Winter of Secrets

by Vicki Delany

  Lucky gestured to the coffee pot. “Finish it off, and make more for your dad, will you, dear. He’s not up yet.”

  Smith scratched the top of Sylvester’s head. “Nice to see you, too, Mom. I’m doing fine, thanks.”

  Lucky lowered her drug-store reading glasses. “I saw you only yesterday and you are obviously not doing fine or you’d be home in bed. You’re on afternoons this week, right?”

  Smith poured the last cup of coffee and reached into the cupboard for a fresh filter. “What are you, a mind reader?” she said, pouring coffee beans into the grinder.

  “Just a mother. Leave that, your dad can make it. Come and sit down.” Lucky waited until her daughter was seated and sipping coffee. “What’s the problem?”

  “Charlie Bassing’s in town.”

  “Oh, no.” Lucky put her cup down. “I thought he was in jail.”

  “Out on parole. For good behavior.”

  “Are you sure he’s back here?”

  “I saw him myself.” She neglected to mention that his actions toward her could have been interpreted as threatening.

  “Does Christa know?”

  “That’s why I’m here, Mom. I’m going to have to tell her, but, frankly, I’m afraid to.”

  Lucky let out a long breath. “She won’t take it well. Can you do something about keeping him away from her?”

  Smith smiled for the first time since she’d seen the bastard in the street, mocking her. It was unlikely Lucky even noticed that she’d referred to the forces of law and order as ‘you’.

  “A condition of parole is that he have no contact with Christa and not come within two hundred meters of her or her place of residence or employment.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “If he abides by the parole order. But we won’t know if he doesn’t until he…well…doesn’t.”

  Lucky swirled her mug and glanced into its depths. Sylvester, who loved Lucky above all, put his head onto her lap and whined.

  “You couldn’t order him out of town?”

  “No. This is where he lives, Mom. He probably told them he had a job to come back to. I think he does some odd-job sort of work now and again, when he runs out of beer money.”

  “I’m not going into the store today. I’ll come with you to talk to Christa.”

  Which was what Smith wanted to hear, although she didn’t like to admit it. She was a police officer, and good officers rarely took their mother along to break bad news. But Christa wasn’t just a citizen, she was Molly’s friend. And probably soon to be her ex-friend.

  “I don’t like to ask you, but, thanks, Mom.”

  Lucky glanced at her watch. “Not even seven yet. Too early to call on Christa. Around nine would be best. I don’t want to phone ahead and tell her I’m coming over. She’d worry about what I want to talk about.

  “You might as well have some breakfast. You’re looking a bit thin. When did you last eat?”

  “I’m doing fine, Mom.” Smith didn’t say that her last meal had been yesterday’s breakfast in the car. Seeing Charlie had killed her appetite for spring rolls and yellow curry.

  Lucky went to the fridge. Without asking she pulled out sausages and eggs and put a frying pan onto the stove.

  “Thought I heard your voice.” Andy Smith came into the kitchen. He kissed the top of his daughter’s head. “Early for a visit, isn’t it?”

  Lucky explained the situation. Andy said something about rearranging Charlie’s anatomy before asking, “Is that for me?” He cast an eager eye on the cooking sausages.

  Lucky cracked eggs into a bowl. “I could probably be persuaded to give you some.”

  “I left my car at the bottom of the driveway,” Smith said. “Too much snow to try to get up. I’ll give you a hand with it after we eat, Dad.”

  “Always happy to have help. That old snowblower’s on its last legs. We’ll have to get a new one for next year. I’ll look for something on sale in the spring.”

  “You don’t usually go into work on Sunday, Dad.”

  “It’ll be busy with Boxing Day sales and Christmas returns. I remember when it was just Boxing Day. Now they call it Boxing Week. Next all of January will be Boxing Month.”

  Andy finished preparing a second pot of coffee and Lucky served them a hearty breakfast of sausages, scrambled eggs, and piles of toast with homemade raspberry jam. After they ate, Smith and her father struggled into their heaviest winter clothes and went outside. Six inches of snow had fallen in the night, and the morning sky was heavy with the threat of more to come. Andy started up his snowblower and worked on the driveway while Molly shoveled the front path and cleared a route into the woods at the back of the property for Sylvester. Not even New Year, and the snowbanks along the driveway were almost three feet tall.

  Faces glowing with cold and exercise, Andy and his daughter put their equipment into the shed and walked back to the house as Sylvester ran around in circles in the cleared driveway.

  “You doing okay, Molly?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m great. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Your mother misses you, you know.”

  She felt a warm, comfortable glow in her chest. That was Andy’s way of telling her that he was missing her. She reached out and touched his arm as they climbed the steps and stamped their boots free of snow.

  Lucky was in the kitchen, reading a political magazine. “Moonlight and I are going to drop in on Christa.”

  Andy shook his head. “Good luck with that.” He kissed his wife, smiled at his daughter, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and left.

  Smith stood on the mat, still wearing coat and boots.

  “Before we go,” Lucky said. “Tell me about Lorraine.”

  “Lorraine who?”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. You know very well who. What’s her involvement with these people staying at Ellie’s place?”

  “Mom, that’s an ongoing police investigation. I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Of course you can. I know, for example, that one of those boys didn’t die in the car accident. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to tell anyone else. I am concerned about Lorraine. She refuses to let anyone help her, but she needs help nonetheless.”

  Smith sputtered for a while. She could only wonder at how her mom knew the results of an autopsy that hadn’t been released to the public. Somehow Lucky always knew everything that went on in Trafalgar.

  “She considers herself to have been in love with Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth. He probably led her to think that she was more than a vacation pick-up.”

  “I find it hard to believe he could have been attracted to her. He was, what twenty-two, twenty-three? A university student. Lots of money, well traveled, influential parents. Yet he took up with a sixteen-year-old girl who’s never been out of these mountains, daughter of the talk of the town.”

  Smith shifted her feet as she remembered something she’d heard someone say about the late Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth. “He was lazy. Liked sex served up like a Big Mac. I doubt there was any need to woo Lorraine.”

  “Bastard.” As she passed, Lucky slammed the dishwasher door so hard the dishes rattled.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Doctor Lee’s official report was waiting in the in-basket when John Winters opened his e-mail.

  He skimmed it quickly. A detailed reading would wait.

  Then he leaned back in his chair and swiveled to look past Ray Lopez’s desk and out the window. The clouds were weighty and the mountains obscured. Sort of like this case, he thought in a rare moment of fancy. A young woman strolled down the hill, wearing a purple hat topped with three drooping spikes, each of which ended in a yellow pom-pom. That, and her matching yellow mittens, gave the only bit of color outside the window, and he watched the ends of the hat bounce as the woman walked on.

  Ewan Williams. His last meal had been a mixed-up concoction of salmon, curried tofu, and hamburger and fries, eaten five to six hours prior to death. No al
cohol in his system. Winters made a note to ask the friends if they knew what he’d had for lunch. If it had been that strange meal, that would give them some idea of the time of his death. Provided, of course, he hadn’t gone out later and had another burger. Because it was mid-winter there was very little insect activity on the body that might help Lee establish time of death. She estimated between twelve to thirty-six hours prior to the body being fished out of the car and the river. Cause of death: hypothermia. A recent blow to the head had done enough damage to cause confusion and unconsciousness, and he’d died of the cold. The report backpedaled a bit on the trace evidence found in the boy’s head: bits of wood, yes, traces of ash on the wood, but not necessary indicating he’d been struck by a length of wood. He had a bruised cheekbone and scrapes on the right knuckles, but the injuries were partially healed, meaning not fresh enough to have been caused at the time of death. Almost certainly obtained, Winters thought, during the altercation outside the bar on the Saturday before he died. Lee found no more recent injuries, just the blow to the back of the head that probably brought him down, leading to his death. It was, therefore, unlikely he’d been fighting when he died.

  Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth: Death by drowning. Marijuana and alcohol, although not in significant quantities, consumed some hours before death.

  All of which did little to help him with the two major questions: who killed Ewan, and what was Jason doing in the hours before he went into the river, taking his friend’s dead body with him?

  With a reluctant sigh, he looked up a phone number, and dialed.

  An answering machine picked it up.

  “This is Sergeant John Winters of the Trafalgar City Police,” he said, as if she wouldn’t know who he was. “Returning Ms. Morgenstern’s call.”

  The phone was picked up. “I’m here, Sergeant.” Her voice was thick with sleep but she soon shook it off. “Thank you for returning my call. People are wondering why the bodies of Jason and Ewan are not being released, even though it’s been almost a week since the accident, and Jason’s parents are here to take him home.”

  By people Winters knew that Meredith meant she was won dering.

  “I’m interested in speaking to anyone who saw or spoke with Ewan Williams on the evening of December twenty-third or anytime on the twenty-forth. A picture would help. Do you have one?”

  “One of his friends sent me a couple.”

  So Meredith had been talking to the friends. No one had told him that.

  “Are you confirming, Sergeant, the rumors that Ewan Williams was killed prior to the accident on Christmas morning?”

  She was uncomfortably well informed about the results of the autopsy. Someone in the morgue had a big mouth. The Gazette had run a story the day following the accident, with a picture of the car being pulled out of the river, and a brief mention that the dead men were university students in Trafalgar on a skiing vacation. Tipped off by her contact, Meredith must have continued digging.

  He tried to remind himself that digging was what good reporters did.

  Too bad Meredith Morgenstern wasn’t a good reporter.

  “In order to complete our investigation, we would like to confirm Mr. Williams’ activities during the time in question. You can run a story repeating the details of the accident and the emphasizing that the police would like the public’s help.”

  “I don’t need you to advise me on how to write a story.”

  “A pleasure talking to you, Ms. Morgenstern.”

  He hung up as she shouted ‘wait’.

  He’d given her the opening she needed to put what was so far only rumor and unauthorized information into print. He hoped the results would be worth it.

  ***

  Molly Smith phoned Christa as Lucky drove across the big black bridge into town. She could tell by the muffled voice that Christa had been asleep.

  “Hey, Chris.” Smith tried, and failed, to sound cheerful. “It’s me. Mom and I are in town and Mom said she’d like to drop in for a visit.”

  “When?”

  “How about now?”

  “Now? I’m in bed.”

  “Then get up.”

  Lucky grabbed the phone and drove with one hand. “Christa, Lucky here.”

  “I’m still in bed, Lucky. Can you come back later?”

  “We need to talk. I’m parking the car right now. If you look out, you’ll see us.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Come down and open the door.” Lucky spotted a parking spot, threw the phone into Molly’s lap, and did a U turn in the narrow street, forcing a pick-up truck to come to a halt. The driver leaned on the horn. Lucky completed her turn in a stately manner. The pick-up sped past as the driver lifted a finger to them.

  “You do know that a U-turn is illegal, Mom? Not to mention dangerous. Suppose that guy hadn’t seen you in time to stop?”

  Lucky parked with the front tire on the sidewalk. “I calculated precisely how long it would take for him to see me and to bring his vehicle to a complete halt and decided I had sufficient time.”

  “Yeah, right. Next time, drive around the block, eh? Or I’ll give you a ticket myself.”

  Blinking back sleep, Christa met them at the door. She grunted once in greeting and they climbed the narrow staircase to her second story apartment.

  She looked good, although much of the old sparkle was gone from her eyes and she needed to regain some of the weight she’d lost in the bout of depression after the attack. She’d required a lot of dentistry, and although her relationship with her father had always been tense and they rarely saw each other, he paid for the work. The new, straighter teeth suited her.

  Once they were inside the small living room, she turned to face them, her skin very pale. “Is it my dad, Lucky?” Her eyes filled. “What’s happened?”

  “Your father’s fine. Everyone’s fine. Why don’t we have a seat?”

  Christa turned to Smith. “Charlie?”

  Smith nodded.

  “How about a cup of tea?” Lucky said.

  “He’s out?”

  “’Fraid so.” Smith said.

  “I thought he got six months.”

  “Parole. For good behavior.”

  “Good behavior! Are you freaking kidding me?” Christa turned, grabbed a glass candleholder off the table and moved to throw it against the wall. Lucky touched her arm. “Tea,” she said, taking the object and putting it back in place. “Moonlight will explain what parole means.”

  Smith and Christa followed Lucky into the kitchen. It was barely large enough for the three women. There were only two chairs. Lucky set about putting the kettle on and rooting through the cupboards for mugs and spoons, tea bags and sugar.

  Christa dropped into a chair. “So explain.”

  Smith leaned her butt up against the kitchen counter. “His parole has conditions, Chris. He’s not allowed to contact you or to come within two hundred meters of you. If you see him, or if he calls you, you’ve got to call us…the police…right away.”

  “And he’ll be sent back to jail?”

  “Well, uh, the parole board will take it under considera tion.”

  “By which time I’ll be dead, right Molly?”

  Lucky dropped a mug. It hit the cracked linoleum floor and shattered.

  ***

  It was the morning of December thirtieth. Ray Lopez was still on leave, as were the two most senior constables and Staff-Sergeant Peterson. Tonight and tomorrow night there would be a full complement of officers working, but they’d be kept busy on the streets. Winters had dragged Molly Smith half-way around town yesterday, on her day off, and she was on duty tonight. She’d be sound asleep this morning. He couldn’t call her up and ask for help.

  He pushed back his chair. He’d have to pound the pavement himself.

  At least it was a Sunday: people would be at home.

  Driving through the snow-covered streets, he thought about last night. Doctor Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth sipping mimosas in his ow
n living room. Earlier, he’d decided to visit Jason’s parents this morning to explain why he wasn’t releasing their son’s body.

  Instead, realizing that Eliza and Barney would offer her more support than she was likely to get from her own husband, he’d carefully told Patricia about the strange circumstances of Ewan’s death. She’d remained calm, although she finished her drink quickly and asked Barney for another. She asked medical questions that Winters had been unable to answer. She was an intelligent woman, a surgeon of international reputation after all, and instantly realized that the circumstances of Ewan’s death, and where his body had been found, raised questions about Jason’s conduct on the night in question. And, although no one mentioned it, the boys’ friends and Jason’s sister as well.

  He offered to drive her back to her hotel, but she insisted on calling a taxi. Somehow Eliza and Barney ended up in the cab with her, and he was glad Patricia had the company.

  He hadn’t heard his wife climbing into bed beside him.

  Aspen Street was steep and narrow and difficult to negotiate at the best of times. The day after a heavy snowfall was not the best of times. In the older parts of town many houses didn’t have garages or even driveways, so cars parked on both sides of the street year round. The snowplow had been unable to do much other than scrape off the middle of the road. Parking was haphazard; cars scattered across snow packed into ice. Several vehicles hadn’t been moved in days and resembled car-shaped snow sculptures.

  The neighborhood was an eclectic mix of modern structures of brick and glass and wood, heritage houses restored to early twentieth-century glory, and heritage houses that couldn’t remember their glory days, if ever they’d had such a time.

  The LeBlanc home was one of the worst. The neighbors on the left had erected a tall fence: stiff, varnished wooden planks standing like soldiers protecting their owner from sight of the run-down property.