Joan wondered how many trick-or-treaters dared visit this place on Halloween. “Mrs. Weston?”
“Who wants to know?”
She avoided giving her name, fearing the woman would recognize it. “I came to talk to you about your son, Elijah.”
“You must be one of those reporters looking for a story about him.”
“I’m not a reporter, Mrs. Weston. Do you get a lot of reporters out here?”
“Sure, from time to time. A few last month. And it ain’t Mrs. It’s Miss. I’ll tell you what I told the last folks asking: my boy didn’t have nothing to do with the College Fire. He’s innocent.”
“You’ve spoken to Elijah recently?”
“No, but I know he’s never set any fires. Who did you say you were? I didn’t catch it.”
She hesitated and then said, “Joan Mason.”
Her eyes narrowed as the woman slowly nodded. “From the trial.”
“That’s right.”
“What do you do these days, Joan Mason? You look like a cop.”
“I get that a lot. I’m here today to talk about Elijah.” A sidestepped question was not exactly a lie.
“I haven’t seen my boy since he went to prison. I sent him money when I could, but we don’t communicate.”
“Did you stay in contact at all?”
“I wrote once or twice.”
“In ten years?” Joan said, tamping down her surprise.
“I meant to do better, but time always got away from me.”
Joan looked to her left toward a pile of rubbish billowing out of a trash can. A rat circled the can and then quickly vanished into the torn aluminum skirt around the trailer. According to Elijah’s juvenile records, he’d had a disdain for trash and clutter. The few fires he had set as a teen had not been motivated by a desire to destroy anything. He’d simply been cleaning up around his home.
“He didn’t set the fire in town,” she repeated. “I would have sensed it if he had.”
“Sense it?”
“That’s right. I can sense evil. His daddy had the spirit in him.”
“Did you sense anything about Elijah when he was younger?”
The older woman’s brow knotted with regret. “I beat the badness out of him. It ain’t there no more. The police railroaded him ten years ago. They’re going to try it again. Mark my words.”
“I can appreciate a mother looking out for her son,” Joan said. “I would look after mine.”
“You got kids?”
“No. But I watched how my mother worked to take care of me when I was a kid.” No rule against a cop lying during questioning. How many times had she made up a story about a hardworking mother or a dead father to win over a witness? She had lost count. “Sometimes she worked three jobs to keep a roof over our heads.”
“I did the best I could for Elijah. But he was a challenge from the beginning.”
“He’s pretty smart.”
“Too smart. Got big ideas and went to college. I knew he was reaching too far. That’s what happens when you stretch beyond where you belong. The world knocks you back further than you started.”
“I don’t remember him having a girlfriend in college.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Just trying to figure out what happened.”
“You sure you’re not a cop? Or maybe a reporter?”
“I think I dislike reporters more than you do.”
“Why don’t you like reporters?”
“They need to mind their own business.”
“Exactly what I say,” Miss Weston said. “They wrote some bad things about my boy after the College Fire.”
“So did he have a girlfriend?” She was pressing the point because arsonists often acted out as a way to relieve stress. Elijah’s grades had been the best in his class, so school had not been a problem. A romantic breakup was often a trigger for all kinds of violent behavior.
“He had a girl he liked,” Miss Weston said with a slight smile.
“Did you ever meet her?”
“No, but once he was pulling cash out of his wallet, and a picture of a young girl fluttered out. I asked if she was his girlfriend, and he said yes. I tried to get a good look at the picture, but he was guarded. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I teased him about her. He got real pissed.”
“What did she look like?”
“Blond hair and real pretty. So pretty I started to wonder if what I’d seen was the picture that comes with a new wallet.”
“Was it?”
“No. It wasn’t magazine paper but real photo paper.”
“Did Elijah mention her name?”
Miss Weston pulled out a packet of rumpled cigarettes and a lighter from her pocket. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “She looked like she came from money.”
“What does money look like?” Joan asked.
“Not like me. Not like you.”
Joan grinned. “You’re right about that.”
“Pretty skin, white teeth, little pearl earrings.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. That college house burned, and all hell broke loose.”
“The fire and the trial must have been really hard.”
Miss Weston glanced back at the television. “I got to go. I taped The Wendy Williams Show, and I want to watch it.”
“I don’t watch television. Who is she?”
“A talk show host.” And before she could ask another question, Miss Weston had vanished inside her house.
Joan was mulling over what Miss Weston had said as she was driving back toward town when she spotted a small roadside diner. Miss Weston had insisted that Elijah had been framed. But it made sense that a mother would want to believe her son hadn’t committed such a heinous crime.
She parked at the café and walked up to a take-out window, ordered a burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. She took her food to a small battered picnic table and sat, angling her body toward the mountain range. It would have been warmer if she’d sat in her car, but for some reason, she craved the open air, even if it had a bite. She nibbled a hot fry, greasy and salty in just the right way. She unwrapped the paper to find a fat burger doused in ketchup, mustard, and extra relish, as requested.
She and Gideon used to stop here after their weekend hikes. They would sit at this very table, more worn and weather beaten now but pretty much the same. She had often protested, wondering why anyone would give up a perfectly warm fast-food restaurant to sit in the open and eat food off a paper plate. Memories pressed forward.
Gideon unwrapped his burger and grinned at the sight of the double patties. “Stop being a baby.”
“But I like real restaurants.”
“This is real.” He took a huge bite, chewed for several moments. “This is Montana.”
“I know.” She glanced around the open sky. “It’s everywhere.”
“You always complain about long hikes, the snow, and the cold. Why did you come to Montana?”
“The scholarship money,” she said. “I didn’t think I would actually have to experience the great outdoors to get an education.”
Gideon chuckled and scooted closer to her until his shoulder brushed hers. He smelled of fresh air, pine, and a scent that was all his own. Joan almost never felt safe, but in his arms, she did. He was a big guy, strong, and he had a kind of code. He stuck by his responsibilities. Took care of his own. And he was not the type to leave a girl.
And all that had not stopped her from leaving him.
Now, as a cold wind blew up the mountainside and slid under the loose folds of her large cable-knit sweater, she placed her untouched burger down and pushed her fries away. She realized she had not felt safe in a very long time.
She took a pull on the milkshake, tasting the real chocolate syrup they used here. Nothing powdered, nothing canned. Real ice cream and chocolate, with a splash of whole milk.
Joan’s phone rang. She rubbed her cold, damp fingers over her jeans. She did not recognize the number, but it had a Montana area code. “Joan Mason.”
“It’s Gideon. Those files you requested about the College Fire have come back from storage.”
“That was fast.”
“We’re not quite as big an operation as you have back east. Fewer layers to cut through.”
“Can I come now?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“See you in twenty.”
Joan hung up, gathered her uneaten food, and tossed it all in the trash can. A part of her did not want to relive the College Fire. But she had the growing sense that if she did not, there would be more fires and more deaths.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
12:30 p.m.
Gideon set the three worn and dusty file boxes on the small round conference table in the police station. The boxes were packed with forensic data, witness statements, crime scene photos, and police reports. As he stared at the collection of boxes, he thought how paltry it was, considering the level of destruction the College Fire had created. In his mind, the files should have filled this room.
His phone rang, and he gratefully turned from the boxes and answered it. “Detective Bailey.”