In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  “Early days yet, Molly, early days. I don’t see Mrs. M. bludgeoning her husband with sufficient force to kill him. Arsenic in the coffee maybe, but nothing that would make a mess.”

  “You could have eaten off the floor in her kitchen,” Smith said. “Provided you wanted to.”

  “Perhaps someone will come in to confess. That would be nice. If not, we’ll start looking for a motive tomorrow.”

  “Suspects,” she said. “That’ll be about half of town.”

  Winters got out of the car and they walked through the front doors into the police station.

  □□□

  Smith completed her shift report, signed off duty, said good bye to Ingrid, the night dispatcher, and let herself out the back door. All evening she’d kept her excitement dampened down. Now that she was on her own, she punched one fist in the air and pulled her arm back. “Yes!” She was assisting a detective sergeant in a murder investigation. She was on her way. She’d make detective in no time.

  It took a moment for her to realize that she was not, in the literal sense, on her way anywhere. The bike rack at the back of the police station was empty. Her chain lock lay on the ground. Was this a practical joke? Had Evans hidden her bike in pique over her being chosen to work with Winters rather than him? She wouldn’t put it past him. Evans had a nasty streak.

  But he would not have taken her bike—he might not like her, but he wouldn’t dare being accused of stealing. Her bike, her twenty-one speed mountain bike, had been stolen. From the back of the police station.

  She went back inside.

  “Still here, Molly?” Winters came out of the sergeants’ office as Smith was wondering how she should go about placing a complaint of her stolen property. Should she write up the report herself, or phone it in tomorrow? Or forget about it? The chances of the bike being recovered were about nil.

  “You offered me a ride, John?”

  “Too late to bike? Mountain roads can be treacherous after dark.”

  “Just tired.”

  “Offer’s still good. The cab’ll be here in a couple of minutes. Spoke too soon. It’s here now, that was quick. Advantage of living in a small town, eh?”

  □□□

  “Moonlight, is that you? You’re early, and was that a car I heard? Is something the matter?”

  “I’m early, Mom, because I’ve been given a special assignment. This is so great, I can’t wait to tell you about it. And that was a car because of something that isn’t so great.”

  Her mother struggled to push herself out her favorite reading chair, the one with springs so worn that it was an effort standing up. A book lay open on the table beside her, and her reading glasses were pushed down her nose. Sylvester opened one eye, checked Smith out, and went back to sleep. The house was dark, except for a single lamp over the chair.

  At not much over five feet Lucky Smith was considerably shorter than her daughter. Her face was round and soft, with a maze of lines radiating out from the corners of her eyes and mouth; her red hair was heavily streaked with grey and, as always, stuffed into a haphazard bunch at the back of her head. “Sounds like one of those good news, bad news jokes. I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell me the bad news first. So it doesn’t linger in my mind.”

  “Why are you still up, Mom? Everything okay?”

  “Of course. I’m enjoying this book so much, I wanted to finish it.” Lucky went into the kitchen.

  Smith picked up the book her mother’d placed on the side table. The corner of page ten was turned down. The novel was the approximate thickness of the phone book. Lucky would be reading into next month if she wanted to get finished in one sitting. Something was wrong between her parents: she’d suspected it for some time. The ground was shifting under Molly Smith’s feet, fault lines in the earth’s crust preparing to move, and she didn’t like the sensation. She followed her mother into the kitchen. Sylvester padded along behind.

  Their kitchen was a room well lived in. Light catchers dangled in the window, reflecting nothing of the darkness beyond. Almost every square on the calendar over the phone (a fund raiser for the seniors center—a montage of naked elderly women, tastefully posed) was full of scribbles. Piles of letters, newspaper clippings, and magazines had been pushed to the back of the big wooden table, scarred with memories of family dinners and political protests. Photos of her brother Sam’s children, fastened in place by magnets, covered the fridge, and colorful school art was pinned to a cork board set up for that purpose. A shelf, full of cookbooks both well-thumbed and never opened, hung from a loose screw. The screw had been loose as long as Smith could remember. A wicker basket on the counter overflowed with red tomatoes, cherry and beefsteak, interspersed with green peas and yellow beans picked from the garden that afternoon. Several loose sheets of paper had fallen from the pile of petitions, flyers, address books, and notes tumbling all over themselves on the phone table. Lucky picked some of them up.

  Smith undid her gunbelt and tossed it on the table. The weapon lay amongst the evidence of a comfortable country mountain home like dog poo on the lawns of Buchart Gardens. Lucky turned her face away in silent disgust. There were some things mother and daughter had learned not to discuss.

  “Hungry? There’s still some curry.”

  Smith’s stomach rolled over, and an image of Reginald Montgomery’s head rose, unbidden, in her mind. “No. I mean, no thanks, Mom. I’m not hungry.”

  The kettle switched itself off and Lucky busied herself with cups, tea bags, milk and sugar. “Tell me why you got a ride home, dear.”

  “My bike was stolen.”

  Lucky stopped, bag of milk in hand. “You park it behind the police station, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “No, I guess not. You paid a lot for that bike. But it does have its funny side—I’m amazed at the gall of someone who’d steal a police officer’s bike from the grounds of the police station itself.”

  “This isn’t some Robin Hood, Mom. Stealing from the fascist police to give to the elderly widow who needs a bike to buy food for her starving children.”

  “I’m sorry if I made light of it, Moonlight. I’ll get home in time to give you a lift to work tomorrow afternoon.”

  Smith unlaced her boots and pulled them off with a satisfied sigh. The heat had been intense today, and some of it still lingered in the night air. Those boots wrapped her feet in their own private sauna. The heavy dark pants weren’t much better, particularly not with all the equipment she wore around her waist. She accepted a cup of tea from her mother. A wrinkled face with prominent nose and bulging blue eyes protruded from the side of the mug—it had been homemade by a family friend and bought at a sale to raise money for the women’s shelter. Sylvester nuzzled at her leg, looking for a scratch.

  She obliged. “That brings me to the good news. I’ve been given a special assignment. Detective Lopez is going on vacation, and they need someone to help Sergeant Winters with a murder investigation because he’s only been in town a couple of months. This is my big chance, Mom. I’ll show them what I can do.”

  “That sounds nice, dear,” Lucky said, placing a plate of raisin and oatmeal cookies on the table before sitting down with her own tea. “But it doesn’t seem right that you’re so pleased at the murder of some poor soul.”

  “Let me tell you who our victim is. You have to promise that you absolutely will not say a word to anyone, even Dad, until you hear about it on the news.”

  “I’m unlikely to tell your father much of anything. But I promise.”

  “And you can’t let anyone know that I told you. Ever.”

  “I don’t gossip, dear.”

  “You will when you hear this. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Reginald Montgomery.”

  Lucky Smith’s eyes widened, and the slightest of smiles touched the corners her mouth. Then she got herself under control and settled he
r features into a somber frown. “Is that so? Most unfortunate.”

  “For him, but not for the peace garden committee, I’ll bet.”

  “Will this be in tomorrow’s news?”

  “The press listens into the police radio and so Meredith Morgenstern showed up, PDQ. Photographer in tow.”

  “Perhaps I’ll buy a paper on my way into the store. I was supposed to be going to a meeting of the arts council tomorrow evening, but after reading the paper I might call an emergency planning session for the garden committee.”

  “You didn’t hear this from me.”

  Lucky looked at her daughter. “It’s no secret that I don’t approve of your career choice.”

  “No kidding.”

  “But I would never do anything to harm it.”

  Smith got to her feet and kissed the top of her mother’s head. “I’m going to bed. I have a busy day tomorrow.” She grabbed three cookies and her gunbelt.

  “Good night, Moonlight.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  Moonlight was the name on Constable Molly Smith’s birth certificate. Her parents had been hippies, full of ideas about changing the world and not buying into the establishment. Come to think of it, her mother was still out to change the world, although her father, not so much anymore.

  “Have you called Christa?” Lucky called.

  Smith stuck her head back into the kitchen. “No, why?”

  “She called earlier, said she’d left a message on your cell phone but you hadn’t returned it. She sounded distressed, but wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

  Smith pulled the cell phone out of her pocket as she ran up the stairs. She’d switched it off at the Montgomerys’ and forgotten to check it. She held the phone to her ear with one hand and listened to Christa’s message as she pulled her uniform shirt out of her pants with the other.

  Chapter Six

  “This had better be good,” Rich Ashcroft snarled into his bedside phone.

  “Oh, I think you’ll like it,” Irene said. “Are you listening?”

  “Of course I’m listening.” Rich struggled to a sitting position. The woman beside him groaned and rolled over. Jenny, Joanie…something like that. A generic name for a generic dyed-blonde. “Go ahead.”

  “You were interested in that stuff about the memorial to the draft dodgers up in British Columbia, right?”

  “Spit it out, Irene.”

  “Word just came in of a murder in Trafalgar. At first I didn’t pay it any attention. Killing in small-town Canada, who the hell cares? But I decided to read the whole piece. The dead guy was big in trying to derail the monument.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I say. The report’s covered in all sorts of disclaimers, but it’s a murder all right.”

  Jenny, Joanie? reached out a thin pale arm and ran her long red nails across his chest. He slapped it away. Jeannie, that was her name.

  “The mayor died couple weeks ago. He was the one pushing hard for the memorial. I did a quick bit of catching up before calling you and this guy, I’ve got his name right here, Reginald Montgomery, stepped in and tried to stop it. Bad for international relations he said.”

  “By which he meant bad for business. How’d the mayor die?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “No need to dig into his death. But the other guy? Sounds promising. Pitch it to the bosses, and book me a flight to Trafalgar first thing tomorrow. Get on the phone to the reporter who put out the story. Small town, he’s gotta be impressed to have a call from CNC. Sound charming, will you?”

  Rich’s assistant, Irene, was over sixty years old; she’d had a two-pack-a-day habit since she was sixteen. Her voice was so low and sexy that it, plus the mention of Cable News Corporation, would have any hick town reporter coming in his jeans. Irene laughed. “Aren’t I always charming? However, the name on the byline is Meredith. Sounds more like your style.”

  “Call me with that flight info. I’ll be up.” Rich switched the phone off, and lay back into the pillows. He grabbed Jeannie’s arm. “Finish what you were doing,” he said.

  □□□

  John Winters wasn’t going to wait until morning to call the Chief Constable.

  The taxi had dropped him at his car, still at the resort where he and Eliza had dinner, and he’d driven himself home. They lived outside of town, on a small road clinging to the side of the mountain. The forest grew thicker and the handful of houses dotting the road grew thinner as he drove. His house was the last before the wilderness closed in. A right bugger to get out of in winter, but Eliza loved the solitude and the view. The front porch and wide living room windows looked over the forest to the expanse of the Upper Kootenay River and the mountains beyond, cumulating in a glimpse of Koola, the glacier that loomed over Trafalgar.

  Eliza was curled up in the king-size bed under a light summer sheet. The strap of her ivory satin nightgown had slipped down her arm. She smelled of Chanel No. 5. He kissed her on the cheek. She murmured sweet nothings and rolled over, and he went into the kitchen for something to eat and to make the call.

  Eliza. It was a wonder she’d stayed with him all these years. In her late 40s, she was still beautiful enough to have her pick of men, yet she stuck with him. Their Vancouver friends had assumed that the move from the city to slow-paced, quiet Trafalgar was to make Eliza happy; more time for her husband to be home, a nice house in the mountains. In reality Eliza had loved their condo on False Creek, loved city life. But he couldn’t take it any more. Big-city politics, the sordid Downtown Eastside, filled with hopeless druggies, empty-eyed hookers, and wide-eyed child runaways. Sad lives of sad people for which no one gave a damn. It hadn’t been the death of yet another drug-addled teenaged whore or child runaway that had forced him to make up his mind, rather the mess he’d made of the investigation of the murder of a twelve-year-old from a wealthy, highly connected family.

  Eliza no longer modeled for Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar, but she still made good money, enough to buy a small apartment in Vancouver where she could stay overnight if she had a shoot in the city. Not only had Eliza been a top model in her day, she was also blessed with the gift of acute financial know-how. Winters could have retired outright, had he wanted. He’d considered it, seriously. But he was a cop. And as hard as the job got sometimes, he wanted to be nothing but a cop.

  They’d had packaged-microwaveable roast beef last night. Winters cut thick slices off the leftovers and slapped them between pieces of whole wheat bread. He didn’t spare the mustard. After taking a couple of bites, he punched in the Chief Constable’s number.

  “Sorry to wake you, Paul,” he said to the low grumble.

  “You find whoever got Montgomery, John?”

  “Not yet, I’m sorry to say. It’s something else.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Smith. I can’t work with her. I need someone with more experience. I’m sure she’s a competent beat cop, but for a detective, she’s just too green. Leaps to conclusions all over the place, offers her opinion where it isn’t wanted, speaks to civilians out of turn. She’ll be no good on an investigation until she learns a thing or two on the streets.”

  “She’s been no help at all?”

  “She does have some local knowledge which proved useful. But there must be more experienced constables who’ve been here for a while.”

  “Are you sure you’re not mistaking enthusiasm for incompetence? You must remember what it was like to be young and eager.”

  “I’m not that old.”

  “You’re as old as me, John. And in this job, that’s old. If you think Molly’s not up to it, I’ll put her back on the street. But it’s only been a few hours. And I don’t have anyone else who’s truly local. This could turn out to be a political incident. And I don’t mean political in terms of the Trafalgar town council. International attention’s been focused on the peace garden. Why these old lefties have to cling to the past, I don’t know. The sixties ended forty years ago, time they g
ot over it. Don’t get me wrong, I worked with Tom Maas for many years: he was a good man. I respected his commitment to this town, and I like to think he respected mine. But when he died, I’d hoped that would be the end of this stupid idea. And Montgomery looked like the man to lay the garden thing in its grave.”

  Winters dug in the fridge for the milk carton. He shook it—empty. Eliza’s skill in the kitchen had never been one of the pillars of their marriage. “I understand that, Paul. But what’s this to do with Smith?”

  “Molly’s mother is one of the leading forces behind the park. Everyone who has the slightest interest in seeing the Commemorative Peace Garden become a reality has passed through their house. Lucy Smith, a.k.a. Lucky, is also involved with a group opposed to the Grizzly Resort, Montgomery’s place. Lucky and her husband, Andy, own Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations, which happens to be located a couple of doors down from where Montgomery met his death.”

  With milk out of the picture, orange juice would have to do. Winters drank it straight from the carton. “You want Smith to spy on her parents?”

  “Certainly not. She’ll be able to take you straight to the unofficial center of local politics, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Winters eyed his half-finished sandwich. If he continued to insist that he didn’t want to work with Molly Smith, Paul Keller would replace her. But he was getting strong signals from the Chief Constable that he didn’t want that to happen. And despite Keller’s insistence that he wanted Smith involved because of her local knowledge, Winters wondered if he expected her to rat out her parents, if that became necessary. Smith was ambitious; was she that ambitious?

  “Okay, I’ll give it another couple of days. Maybe I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow, and all of this political shit won’t matter. The wife might be worth looking at—I can’t see her doing the deed herself, but she has some proclivities that might lead somewhere.”

  “That would be good, John. Close to home—a nice neat domestic incident.”

  Winters’ finger moved to disconnect the call; the tinny voice called him back. “Sorry, Paul, I missed that.”