Читать книгу Always a Temp - Jeannie Watt - Страница 10

CALLIE WOKE to the smell of smoke. She pushed her hair back from her forehead as she sat up, disoriented until she realized that, despite the noise of the antique cooling system churning in the window beside her, she’d conked out on the sofa. That would teach her to wax floors at midnight.

She got to her feet, rubbing the crick in her neck as she went out on the front porch. The neighborhood was quiet, but the smell of smoke was strong. She walked out to the middle of the street, where she could see over the tops of the houses, and sure enough, a column of dark smoke rose into the rapidly darkening sky on the north edge of town, where housing developments encroached on the desert and Bureau of Land Management property. It was the season for wildfires, but black smoke meant a structure was burning.

Maybe she’d find something to write about.

Callie went back in the house, ran a comb through her sleep-flattened hair, then grabbed her car keys. By the time she’d followed the smoke to the outskirts of town, about a mile away from Grace’s house, several vehicles bearing volunteer firefighter license plates had sailed by her.

A crowd of onlookers gathered on the last street of the development, which had new tract houses on one side and vacant lots on the other. Maybe seventy yards away, on the undeveloped side of the street, firemen were dousing flames that had engulfed a derelict trailer parked in a weed-choked lot.

Ever conscious of not getting in the way of people who had a job to do, because that tended to get one banished from the scene, she parked her car several yards from the closest vehicle, hugging her wheels to the ditch to keep the roadway clear. She left the car and casually walked up to the knot of bystanders, wanting to blend in as she took in the scene.

“Any idea how it started?” she asked the teenager next to her, a sandy-haired kid with baggy pants. The sky was clear, so if the fire had been caused by lightning, it was a freak strike.

The teen shrugged without looking at her, but the middle-aged man standing slightly in front of her turned, frowning as if he was trying to place her. Probably not too many strangers showed up at neighborhood fires, so Callie couldn’t blame the guy for thinking she might be a firebug there to enjoy the results of her handiwork.

“I’m Callie McCarran,” she said, saving him the trouble of trying to memorize her face or get her license plate number.

“Doug Jones.” He turned back toward the action, but Callie caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Callie gave the teenager another shot. “Have you had many fires this summer?” Fire seasons varied. Some years would be fire-free and during others it would seem as if the entire state was ablaze.

“We’ve had a few,” the boy said without looking at her. His focus was on the firemen—or rather, on one particular fireman who looked as if he might be a she. The only she, as far as Callie could tell.

“Do you know the name of the female firefighter?”

The kid shrugged again and ignored her.

Oh, yeah. She was going to do well substitute teaching. Couldn’t get kids to answer the door. Couldn’t get kids to answer a question. And speaking of kids…Callie saw a distinctive white head at the edge of the crowd. Her across-the-lot neighbor. This little guy got around. Callie craned her neck to see who was with him, but the crowd shifted and she lost sight of him.

The breeze was light and it didn’t take long for the firefighters to get the blaze under control and stop it from spreading to the desert, where it could have taken off in the dry grass, sage and rabbit brush, causing major damage. The crowd started to disperse as the flames died, some people going to cars, others to nearby houses, and Callie once again caught sight of the boy as he tried to resist his sister’s efforts to pull him down the street. No adult was in sight and it was nearly nine o’clock. What would two kids that age be doing so far from home?

Unless they had sneaked out to see the action without their parents knowing. Kids did do things like that, or so she’d heard. She’d been too afraid of the wrath of Grace to have tried.

The girl finally got her brother to cooperate, even though she wasn’t much bigger than he was, and he began trudging down the street beside her. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder at the firefighters.

Callie wasn’t about to offer them a ride, being a stranger and all, and no one else seemed concerned by their presence, so she decided that Wesley was indeed a very small town and the rules were different than in a more urban area. She watched until they pulled their tired-looking bicycles out of the ditch near a streetlight and started riding off along the sidewalk. Okay. They had transportation home. But it still disturbed her to see kids out that late without an adult.

Doug Jones gave Callie one last suspicious look, then headed to a nearby house. Bye, Doug. Callie stayed where she was, hoping to get a chance to talk to the female firefighter, who was still dealing with embers near what was left of the trailer.

As she waited, a big Dodge truck and a panel wagon pulled out of the throng of vehicles belonging to the volunteers, giving Callie a better view of the fire engines. She also had a better view of Nathan and his older brother, Garrett, standing in the headlights of one of the engines, deep in conversation.

She hadn’t realized Nate was there, though it made perfect sense—his staff was probably so small that he had to report as well as edit—and she certainly hadn’t realized that the deputy she’d spotted a few times on the fringes of the crowd was Garrett Marcenek. Go figure.

She’d known Garrett for years, and had no idea he’d ever thought of pursuing a career in law enforcement. How ironic. Now instead of being arrested, he’d get to do the honors. So what might Seth Marcenek be doing? If the rule of opposites applied, he’d pretty much have to be a priest.

“Hey, Garrett,” someone behind her called. “I’m taking off.”

The brothers both looked up, catching Callie midstare.

Damn.

She instantly started walking toward them, as if that had been her objective in the first place. If she was going to stay in this town for a while, then she wasn’t going to try to avoid the Marcenek brothers.

“Garrett, good to see you,” Callie said before either man could speak. She firmly believed that whoever spoke first had a psychological advantage. “Nathan.”

“Callie.” He revealed no emotion. No coldness, no warmth. Nothing.

“Welcome back,” Garrett said, shifting his weight to his heels. Callie wondered if he was resting his hand on his holster on purpose, or if it was just a habit.

“Thank you.”

“I need to check something out,” Nathan said to his brother, his eyes focused behind Callie. He left without another word, brushing past a burly volunteer firefighter carrying a Pulaski ax. Nate favored one leg slightly, making Callie wonder just how many miles he was putting on the bike. Five to ten a day had been the norm when they’d been in high school, but he’d ride as many as twenty when he was stressed. She had gone with him on the short rides, but when he needed to put his head down and pedal, she’d found other things to do.

The man she’d seen unloading equipment from the minivan in the parking lot that morning was there, taking notes as he talked to one of the firefighters. He lowered his pad as Nathan approached, and the two fell into conversation. An old memory jarred loose. Chip Elroy. From her sophomore geometry class.

“So how long have you been a deputy?” Callie asked, turning back to Garrett.

“Since about a year after you dumped Nathan.” He held her gaze, his expression cool and coplike.

“Eleven years then.” She wasn’t surprised by Garrett’s response. The brothers had wildly different temperaments, with Garrett looking for trouble, Nathan trying to keep him out of it, but they were tight.

“Give or take a few months.” He shifted his weight again. “What’re you doing here?”

“You mean at the fire?” Obviously, since he had to know why she was back in Wesley. She glanced over at the trailer’s smoldering metal ribs. “Just seeing if there’s a story.” She cocked her head. “Who’s the female firefighter?”

“Denise Logan.”

Ah, from high school. She would have been in Seth’s graduating class.

“Was this arson?” When Garrett didn’t respond, Callie added, “Pretty clear night. No lightning.”

“How long are you staying in town?”

“Awhile.”

“And then?”

She shrugged.

“Must be nice,” Garrett replied, “having no ties. Going where you want, when you want.”

“It’s great,” she agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. “You should try it.”

“Can’t. I prefer to be there for the people who matter to me.”

“Oh, do you have some of those? People who matter to you? Because I remember you dumping girls right and left, without much regard for hurt feelings.”

“At least I told them it was over, instead of taking the coward’s way out and running away without a word.”

She wasn’t touching that one, and Garrett knew it. He smiled without humor, then muttered, “I have some things I need to take care of.” Nodding in dismissal, he strode past her toward two older men checking gauges on a truck.

Callie turned away and headed for the Neon. She got in without looking back, slamming the stubborn old door shut.

She fought the urge to rest her forehead on the steering wheel in defeat, and instead turned the key in the ignition, carefully pulling back out onto the road and then executing a three-point turn. She followed the route the kids had taken, to make sure they’d gotten home.

A few minutes later she turned down Grace’s street and cruised by the house where the neighbor kids lived. It was dark inside, except for the distinctive glow of a television set, but the old bikes were propped against the porch. They were home. She debated stopping, but it was late, almost ten now. Maybe she’d try to catch the parents at home tomorrow and mention that the children had been at the fire. Parents who cared simply did not let kids ride across town—even a small town—after dark.

“SO WHAT’S THE DEAL HERE?” Nathan asked, indicating the burned-out trailer with a jerk of his head. He’d rejoined his brother after he’d made certain that Chip, who’d thankfully put off his trip when he saw the smoke, would get his photos in before he left the next day. “Two fires in a week, no lightning.”

Nathan hated fires. He hadn’t had a problem until the explosion, when the world around him had erupted into a fireball. That was after the shock wave had thrown him back against a brick wall and driven shrapnel into his leg and torso. His partner, Suzanne Galliano, had also been injured, but her wounds had been superficial, which was why she was still reporting in Seattle, while he was back here in good old Wesley, Nevada.

“What do you think the deal is?” Garrett asked. He was careful what he said around Nathan in an official capacity, having been quoted as an “unnamed source” enough times to get him in trouble with the brass, who had no trouble figuring out the identity of the unnamed source.

Nathan rubbed a hand over his head, loosening his matted hair. “If it turns out this fire was man-made like the last one, then someone could be setting fires.”

“That’s a big leap, junior,” Garrett said, careful not to be quotable. “A field and a structure.”

“Or the fires may not be related and this one came about because old man Anderson wanted to get rid of his rusty trailer without paying to have it torn down and hauled away.”

“Talk to Dad,” Garrett said, jerking his head to where their father was conferring with another man near the front of an engine.

“Oh, I will. Later.” Not that it would do a lot of good. Fifteen years of being sheriff prior to taking over command of the fire department had made John Marcenek a master at avoiding a direct answer.

“My gut reaction is that the two incidents aren’t connected, and you’re probably right about Anderson,” Garrett finally said, before giving Nathan a fierce look. “Do not quote me.”

“Unnamed source,” he agreed with a half smile. The brothers fell into step as they walked back to Nathan’s car.

“Law enforcement officials are uncertain whether the incidents are connected,” Garrett corrected. “You didn’t seem too surprised to see Callie at the fire.”

“Probably looking for a story. She showed up at the office and asked me for freelance work a couple days ago.”

Garrett glanced at him. “No shit?”

“I turned her down, but if Vince Michaels hears about it, he’ll be an unhappy camper.”

“Or rather, you’ll be an unhappy camper.”

Nathan grinned for the first time all evening. “In your words, no shit.”

AS SOON AS CALLIE GOT home, she fired up her laptop and started to write. Words appeared on the screen, but something was lacking: decent writing. Disgusted, she ditched the file and turned off the computer. She’d try again tomorrow.

The next morning was no better, nor was the afternoon. Finally, as the sun was setting and Callie had accomplished nothing except for an industrial cleaning of the bathroom, she faced reality. She couldn’t keep cleaning bathrooms and waxing floors. She had to do the one job she did not want to do, the task that was constantly lurking at the back of her mind, and then maybe she could settle and write a few words.

She needed to go through Grace’s belongings.

Callie opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, taking in the neat little room. Grace’s reading glasses were on the nightstand, along with an empty water glass, and a box of tissues set on top of a library book. Callie should probably return that before the library police came after her.

She went to the closet and opened the door, the squeak of the wheels in the tracks instantly bringing back memories. When the closet had squeaked, it meant Grace was awake, getting her robe. It meant Callie would smell breakfast soon and that the house would be warm when she got up.

The closet smelled of spice. Grace had loved cinnamon and had sachets everywhere. Callie had always loved cinnamon herself, but at the moment the scent was too poignant, too much.

Sorry, Grace…

Callie did her best to shut herself off as she pulled armloads of clothes out of the closet and laid them on the bed before going back for more. If she didn’t think about what she was doing, she wouldn’t get sucked down. And once she got this chore done, the worst would be behind her. She’d be able to write.

After the first closet was empty, she shook open a trash bag and shoved the clothing into it, hangers and all. If she stopped to sort and fold, she wouldn’t make it through the process without breaking down. The most practical approach was to make everything disappear into black plastic as quickly as possible.

But Callie wasn’t quick enough. She slowed down for a few seconds and the next thing she knew, she’d pulled an oversize cardigan she’d always associated with Grace out of the pile of clothing on the bed. And, instead of shoving it into the bag, she held it up, then bunched it to her, breathing in the scent of the only mother she’d ever really known.

Her throat closed.

Callie resolutely blanked her mind, folded the sweater and set it inside the swollen bag before tying it shut. She shook open another bag and headed for the dresser, planning to quickly sort through Grace’s unmentionables so she didn’t accidentally throw away or donate something of value. Grace had had a habit of hiding things in her underwear drawer, as if placing something here would keep it safe from prying eyes—those of a young girl trying to peek at her Christmas presents, for example. Sure enough, when Callie opened the drawer, something solid slid across the bottom. She pushed aside the cotton undergarments to find a fancy lingerie box.

She set the box on the bed and for a moment just looked at it, wondering what on earth it could contain that was worthy of hiding in the underwear drawer. The corners of the lid were worn and the cardboard had grown brittle with age. She gently eased the top off.

Photos. Tons of photos. And her schoolwork. Award certificates. Callie’s life in a box.

She lifted out a photo of herself taken on the first day of junior high, wearing low-rider flared pants and a body-hugging, long-sleeved shirt. The shirt had been too hot for August in Nevada, but Callie had wanted to wear it, and Grace had acquiesced. Beneath that were more photos—showing her rabbit at the fair for 4-H. Callie riding her bike. Grace had bought it used, but it had been one of the cool bikes. A Trek 920, like Nathan’s. Not that Callie had been concerned about that kind of stuff…. She smiled slightly. She’d pretended not to be, anyway, but she had loved having a bike that was as nice as everyone else’s. Grace hadn’t made a ton of money working at the grocery store, but she’d taken care of Callie.

Callie had not taken care of Grace.

She put the lid back on the box and set it on top of the dresser, then went back to the clothing, checking all the drawers before quickly dumping the contents into trash bags. No more sorting, because everything was going to charity. People who hadn’t abandoned their foster mother could sift through her stuff.

By the time she finished, despite her best efforts to keep the self-recriminations at bay, Callie was a wreck.

She should have come home and she hadn’t.

She’d shut everyone she’d ever been close to out of her life over the past decade, for reasons she didn’t quite understand.

Well, damn it, she didn’t want to be alone anymore.