by Vicki Delany
Lucky’s daughter stared into her tea cup.
“You’re an officer of the law. A policewoman. Moonlight Smith can’t make Christa’s choices for her. But Constable Smith can do something about bringing that…person…to justice. Not only Christa, but Montgomery, and the people of this town need you. Are you going to be there for them?”
“I don’t know, Mom.” Moonlight lifted her head. Her eyes were blue pools in a face touched with sunburn. She was so fair, like her father, that she didn’t take the sun well. “The job. The responsibility. Sergeant Winters thinks I’m a schoolgirl. Christa needed me and I forgot her. Graham would have told me what was right.” She ground her knuckles into her eyes until fireworks exploded behind her lids.
“Well, Graham isn’t here,” Lucky said, sounding as firm as she could. “And you’re on your own, Moonlight. Molly. But think of this…if you’d been working as a clerk in your brother’s law firm, or helping out at the store, or teaching at the university, would you have found Christa today?”
“No, but….”
“Lucky, get in here!” Andy bellowed from the family room.
Mother and daughter looked at each other. Had his favorite baseball team scored?
“Now, Lucky!”
They ran.
“Not him again.”
Rich Ashcroft was interviewing Frank Clemmins. Lucky caught the tail end of the interview as Clemmins, trying to hide a tear at the corner of his eye, talked about his business partner, so cruelly cut down. He hoped, he said, with a deep sigh, to be able to continue the project that was Reg’s vision. He said something about families enjoying the wilderness. Then he was gone and Ashcroft pontificated for a few seconds. An ad for a luxury SUV came on. Somehow the advertisers had been able to associate their product with saving the environment.
“That wasn’t much,” Moonlight said. “Forget him. He’s had his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Sit down, both of you,” Andy snapped. “He isn’t finished. The whole first segment of the show, he said at the beginning, is about Trafalgar. And didn’t I see him this afternoon, in front of our store?”
The family sat in silence waiting for the program to resume. Lucky picked a copy of the Utne Reader off the coffee table and fanned her face. A hot flash was coming on.
A group of people wearing animal masks appeared on the screen, and for a hopeful moment she thought the program had gone to an early Halloween segment.
“That sounds like Robyn Goodhaugh.” Moonlight was sitting on the arm of her father’s chair. She touched his shoulder, and for a moment Lucky had a flush of hope that they could be a loving family again. Or was it just another hot flash? She fanned harder. Damned house—they should have gotten air conditioning years ago.
On TV, the wolf head said something about kill or be killed, and they broke for a commercial.
Lucky groaned. Robyn had joined the Commemorative Peace Garden committee and worked like a demon organizing petitions and letter-writing campaigns. At first Lucky thought they were fortunate to have her. But Robyn’s rhetoric quickly turned to threats of violence if she didn’t get her way, and Lucky and Barry decided that she had to go.
The parting had not been easy. Robyn was now quick to disparage the park committee at every opportunity.
“Didn’t you have that fool of a woman here, in our house, Lucky?” Andy said. “I’d have expected you to have better sense.”
“Stop bickering.” Moonlight threw herself onto the floor in front of the TV. If not for the dark blue uniform and the shoulder patches with the town crest and the words Since 1895; Trafalgar City Police, Moonlight might have been a kid, pleased to be allowed up late to watch a special program.
Ashcroft interviewed a young man next. He’d been born after his dad died, he told Rich, in Vietnam, only a month short of the end of the war. He spoke about growing up without a father, full of pride of the man he’d never known. The skin at the corner of his left eye twitched. And now this garden, he said, this monument to cowardice, made him wonder if his life had been a lie and he should be ashamed of his father’s sacrifice.
“Never,” Rich said, struggling to keep his voice under control. “Never.” He gripped the boy’s shoulder.
Another ad.
“He was in the store yesterday,” Andy said.
“Ashcroft? He’s everywhere, like the smell from clogged drains.”
“Not Ashcroft. The young guy, Harris.”
“Why?”
“I don’t remember him buying anything. Browsed around, not really looking at the merchandise. He doesn’t look much like the outdoors type, so I kept an eye on him.”
“Shush,” Lucky said, “they’re back.”
Meredith Morgenstern sauntered down Front Street as cars flashed in front of her and the summer crowds flowed around her like a river coming to a slow-moving branch. Mrs. Alexander from the United Church Women greeted her.
And Lucky knew that this was going to be bad. Very bad. She wanted to run from the room. But she was trapped in her chair as if she were wearing leg irons.
The camera focused on Meredith’s bouncing bosom in a thin T-shirt. Then it jerked and the screen was full of Lucy Casey, known for the past thirty-five years as Lucky Smith.
She scarcely recognized herself, screaming, swearing, looking like a child’s idea of a witch, missing only the pointed black hat and the broom.
Sylvester sensed her distress and nuzzled up against her leg, trying to offer comfort. He was ignored.
The program ended with a close-up of Meredith standing at Eagle Point Bluffs. She mumbled half a sentence about conflict in a peaceful community, before the camera cut to Rich Ashcroft.
Trafalgar was laid out behind him. White glacier, green and brown mountains, blue sky behind, blue river in front.
His closing commentary didn’t call for viewers to descend upon the town with pitchforks and torches. But it might as well have.
“We are so fucked,” Andy said. “This is all your fault, Lucky.”
“Mine! I’ve heard enough today about fault and blame.”
“Maybe you’ve heard enough, because you’re the cause of it all.”
Moonlight jumped up. “Dad, slow down. Mom didn’t want any of this to happen.”
Andy struggled out of his La-Z-boy. His face was red and his pale blue eyes the shade of glacier ice. His jowls quivered. Lucky had never before noticed just how much weight he’d put on around his face. “You and your sixties sentiment’s going to destroy my business.”
“My sixties sentiment? What the hell does that mean, Andy? Are you telling me that you missed the sixties? And what do you mean my business? Last I looked it was our business.”
Sylvester barked and ran from one person to the other, his lush tail low. Sylvester never took sides.
“Calm down,” Moonlight said. “Mom? Dad?”
“It’s time,” Andy said. “We recognize that we’ve come to a parting of minds, Lucy. I’ll sleep in the den tonight, and tomorrow, I’ll move myself out. Get yourself a lawyer. Night, Molly.”
He left the room, Sylvester trotting behind.
Moonlight looked at her mother. “I do not want to know,” she said. “I do not want to know a single thing about this. You will patch this up. Do you hear me? I refuse to hear the ‘D’ word.”
“The ‘D’ word,” Lucky said. She hadn’t moved from her place on the badly sprung couch. She was so hot she might set fire to the chair; she’d been shown as a screeching harridan to half the population of the United Sates, and probably most of her own family, who already thought her crazy. Her daughter, precious Moonlight, was a cop. Her dream of something to recognize Andy and Barry and all the men like them was crumbling to dust. And Andy himself didn’t give a fig.
“What’s the ‘D’ word?” she said.
“Divorce. I won’t allow you to even consider getting a divorce. You are the most perfect parents in all the world.”
Lucky looked at her daughter. Tears
glistened in Moonlight’s eyes like stars reflecting off a mountain lake.
“You think so, dear?”
“Yeah, Mom, I do.”
Lucky stood up. She was a good six inches shorter than Moonlight. She wrapped her daughter—hard cop, loving child, beautiful woman, fragile human being—in her arms.
“Do you suppose,” Moonlight said, “Harris snatched one of the store lighters out from under Dad’s nose?”
Chapter Twenty-one
Duncan was at the hospital when Smith arrived. He clutched a bunch of daisies, looking as if they’d been picked from a roadside ditch, in one hand, and she thought the gesture was sweeter than had he brought a dozen perfect long-stemmed red roses.
“The doc’s with her,” he said. “They said we won’t have to wait for long.”
She sat beside him on the overused visitor’s couch. Badly painted little girls dancing through fields of wildflowers hung on the walls. A tiny white fridge stood in the corner underneath a bulletin board instructing them as to the location of the emergency exits as well as how to wash their hands after using the bathroom. Duncan slipped his arm over her shoulders. Smith settled into it.
She allowed him to stroke her shoulder. He took a deep breath, and she felt his ribs move. His lips touched the top of her head, and his hand lightly brushed the gun at her hip.
She pushed herself away. “Don’t do that. I’m in uniform.”
“You look great.” He coughed. “That is, you always look great, Molly.”
Smith studied the pictures on the wall.
Once Lucky had phoned the hospital and confirmed that Christa hadn’t taken a turn for the worse during the night, Smith called Winters to let him know she’d be back to work.
He sounded neither pleased nor disappointed. Just told her to call after she’d visited Christa and he’d pick her up.
Smith and Duncan leapt to their feet as the doctor came into the waiting room.
“I’m sorry, Officer, but I don’t think that Ms. Thompson is up to being questioned at this time.”
“I’m not here for that,” Smith said. “I’m her friend—her best friend. My mom’s sorta like her foster mother.”
“Then you can go in. She’s awake, although on heavy medication. You have five minutes at the most.”
Smith hesitated at the door to Christa’s room. She took a deep breath, trying to gather enough strength to pass some on. Duncan took her hand, and she didn’t pull away. He pushed open the door.
Christa had a double room, but the other bed was empty. A huge bunch of flowers, peach roses and white baby’s breath, was on the windowsill, enjoying the cheerful sunshine streaming through the windows.
Christa looked bad, but no worse than Smith expected. The hair on the right side of her head had been shaved off and a white bandage was stuck to her scalp. Her face was a painter’s palette, and her breathing was rough.
Christa’s left eye flickered at the sight of Smith and Duncan holding hands. The right was so swollen it was unlikely she could see much of anything. Smith pulled her hand away and forced out a smile. “Hey, sweetie,” she said. “You need a makeover.”
Duncan held out the flowers. Christa’s arms were tucked under the snowy white sheets and she made no move to accept them.
“Why don’t you grab a water glass out of the bathroom,” Smith said.
She leaned over the bed and kissed Christa on the cheek. Her friend’s smile was like Sylvester’s when he approached a strange dog in the park. The left incisor was broken. Rage boiled up inside Smith’s chest. Rage so hot and fierce that she knew that if Charlie Bassing walked into this room right now, she’d beat him to a pulp. She wanted to shout questions, ask Christa how this had happened, if she knew where Charlie’d gone. To get confirmation that it was, in fact, Charlie who’d assaulted her. But she wasn’t here to interrogate the victim. She was here to visit her friend.
After five minutes of one-sided chatter—greetings from the Smith family, news that Lucky would stop by later, admiration of the flowers, a funny story from Duncan about the group he’d taken camping yesterday—and their time was up. A chubby-cheeked nurse told them to leave.
Smith reached under the sheet for Christa’s hand. Her friend’s grip was as insubstantial as fairy dust. “We’ll get him, Chrissie. Fucking Charlie Bassing. I’ll see him locked up and….”
“Officer, I said visitation is over,” the nurse said.
Duncan took Smith’s arm. “Let’s go, Molly. See you later, Christa. Get strong, eh?”
Once they were back in the corridor, Smith leaned against a wall. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“You wanna go for a coffee or something?” Duncan asked.
She pulled her cell phone out and headed for the exit. “Thanks, but I can’t. My boss said to call when I’m done here, and he’ll come get me.”
“Why don’t I drive you? I’m going to the store. I’ve a parents and tots trip at noon.”
“Great, thanks.” She put the phone away.
Duncan walked her to a black Ford F-150. Expensive wheels for a guy who worked as a kayaking guide. Extravagant for a guy who called himself an environmentalist.
“My dad owns a Ford dealership in Victoria,” he said with a shrug. “It was a gift when I graduated.” He unlocked the doors with a flick of the remote. “Jump in.”
Smith jumped.
□□□
“You saw Fifth Column?” Winters said as Smith walked into the sergeants’ office.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Trouble in River City.”
“Huh?”
“Before your time. The deputy mayor’s been on the phone to the chief. Demanding a solution to the Montgomery murder. Half the good citizens, and a sizeable portion of the not-so-good-ones, are also demanding that we do something. I’d suggest that we get in my car, drive for, say, ten minutes, and then arrest the first person we pass on the right. How’s that sound to you?”
He was joking. Wasn’t he?
Molly Smith hadn’t slept much last night, between worrying about Christa, thoughts of Charlie Fucking Bassing’s prick on the chopping block and a cleaver in her hand, and despair at the state of her parents’ marriage. Plus trying to come up with a solution to the Montgomery killing that would have everyone, Winters in particular, singing her praises and her future in the Trafalgar City Police secure.
“You don’t look too well, Molly,” Winters said. “Christa?” His face settled back into lines and wrinkles, and she realized that when he was joking his expression let go of some of its usual seriousness.
“She’s gonna be fine.”
He tossed his coffee cup into the waste basket. “Turns out that Mr. Bassing has a record. Purse snatching in Vancouver. He wasn’t armed, first offense, so he got off without jail time. But his fingerprints are on file. Lots of nice clear prints were found at the scene.”
“So now all we have to do is find him.”
“Punk like that. Piece of cake. I suspect it’s a dead end, but we have two cases in three days. I want to ask Clemmins and Mrs. Montgomery if they know Bassing. Looks like Goodhaugh and Sorensen are in the clear. I spoke to them yesterday. Lots of smug looks and talk about how he’d deserved it, but they were in Calgary on Thursday evening, at a wedding. Robyn was her sister’s bridesmaid. I’m checking, of course, but she looked like a smart cookie, not the sort to come up with an alibi that easy to confirm if it isn’t true. I’m glad Christa’s going to be okay.”
“Me too,” Smith said as they left the office.
“How do you stand it, John?” she said. “The job. Seeing the worst the world has to offer. Day after day. All the pain, the misery.” She stopped talking, horrified at what she’d said. It was the 21st century, but even so, there were still impediments for a woman on the job. And she’d thrown herself into the biggest trap of them all—going all emotional.
Instead of running back to his desk where he kept a big black ledger to record every female
constable’s moment of weakness, he turned to look at her. “You have to find that out for yourself, Molly. But think of it like this. You’re driving down the street one night. Been at a party, had a good time and you’re feeling great—not intoxicated, of course. You see a dog ahead, lying in the street. Someone hit it and drove on, perhaps didn’t even know what he’d done. Do you turn your head to one side and drive on, wanting to keep that after-party glow? Or do you pull over, grab a blanket out of the back to protect your hands, and wrap the dog up to take him to the all-night vet?”
“I’d pick the dog up, of course,” she said. “We’re dog lovers in my family. But if I found out that the person who’d run him down got away without any consequences, and the dog died anyway, then maybe I’d regret spoiling my party mood.”
“We each have to find our own way, Molly. But now, I want to find my way to Frank Clemmins.”
She let out a deep breath. Find her own way. Wasn’t that the problem in a nutshell? What was her way? Between her mother’s outdated hippie pacifism, her father’s keep-your-head-down ethics, her brother’s make-all-the-money-you-can-fast-as-you-can morals, Graham’s aggressive push-everyone-forward style, and Christa’s quiet optimism, Molly Smith no longer knew what was her own way. And then there was John Winters. Tough cop or local clown?
“Hold up, John, Molly.” Jim Denton lifted a hand in the universal stop gesture as Winters and Smith headed for the door. A car pulled away from the station, under full lights and sirens.
“Big fight on Front Street. Scarcely eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning.”
“You think this is something to do with my investigation?” Winters asked.
“It’s at 345 Front Street.”
“Christ.” Smith headed for the door. “That’s the store.”
“Think this is related to our case?” Winters asked, taking the steps two at a time beside her.
“There’s never been a fight there in all my years,” she said. “Last night it was revealed to the massive CNC audience to be the heart of darkness. You decide.” She headed for the parking lot. She would not even entertain the idea that the fighters might be her own parents. That could not be happening.