by Vicki Delany
“Is that a problem for you, Ellie?”
“No. I thought you should know. In case, well, in case anything happens.”
“Thanks for calling. It’s the position of the Trafalgar City Police that Mr. Desmond has been cleared of all charges and is free to come and go as he likes.”
“Okay. Uh, thanks, Ingrid. Bye.” Ellie put down the phone. She didn’t know what she’d thought the police could do. She didn’t know what she wanted them to do. Tell Walt to leave, probably. She’d rather he wasn’t here, but she didn’t think she could out-and-out demand that he leave. He was a paying guest, after all.
She’d have to warn Kathy to have no contact with him. She lifted the tray. As she did every night when the house was occupied, she’d arranged a few bowls of nuts and olives, a platter of crackers and inexpensive cheese, some supermarket pâté, and a sliced baguette from Alphonse’s French Bakery, which she bought at the end of the day when he was discounting the leftovers. It wasn’t expensive, but it made the guests feel spoiled.
Ellie entered the common room as the last drops of a bottle of white wine were being poured into Walt’s glass. The women held full glasses, and their faces glowed with drink and health and good humor. They were an attractive bunch, Ellie had to admit. Sleek, well groomed, fit and lean. They all appeared to have some money behind them, and had arrived in a convoy of high-end SUVs and luxury sedans.
Walt looked up with a smile for Ellie. She studied his face. Looking for something, anything, that would tell her what he had done. His smile faded. He put down his glass. She turned quickly away and put the tray on the coffee table.
“Everything okay, Ellie?” Darlene, who seemed to be the group’s leader, asked.
“Of course. I mean, why wouldn’t everything be? You ladies have a nice evening now. Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll clean up before I go to bed.” With another quick glance at Walt, she fled.
***
“Did anyone think that was odd?” Nancy said, as the kitchen door slammed behind Ellie. “She was so friendly a few minutes ago, and then out of the blue she looked like she’d swallowed a goldfish.”
“I heard the phone.” Carolanne scooped up a handful of nuts. “Maybe she got some bad news.”
Walt got to his feet. The wine tasted sour in his mouth. He hadn’t had a sip of wine in twenty-five years and had been really looking forward to it. As well as to spending time in the company of these women, listening to them laugh and chatter about inconsequential things. To drink wine and eat cheese and nuts and pretend, for a little while, that he was a normal guy, leading a normal life.
That phone call had been about him. Ellie Carmine, kind gentle Ellie, came back into the room after answering the phone, and looked at him as if expecting him to whip a knife out from under his shirt and run amuck through the house.
“Hey,” Darlene said. “You’re not leaving us already are you, Walt?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m all in. I’m going for a walk. Clear my head. Thank you for your kindness.”
As he turned to leave, the woman named Carolanne gave him a shy smile. He felt himself smiling back. She was slightly younger than the others, younger and quieter. She wasn’t beautiful, like Darlene, or all muscle like some of her friends. But she was lovely in a gentle, quiet way, with her chin-length brown hair, huge dark eyes, small breasts, slim hips, and long limbs. “Enjoy your walk,” she said.
The setting sun had outlined the mountains to the west in shades of purple. The sky was clear, the air warm, and a light wind ruffled the hairs on his face and arms. He stood on the porch for a few moments, breathing deeply. He was looking forward to seeing stars, a blanket of stars, maybe even the Milky Way if he was lucky.
He hadn’t seen anything but the brightest of stars in so long. He and Arlene had owned a telescope. They weren’t exactly astronomers, but they enjoyed sitting out on a clear winter’s night, wrapped warmly, sipping hot chocolate, and watching the movement of the night sky.
In prison the lights, inside and out, had burned all through the night, and when he was released and staying in Vancouver, the glow of the city hid all but the strongest of the stars.
He walked through the quiet streets as dusk lengthened. He needed to think about joining a gym. Too much rich food and no workouts and, before he knew it, he’d be slow and fat again. He didn’t much care if he was fat or not, but he’d never again be slow. He’d learned, fast, that the only way to survive in prison was to look as tough and as mean as any one of them. To be as tough and as mean as any one of them.
The streets of comfortable homes with well-groomed gardens and cars parked in driveways were quiet. Lights glowed inside houses and curtains were drawn.
Louise had not been happy when he told her he was coming home, to Trafalgar. People have long memories, she’d said; they won’t have forgotten. But I’m innocent, he protested, you proved that. She’d merely shaken her head.
The short hairs at the back of his neck twitched. In prison he’d quickly learned never to ignore his warning senses. A car fell in behind him, moving at the same slow pace as his walking. He stopped abruptly and whipped around, fists clenched, prepared for a brawl. He did not relax when he recognized it as a cop car, white with the logo of the Trafalgar City Police. The same car that had taken him away, so long ago. The car he’d been stuffed into after they marched him out of his house with his hands cuffed behind his back, while curious neighbors gathered on their front steps and he shouted for Arlene to call a lawyer. Any lawyer.
She couldn’t have found anyone more incompetent and useless if she’d tried.
This wasn’t the same car, of course, but similar enough. Same cops, too: two guys bristling with aggression and attitude.
The car pulled to a stop beside him.
The one driving was the man he’d seen earlier at the bus stop, a young one. The other was older, edging close to retirement. They got out of the car. They shifted their equipment belts and approached him.
“Help you, gentlemen?” Walt said. He did not relax one bit.
“Let’s see some ID,” the older one said. He was shorter than Walt, starting to run to fat, but not quite there yet. His jowls jiggled when he spoke. This guy was old enough to have been around when he lived here. Walt studied him, looking for something familiar. Nothing.
“No,” Walt said.
“What?”
“I said no. I have no ID on me, as I’m out for a simple walk on a summer’s evening, and you have no authority to ask for it, in any case.” Walt’s wallet was, in fact, in his pocket. But he knew the law.
“I…” the older one said.
“Doesn’t matter,” the young one interrupted. “You’ve got quite an attitude, Walt.”
“If you know my name, you know I’ve committed no crime and you can’t stop me from peacefully going about my business.” He kept his head up, his chin forward, his back straight, arms at his sides. But his heart was beating so hard he feared those two goons would hear it, and a cold sweat ran down his spine.
Show no fear. Never show a trace of fear.
“Word of warning, Walt,” the young one said, “you might have fooled the judges on high, but we’ve got your number. Hope you’re not planning on staying in town too long.”
“I’ll stay until I feel like moving on.”
“See, it’s like this.” The older one spat out the words. “Some of us know that Jack McMillan and Doug Kibbens were good solid cops. Old-fashioned cops, the kind who recognize a scumball when they see one and have the guts to do their jobs without the approval of some fancy-ass judge-lady. Doug’s gone now, died in his boots like a good officer should, but Jack’s still around. His friends don’t like to hear his good name slandered.”
Doug Kibbens was dead, Walt knew that well enough. Rather than dying while doing his job, he’d been killed in
a single-vehicle accident. Gone over the side of a mountain to crash and burn at the bottom. Walt had shed no tears when he heard the news.
“It’s over,” Walt said. “Leave me alone and I won’t be slandering anyone.”
“Is that a threat?” The cop rested his hand on the butt of his gun.
“No. It’s a comment.”
A woman turned the corner and walked toward them, almost running to keep up with the frisky golden Labrador straining at its leash. The dog headed straight for the group of men, tail wagging, long pink tongue flapping. The woman gripped the leash tighter and hurried on, dragging the dog behind her, throwing curious glances at the men as she passed.
“I checked the bus schedule for you,” the older cop said. “The next bus out leaves tomorrow at eight. Be on it. Come on, Dave. We’re done here.” He walked around the car and climbed into the passenger seat without giving Walt another look. The young one, Dave, didn’t move for a long time. Then he said, “A word to the wise.”
He got into the car and they drove away.
Walt had been planning to walk to the outskirts of town to get the best view of the stars. He decided against that, better not to be alone in the dark. He still wanted to see stars. They wouldn’t be as bright on Front Street, not with all the people and the shops and traffic.
He wondered if those two cops had been acting with the approval of their superiors. He let out a long sigh: he’d find out soon enough.
Chapter Seven
Eliza Winters’ smile collapsed the moment the customer’s back was turned. She flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED and gave the lock a satisfying twist. It had been a long day and she was dead tired.
Long, tiring, but profitable, she reminded herself. The gallery had been busy all day and a good number of customers had bought. Her assistant, Margo Franklin, was fighting off a bad cold and this was the third day she’d missed work. Eliza kicked off her Jimmy Choos and slipped her aching feet into a pair of comfortable flip-flops. Much better. She’d spent most of her working life in heels, but even now when her feet ached from standing all day, she couldn’t bring herself to wear pumps or flats with the sort of stylish suit she insisted on wearing to work. She was the boss; she could dictate that the staff (meaning Margo) could wear shorts and tee-shirts if they wanted. But training dies hard, and from the age of sixteen when she’d first become a model, Eliza Winters had been taught that appearances were everything.
She glanced around the gallery. For the summer months they were featuring paintings of the Kootenays. Most of the work was by local artists, but they had some pieces by people who’d visited the area and been inspired to try to re-create the beauty. The variety was what appealed to her most about this collection. Everything from one enormous brilliantly colored canvas that took its inspiration from street graffiti to her favorite piece, a tiny pencil sketch of blue flowers in a mountain meadow with the barest hint of the outline of the glacier beyond. She was tempted to buy the sketch for herself, but she resisted. If she bought all the art she loved, their house would be full and the gallery empty.
She stepped mechanically through her end-of-the-day chores, wondering if she’d be able to get away for a few days later in the week as she’d planned. Other than Margo, there was no one Eliza could rely on to open and close and watch the store for an entire day. She owned another gallery in Vancouver, in the trendy, high-end Kitsilano neighborhood. At that gallery she employed a proper manager and stocked recognized art with prices to match. So far, after rent and wages, the Kitsilano store hadn’t made a dime, whereas the little shop in Trafalgar, intended to be more of a hobby than a business, was doing great.
She glanced out the wide front window. Night was arriving. Street lights illuminated people window-shopping or heading to bars and restaurants and a steady parade of cars driving down Front Street. It was the middle of summer, and the tourists were here in force. She switched off the light behind the sales counter, turned on the night lights, and headed toward her car and home, thinking of a quick shower, comfortable clothes, a glass of cold white wine, and supper on the deck. Her husband had called earlier to say he was finishing work and would have dinner ready. She sighed happily at the thought and let herself out.
The Mountain in Winter Gallery was in the center of a row of shops, all of which backed onto an alley. The bright lights of Front Street weren’t visible here, and the alley was lit by lamps perched at the tops of utility poles so their light shone in circles amidst puddles of shadowy gloom. A single red light flashed from the top of the nearest mountain, warning airplanes to keep their distance. Something rustled near the bags of garbage piled at the rear of Crazies Coffee next door, but Eliza paid it no mind. A cat probably, or a mouse. She pressed the button on the key, the headlights of the BMW flashed a greeting, and the car’s interior lit up.
She fell forward, hard, crashing into the hood of the car. A heavy weight landed against her, pinning her down. For a moment she had absolutely no idea what was happening. All she knew was she couldn’t move and the car was cold and hard against her chest. She opened her mouth, but could make no sound. Something was covering it. She heard a mumble and pure fear washed over her. A man had shoved her up against her car, his bulk had trapped her in place, and his hand was over her mouth. She kicked back, hard, and made impact. He merely let out a quiet grunt, and she spared a thought for the three-inch stiletto heels she’d kicked off so gratefully. She felt hot wet breath on the back of her neck, and a hand scrambling at her legs. Her skirt was lifted, and rough nails scratched her thigh. Against every instinct she had—to fight, to resist—she let her body go limp. A voice whispered, “That’s better. Don’t fight and I won’t hurt you.” The hand over her mouth relaxed as the other squeezed and prodded her flesh. He sighed. She gathered all the strength she could and jerked her head to one side. Her mouth came free and she screamed. She continued screaming as she turned, wrenching herself out of his grip. She kicked out and made contact. She could see him, black hair, white face, red eyes full of lust and surprise. He snarled and pain exploded in her face. She screamed again.
White light washed the alley, and for a moment Eliza thought she was passing out. Or perhaps he’d killed her and she was approaching the gates of…whatever lay beyond. A car engine revved and the headlights were stronger, brighter. “I’m calling 911!” a woman shouted into the night. The man stepped backward. He held his hands in front of his face, trying to block the light. He looked at Eliza. She reached for his face, fighting to ignore the pain in her own face. She’d scratch his eyes out if she had to. She’d kill him, if she could. Pain exploded in her belly, then he turned and ran. He jumped over the garbage bags and dashed down a side alley. Her legs collapsed and she was falling.
Chapter Eight
Molly Smith wiped barbeque sauce off her chin. Her napkin was so saturated it was useless. She reached for another.
“Enjoying those?” Adam Tocek asked.
“Yum, yum, good.” A chicken graveyard lay on the plate in front of her. She scooped up the last wing and ripped at the tender meat with her teeth.
He sipped his beer. He was having nachos. Wednesday night wings and nachos, when schedules permitted, had become one of their routines. Now that they were engaged and living together, Smith thought it important to keep the romance alive. Not easy for anyone these days, particularly not when both partners were police officers, and Adam, the RCMP dog-handler for the district, could be called out just about any time. And often was. More than once Smith had had to find her own way home. Tocek’s schedule had its advantages, though: she was rarely asked to be the couple’s designated driver, as he always held himself to one beer.
“This a private party or can anyone join?” Dawn Solway stood behind Tocek’s chair. She was in uniform and carried a glass of ice water.
“Take a seat,” Smith said. “Doing the rounds?”
“Yeah.” Solway snagged an empty
chair and pulled it up to their table. “Dave and Jeff are on the road. Lucky buggers.” She subtly shifted her Kevlar vest. “I think I might melt if it doesn’t cool down soon.” She gulped water. Tonight it would be Solway’s job to walk the streets and alleys and pop in and out of the bars. On a night like tonight, heat and humidity lingering after a scorching day, the air-conditioned patrol cars were popular spots.
Summer in Trafalgar was a busy time. This was a tourist town, but far off the well-travelled route between Vancouver and the Rocky Mountains used by bus companies. Most of the tourists who came here were young people, looking for mountain air and views, backcountry hiking and kayaking in summer, some of the world’s best skiing in winter. The sort that liked to burn off excess energy when they emerged from a week in the wilderness.
At the table next to them, six women stood up all at once. They headed for the door, calling out goodnights. Solway grinned. “Thank heavens for athletic middle-aged women.” She made a great display of checking her watch. “Almost nine o’clock. Time for them to be heading to bed.”
Tocek laughed and dug through his pile of nachos, searching for more salsa.
Solway leaned over. Smith did likewise. “Ellie Carmine called the station. Walt Desmond’s staying there.”
“Any trouble?” Tocek asked.
“No. She just wanted us to know.”
“Bad business,” Smith said.
“I can’t imagine why the hell he’s come back,” Tocek said. “Does he really think people are ready to forgive him?”
“Whyever not?” Smith asked. “He didn’t do it.”
Tocek snorted. “Some big-city lawyers on a mission found that the investigating officers had stretched the truth a bit. Things were more…shall we say…flexible, back then. They knew they had their man. They simply helped the proof along.”
“You can’t be serious,” Smith said. “They lied in court. They hid a witness from the defense. They denied the guy a fair trial.”