seeing him. In many ways, his visits were more important to Corey than I was.” She smiled a weary, adult smile. “Now, Mr. Armstrong, if I answer your questions will you let me see a copy of your article before you submit it?”
Quinn smiled at her as he shook his head. “That’s not how I work. I do the interview, then write a piece—in this case, perhaps a series of pieces—that I send to contacts at the news outlets. I don’t okay the article with those I’ve interviewed before I submit.”
Sheila gazed at him steadily. “Since this article is about me, and my property, and my family, I would like to know what you’re saying about me before it goes out to the world. Statements can be misinterpreted and details that are important, missed.”
“I understand your concerns, Mrs. Bunch, but—”
“But you won’t do it.” Sheila’s words were a flat statement, with a pretense of resignation in them. But her expression was relieved. “In that case, Mr. Armstrong, though I appreciate the thought, I don’t think I’ll give an interview at this time.” She stood.
Quinn stood too. “Mrs. Bunch, won’t you reconsider?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh! But that would be such a shame!” Christy said. Both Quinn and Sheila turned to look at her. Sheila’s expression was skeptical, Quinn’s amused. She pasted an eager, unthreatening smile on her face. “Quinn, what if you do an audio interview? Like the ones the morning radio shows play? It wouldn’t be like a print article where you ask questions, then use the answers to create the story and only occasionally add in Mrs. Bunch’s words as direct quotes. An audio interview would ensure that exactly what she said would go out to the public.”
Quinn frowned at Christy thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “Yeah, it could work. I’d have to organize the direction of the interview in advance so that the story came out in a coherent way. But, yeah, if Mrs. Bunch is up to it, an audio interview would work.”
Mrs. Bunch pursed her lips. “Well, I…”
“And you could do the interview on site—at the info center on Loyal Scotsman’s Bay,” Christy said, keeping her voice and expression excited. She deliberately looked from Quinn to Sheila and back again, as if she was trying to convince both of them. “You could describe the beauty of the place and how the fish farm will destroy it. That would be really effective when Mrs. Bunch is talking about her original plans for the Bay and how Progressive Fish Farms has waylaid them.”
As she talked she nodded enthusiastically, and Quinn laughed. “You’re pretty persuasive.” He turned to Sheila. “How about it, Mrs. Bunch? Would you be willing to do an audio interview?”
She hesitated, her expression thoughtful, then she said cautiously, “Yes, provided I see the questions in advance.”
Quinn rubbed his chin as he considered her request. Finally, he said, “Okay. I’m good with that. How about this? I’ll write them up, along with a story outline, and get them to you tomorrow. The day after that we’ll do the interview. Dad says that he has to go out to the site that day, anyway, to confirm the arrangements. That will give you an opportunity to prep and plan your answers, so you’re comfortable giving the interview.”
Again Sheila hesitated, then she nodded, decisively. “I’ll do it.”
“Would you like to go for a walk?”
It was nine o’clock and dusk was decaying into darkness. Christy looked at Quinn, who stared back seriously. At the picnic table Roy had perked up and she could feel his eyes on them. Sledge and Tamara were over by the firepit. Sledge was strumming on his guitar, working on a song apparently, while Tamara teased him about lame lyrics. Ellen and Trevor had gone out to dinner, something they did with increasing frequency as the camping trip went on. Stormy was in the tent with Noelle, who had turned in for the night. There was nothing keeping her from spending a few minutes or an hour or more with Quinn. “Sure,” she said.
He nodded abruptly, which wasn’t like Quinn. She thought back to the moment in the water the other day when he’d kissed her so tenderly and told her they needed to talk. Surely if he had something positive to say he wouldn’t be so tense, now that the moment was apparently upon them.
Panic seized her. This was it. She’d been wrong in thinking he wanted a future together. Instead, he was going to tell her that he and Tamara had come to an agreement, maybe even decided on marriage, and that he and Christy were done forever. Being Quinn, he wanted to do it in the least harmful way possible. Since there was no way a message such as that could be transmitted without some pain, he was tense and worried and regretful.
They sought out flashlights, told Roy they would be back in a while, and set off. They could have walked along the graded roads that wove through the campground, but Quinn guided them to the path that led down to the beach. The stand of huge, old Douglas fir trees were dark, twisting shadows in the dusk and the pine needles that covered the path deadened the sound of their footsteps. When she and Quinn burst out of the woods onto the beach darkness had truly fallen, but the night was clear and the moon shone brightly.
The tide was high, still coming in, but almost to the edge of the hard packed sand. Christy paused near a log the sea had washed up during a winter storm and took off her sandals. Handing Quinn her flashlight to hold, she attached the sandals together, then to one of the belt loops on her jean shorts. “That feels better,” she said before she took back her flashlight. She lifted it in a little salute. “Thank you.”
He looked down at her. There was a glint in his eye that she thought might be a smile. He reached down and pulled off his own sandals, then threw them behind the large log. “I take it we’re going to wade?”
She laughed. “Of course.”
Unlike the water at Long Beach, which was cold and icy and rushed in straight from the depths of the North Pacific, the ClanRanald water was warmed by the sun and hot sand of the shallow beach. There was no shocking cold to make Christy want to hop around as her skin adjusted to the temperature, as she had when they were at the Long Beach Headland Hotel, or to run giggling from the icy water, which she’d done as well. Here the water was cold, but not frigid. It washed up around her ankles gently while the sand beneath oozed around her toes with every footstep.
It was lovely. The only thing that would be better would be if Quinn took her hand in his as they walked.
But that wasn’t going to happen. She was quite certain of it. So she concentrated on enjoying the quiet evening, the scent of the pine trees that lined the shore, the tang of salt in the air, the delicious sensation of wading in the gently surging tide.
Quinn cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Tamara and I had a serious talk when we were at Long Beach.”
This was it. The final end to hopes and dreams. The clarion call to tell her to get back on track with her life. All she could think to say was, “Oh?”
“We, ah, agreed to call it off, not that there was really anything to call off.”
“What?” Christy stopped to stare at him. A small wave broke over her ankles, tickling the sensitive skin. “I thought you were trying to find a nice way to tell me that we were finished, forever.”
It was his turn to say, “What?” He looked truly astonished. “The other day, in the water, I kissed you. I thought you understood…”
“I convinced myself it was a good-bye kiss. That we’d have this last mystery to solve and then that would be it. You and Tamara make a perfect couple.”
“No, we don’t!”
“Sure you do. She’s needy and that brings out the big strong male in any guy.”
Quinn stared at her, incredulous, for
an instant before he threw back his head and laughed. “When I met Tamara in Africa she seemed the opposite of needy. She was intense, passionate, fierce. Or I believed she was. I now think I misinterpreted anger for passion and hurt for fierceness.” He added thoughtfully, “I did get the intensity right, though. When Tamara is into something she goes at it full tilt.”
Christy frowned. “Anger and hurt because she was rejected by her birth parents?”
Quinn nodded. “She knew she was adopted all her life, but discovering that the people who had given her up were wealthy enough to create a trust fund made her question why they didn’t want her. She felt abandoned and angry. That anger fueled her decision to work abroad after she graduated from medical school. It pushed her into dangerous situations she normally wouldn’t have sought out.”
“Then she was kidnapped,” Christy said, “and anger against her birth family didn’t seem quite so important.” She shrugged. “What does that have to do with us?”
Quinn smiled down at her. He lifted his hand to stroke along her cheekbone with his thumb. “She wasn’t the person I thought she was.” He smiled more broadly. “Or the person I wanted her to be.”
“And who was that?” Christy asked, her voice low and hoarse.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
His fingers caressed her skin, lightly, temptingly. “Why me?”
“Because you care deeply and when you care you act. It doesn’t matter if what you do may put you danger, or if you have to sacrifice something of yourself to achieve the end. You simply do it. You’re a smart woman who helps her friends, not because you’ll get anything out of it, but because you want to keep them from being hurt. You’re generous and passionate and you may not go out to save the world, but that’s what you do, one decent act at a time.”
Shaken, Christy said, “Wow.” She moistened her lips. “That’s how you see me?”
He smiled, his thumb moving hypnotically across her skin. “Amongst other things.”
“And yet we split in March.” Her eyes searched his face. “The problems we had then are still here now.”
“Frank.”
She nodded. “I don’t see him leaving us any time soon.”
“I’ve had plenty of time to think about the decision I made back then. To regret it. To wish I could change it. To tell myself I’m an idiot for being jealous of a dead guy.”
Christy laughed, a bit shakily. “Well, you are.”
“I know. In my own defense, we’d just returned from California and I’d felt pretty good about being instant family dad while we were away. It was a shock coming back to find Frank had apparently gone and then to have you and Noelle grieving him.” He hesitated before he said, “I wanted to be the focus of your feelings, Christy, and I when I thought I wasn’t I reacted. Badly.”
“And now?”
“I still want to be your focus, but if it means I have to fight for you against a dead guy, I’ll do it.”
“Honest?”
“Yes.”
She reached up and slid her hand around the back of his neck to pull his head down. She said against his lips, “I’m not an easy mark, you know. I’ll make you prove it.”
He slipped his arms around her waist to draw her to him. “I look forward to the fight.”
She chuckled and let him kiss her with a passion too long denied.
Chapter 26
“What’s going on here?”
Christy, Ellen, Quinn, and Stormy—in halter and leash—had just emerged from Christy’s van when the man standing on top of the demonstration pool shouted his question. Trevor pulled up beside the van and parked. He and Roy got out of the car. They all stood in the makeshift parking lot and stared at the unexpected figure.
“Well,” said Ellen. “At least we know the fish are being fed.”
“Good thing too,” Christy said. “I never did figure out where to buy the kind of quantities of fish food we’d need to feed all those salmon.”
The man was dark-haired and square built. He was wearing sturdy canvas pants, heavy work boots, and a T-shirt with the Progressive Fish Farms logo on the front. The sun beat down on his bare head. He had several buckets of some kind of feed beside him and had been in the act of tossing the contents to the fish when they arrived.
He put his hands on his hips. “The place is closed. You’ll have to come back another time.”
Christy scooped up Stormy and headed for the fish tank. Stormy wiggled in her arms.
Let the guy run, Chris. He wants to watch the fish.
She put the cat onto the ground, where he made a dash for the fish tank.
“I’m not sure that was a good idea,” Ellen murmured.
As they drew near to the tank, Quinn put his hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun as he looked up. Unlike the Progressive worker, he was wearing slacks and a front button shirt—not quite business attire, but not holiday apparel either. Trevor and Ellen had dressed in much the same way, Trevor because he was supposed to be conferring with Woodgate as the legal representative of the organizers, and Ellen because she always dressed smartly. Christy, on the other hand was wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt, while Roy, as the token non-conformist, had chosen a tie-dye T-shirt and cargo shorts that needed a wash and iron.
“We’re here to do an interview with Mrs. Bunch, the lady who once owned this land,” Quinn said. “A history of the area, how the land was used, why the fish farm is important for the area, that sort of thing.”
The man picked up a bucket and tossed the contents into the water. The salmon in the pen swarmed around the food. Stormy stood on his hind legs and put his front paws on the Plexiglas wall. His gaze was glued to the action inside. Christy took a firm hold of his leash. They weren’t here for another salmon fishing expedition.
“This is private property,” the man said as he dropped the now empty bucket on the boardwalk. He picked up a fresh one, which he heaved, tossing the contents to the excited fish. The salmon swam vigorously, fighting for the food.
“We don’t want to do anything but talk. Surely that would be okay?” Quinn held up his tape recorder, indicating legitimacy.
“Not my decision,” the man said. He stopped feeding the fish to stare beyond them to parking lot. “What is this, a convention?”
Christy turned and saw that Patterson was parking her car beside Christy’s. She returned her attention to the grouchy fish worker and smiled up at him. “Some more members of the local community, here to give their impressions of what the area was like in the past. They’ll provide context and color for our podcast.” Quinn shot her an amused look, but she ignored it.
“Huh,” the man said. He went back to his bucket toss.
Patterson and Greg walked over to the fish tank. “Who’s he?” she asked, jerking her thumb in the feeder’s direction.
“The unexpected,” Trevor said.
“A work-around,” Roy said at the same time.
Stormy tugged at the leash. He was heading for the stairs. Christy scooped him up. “Oh, no you don’t.”
The man looked down from his height on the walkway at the top of the tank. “Is that the cat that caught the fish at the information talk?”
Christy thought about lying—after all, there must be other cats that traveled about with their humans—then gave a mental shrug. “Yes, he is.”
The man threw the last bucket of feed into the water, then he grinned. “I wish I’d seen that. Shane sent me off for the afternoon that day. Didn’t want me hanging around, answering questions about what we feed the fish, and all that. He liked to keep the info he gave people simple. Didn’t want to get those environmentalists all in an uproar.” He pointed to Stormy, then shook the finger at Christy. “You’d best keep the cat away for the moment. The fish are hungry and they’re anxious. Salmon are predators. Who knows what might happen if he hopped in now.”
“Good grief,” Ellen said faintly.
Christy hugge
d the squirming cat more tightly, visions of savage piranha-style attack taking place in her mind’s eye.
Trevor slipped his arm around Ellen’s waist. “He’s messing with you. Don’t pay any attention.”
The man laughed. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Another car entered the parking lot. They all looked around to see who it was. It was one they’d seen often on the road at the campground. “That’s Sheila’s car,” Greg said. “Where’s Woodgate?”
The fish feeder said, “The interview lady?”
“That would be her,” Quinn said. He waited until Sheila was out of the car and heading for the fish tank, before he added, “Are you sure we can’t do the interview here?”
“What’s going on?” Sheila asked, as she came up beside them. She looked from Quinn to the rest of the group, then at the man on the walkway. “Who is he?”
“He’s been feeding the fish,” Christy said. She deliberately put a relieved note in her voice. “Honestly, Mrs. Bunch, Ellen and I were so worried that the fish had been forgotten about with Shane’s death. I knew you wouldn’t mind if we came along with Quinn today. We just had to make sure the fish were okay.”
Sheila looked at the tank full of excited, happy salmon, chowing down on the buckets of meal they’d been fed. “They’re just fish. What does it matter?”
“Oh,” Christy said, trying to sound mortally wounded by such an attitude. Patterson shot her an amused look that indicated she wasn’t too successful.
The man on the walkway said, “It matters, lady! These fish are in our care. We have a duty to make sure they have a decent life before we send them to the processing factory.”
“Well,” said Ellen, turning a little green. “I’ve never been too fond of farmed salmon.”
The man glared at her. “We produce a good product at our farms. We feed our fish the best quality food. We supply them with antibiotics to keep down the sea lice…”
Greg shook his head and said, “You don’t get sea lice in an inland pen.” He’d clearly been listening to his brother.
