by Vicki Delany
Lucky and Andy had opened a small camping goods store when their children were small, and, when the eco-tourism industry took off, expanded the size of the store and began running guided trips into the wilderness. In the early days they didn’t have much staff, so Andy led the trips himself. When she was in high school, Smith helped her dad on weeklong trips and led day or one-night tours herself. Now Andy ran the front of the store and organized the expeditions, staff led the trips, and Lucky did the books and managed the help. It had always been a good partnership. Smith feared that the business would suffer because of the strain in the relationship, thus adding more strain to her parents’ marriage.
She threw an additional spoon of coffee into the pot, to make it extra strong, fixed two pieces of dry toast for breakfast, and ate curled in the cushioned alcove at the wide bay window in the front of the house, waiting for Winters. Ducks swam in the river and birds pecked in the long grasses along the shoreline. The house Molly Smith had grown up in was tucked into a small bay off the river, with a deep sandy beach and a great view over the river to the mountains. Soft, round green and brown mountains crowned the town, but in the background, even in high summer, snow touched the sharp-toothed peak of Koola Glacier.
Many years ago Andy built a dock for Moonlight and Samwise to swim off. They’d owned a boat, for a while. Then the children grew up, headed off to university. The boat’s engine died, never to be replaced, and the dock had been allowed to decay until it wasn’t much more than a stack of broken logs.
It was time she moved out of her parents’ house, bought herself a car. She’d seen the look in Winters’ face when she confessed that she didn’t own a car. There were some things you simply had to have, if you were to be accepted as a functioning adult in most of North America.
An engine sounded, coming up from the road, the vehicle hidden by the sharp curves in the driveway and the jumble of forest surrounding the property. Smith swallowed the dregs of her coffee, snapped on her gun belt, and placed her hat on her head. She’d already forced her feet into the hated boots. She headed out the door. A black SUV was parked in their driveway, and Winters was getting out of the car.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning, Molly. Nice view you have here.”
“I like it.”
“You can drive.” He tossed her the keys and walked around the car to the passenger side.
Smith swallowed, and got in. She rested sweaty hands on the cool steering wheel. The slightest whisper of good perfume lingered in the soft leather of the seats. “Where to?” She put on her sunglasses and adjusted the mirrors.
“We’ll pick up the van from the station, and then pay a visit to the Grizzly Resort site. I want to speak to the staff there as soon as possible. If we have time, we can visit this Dr. Tyler. The autopsy’s scheduled for twelve o’clock. The Chief Constable’s taking Mrs. Montgomery to make the identification at ten. I don’t need to be there: it’s not as if a highly skilled detective is required to study the widow’s face for emotional clues. I hope that when I die my wife will shed a single tear, at least. Henry the dog was more upset at Montgomery’s death than his wife was. Do you know where the resort offices are, Molly?”
“Of course,” she said, waiting for an immaculately maintained ’60s-era pickup truck to pass before pulling onto the highway.
She headed south along the banks of the wide Upper Kootenay River. They crossed the river and drove through the town of Trafalgar, stopping at the police station to pick up an unmarked van. They they headed to Number 3 Highway, where she turned left, toward Nelson. The road hugged the main branch of the Kootenay River. Before long, she saw a prominent sign announcing Grizzly Resort, upon which a red circle with a slash through it had been spray-painted.
The van bucked down the washboard gravel road like a wild horse being ridden for the first time. The development offices were nothing more than a trailer in the center of an acre or so of trampled bushes and raw stumps. A giant billboard, featuring a sketch of the property layout on one half and an architect’s drawing of the proposed main building on the other loomed over the trailer.
A middle-aged woman was sitting behind a desk by the door. She looked up as Winters and Smith entered. Her eyes and nose were red, mascara ran down her cheeks like a river of coal, and she clutched a tattered tissue to her face. The morning’s Trafalgar Daily Gazette was spread out on her desk.
The woman turned her ruined face toward them. “I’m sorry, sir, but the office is closed today.” She caught sight of Smith behind Winters. “Hi, Moonlight. Didn’t see you there. How’s your mom and dad?”
Smith cringed at the casual familiarity. “Fine thanks, Bernice.”
“I’m Sergeant John Winters, Trafalgar City Police. Is Mr. Clemmins in?”
“I am.”
Smith and Winters turned. There were no tears on the man’s face, but his eyes were red, and dark lines dragged his face into sorrow’s strokes. He rubbed at his shaved scalp. “I assume you’re here about Reg. I simply can’t believe it.” He gestured toward the open door behind him. “Come in, please. I’ll talk to Mr. Yakamoto if he calls, Bernice, but no one else.”
Architects’ drawings and blueprints, fastened with stickpins, covered the walls of Clemmins’ office. His grey steel desk was piled high with papers. A single visitor’s chair, orange upholstery stained and ragged, took up most of the remaining space. Clemmins collapsed into his chair. Springs squeaked. He was in his late thirties, much younger than his partner. His hair was shaved down to the scalp, black bristles making a crescent pattern around the naked dome of his head. He was taller than Winters, but thinner. The tail of a snake curled around his bicep and the creature’s body disappeared into the sleeve of his white T-shirt. Rattles were drawn on the end of the tail. It was nothing but a drawing, but a chill ran down Smith’s back, and she turned her eyes away.
Without being asked, Winters took the visitor’s chair. Smith studied the drawings on the walls. They might as well have been written in Greek. A bunch of circles inside squares inside large squares, all of it inside a big circle. She dragged her attention back.
“…how we can go on,” Clemmins was saying.
“Can you give me an idea of what your business is, sir,” Winters said.
“This’ll be the Grizzly Resort one day. A top-of-the-line luxury resort. We’re planning a hotel and conference center, surrounded by fractional-ownership chalets.
“Fractional-ownership?”
“People buy a share in a vacation property rather than the property itself. The potential for fractional-ownership is incredible out here. The Kootenays are too far for people to travel from Vancouver or Calgary for a weekend, so it’s perfect for vacationing a week at time. Five groups of people—families, friends, complete strangers—purchase one-fifth of a chalet. That entitles them to spend one-fifth of the year here. The resort manages the time allocations, maintains the property, looks after communal areas such as the waterfront and the ski hills. Owners’ll be able to come up to the hotel to take advantage of heli-skiing, mountain trekking, horseback rides, a full-service spa. We’ll have luxury dining—Reg’s negotiating with one of Vancouver’s top chefs to headline the restaurant. For nights that people don’t want formal meals, the resort will have a more casual kitchen offering gourmet pizza, pasta dinners, sandwich take-out. Of course, every chalet will have its own kitchen, for those who prefer to cook.” In his excitement at describing the project, Clemmins had returned Montgomery to the present tense.
“I’ve heard there’s opposition to your plans,” Winters said.
“Ignorant fools. This resort is exactly what the Mid-Kootenays needs. Money, jobs, tourists. People in the cities are eager to experience nature in all her glory. And what we’re offering here is nature. It’s a win-win situation.”
Smith shifted from one foot to another. A box air conditioner sat in the single window, pumping out so much cold air that she was surprised Clemmins hadn’t suggested polar b
ear viewing as one of the resort’s attractions. The resort was going to be built smack-dab in Grizzly bear territory. Once the first fractional-ownership resident came face to face with the reality of nature, red in tooth and claw, nature would be shot, her cubs left to starve to death, and her carcass dragged off for study. Before long the only Grizzly at Grizzly Resort would be the cute little thing in the company’s logo.
Molly Smith considered wrapping Clemmins’ face in one of his perfectly executed architectural drawings and dragging him out into the woods where he could experience the true glory of nature. She pushed that picture aside as Clemmins confirmed that he and Montgomery had had dinner at Feuilles de Menthe with two representatives of a Japanese venture capital firm looking to invest in the B.C. tourism industry. They left the restaurant about eight-thirty, quarter to nine.
“Early to wrap up an evening of business entertaining,” Winters said. “You didn’t suggest going on to a bar after?”
“Once business talk was complete, Reg just wanted to go home to bed. That was his way, and last night was no different. Bit of a stick-in-the-mud, Reg was.”
Smith was itching to dive head first into the interrogation. But Winters sat in the visitor’s chair, shoulders relaxed, legs crossed, chatting amiably. “So when you left the restaurant….”
“Reg said good night to Mr. Yakamoto and Mr. Takauri, and we arranged to meet at noon tomorrow, today, here. Then he left us, heading for his car, I thought.” Clemmins lifted his hands to his face. “This is a disaster. It was hard enough to keep Yakamoto happy once he realized the extent of opposition to the resort. Foreign investors can be mighty shy of controversy. But now—he’ll be on the next plane back to Tokyo.”
“Someone has added their opinion to the sign out on the highway,” Winters said.
“That’s the second time this week our sign’s been defaced. Bernice has called for a replacement. I might as well place the sign company on stand-by.”
Winters changed track so abruptly Smith almost fell off. “After you saw Mr. Montgomery on his way, what did you do then, Mr. Clemmins?”
“Our guests wanted me to show them some entertainment. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you, Sergeant, what they were interested in.” He cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon me, Constable.”
Smith straightened up.
“Perhaps you could explain it to me, Mr. Clemmins,” Winters said.
Clemmins glanced at Smith, and then slid his eyes to one side. She wanted to slap him upside the head.
“They said they’d like to meet women.”
“And?” Winters said, as cool and casual as if he were waiting for the Bell operator to connect his call.
“And.” Clemmins snatched a tissue out of the box on his desk and wiped at the back of his neck. “I told them that I don’t know any unattached ladies I could contact on a moment’s notice. I don’t think there’s a red light district in Trafalgar. Is there?”
Smith said nothing—prostitution in Trafalgar was pretty much limited to casual arrangements. Women didn’t walk the streets, and the police had no knowledge of any houses of ill repute. Winters, however, wasn’t interested in continuing that line of conversation.
“You saw Mr. Montgomery to his car?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. Perhaps if I had he’d be sitting in his office this morning and you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. We parted outside the restaurant. Reg walked toward Elm Street, and we crossed Front. That was the last I saw of him.”
“Do you know where he was parked?”
“Sorry, no. We’d come separately. I’d been here, at the site, and he’d been in town, at a meeting at city hall, or so he told me.”
“So he told you. You have reason to doubt that?”
“Of course not. Reg is…was…an honest man. A great partner. We were…I mean I am…going to do great things here at Grizzly Resort.”
“What did you do for the rest of the evening?”
“I took our guests to the Mess Hall on Pine Street. They were in the mood for entertainment. They’d mentioned that they liked hard rock, and a good band was playing there. I made my excuses around midnight and headed home. Leaving them behind. God, they’re a couple of bores.”
“Where are they staying?”
“Hudson House Hotel.” Clemmins jumped as the phone on his desk rang. “That’s gotta be Mr. Yakamoto. What am I going to tell him?” He buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”
“The truth would be a good place to start.” Winters stood up. “You might also tell him that we’ll be around to talk to him in the course of our investigation.”
Clemmins looked up. His face was even more ravaged than when the police had arrived.
“If you need to leave the Kootenay region for any reason, let the station in Trafalgar know.” Winters placed his card on a pile of blueprints. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
In the outer office, Bernice was clutching the phone in one hand and sopping up tears with the other. “It’s Mr. Yakamoto,” she said. “Is Frank going to pick up? What am I going to say if he doesn’t?”
“I suggest,” Winters said, “you tell him that the office is closed for the day. And then tell your boss you’re going home.”
The two officers crossed the dusty parking lot to their car. Yesterday’s rain was just a memory, and the heat continued to build.
“What do you think, Molly?” Winters asked, fastening his seat belt.
She twisted the key in the ignition. Heat burned in her chest. “You want to know what I think? I think this resort will be the death of this community. Not to mention the environment. They might as well buy a vacation home in downtown Toronto. That’ll get them as close to nature as they’ll get at Grizzly Resort. They want Disney World in B.C. and they can’t see the difference.”
“I meant,” Winters said, “what do you think about Mr. Clemmins as a suspect?”
Smith blew out a lungful of air. That outburst had been a mistake. She could almost see him writing “over-emotional” on her evaluation. “Sorry. I think he’s genuinely distressed at the death of his business partner. Not because he particularly cares on any personal level, but because this’ll set the cat among the pigeons, so to speak. Mr. Clemmins might do a fine job at pimping for prospective investors, but as for building a resort? Maybe not so good.”
“For what it’s worth, I agree with you. But if you want to be an effective officer, and I’ll go out on a limb and assume that you do, Constable Smith, you’d better learn, fast, to keep your personal opinions under control. I could hear you huffing and puffing behind me like a locomotive running out of coal when Clemmins talked about how much good his resort would do for the area.”
Smith concentrated on the track ahead of her. She stopped where the construction road met the highway, and turned the air conditioning up a notch.
“Where to next?”
“We have enough time to meet with Mrs. Montgomery’s lover before the autopsy, but we can’t be late. Dr. Lee gets nasty when she’s left waiting. You know where we can find Tyler?”
“Sure. He’s my dentist.” Traffic was light, and Smith pulled onto the highway.
Chapter Eight
As Rich Ashcroft expected, Meredith Morgenstern was waiting at the small airport outside the town of Castlegar when he arrived. As he’d also expected, she fell all over herself to welcome the reporter from Cable News Corporation.
But he hadn’t expected that she’d be so hot.
“Ms. Morgenstern, a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a wide smile and outstretched hand.
“And it is such a pleasure to meet you,” she said, as if she were greeting Brad Pitt. “This is such an honor. I can’t wait to tell my mom that you’re here. She never misses Fifth Column.”
Rich didn’t care too much for the mention of Mom, but he let the comment pass. “Perhaps I’ll have a chance to meet your mother after I’ve finished with the story.”
“That
would be great, Mr. Ashcroft.”
“Call me Rich, please.”
She giggled, and tossed her mane of black hair, like a filly let out to pasture. “I’m Meredith. Do you have to pick up your bags or anything?”
He gestured to the wheeled suitcase at his side. “I never check luggage if I can help it. It causes no end of bother if things get lost. And in our business, time is of the essence.”
She preened, visibly pleased at his use of the word “our.” As intended.
Even better than hot, she was young, mid-twenties. This hick town newspaper was probably her first real job.
Young, impressionable, inexperienced. And beautiful. Perfect.
The airport was so small that they only had to walk a few yards to the waiting car. It was an SUV with Trafalgar Daily Gazette splashed along the side.
“I thought you’d bring a cameraman,” Meredith said, as Rich tossed his bag into the back.
I bet you did. “He’s following. I wanted to get here without any delay.”
They got into the vehicle and she pulled into the non-existent traffic.
Rich was surprised at how warm it was—he hadn’t known it got so hot this far north. “Fill me in, Meredith.”
“I don’t know much more than I did last night,” she said. “It’s all in my story that was on the front page of the Daily Gazette this morning. Did you read it?”
Of course he hadn’t read it. Irene told him what he needed to know. “Great piece,” he said. “Powerful writing.”
Color touched her cheeks. “I appreciate hearing that from someone of your stature, Rich. But, well, I’m wondering why an important outfit like CNC would be interested in the murder of some middle-aged guy here in B.C.”
“It’s like the JonBenet Ramsey business. Some stories simply need to be told. You must have found that, Meredith.”