In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  Lucky explained the situation. She could almost feel the steam coming down the phone line as Barry got angrier and angrier.

  “I’m on my way,” he said, when she stopped talking.

  “That might not be a good idea. That CNC guy’s hanging around, spoiling for a fight. Let it all calm down, and he’ll be on the next plane out. And his viewers’ attention will follow him. They’ll never think about us again.”

  “This means a lot to me, Lucky.”

  “I know, Barry, I know. Let’s keep our heads down and wait until the shit has stopped flying, shall we?”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  She had only just opened the letter on the top of her mail pile when the phone rang again. She looked at the call display: Barry again?

  “What, you couldn’t you keep your fool head down for longer than ten seconds?”

  “The town council’s going to discuss the garden at tonight’s regular meeting. They’re going to decide once and for all whether or not to approve it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “An e-mail. Sitting in my in-box since yesterday. Unsigned, from an anonymous hotmail account.”

  “The sneaky bastards are trying to do a run-around without anyone noticing.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Feel like going out tonight, Barry?”

  “It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

  “I’ll call the others.”

  “You know, Lucky, I’d rather not involve them.”

  “Why?”

  “Tempers are at fever pitch, judging by the contents of my in-box. Just you and me, Lucky. We’ll ask the council to recognize us, and say what we have to say. I’m the one who was there, in ’Nam; you’re the one with the silver tongue. All the others—they’ll just clutter up the scene.”

  “I don’t know, Barry.”

  “Will Andy come?”

  She snorted. “Easier to get him to a bridal show.”

  “Thought so. Be nice if Dwayne Washington could come, but he’s laid up with his back again. Robbie Colman’s gone to Arizona for some sorta family reunion. Most of the rest of us old guys are scattered, too hard to get to with half a day’s notice. Or not interested, like Andy. It’s you and me, Lucky.”

  “One for all, eh?”

  “And all for one. See you at seven thirty.” He hung up.

  Lucky looked out the window into the alley. A woman dragging a Yorkshire terrier on a leash passed by. The dog strained to sniff under a bush, but the woman kept on walking. Lucky could feel her heart beating. The fight earlier had ignited a spark that had been burning deep inside her, like a single ember buried in a mountain of coal. She punched her fist into the air.

  “Bring it on,” she said.

  □□□

  “That puts Dr. Tyler out of the frame,” Smith said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Seems conclusive to me. The old guy was walking his even older dog and they passed Tyler’s car at the side of the road. And he was still there when man and dog came the other way half an hour later.”

  “The car,” Winters said. “But not necessarily Tyler himself.”

  “Mr. Johnson was positive that there was someone in the driver’s seat. You think Tyler arranged for someone to sit in his car at the top of the bluffs for an hour or so while he dispatched Montgomery?”

  “Don’t laugh, Molly. I’ve seen stranger things.”

  And he probably had. “Sorry.”

  “If I were investigating organized crime in, say, New York City, I wouldn’t think that scenario to be at all out of the ordinary. But in pleasant little Trafalgar, a middle-aged dentist who’s screwing the wife of the deceased? Probably not.

  “Tell you the truth, Molly, I’m pretty much stumped on this one. Someone in the family’s usually the perp. Business associates a distant second. Strangers last of all.”

  “Random?” she asked.

  “Always a possibility. Damned hard to nail down, if it is, if the guy doesn’t do something stupid or have an attack of the guilties and turn himself in.”

  Winters’ jacket rang. He pulled out his cell phone, as Smith drove down the mountainside. She took a short cut down Sycamore Street. Several young people were lounging in front of Happy Tobaccy, which sold hemp products, posters calling for the legalization of marijuana, drug paraphernalia and, under the counter, the finest B.C. pot.

  As long as the product wasn’t sold to minors, wasn’t waved in anyone’s face, and nothing harder than pot graced the premises, the Trafalgar City Police pretty much pretended not to notice. A woman waved cheerfully at the van as Smith drove past. She’d hadn’t taken to the stuff herself. She’d used it once in high school, but it made her so nauseous she didn’t want to try again. A second attempt when she was at University had the same result.

  If she’d liked pot, would she have become a cop? She’d never know.

  “Find a spot to pull over,” Winters said.

  She eyed a parking space just ahead and began to slow down.

  “Preferably not in sight of Happy Tobaccy. I’d rather they not come over to ask if we’re staking the place out.”

  She turned the corner. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Peterson. I sent the Toronto police out searching for Rosemary Fitzgerald. They found her first try—her son, James Fitzgerald, was in Toronto General last night.”

  “That’s good.” Smith pulled into a church parking lot. Luxurious beds of pink and white petunias lined the walkway leading to the wide wooden doors. Moisture glistened off green leaves.

  “Not entirely. James had a bad case of heartburn. Because he’d had a heart attack less than a year ago, everyone panicked. He was discharged at six thirty this morning. Toronto time. Whereupon, as you might expect, the family left the hospital.”

  “Oops.”

  “They were long gone by the time the Toronto cops tracked her down. They called the son at home and were told that Rosemary headed straight to the airport.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket, referred to it, and punched in another series of numbers. Smith could hear the tinny sound of voice mail answering.

  Winters snapped his phone shut. “What the hell is the point of having a cell phone, of having voice mail, if you don’t pay any damn attention to it?”

  “You think Rosemary’s important to this case?”

  “Not at all. But it bugs the hell out of me that I can’t talk to the damned woman. That I can’t, as they say in the English crime novels, eliminate her from my enquiries.”

  “If she’s heading home, she should be here by the end of the day.”

  “Unless she decides to take a last-minute vacation in Hawaii. Back to the station, Molly. This case is going nowhere.”

  □□□

  Christa was sitting up in bed reading People magazine when Molly Smith arrived, balancing flowers, a fantasy paperback, two coffees, and a bag of croissants, warm from Alphonse’s oven.

  Smith dumped everything on the tiny bedside table. “I thought you’d be ready for something yummy.” She gave her friend a cheerful smile. But it was hard. Christa’s face was various shades of blue, black, and yellow. Her lip was cut and her right eye swollen almost shut. “How ya doin’, sweet thing?”

  Christa closed her eyes and lay back against the pile of white pillows. “I hurt.”

  “I thought you might like something to eat.” Smith gestured to the bag. The scent of warm baking was almost strong enough to override the usual hospital smells, disinfectant and body fluids.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’ll leave them for you to eat later. Coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Even if I help you with the cup?”

  “Fuck off, Molly. I said I don’t want coffee.”

  Smith felt as if she’d been slapped. She dropped into the visitor’s chair. “Did someone from the police come and interview you?”

  “Yeah. A cute young cop.�
�

  “Nice.”

  “A cute young female cop.”

  “I should have told them to send Dave Evans.”

  Smith struggled not to ask the obvious questions. Was it Charlie who did this to you; did he say anything; did he give you any clue as to where he was going; do you know where he might be now? She was here to visit her friend, not interrogate her. Dawn Solway would have done that.

  “Has your dad been in?”

  “Yeah, he stopped by.”

  “My mom?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She got tied up.” Smith told Christa about the incident at the store. Christa nodded in all the right places, but didn’t seem too interested. The drugs, Smith guessed.

  She sat in the hard visitor’s chair, overwhelmed with anger. At Charlie, of course, but also at herself. For failing Christa. “I bought you a book. I thought you’d want something to read.”

  “Thanks.” Christa’s eyes closed.

  “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

  “I’m afraid to sleep. What if I’m asleep when he gets here?”

  “Who?” Smith asked. Although she knew.

  “Charlie, of course.”

  “He’s long gone. Run away with his tail between his legs like the coward he is. The hospital’s been told to be on the lookout for him, and to call us right away if he shows up.”

  “And by the time you get here, I’ll be dead.”

  “Jesus, Christa. Don’t talk like that.”

  Her eyes remained closed. She took a shallow breath through cracked ribs, and grimaced with the effort. “Go away, Molly. Just go away.”

  “Everything’ll be okay. You’ll be out of here soon, and Charlie’ll not bother you again.”

  Christa opened her eyes. They were very wet, but she wasn’t crying. “Whatever you say, Molly.” She turned her head toward the window. “Nice flowers.”

  “Yup.”

  “Who’re the daisies from? There’s no card.”

  “Duncan. Remember, he was here first thing this morning?”

  “Duncan who?”

  “Duncan Weaver, of course. Works at the store.”

  “Never met him,” Christa said, closing her eyes once again. “I wonder why he brought me flowers.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Rosemary Fitzgerald shifted in the uncomfortable chair, and flicked through the pages of “O” magazine. What a god-awful day. It was mid-July, height of the travel season. She’d spent all day trying to get across the country without airline reservations. Never mind what this wasted trip to Toronto was costing her. Heartburn. She’d abandoned her business, flown across three time zones, because her son had an attack of heartburn. She snapped the magazine shut. She’d better give Emily a call. She hadn’t even checked into the store since leaving for Toronto. She dug her cell phone out of the depths of her bag and flicked it open. The call waiting notice beeped. She’d never managed to figure out how to get her messages.

  “Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen.”

  “Hi, Emily, it’s Rosemary here.”

  “How’s your son?”

  “It turned out to be nothing. What’s happening there?”

  “I’m run off my feet. We’re running out of the soup packages. The chili and stews and stuff that you made? They’re almost all gone. If you don’t come back soon, I don’t know what I’m gonna sell. My mom said she’d try to make some batches of stew or curry, but she doesn’t know anything about health regulations and all that stuff.”

  “I’m in Vancouver. I was stuck in Saskatoon for ten hideous hours. One plane after another left full, and when I finally got on one, it was cancelled because of mechanical failure. I could have driven faster. But I’ve got a seat on a flight to Castlegar that’s leaving in fifteen minutes. I’ll grab the shuttle to Trafalgar and should be there by seven. We can look over the stock before closing. Can you wait, if I’m delayed?”

  “Gee,” Emily whined. “I have a date.”

  “They’re calling my flight now. Wait there until you hear from me. I’ll pay if there’s overtime.”

  “I guess. Oh, the cops have been really keen to talk to you. They told me to tell you to phone Sergeant…something or other…I have the name here somewhere.”

  “I have to go, Emily.”

  “You’re to call Sergeant Whatever, immediately.”

  “Seems like a lot of fuss over a bike. But maybe the police in Trafalgar don’t have anything more important to worry about. That’s a nice thought. I’ll call them when I get there. Bye.”

  Rosemary Fitzgerald stuffed “O” into her bag and ran for the gate, waving her boarding pass in her hand. She was the last one through.

  □□□

  Meredith Morgenstern dropped her phone into her black and green Nine West bag as Rich Ashcroft returned from the washroom. He didn’t like the look on her face. She’d been about to fold, he knew it, to follow him upstairs because she wanted the chance of a job at CNC so much she’d prostitute herself to get it.

  “That was interesting news,” she said, licking at the drops of Drambuie that had collected on the rim of her liquor glass. They’d spent the day filming and interviewing the growing numbers of protesters (for and against) gathering outside the site of the proposed peace gardens, and talking to people on the main street. He’d weeded out most of those who approved of the park (except for one or two that were almost certainly certifiable), and prepared the rest for broadcast. An elderly couple who’d lost a son in Vietnam had driven up from Boise, Idaho, after seeing Rich’s Saturday program, to voice their indignation at the very idea of a dedication to men who’d avoided that service. They’d been featured prominently on tonight’s show. He’d done another interview with Brian Harris, just strolling around town, listening sympathetically as the boy talked about how his mother had mourned her husband for the rest of her life, never remarrying, turning their home into a shrine to his memory. It had taken Irene about two minutes to find out that no one named Brian Harris had died in the last months of the war. Not as part of the U.S. military, anyway. Rich didn’t care what Harris was up to—just trying to be part of something bigger than his miserable little life, probably.

  “Are you going to tell me about your phone call, or do I have to find someone else to fill me in,” Rich snapped.

  The pretty face collapsed into an unbecoming pout.

  “Sorry, Meredith,” he said. “That was uncalled for. Another drink?”

  “Sure.”

  He raised his hand to call the waiter. People at the other tables kept looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. Rich noticed that he was served while tables who’d been waiting longer were still waiting. It had taken long enough, but at last the citizens of sleepy little Trafalgar were starting to wake up and recognize him.

  Greg had looked to be happy to settle in for a long night downing expensive shots, on Rich’s expense account, and trying to get Meredith to drop her pants. But the first time she excused herself to go to the washroom, Rich had told him to get lost. Greg pushed his chair back and stood up with a smirk. “If you need me, boss, I’ll be in the fleshpots of Trafalgar. Oh, wait. There aren’t any. So I’ll be in my room watching porn movies. Oh wait, there aren’t any of those either. Hope there’s a Bible in the night table.”

  Rich watched him cross the room. Greg had far too smart a mouth on him; if he wasn’t such a goddamned good cameraman, Rich would have gotten rid of him long ago.

  “Interesting goings on at town council tonight,” Meredith said.

  Rich’s sixth sense ticked in, the one that had taken him to the top of the cut-throat world of TV journalism. He knew that the balance of power had shifted; he could smell it as a dog could smell a bitch in heat miles away. He was no longer the one with all the cards. Meredith knew something, and she knew he’d want to hear it. A candle sat in the middle of the table, throwing a single tall flame between them. She touched her glass to her lips.

  “I can’t guarantee you a
n interview,” he said. “I can only recommend.”

  She dug in her bag and pulled out a notepad and pen. She pushed them toward him. “So recommend,” she said. “The words dedicated, competent, highly qualified, come to mind. And anything else you might want to throw in.”

  He wrote. She leaned back in her chair and lifted the liquor glass to her nose. She breathed in deeply. And he knew that this was going to be good.

  She read what he’d written. “You forgot to sign it.”

  He signed.

  She stuffed the notepad into her cavernous bag.

  “Eleven a.m. Day after tomorrow. Our esteemed deputy mayor is going to stand in the street and declare that the town has decided, for definite, absolute sure, the fate of the park.”

  “How do you know?”

  She lifted her glass to her lips and grinned. “It was discussed at a town council meeting tonight, but the room was cleared before they took the vote. My pal from the paper was there, as is part of his job.”

  Rich laughed. “So this will be in the Daily Gazette tomorrow, for every reporter with half a brain to read?”

  “It will. There was one member of the public who spoke to the councilors.”

  “Who?”

  “Lucky Smith. She put up quite a fuss when the public gallery was cleared so the council could debate in camera.”

  “I have to get to the cop daughter,” Rich said, crushing a cube of ice between his teeth. He was drinking ice water. He drank nothing but ice water when he was working. And Rich was always working.

  “I might be able to arrange a meeting,” Meredith said, leaning back into her chair. She was wearing a low-cut blue summer shirt and tight jeans. She dipped a finger into her cleavage. The restaurant was almost empty: two couples and a raucous group of six women remained. The lights had steadily been turned down, encouraging lingering patrons to leave. The waiter brought Meredith’s fresh drink.

  “A meeting with Constable Molly Smith. That might be worth something.” Meredith grinned at him across the table. She looked like a cat at play with a particularly stupid mouse. “A nice angle: aging hippy, kid who rejects those values and becomes a cop. There might be something there.”