Framed in Fire Page 2

  Darling shook his head. “I think there’s a fat chance of that granddaughter coming back here in the long run.” Young people who got an education tended to go elsewhere to put it to use.

  * * *

  the slow appearance of the sun through the clouds lifted Lane’s heart no end. She had driven with her usual trepidation along the narrow single-lane Adderly Road, with its precipitous drop-off to the inky lake far below, and was relieved to meet no other driver coming the other way, which would have necessitated an awkward standoff. She was especially relieved when she saw that a large truck was just leaving Adderly and would soon be on that bit of road. Pity anyone coming north who met that on the narrow curve!

  In the uplift of the moment, Lane began to see her problem in a new light. Of course she could tell Darling what was weighing on her, she told herself briskly. To love him and marry him, she had had to overcome all kinds of natural inclinations to be private and not risk her heart; this was just one more. And if he was overly sympathetic, it was just a sign of his kindness.

  By the time she reached New Denver and was crawling along the appallingly rutted road that led to Barisoff’s farm, she was in a much more cheerful frame of mind and looking forward to speaking Russian again. She parked the car by the path that led toward the house.

  The modest wooden cottage with its greying clapboard looked peaceful nestled among the evergreens. Too peaceful, she realized. There was no smoke issuing from the chimney. But it was turning out to be a beautiful morning, and it was dispelling the listless feeling of exhaustion she had been carrying around after a bad night. Perhaps Mr. Barisoff was at the back in the garden or visiting his adult son, who, she remembered, was supposed to have taken over the second house on the property.

  She took the tin of chocolate biscuits and went to knock on the door, but there was no answer. Disappointed, she made her way around to the back, where Barisoff, with what she suspected was his usual industry, had begun work on his large garden. Some rows of dirt had been turned over, and a shovel stood against a small tool shed, but there was no sign of the man himself. Beginning to fear that the whole expedition would be in vain, she walked along the path to the second house, but not only was there no one there, it had the air of a place that was not being lived in at all.

  She was just going to turn back, her mind on why his son had not returned as he had been so insistent on doing the year before, when she saw that there was a path that led through the woods.

  She had always been unable to resist the lure of a path and she walked along this one. Grey-yellow fronds of dead grass encroaching from the sides of the otherwise well-worn path deposited dew onto the bottoms of her trouser legs, but the intermittent slashes of sun through the trees transported her to a solitary sense of golden peace. The path curved and began to head slightly downhill until it opened onto a down-sloping meadow, with a gaspingly beautiful view of Slocan Lake.

  The morning sunlight, establishing itself more firmly against the dark clouds that had covered it, now sparkled off the lake. The silence was blissful. Lane scouted about until she found a little outcrop of rock where she could sit and be warmed.

  She saw him before she heard him. He was emerging from the woods at the edge of the meadow, and for a moment Lane thought she was hallucinating both man and horse. He moved a few yards into the clearing, and then stopped and gazed at Lane, his horse nodding against the reins.

  Chapter Two

  “sir, you’re not going to like this.”

  Darling wondered with a touch of irritation how the men must see him, because it was not the first time a bit of news had been introduced like this, as if the whole station was held in thrall by what he might like or not like. “Yes, Ames, it’s likely I won’t. What is it?”

  “The householder with the fire? It’s Mr. Lorenzo Vitali.” Ames had sent Terrell on ahead to take pictures of the damage, and to see if the gas can could be traced to any of the local gas stations. He had had a call from Mrs. Treadwell at the bookstore asking if he could come down to check her security arrangements. He’d promised her he’d be right along. “I met him just now as I was leaving to help Mrs. Treadwell. He’s come in to make a statement.”

  “Mr. Vitali? Send him up.” Darling was on his feet, his face set in a worried frown. He was very fond of Lorenzo Vitali, the owner of the lovely local Italian restaurant. He went into the hall to meet him at the top of the stairs.

  “Lorenzo, I am sorry. Tell me what’s happened.” He led him into the office and sat opposite him, paper and pencil at the ready. “Signora Vitali is all right?”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Inspector. Is fine. Lucky only back stairway burned,” Lorenzo said. “I get hose and put it out quick. Only this morning I saw gas can, and then I know, someone try to do this on purpose.” He shook his head, turning his hat in his hands. “On purpose. I don’t know why.”

  Anxiety registered starkly on his face, and Darling saw it with concern. He could think of at least one reason someone might do this, but he had been hopeful that, with time, its power would diminish. Anti-Italian sentiment left over from the war. Lorenzo’s Italian restaurant, on the slope down toward the train station, had slowly been growing in popularity, as people began to put the war behind them and return to the patterns of daily life. Europe dropped away again into the faraway, where it had always been before—somewhere people came from, not somewhere they went to fight wars.

  And if it wasn’t lingering anti-Italianism, it could be the strong dose of general anti-foreigner sentiment that was still rooted in some quarters. Lorenzo had worked hard, provided wonderful food, and been nothing but charming in his interactions with his neighbours, despite the coldness of some. This was a blow.

  “We will investigate, see if we can sort out what happened. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? It might help us discover a direction to focus our search.”

  Lorenzo leaned forward and looked at the paper Darling had at the ready. “No, please, ask, ask. I will tell you whatever I can think of.”

  “Your immediate neighbours on Ward Street—has there been any dispute or argument over something?”

  “No, not at all. There is on one side the Smith family, and on the other, the Ratchet family. Both quiet families, both with small children. On Dominion Day, we always have picnic together in our yard. I make something, they bring bottles of beer and soda. No, is always good. Mr. Smith, he come out this morning to look at damage, and he very kind, he says is terrible what happen. He says I should put light for nighttime on porch. Guy across street is not so nice. He never says hello. His wife always pushes the kids inside house after school if I am outside. Usually, of course, I am at restaurant. So is my wife. But I don’t think they would try to burn my house down.”

  “Has anyone threatened you about the restaurant?”

  “Well, you know. At the beginning other restaurants maybe not so happy. What you can do? But customers come, they like food. Everything is going okay.” He shrugged. It wasn’t going entirely okay. “I try two times to join Chamber of Commerce, but both times nothing.”

  “It’s a bit drastic for someone to set fire to your house over a Chamber of Commerce application. Can you think of anything at all that might have caused someone to pick your house?” The other thing, Darling thought, is that perhaps it wasn’t targeted. It was simply delinquents making trouble. After all, whoever it was had not done a very good job of it. “I’m wondering if it was more random, perhaps some kids?”

  Lorenzo looked down at his hat, turned it a few more times. “Okay. Maybe you are right. Just kids. I hope so.” He stood up. “Thank you, Ispettore. I must go to the restaurant now. I hope everything is okay there. You tell me if you find anything.” He shrugged again, as if he had little hope that anything would be found. “Please give my best to your signora.”

  * * *

  simpson could see the clearing up ahead and made for it, figuring he must be close to where they used to come. He thought he could see the
corner of a cabin through the trees in the distance. He cleared the edge of the forest and then stopped, uncertain. There was a woman in a turquoise sweater sitting very still in the middle of the meadow he would have to cross. If he could turn quickly and go back into the woods, he could avoid a confrontation. He imagined her being afraid, maybe hurrying away or demanding to know what right he had to be there. He watched her for a moment longer and was about to turn back when she stood up and began to wave. His heart sank. He’d have to go on and deal with whatever was about to happen. He waited to try to gauge her intentions. He did not want to appear to be a threat to her.

  To his surprise she called out, “Hello,” waving again.

  * * *

  lane watched the horseman, intrigued. He seemed to be appraising her, or perhaps he just didn’t want to be bothered socializing with a stranger. She had some sympathy with this view. But then he dismounted. She put her hand over her eyes to block out the sun to see him better. He seemed to be equipped as her neighbour the prospector was when he went out on horseback to explore. Saddlebags, bedroll, rifle. He walked up the hill toward her slowly, and she saw that he had a waterproof coat folded and placed behind the saddle.

  “Hello,” Lane called again when he was near enough.

  He took off his cowboy hat and nodded. He had thick, dark hair, combed straight back, and a long, narrow brown face and dark eyes. She guessed he was a little over thirty. He looked at her and nodded. “Ma’am.” He dropped his horse’s reins, patting the side of the animal’s neck in a reassuring manner. He turned back to Lane and settled his weight onto one foot, as if waiting to see if more conversation was required.

  “Have you come far?” Lane asked, smiling in a way she hoped would put him at ease. She could sense he didn’t particularly want to stop and talk.

  He turned and nodded in the direction he had come from. “From over the border.”

  “Oh!” Lane said, looking in the same direction. “I didn’t know one could just ride over like that. My name is Lane Winslow, by the way.” She put out her hand.

  He nodded, took a few steps forward, and took her hand and shook it briefly, not pressing, as if hand shaking was not his chosen way of greeting. “Tom Simpson.” There was a long pause, and looking past her, he asked, “Do you live here?”

  “Oh, no. I live miles away by Kootenay Lake. I came to visit a friend, but he’s not there, so I thought I’d walk a bit before I make the long drive back. Good job I did—it’s a beautiful place.” She looked past him at the horse, which had wandered farther into the meadow and was now pulling up hunks of grass with a sideways motion of his head. “What a beautiful creature.”

  Simpson nodded and offered a slight smile, his face relaxing fractionally. “That’s Rocky. He waited a long time for me to come home. Now he pretends he doesn’t even know me.”

  Lane smiled. “I remember some rather aloof horses my sister had when we were young. I see you have the badge of the US 104th. Did you serve with them?”

  Simpson put his hand up to his collar. “Yes, ma’am. Europe.” He was surprised she recognized it. He wasn’t completely sure why he still wore it. Perhaps it was just a continuation of that adjustment from warrior to civilian. “Most people wouldn’t have recognized it.”

  Lane was a little sorry she’d opened the subject, as she was not entitled to speak about her own war. “I worked in an office in London. I remember seeing the insignia and admiring that it looked like a lone wolf.”

  He gave a little smile. “I guess that’s why I like it too.”

  “Are you visiting someone?” Lane asked.

  He shook his head and then hesitated, as if considering whether he should explain. “I came up here in the summer when I was a kid. Our people used to live around here.” He looked across at his horse.

  “I’m not sure how far the border is from here, but I expect you’ve been riding for some time. I have a box of chocolate biscuits I brought for my friend. We might as well eat them.” She sat down and patted the stone next to her.

  Simpson put his hat back on and hesitated a moment, looking toward the settlement. He couldn’t remember a time when a stranger, a white woman, had asked him to sit down and eat cookies. He had a sudden thought that his grandmother would greet this unusual social situation by saying, “Sit down and eat the damn cookies,” and it made him smile momentarily. In truth, he would have liked to continue on, so he remained standing for another moment. Finally, he gave in to his curiosity—after all, she did have cookies. He settled onto the ground a few feet from her and stretched his legs out, moving them up and down to work out the kinks from his long ride.

  Lane wondered if he did not feel comfortable sitting next to her. She had been about to stand up and offer up the biscuits to be eaten on foot when he settled himself on the ground near her.

  “Long ride today?” she asked.

  “Pretty long. Maybe ten hours.”

  “How absolutely exhausting. You definitely need some biscuits!” She opened the box and leaned over to offer it to him.

  He nodded his thanks. “You sound English.”

  “I am, yes. Are you American?”

  “Not exactly American. I was born on this side, so they would say I’m Canadian. My people don’t have these borders.” Simpson drew an invisible line in the air. “I live on the other side now. I lived in Washington most of my life. Kind of makes me American, I guess.” He shrugged.

  She was certain that this was the first time in the nearly two years she had been here that she had met anyone indigenous to North America. “It’s hard to believe in that whole war now, sitting here in this place of so much beauty and peace.”

  Simpson bit into his biscuit. “I think it is why I wanted to come back up here. All that machinery of destruction over there. I used to tell myself when I was over there, I’d come back here first chance I got, just me and my horse. I want to remember the quiet like it was.”

  Lane tried to imagine the ride, the solitude and silence after the din of war. “I came here for the same reason, I think. I settled in a tiny little hamlet with a few other families. I didn’t even have a wireless for the first year and a half. I just wanted silence. I liked the idea of an empty land.” She held the box out to Simpson, who took another biscuit.

  “I have a weakness for cookies,” he warned. “This place wasn’t that empty,” he added. “Not that long ago, all my people lived around here. Years ago, my mother and my uncle used to drive up in a Model T every summer with my grandmother. They were coming back to visit, too. After I was born, I came a few times as well.” Another pause.

  “Your family?”

  “Our family, and everybody, yes; this is where my people came from.”

  “Oh. How is it that I didn’t know that?”

  Simpson popped the remainder of his biscuit into his mouth, looking out at the lake. “In my grandfather’s day everybody had to leave, to move away. There was no way to carry on their way of life. Some moved west to the Okanagan and joined up with the Okanagan tribes, and some moved north, but my family, they moved south to the lower reaches of our territory. Every now and then people come back and look at the old place. When I was a boy, we still used to come right around here pretty regularly in the summer.”

  He waved his arm at the meadow and the forest leading back up toward Barisoff’s cabin. He turned back to look out at the lake, thinking to draw the conversation to a close. She wouldn’t likely be that interested in the comings and goings of his relatives. She surprised him again by continuing the conversation.

  “Ah. Under those circumstances it must be poignant to come back to a place of your childhood. I often long to go back to the places of my childhood, but it is out of reach.” Lane thought of the house in Bilderlingshof, with its long, shaded veranda where they took tea in the summer, and the forest past their lawns, and the outbuildings where she loved to play. It seemed now to be just a story she’d heard once in her childhood.

  “You don’t
go?”

  “I can’t, really. It was a lifetime and a war ago. Latvia, where I lived, was in the thick of things, and our house was taken over by the Soviets. My grandmother and grandfather had to live in one room, and finally had to leave and travel to Scotland, a place they scarcely knew. It was hard on my grandmother, I know. She had to leave her mother’s grave. So, I just remember that place, and am grateful to be here, a place I could choose.”

  “Well, then,” Simpson said. He shook his head. “We had to go all the way across the ocean to France and Belgium to stop some people in Europe taking away the land of some other people in Europe. They said we were defending our country, as if we were stopping people from coming here to take it. But all these people that live around here now? They didn’t think too much of the fact that people already lived here. After being in the war, I see it’s kind of the European way.” He shook his head, but his voice carried no bitterness.

  Lane frowned. She thought of Barisoff, already a kind of refugee himself, and the empty rows of barracks in New Denver where, she had learned, the Canadian Japanese had spent the war. “So, this was your grandfather’s land?”

  Simpson was silent and very still for a long moment. “Not the way you think of it. It’s the other way around. The land doesn’t belong to us. It’s more like we belong to it. When I come here, I feel it welcome me back, as if I was someone who has been away from home.” He glanced at her. “I guess if you went back to that place you come from, you might feel the same thing.”

  “You know, you are absolutely right. No matter who lives in that house now, I would feel I belonged there. What made your people leave?”

  “Now that’s a very long story, ma’am.” He picked up a twig and tossed it away, as if that was all he was prepared to say.

  Lane took another biscuit and looked out across the lake and fold after fold of mountains going into the distance, green to dark green to blue, finally, at the edge of the sky. She had thought of it as empty, new, pristine, uninhabited. Isn’t that how the posters she’d seen in England portrayed it? Land to be given away to farmers and growers and miners. But of course the miners and loggers had made their depredations long before she got there. She was intrigued by the idea of belonging to the land rather than the other way around.