Free Murder in Focus by Medora Sale Page A

about, and they’re always being harassed by government inspectors so how was she to know.’” He paused and Deschenes nodded. “And she sent him to the motel because she knew that was where they’d be having lunch. Apparently he got there just as the two crews were going in, and behaved as if he belonged to one of the crews. Anyway, they’re easygoing guys, and probably would have asked him to join them even if he’d walked in by himself. They said he seemed to be a great guy, quiet, bought a couple of rounds, and took Steve, uh, Bartholomew off their hands. The guys on his crew said they were grateful, because he was getting plastered.”
    â€œWas he?”
    Carpenter shook his head, worried-looking. “It doesn’t seem possible. I can’t imagine him getting drunk, not under the circumstances.”
    â€œAnd what do you make of the rest of it?”
    â€œThe description? Except for the height and weight, maybe, it could have been faked. Hair, scar, even eye colour.” Carpenter shrugged. “But we’ll keep an eye on the case. It’s going to leave me pretty shorthanded out there, though, if I divert anyone over to it,” he said, worried.
    â€œAdministration is giving us extra people,” said Deschenes. “In the meantime, do what you can.”
    The pub was, if anything, even darker than it had been the day before. Sanders rushed over to grab a table close to one of the dim wall lights and almost crashed into their waitress from yesterday and her full tray of drinks. She paused, recognized them, and grinned with excessive cheer. “Hey, guys. Welcome back,” she cried, as though they were her oldest and most valued customers. “You want the same? Two pints of Smith’s?”
    â€œSure,” said Sanders. Harriet was too busy stowing her equipment safely into the corner to concern herself with such questions.
    â€œWhat a phenomenal memory,” said Sanders, “Do you think she knows what everyone has, or are we particularly memorable?”
    â€œIt’s good for tips,” said Harriet, her head in her knapsack and her voice muffled. “And she has bloody little else to think about. You ever work as a waiter?”
    He waited until her back began to straighten, and shook his head. “I have one question about all this,” said Sanders when her head emerged up above table level once again.
    â€œAll right. What is it?” asked Harriet, smiling politely at the waitress as she swept their beer down in front of them with a flourish.
    â€œWho carries your equipment and guards the camera case when you haven’t managed to pick up a footloose police officer?”
    â€œAh,” Harriet said. “That’s a very sad story.” And she took a healthy mouthful of beer. “I had an assistant, wonderful girl, named Jane, good eye, tall, strong, very clever. Gesture hysterically and she knew exactly what you wanted. She was getting pretty good in the darkroom, too.” Harriet looked up mournfully, her dark hair hanging down over one green eye.
    â€œWhat happened to her?” asked Sanders.
    â€œShe fell in love with a painter, a bad painter, and went all broody on me. Then she discovered she was pregnant and moved to Montreal to be with the infant’s father. And thus was one of the world’s best photographic assistants destroyed.” She flipped the hair back out of her eye. “I sometimes even hope that she’ll become fed up with his horrible paintings and come back to me, infant and all.”
    â€œDid she live with you?” asked Sanders casually.
    Harriet raised an eyebrow at him and then shook her head. “No, that isn’t the reason why I yearn for her to come back. She’s more a work object than a love object as far as I’m concerned. Although, of course, one grows fond of a good assistant—the way you grow fond of a good camera.” She sighed.