In the Shadow of the Glacier (14 page)

“That’d be okay, I guess.”

“You wanted to see me, Sarge.” Dave Evans’ head popped around the door.

Winters glanced at his watch. It was long past three and he was starving. “You went to the shops and homes on the alley this morning?”

“Yes.” Evans looked at Smith, sitting in the detectives’ office chair, her hat off, her hair mussed. His lips tightened with disapproval.

“I need to hear what you found out, but it’s long past lunch time. Have you eaten, Dave?”

Evans shook his head.

“Let’s go then.” Winters got to his feet. “We can pick up sandwiches on the way. Molly, get your hat. We might not be back.”

□□□

Smith drove and Evans sat shotgun. She found a parking spot in front of the sandwich shop that doubled as an Internet café, and Winters ran in. Smith and Evans looked out their respective windows, watching people on the street, not saying a word to each other. She knew he didn’t like her. He thought she was getting ahead because of reverse discrimination. She thought she was getting ahead because she was a hard worker, whereas Evans was lazy and flippant. He was the son and grandson of senior RCMP officers, but the Mounties hadn’t been hiring when he was looking, so he’d joined the Trafalgar City Police. He made sure that everyone, short of the Chief Constable, knew that he considered this job to be a stopgap on the way to something better. He looked like Dudley Doright, the stereotypical cop: tall, muscular, strong chinned, prominent cheekbones, clean shaven, short haired. Good-looking and he knew it.

The back door rattled as Winters pulled it aside and climbed in. He carried two brown paper bags, bulging under the weight. “My house, Molly. The only place in town where we can be sure of not being overheard.”

Winters hadn’t asked them what they liked in a sandwich, but when they settled around his kitchen table, and he unloaded the bag, Smith grinned with pleasure. Corned beef on rye. Pastrami on pumpernickel. Roast beef on a kaiser. Ham and Swiss on white. Turkey and cheddar on a baguette. Bags of potato chips and cans of pop accompanied the meal.

“My wife’s out of town for a few days,” Winters explained, pulling sections of paper towel off a roll beside the sink. “I have to fend for myself.”

He joined them at the table. “Tell me what you found out, Dave.”

“Not a lot. No one seems to have seen or heard anything. The lady who lives behind the bakery, Mrs.…” He put down his sandwich and pulled out his notebook. He flipped the pages. “Mrs. Morrison, had been in her garden around five. She washed up and went to her sister’s for the meeting of their bridge club. She got home around ten, and went straight to bed.”

“The restaurant?” Winters ripped open a plastic packet of mustard and applied it liberally to his pastrami sandwich.

“Not all the staff working last night were there when I dropped in at lunch time. The head cook said he went out for a smoke around six thirty. Didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and after that everyone says they were too busy to even look out the window. I don’t buy that.”

“I sure do,” Smith laughed. She swallowed a hunk of her sandwich as well as her words at the expression on Evans’ face. “A busy restaurant is a busy restaurant. Once dinner service starts they don’t have time to go to the can much less take a peek out the window.”

“You know this, do you,” Evans said, barely disguising a sneer.

“I waited tables when I was a student.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge.”

She wanted to slap him. Or, if not that, at least slap the sandwich out of his hand.

“What about the rest of the businesses?” Winters said. “Come on, Dave, that’s a busy alley, and there was a bit of daylight left before nine.”

Evans shrugged. “The bakery closes at six, the bookstore at seven. Everyone says they were gone a few minutes after. The convenience store was open at the time we’re interested in, but you know that. The same guy, the Chinese fellow who was there last night, swears that he didn’t go out the back and heard nothing until the police arrived. At Mid-Kootenay Adventures,” Evans looked at Smith, “Mr. Smith closed at eight, stayed for a while to rearrange stock, but didn’t hear anything. The same story, up and down the alley.” He studied the pop selection with care, before grabbing a Coke.

“Have a bag of chips, Molly,” Winters said. “My wife finds them and I’ll be done for.”

“Thanks.” Smith licked mustard off her fingertips, wondering, not for the first time, why middle-aged men couldn’t take responsibility for their own health. Her father was just as bad. His weaknesses were frozen sausage rolls and pizza pockets. He’d been known to devour entire packages at one time. Lucky kept watch over the freezer and guarded against sausage rolls as she might a cockroach.

Smith folded up her sandwich wrappings and grabbed a bag of salt and vinegar chips. While she tore the bag open, her mind pulled up a map of the alley behind Front Street. “What about Rosemary’s?”

“Who?” Evans said.

“Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen. It’s just off Elm, between the bookstore and Mid-Kootenay Adventures. Did you talk to Rosemary? She works all hours of the day and night. Before and after the shop’s closed, Rosemary’s usually there cooking.”

Evans shrugged. “The girl behind the counter,” he checked his notebook, “Emily Wilson, said she left at eight, soon as they closed. Rosemary locks up.” He tilted his head back, and sucked at the last drops of his drink.

“So where,” Winters turned from the trash can, where he’d been about to deposit the sandwich wrappings and chip packets, “is this Rosemary person?”

Evans crushed the can in his right hand. “Gone to Kelowna to visit friends. It’s the busy season so she won’t be gone for more than a day, Emily said.”

“She left when?” Winters’ voice was low. Evans sorted through the remaining chip packets.

“This morning. She did enough cooking to last the day, told Emily to look after the store, and said she’ll be back tonight. Nice girl, Emily, pleased to be left in charge.”

“You didn’t think we need to talk to Rosemary?”

“I got a description of her from Emily. She’s a middle-age widow. You know what they’re like, Sarge. If she’d seen anything she’d be in a lather to report it.”

Smith considered hitting Evans over the head with her truncheon. Instead she watched Winters. He didn’t appear to have been all that impressed at Evans’ suggestion that he would know what middle-aged women were like. By the way he spoke of her, Smith guessed that Winters was a man very much in love with a wife of many years. Sort of like she’d imagined her own parents marriage to be—until recently.

“Why,” Winters asked casually, “would she be in a lather, as you put it?”

“Enjoying the excitement, of course. Nothing better to make you the center of attention than finding a murder victim on your doorstep. What?”

“Find Rosemary…what’s her last name, Molly?”

“Fitzgerald.”

“Find Rosemary Fitzgerald, Dave. Your friend Emily should have a number for her. I want a report of what she has to say before five.”

“If she’d seen something, she’d have told us….”

Smith’s cell phone rang, and she turned away from the table to answer. It was the station.

“Smith.”

“Molly, there’s a young lady here. Says you were supposed to meet her.”

She’d forgotten Christa. Smith glanced at Winters. He was looking at her, one eyebrow raised. “I’ll be right there, Jim.”

“What’s up?”

“I have to get back to the station. A woman’s come in to make a complaint about a stalker and she wants to speak to me.”

“We’re ready. I want to pay another visit to the dentist. His wife’s failure to provide him with an alibi puts him firmly in the frame. Meanwhile, Constable Evans, you’ll be making a phone call, am I right?”

Evans mumbled something.

“Go back to the restaurant at six to question the dinner shift,” Winters said. “And in the meantime, you might pay another visit to some of the shops and houses backing onto that alley. Middle-aged women can be highly observant, I’ve found.”

Chapter Eleven

Rich wanted lunch. Meredith suggested a French place in the center of town. From what he’d seen of Trafalgar, Rich figured that everything was in the center of town. They walked a few blocks from the paper, past George’s Diner, which looked like somewhere locals went for a reasonably priced home-cooked breakfast or lunch, to Feuilles de Menthe
,
a perfect tourist trap. He’d asked Meredith to take him somewhere that would give him a feel for the town. Plop this place down in New York, and he’d get a good feel for Manhattan.

At three thirty, the patio was almost empty. The waiter escorted them to a table for four in a back corner.

“Nice,” Rich said. The restaurant was located on the town’s main street. The patio jutted out into the street, cutting off a section of parking. Windowboxes overflowing with petunias and variegated ivy spilled down the freshly painted white picket fence enclosing the patio. Vehicles moved slowly and the sidewalks were heavy with foot traffic. Sunlight and small boats played on the blue water. The mountains surrounded the town in every direction, making it feel as if they were sitting in the bottom of a wide-bottomed, green and blue pasta bowl.

Two young women walked by, long straight hair parted in the middle, hanging loosely down their backs. Brightly patterned skirts flowed around their ankles. Their sandals were thick and practical.

“Haven’t seen outfits like that since the Sixties,” Rich said.

“This is Trafalgar.”

The waiter arrived with the menus. “Hey, Merry,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”

“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please,” she replied, obviously mortified at having been recognized by what was probably some nerd from her high-school days.

“Ice water.” Rich studied the menu. “One thing I’ll say for the surrender monkeys, they know how to cook.”

“The what?”

“The French. This is a French place, right?” The printed menu was large and ostentatious, the selection small and select.

“The chef’s from Los Angeles. The paper did a spread on him when he arrived.”

“I’m going to have the paté followed by lamb shanks.” He closed the menu. “Order what you want, the company’s paying.”

Rich’s phone rang. He pulled it out, said a few words and snapped it shut. “That was Greg, my cameraman. He’ll be landing in an hour. He’ll grab a car and meet us at my hotel. Plenty of time to meet up and head out to the Smith place for the interview.”

A dark van pulled to a stop in the line of cars waiting for the lights at the corner to change. The driver wore a cop’s uniform, but she was one pretty girl. Two men, one in uniform, were with her. She half raised her hand in greeting to Meredith. The light changed and she drove away.

“Let me guess,” Rich said. “That was Smith.”

“Wow. How’d you know that?”

“Observation and experience.”

His paté arrived, pink and plump, served with browned toast points.

“I have to ask.” Meredith glanced around to ensure no one was listening, before taking a hearty swig of her wine. “You sort of suggested to Lucky Smith that you were local. Like from the Kootenays.”

Rich coated toast with paté and took a bite. Liquid velvet spread across his tongue. “That was to make her more comfortable. Trust me on this, Meredith. CNC has such an enormous audience that people, not the elite political types who crave the attention, but salt-of-the earth folks such as Mrs. Smith, get scared at the idea of such exposure. I find it works better to gradually lead them to understand what a wide audience they’ll be getting from me.”

“I guess,” she said. But she drew out the last word in such a way that he knew she wasn’t totally convinced. Her glass was already empty. A sign of nerves. Rich snapped his fingers to attract the waiter’s attention, and ordered another.

“It’s like this, Meredith. You go running in there, thrusting the CNC logo in their face, and people draw back. Heck, once upon a time I’d have been afraid of CNC too. How would you feel if you were just a common-and-garden housewife about to be featured on a program like
Fifth Column
?”

“Intimidated.”

“Right. Mrs. Smith and her friends would be intimidated if I told them straight out that I’m with CNC. I decided to ease into it, introduce my cameraman, explain that we want to capture their story so all of America can understand. She’ll be much more relaxed that way. I’m sure you’ve found, Meredith, that a comfortable interview goes so much better, not only for the benefit of the interviewer but for the subject. And that comfort transfers itself to the audience. What business are we in, Meredith?”

“What?”

“You and me. What’s our business?”

“Reporting?”

“The truth is our business. Our job is to dig until we arrive at the truth. And then we continue with our job to ensure that the American citizen is informed of the truth. The truth, the true story. There is no higher calling.” Sometimes Rich Ashcroft impressed himself with his rhetoric. He’d go into politics if it didn’t pay so badly.

“I guess. But this is Canada.”

Okay, that was a mistake. Easy to rectify. “The average Canadian’s included in that, of course. I meant all the citizens of the world.”

Meredith leaned back to allow the waiter to put their plates on the table. “I hadn’t looked at it that way. It’s great working with you, Rich. I’m learning so much already.”

“Will you look at that,” Rich said. A man with a sarong wrapped around his waist passed them. His feet were bare, he carried a guitar, and his head bobbed to music that no one else could hear.