by Vicki Delany
But tonight she’d told him straight out not to bother her again, and buried the phone where she wouldn’t have to listen to it ring. Would he get the message at last?
She carried a cup of tea into the living room-dining room-study of her apartment and sat down at the computer table. Her essay on the Romantic Poets (20% of the final mark!) was due next week and she’d barely started it. She looked out the window. The lights of town twinkled in the valley and crawled up the lower slopes, getting thinner and thinner until the mountains were nothing but dark shapes against the deep purple sky. Koola glacier was wrapped in darkness.
She sipped at the tea and reviewed her notes. She’d always loved Wordsworth the best. Could his name, perfect for a poet, have contributed to his art? That might be an idea to pursue if she decided to go for her master’s in English Lit. She was reading An Evening’s Walk, Addressed to a Young Lady, settling into the mood and the love of the words, when the loud knocking at the front door yanked her back to her cramped apartment. She occupied the top floor of a house so decrepit it was a wonder that one board still supported another, and her downstairs neighbors could be nasty if she made the slightest noise.
Abandoning Wordsworth, Christa ran down the narrow staircase. She threw open the door.
Charlie stood there. He was well over six feet tall, thickly muscled from hours spent at the gym, with a head as round and bald as a bowling ball. His running shoes filled the mat at her door.
“Gosh, Chrissie, your phone isn’t working. It rings and rings but you don’t pick up. Suppose you had to call 911 or something. I came over right away.”
“Please, please. Leave me alone, Charlie. Just. Go. Away.” She slammed the door shut. She leaned her back against it and wept as his fists pounded on the thin wood. “Chrissie. Let me help. I can fix your phone.”
“You don’t shut your friend the hell up, I’m reporting this to Mr. Czarnecki,” the downstairs neighbor screamed through the wall that separated their living room from Chrissie’s staircase. “He’ll have you out of here on your skinny ass if I have anything to say about it. My kids are tryin’ to get to fuckin’ sleep.” A dull thud as a shoe hit the wall.
“Chrissie? I can’t get the door open. You’ve locked me out by mistake.”
She ran up the stairs, blinded by tears.
□□□
Everyone called her Lucky, but at this moment Lucy Smith didn’t feel lucky in the slightest. She was nothing but disgusted. Disgusted at the pile of petitions on her kitchen table. Disgusted at her husband who appeared to have gone over to the dark side—such a cliché that, but highly appropriate. Disgusted at the people filling her house who were great at rhetoric, but not so good at getting down to solid, productive work.
“This cranberry loaf’s delicious, Jane. Can I have the recipe?” Norma McGrath was digging out a pen.
“It’s so easy, you won’t believe it,” Jane Reynolds replied. “Two cups of flour….”
“Please, can we get back to business,” Lucky said.
“We have to forget about the Grizzly development and concentrate on the garden,” Nick Boswell mumbled around a mouthful of cranberry loaf.
“That Rob Montgomery has to be stopped,” Norma said. “His resort will kill the bears.”
“Reg. Reginald Montgomery.” Lucky restrained a heavy sigh. “But it is a free country, at least for now, and we can’t put out a contract on him, can we? So let’s concentrate on where we can be most effective. And that’s the Commemorative Peace Garden. Once we’re sure its future is secure we can turn our attention to the resort development.” Sylvester, the big, goofy, good-natured golden retriever lying at her feet, yawned. Sylvester was used to groups of people gathering, and arguing, in the Smith kitchen.
“I agree with Lucky,” Michael Rockwell said. “If we fly all over the map we don’t make an impression on anything. And so we achieve nothing.” He smiled at her and Lucky felt something move in her chest.
“The garden has to come to pass.” Barry Stevens choked on the words. Lucky turned away from Michael’s friendly smile and looked at Barry. Lines of pain, always there in one degree or another, dragged at his face. His left hand was white against the arm of his chair. His right sleeve hung empty at his side. His eyes, pale, pale blue, filled with water. “It has to. Where’s Andy, anyway? I’d expect that Andy, of all people, would be part of this.”
“Problems at the store,” Lucky said, studying the pattern of the wood in her kitchen table. “He sends his apologies.”
“Apology noted,” Barry said. “We can start with a letter insisting that the town council stick to its original decision and proceed with the construction of the Commemorative Peace Garden. To use the estate’s bequest to fund the garden, and that the garden be specifically dedicated to Vietnam War resisters.”
“Now that the fate of the garden’s in doubt, trouble’s brewing,” Jane said. “Fox News ran a piece on it. I’ve been told it was nasty.”
“Fox News!” Barry’s mouth twisted to one side and for a moment Lucky thought he was going to spit on her ceramic floor. “Let the chickenhawks come.”
Chapter Three
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go that way,” Molly Smith said to the staggering drunk.
“Whada ya mean,” he mumbled. “I’ll go where I wanna go, pig bitch.”
She rested her hand loosely on her nightstick. This fellow could barely stand up, much less attack her.
“Police investigation. Please go around, sir.”
“What if I say I don wanna go round?”
“Then I’ll have to arrest you.”
“You and whose army?”
This was ridiculous. She’d been told to stand beside the yellow police tape that had been strung across the entrance to the alley, and stop anyone who might be inclined to ignore it. Detective Lopez had arrived a few minutes ago and was making an initial inspection of the area while waiting for Sergeant Winters and the RCMP forensic crew to arrive. The Chief Constable had rejoined his family at dinner, after posting Smith at one end of the alley, and the second duty constable, Solway, at the other. Smith was hoping to be able to watch what Lopez was doing, but she was stuck arguing with a drunk. Who’d probably pass her on the street when she was out of uniform and give her a nice smile, forgetting that she was a “pig bitch.” Trafalgar boasted a population of less than 10,000 people. Smith had lived here all her life, except for a few years at the University of Victoria. It was hard, sometimes, to be a cop in a town where a substantial number of the residents had seen you performing as Number Two Wise Man in the Grade Three Christmas pageant.
“Please, sir,” she said, “go away.”
He peered at her through unfocused eyes. He was young, not much older than she, thin to the point of emaciation, with a scraggly beard and hair that hadn’t seen scissors or shampoo in a long time. Something green was trapped in the depths of his beard. He grinned, showing yellow teeth and exhaling breath so rancid that Smith blinked. “How ’bout we go to my place and have ourselves a party? I’ll get a six-pack.”
She almost laughed. “I don’t think so, sir. You should go home.”
A light flashed.
“Meredith Morgenstern, Trafalgar Daily Gazette. What seems to be happening here, Constable?”
The drunk slipped away. His hair caught the light from a street lamp and he disappeared.
“Police investigation, Ms. Morgenstern,” Smith said.
“I can see that, Molly.”
The newspaper photographer took another picture.
“Come on, you can tell me what’s going on. For old times’ sake, eh?” Meredith tossed a smile so fake it would have elicited boos at a children’s play. She couldn’t act, but she was beautiful. She was tall, thin and full-breasted at the same time. Her hair tumbled down her back in a river the color of midnight. Her black eyes sparkled in the light from the street lamps. Meredith had been in Smith’s class all through school, when her breasts were the size of rais
ins. Her current lush figure had to be the handiwork of a good doctor. For old times’ sake, Smith would cheerfully stuff Meredith’s head into the garbage bags behind the convenience store.
“Sorry, Ms. Morgenstern, I can’t tell you anything.”
“I guess not. Being just a lowly constable. I’ll ask that man over there. Come on, Ed.”
“This alley is restricted, ma’am,” Smith said. She tried to keep her voice level, as she bristled at the sneer in the way Meredith said “lowly constable.” What did Meredith think she had to brag about: a second string reporter on the Trafalgar Daily Gazette, where the biggest story of the past month was an out-of-control truck careening down the side of the mountain.
“What are you going to do if I go there anyway? Arrest me?”
“Yes.”
For the briefest moment Meredith’s composure cracked, and Smith relished the thought of snapping handcuffs on her old enemy’s thin wrists.
Detective Lopez strolled up. Lopez always strolled; so calm and relaxed, at first Smith hadn’t realized that a tough police officer lay under the casual Latin demeanor. She’d seen his hard side when several participants at a weekend-long outdoor rock concert attacked a local girl.
“We’ve nothing to tell the press at this time. I suggest you go home and wait for an official release.”
“But…” Meredith said.
“If not home, then stand on the other side of the street.”
Meredith and her photographer complied. Lopez shrugged one shoulder at Smith.
A white SUV pulled up. A blue stripe ran down the side; the city crest and the words Trafalgar City Police were painted on the door. Constable Dave Evans drove. Sergeant Winters got out, and Evans remained in the vehicle.
Winters was dressed in a nice business suit, a cut up from the casual clothes he preferred. He nodded to Smith, as if she were the doorman at a fancy hotel, and joined Lopez. They walked toward the black shape that had once been Reginald Montgomery, talking in low voices.
A laughing group of young people came down the Elm Street hill, heading toward Front Street. The women wore long colorful skirts and loose blouses, and the men’s hair was either shaved off or gathered into a mass of dreadlocks. They eyed Smith and the police vehicle, and crossed to the other side of the street. One of the boys dropped his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under his heel. He scooped the butt up and stuffed it in his pocket. The scent of marijuana lingered in his wake. Smith did nothing: this was Trafalgar, where the police pretended not to notice minor drug infractions.
Lopez walked up to her. “Sergeant wants to talk to you, Smith. I’ll have Evans take your post.”
Winters stood over the body. Just observing. He looked up as Smith approached. The last rays of the summer sun were gone; there were no streetlights in the alley and the light from the restaurant kitchen was poor. His face was full of shadows, his eyes unreadable pools. His black and white hair was cut very short; thin on top but not all gone. He had a well trimmed silver mustache—on him it looked good, rather than outdated. He was tall and lean, with the slightest hint of a middle-aged pot.
“Sir,” Smith said, more nervous than she’d been in the presence of the Chief Constable. She’d been working for the Trafalgar City Police for six months. She hadn’t said a word to the Detective Sergeant since she’d been introduced to everyone her first day on the job.
Sergeant Winters and Detective Lopez were the entirety of the General Investigation Section. Lopez was one-of-the-boys-and-girls, friends with everyone, loved practical jokes and town gossip. Smith had been to his house for a barbeque earlier in the summer. But Winters kept himself apart. He didn’t socialize, didn’t engage in idle office chatter. He’d been a homicide detective in Vancouver, played a prominent role in the hunt for the serial killer who’d been snatching runaway boys from the city’s notorious Downtown Eastside for years. Marcus Sanders, a church youth-group leader, had been charged with the crimes, and forensics spent months digging up every inch of his property. Winters quit the Vancouver force shortly after Sanders’ arrest and moved to Trafalgar. No one knew why, but speculation ran rampant. Burned-out, some said; disgusted at the long-time official indifference to the fate of the boys, others whispered. Something else, a few said, unrelated to Sanders. Perhaps to do with the Blakeley murder: nasty business that, they all agreed.
Winters never socialized with members of the department. The office administrator, Barb Kowalski, ever cheerful and inquisitive, had made it her mission to find out what she could about his private life. Wife used to be a supermodel, she reported, now does magazine ads for laundry detergent and floor polish. No kids. Fantastic home outside of town, deep in the woods on the side of the mountain.
Winters looked at Smith. “Detective Lopez’s daughter is getting married on Saturday,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” Everyone knew that. Lopez had talked about nothing else all month, and Barb had organized a collection to buy a gift for the happy couple.
“The wedding’s in Toronto. He’s leaving tonight. Last plane out of Castlegar.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bad timing, but it can’t be helped. I’ll have to conduct this investigation on my own.”
“Yes, sir.” Smith had no idea why he was telling her this.
Silence stretched through the alley. Restaurant staff threw the odd curious glance out the window—Smith had gone around to tell them, and the solitary worker at the convenience store, not to come out back until further notice—but otherwise the restaurant carried on business as normal.
Winters turned to her. He was quite good looking, for an older guy. “So you’ll have to help me.”
“Me?” Smith tried to swallow the squeak of excitement that escaped from her mouth.
“Chief tells me you’re local.”
“Born and bred. My parents live just outside of town. About ten klicks, kilometers, away. Sir.”
“There may be some…shall we say sensitive…political aspects to this situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And as I need a partner, with Lopez on leave, and having only been in town for a short while, the Chief thinks you’ll be the best one to take me around.”
“Yes, sir.” Smith was thrilled to bits. The first murder in town all year and she would be assisting the investigating officer. Her voice had regained some of its strength, so she dared to say something more. “Murder’s a nasty business, sir.”
“No one’s said anything about murder, Constable. Don’t rush to conclusions. Accidents happen. And this isn’t the army. Stop calling me sir.”
□□□
John Winters was not pleased at being given this fresh-faced young constable to assist him. Too eager by half, almost panting at the excitement of being involved in a probable-murder investigation, she reminded him of a sled dog at the beginning of the Iditarod. But as the Trafalgar City Police consisted of a grand total of twenty sworn officers, he didn’t have much choice. And as the Chief Constable had said, over the phone as Winters had left Eliza and their anniversary dinner behind, Smith was about as local as they came. And local politics, the CC said, might have a major role to play in this investigation.
“Tell me, Molly. What do you make of this?”
She took a deep breath, her chest puffing under the Kevlar vest, trying to make herself look important, wise and knowledgeable. He remembered himself as young recruit to the Vancouver P.D. a long, long time ago. He resisted giving the constable a sympathetic smile. This was a hard job, getting harder all the time. No room for sympathy: if you couldn’t cut it, get the hell out of the way.
“I know who he is, sir. Uh, Mr. Winters.”
“John will do, Molly.”
“Right, sir. I mean John. Reginald Montgomery, owner of the Grizzly Resort. The proposed resort. It hasn’t been started yet. He hasn’t been in town long—couple of months maybe. Trying to get his development underway. Lots of people don’t care for him, or his plans.”
&nb
sp; Her hair was a pale blond, tied into a neat French braid that fell to the middle of her back. The color was probably natural, as her brows and lashes were the same shade. Her eyes were large, the color of the Kootenay River on a sunny day. She was only a few inches shorter than Winters, and her body looked fit and trim beneath the bulk of her uniform. She was pretty, too pretty to make an effective officer. Her voice was soft—it would have a problem carrying authority—and had the unfortunately tendency to crack under stress.
Tomorrow he’d ask for a more suitable officer, local or not, to help on this investigation.
“What do you make, Molly, of Mr. Montgomery’s present situation?” Winters did his best work with a sounding board. The board’s opinion didn’t matter, but he needed to hear his questions spoken out loud—only when they bounced back at him could he start to formulate answers.
“He didn’t kill himself. If he’d jumped out of that window above, he wouldn’t have closed the window behind him, would he? And the drop’s too short to be sure of a successful conclusion.”
“Go on.”
“He wouldn’t have inflicted that degree of damage to his head had he slipped on a banana peel or something. Well, at least I don’t think so.”
She was doing okay until she threw in that disclaimer. Never apologize for your conclusions.
“Therefore…?”
“Therefore, someone murdered him. There’s enough blood to indicate that he died on the spot. Someone bashed his head in right here.”
“He couldn’t have fallen from the roof?”
“The roof?”
Winters looked up. The night was clear, no clouds. Stars filled the black sky, looking like the diamonds in the necklace he’d bought for Eliza. The one he’d scarcely had time to slip around her neck before heading back to work. Maybe it was time to toss the job in. For her sake if not his.
“Oh,” Smith said. “The roof.”
□□□
How could she have been so stupid? The roof was high enough that a fall from it could result in considerable damage to someone’s head. She’d been so proud of herself for determining that Montgomery hadn’t jumped from the second story, she hadn’t even considered the roof. She wasn’t cut out for this job. She should chuck it; go back and finish her degree in social work. Her advisor had told her she could return any time. When you’ve recovered from this temporary insanity, he’d really been saying.