by Vicki Delany
They headed back to the highway. They only drove as far as another old logging road Jack knew led to nowhere. They’d brought shovels and dug a good, deep grave. Only one time had Jack turned his back. He’d faced into the woods to have a whiz. It must have been then Doug took the picture. They finished burying the man and left.
He studied the picture of Arlene.
He slipped the photo carefully back into the case it had been in all these years, finished his drink, called the dogs and went inside. Time for bed.
Chapter Forty-four
“I’m surprised your mom’s going ahead with the barbeque,” Adam Tocek said.
“She insists she’s okay,” Smith said. “You know Mom. Doesn’t like to make a fuss.”
Following the attack on Wednesday evening, Lucky had been rushed to the hospital where the doctor had pronounced her injuries as superficial. Walt Desmond had given her attacker such a punch to the jaw the man had been knocked unconscious, but he revived as the police burst through the door of Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. The man had been identified as Richard James Anderson, wanted for previous assaults on Eliza Winters and Darlene Michaels.
It had been nine o’clock on a pleasant summer’s evening when police cars and ambulances poured down Front Street under full lights and sirens. A crowd gathered rapidly and word spread even more rapidly. Meredith Morgenstern had been having dinner in a restaurant when her phone rang with the news, and she’d immediately abandoned her friends and her bowl of half-eaten pasta. She arrived at the store in time to get a photograph of Walter Desmond getting into a police car. Into the front seat. The next day’s Gazette had featured the picture under a banner headline, “Hero of the Day!” A smaller headline read, “Arrest Made In Brutal Assaults.” There was no shortage of headlines in that day’s paper. Another shouted “Desmond INNOCENT!: Keller.”
The next day, Meredith attempted to interview Walt, but the police refused to tell her where she could find him. He’d missed his bus, and had asked to be dropped back at the Mountain View, but Paul Keller insisted on putting him up for the night at the Hudson House Hotel and paying his fare for a flight to Vancouver in the morning.
Tocek turned off the winding forest road onto the long driveway that led to Lucky’s house. The driveway was lined with cars. “There seem to be a lot of people around,” Smith said. “I thought Mom said just a few friends. Hey.” She spotted an SUV with Alberta plates. “I think that’s Sam’s car. I didn’t know they were coming. I hope he brought the kids. That looks like Rosemary’s catering truck. Mom must really be feeling the results of Wednesday, if she’s got someone else making the food.”
“Natural enough,” Tocek said. Norman woofed in agreement. Adam squeezed his truck between a gleaming white Lexus and an ancient van that seemed to be held together only by rust and prayer. Sylvester, Lucky’s golden retriever, ran around the corner of the house to welcome them. He and Norman exchanged greetings in true dog fashion and then he allowed Smith to give him a pat.
More cars were pulling into the driveway. Smith glanced at the single bottle of wine in her hand. “I’m thinking I should have brought more.”
“Sounds like the party’s already started,” Tocek said. “You go ahead. I’m going to put Norman back in the truck until I see who’s here.”
She joined the stream of people heading around the house, toward the chatter of conversation in the backyard. Everyone wore shorts and tee-shirts or light summer dresses, and most of them carried bottles of wine or six-packs of beer.
When she rounded the house Smith stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh. My. God.” Tocek came up behind her and laughed.
About fifty chairs, covered in white fabric tied with long yellow ribbons blowing in the soft breeze, were laid out on the lawn in neat rows. A small arbor, decorated in masses of yellow and white roses intertwined with fresh greenery, was set up on the banks of the river. Long tables, covered in white cloths, rimmed the lawn. One of the tables was full of sparking crystal flutes and the others had stacks of plates, cutlery, and napkins. Rosemary and Merrill, assisted by several young people in black shirts and trousers under white aprons were placing bottles of champagne into wine coolers.
Paul Keller spotted them and waved. Unlike all the guests here today he was dressed more formally than Molly had ever seen him in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and gray-and-yellow-striped tie. A perfect yellow rose pierced his lapel. His smile was enormous.
“If I didn’t know better,” Tocek put out his hand, “I’d think we’ve accidently stumbled on a wedding.” If anything, Keller’s smile only grew as the two men shook hands.
Smith said nothing. She was too stunned.
Keller handed Tocek a rose. “You’re a groomsman. Pin this to your shirt.” John and Eliza Winters came over. Eliza’s bruises were almost gone, and she was fresh and summery in white capris, a loosely flowing teal blue shirt with turquoise jewelry, and delicate blue sandals. Her husband had a rose pinned to his golf shirt and looked about as confused as Smith and Tocek.
“Your mom’s inside,” Keller said to Smith. “She told me to send you in.”
“What? I mean…”
“She’ll explain. Adam, John, I think the bar’s ready to open. No shop talk allowed today, except I thought you’d want to know that Jeff Glendenning’s put in for early retirement. I approved it last night.”
“Just as well,” Winters said.
Smith picked her way across the lawn. It took a long time to get to the house as everyone she passed wanted to say how surprised and delighted they were. She saw a number of people from the office, including Barb Kowalski and Dawn Solway. She waved to Keller’s son Matt and Matt’s girlfriend, Tracey, and recognized Keller’s daughter, Cheryl, from the photo on his desk. She climbed onto the deck, where her childhood friend Christa chatted to a frail, elderly woman in a wheelchair. Hugs were exchanged all around. “Jane, you look wonderful.”
“I do not,” Jane Reynolds, one of Lucky’s closest friends, said. “But you do, dear.” Jane’s eyes flicked to where Adam chatted with Keller and Winters. “Perhaps I’ll be invited to another wedding soon?”
Smith just smiled.
“And how is dear Dave Evans?”
“He’s good.” Years ago, when Evans and Smith had been probationary constables, Dave had saved Jane from a fire-bomb. Perhaps for that reason alone, Smith hadn’t reported his harassment of Walt Desmond.
“Did you know about this, Christa?” she asked.
The other woman laughed. “Not a clue. I can’t believe your mom was able to arrange all this without anyone getting wind of it.”
“Aunt Molly’s here. Aunt Molly’s here.” Roberta just about knocked her down the minute she walked into the mud room. Smith bent down and gave the girl a hug. “Nice to see you too, kiddo. Where’s your grandma?”
“Living room,” Lucky called.
It was the third day after the attack. Lucky’s bruises were at their finest. Her face was a mass of yellow, black, and purple and her left eye was swollen, but her smile was huge and radiant. She held out her arms when her daughter came into the room. Lucky wore a knee-length cream dress trimmed with yellow lace under a matching jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves. Yellow roses and baby’s breath were twisted into her hair. She looked absolutely spectacular.
Smith stepped into her mom’s arms. They held each other for a long time. When they separated, both women’s eyes were wet.
“I’m a flower girl, Aunt Molly,” Roberta said. “And you’re a bridesmaid. You have flowers, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lucky grinned. “It all sort of got away from us. The plan was for a simple ceremony followed by a barbeque for the family and a few friends. But I realized that I don’t have a few friends. I have a lot of good, close friends. And then there’s the people from Paul’s work and his children. We wanted a
nice, lovely celebration with all our friends around us, but we didn’t want gifts we don’t need or people making a fuss with showers and stag nights and all the rest. Are you okay with this, dear?”
“Mom, I am beyond happy for you. Truly, I am. Although,” she studied her mother’s face, “your wedding pictures are going to look a mite odd.”
Lucky laughed. “And that will be something for my great-grandchildren to talk about, won’t it?”
Epilogue
Walter Desmond sat on the Stanley Park sea wall and watched people. Walkers, runners, skaters, bikers. Some faces were impassive, revealing nothing of the person within, some were crunched in concentration and effort, maybe even pain, and many were full of the sheer joy of being beside the ocean on a sunny day.
He’d been to the aquarium earlier and then bought an ice cream cone to eat while he walked. What joy the day had been.
In prison every day was the same; the view was the same; the people, whether inmates or guards, were, if not the same, of the same sort. Day after day after day, as the years passed.
A few feet from him a child crashed her bike into the wall. She tumbled to the ground and began to cry. A man, dressed in tight jogging shorts and a yellow spandex shirt, ran up to her. He checked her over, made cooing noises, and then righted the bike. “No harm done, sweetie. Let’s go, Mom’s waiting.” Fear and tears forgotten, the girl hopped onto the bike and pedaled away. The man saw Walt watching and gave him a rueful grin that seemed to say, “Kids. You know how it is?” before jogging after his daughter.
No, Walt didn’t know how it was. But that didn’t matter. He was happy just sitting here.
The Trafalgar Gazette, which had been ready to see him strung up from a lamppost only a few days ago, had called him a hero. He was, of course, no more a hero than he was the monster everyone had earlier believed him to be. He’d wanted to say good-bye to Lucky Smith and thank her for her kindness, and he’d arrived at the right moment to be able to help her.
He’d been taken down to the police station, in the front seat of the cruiser, and put in a pleasant room with nice furniture, a pretty painting on the wall, silk flowers, and even a box of tissues. The detective with red hair and freckles and a Mexican name had been very polite with his questions. He didn’t ask about Walt’s motives, or question his integrity; he only wanted to know exactly what had happened when Walt arrived at Lucky’s store. No more and no less.
The police chief had arrived later, and Walt had been surprised when he’d offered to pay Walt’s expenses out of his own pocket. Only later had he learned that the chief was Lucky Smith’s partner. A patrol car dropped him at the nicest hotel in Trafalgar, and a taxi was arranged to take him to the Castlegar airport in the morning for a flight to Vancouver.
Chief Keller had called him in the morning, before he went downstairs to meet the taxi. “Thought you’d want to know that the guy who was arrested last night had read about you in the paper. He thought he’d be very clever and throw suspicion onto you with the attack on the woman at the B&B and later on Mrs. Smith because of her known…uh… friendship with some members of the Trafalgar police. He wasn’t, so he says, aware that Mrs. Winters was an officer’s wife at the time of that attack.”
“Thanks, Chief. For everything.”
“Good-bye, Walt.”
The first thing Walt had done on getting to Vancouver was buy himself a cell phone. It seemed as though everyone had one these days. Now, he took it out of his pocket, along with a scrap of paper. A seagull swooped in from the water, heading for a family group enjoying a picnic on the grass. The father jumped up and chased the bird away with much yelling and waving of hands. Walt studied the phone for a long time. Then he unfolded the paper and punched numbers into the tiny keypad that seemed too small for his fingers.
The phone rang several times. This was a bad idea. He was about to hang up when a soft voice said, “Hello?”
“Carolanne. It’s Walt.”
“Walt,” she said with a contented sigh. “Oh, Walt.”
More from this Author
For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:
www.poisonedpenpress.com/Vicki-Delany
Contact Us
To receive a free catalog of Poisoned Pen Press titles, please provide your name, address and email address through one of the following ways:
Phone: 1-800-421-3976
Facsimile: 1-480-949-1707
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.poisonedpenpress.com
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave. Ste 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251