In the Shadow of the Glacier (7 page)

“You don’t say?”

“I say. The report’s covered in all sorts of disclaimers, but it’s a murder all right.”

Jenny, Joanie? reached out a thin pale arm and ran her long red nails across his chest. He slapped it away. Jeannie, that was her name.

“The mayor died couple weeks ago. He was the one pushing hard for the memorial. I did a quick bit of catching up before calling you and this guy, I’ve got his name right here, Reginald Montgomery, stepped in and tried to stop it. Bad for international relations he said.”

“By which he meant bad for business. How’d the mayor die?”

“Heart attack.”

“No need to dig into his death. But the other guy? Sounds promising. Pitch it to the bosses, and book me a flight to Trafalgar first thing tomorrow. Get on the phone to the reporter who put out the story. Small town, he’s gotta be impressed to have a call from CNC. Sound charming, will you?”

Rich’s assistant, Irene, was over sixty years old; she’d had a two-pack-a-day habit since she was sixteen. Her voice was so low and sexy that it, plus the mention of Cable News Corporation, would have any hick town reporter coming in his jeans. Irene laughed. “Aren’t I always charming? However, the name on the byline is Meredith. Sounds more like your style.”

“Call me with that flight info. I’ll be up.” Rich switched the phone off, and lay back into the pillows. He grabbed Jeannie’s arm. “Finish what you were doing,” he said.

□□□

John Winters wasn’t going to wait until morning to call the Chief Constable.

The taxi had dropped him at his car, still at the resort where he and Eliza had dinner, and he’d driven himself home. They lived outside of town, on a small road clinging to the side of the mountain. The forest grew thicker and the handful of houses dotting the road grew thinner as he drove. His house was the last before the wilderness closed in. A right bugger to get out of in winter, but Eliza loved the solitude and the view. The front porch and wide living room windows looked over the forest to the expanse of the Upper Kootenay River and the mountains beyond, cumulating in a glimpse of Koola, the glacier that loomed over Trafalgar.

Eliza was curled up in the king-size bed under a light summer sheet. The strap of her ivory satin nightgown had slipped down her arm. She smelled of Chanel No. 5. He kissed her on the cheek. She murmured sweet nothings and rolled over, and he went into the kitchen for something to eat and to make the call.

Eliza. It was a wonder she’d stayed with him all these years. In her late 40s, she was still beautiful enough to have her pick of men, yet she stuck with him. Their Vancouver friends had assumed that the move from the city to slow-paced, quiet Trafalgar was to make Eliza happy; more time for her husband to be home, a nice house in the mountains. In reality Eliza had loved their condo on False Creek, loved city life. But he couldn’t take it any more. Big-city politics, the sordid Downtown Eastside, filled with hopeless druggies, empty-eyed hookers, and wide-eyed child runaways. Sad lives of sad people for which no one gave a damn. It hadn’t been the death of yet another drug-addled teenaged whore or child runaway that had forced him to make up his mind, rather the mess he’d made of the investigation of the murder of a twelve-year-old from a wealthy, highly connected family.

Eliza no longer modeled for
Vogue
or
Harper’s Bazaar
, but she still made good money, enough to buy a small apartment in Vancouver where she could stay overnight if she had a shoot in the city. Not only had Eliza been a top model in her day, she was also blessed with the gift of acute financial know-how. Winters could have retired outright, had he wanted. He’d considered it, seriously. But he was a cop. And as hard as the job got sometimes, he wanted to be nothing but a cop.

They’d had packaged-microwaveable roast beef last night. Winters cut thick slices off the leftovers and slapped them between pieces of whole wheat bread. He didn’t spare the mustard. After taking a couple of bites, he punched in the Chief Constable’s number.

“Sorry to wake you, Paul,” he said to the low grumble.

“You find whoever got Montgomery, John?”

“Not yet, I’m sorry to say. It’s something else.”

“Go ahead.”

“Smith. I can’t work with her. I need someone with more experience. I’m sure she’s a competent beat cop, but for a detective, she’s just too green. Leaps to conclusions all over the place, offers her opinion where it isn’t wanted, speaks to civilians out of turn. She’ll be no good on an investigation until she learns a thing or two on the streets.”

“She’s been no help at all?”

“She does have some local knowledge which proved useful. But there must be more experienced constables who’ve been here for a while.”

“Are you sure you’re not mistaking enthusiasm for incompetence? You must remember what it was like to be young and eager.”

“I’m not that old.”

“You’re as old as me, John. And in this job, that’s old. If you think Molly’s not up to it, I’ll put her back on the street. But it’s only been a few hours. And I don’t have anyone else who’s truly local. This could turn out to be a political incident. And I don’t mean political in terms of the Trafalgar town council. International attention’s been focused on the peace garden. Why these old lefties have to cling to the past, I don’t know. The sixties ended forty years ago, time they got over it. Don’t get me wrong, I worked with Tom Maas for many years: he was a good man. I respected his commitment to this town, and I like to think he respected mine. But when he died, I’d hoped that would be the end of this stupid idea. And Montgomery looked like the man to lay the garden thing in its grave.”

Winters dug in the fridge for the milk carton. He shook it—empty. Eliza’s skill in the kitchen had never been one of the pillars of their marriage. “I understand that, Paul. But what’s this to do with Smith?”

“Molly’s mother is one of the leading forces behind the park. Everyone who has the slightest interest in seeing the Commemorative Peace Garden become a reality has passed through their house. Lucy Smith, a.k.a. Lucky, is also involved with a group opposed to the Grizzly Resort, Montgomery’s place. Lucky and her husband, Andy, own Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations, which happens to be located a couple of doors down from where Montgomery met his death.”

With milk out of the picture, orange juice would have to do. Winters drank it straight from the carton. “You want Smith to spy on her parents?”

“Certainly not. She’ll be able to take you straight to the unofficial center of local politics, that’s all I’m saying.”

Winters eyed his half-finished sandwich. If he continued to insist that he didn’t want to work with Molly Smith, Paul Keller would replace her. But he was getting strong signals from the Chief Constable that he didn’t want that to happen. And despite Keller’s insistence that he wanted Smith involved because of her local knowledge, Winters wondered if he expected her to rat out her parents, if that became necessary. Smith was ambitious; was she that ambitious?

“Okay, I’ll give it another couple of days. Maybe I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow, and all of this political shit won’t matter. The wife might be worth looking at—I can’t see her doing the deed herself, but she has some proclivities that might lead somewhere.”

“That would be good, John. Close to home—a nice neat domestic incident.”

Winters’ finger moved to disconnect the call; the tinny voice called him back. “Sorry, Paul, I missed that.”

“Do whatever you can to keep media attention away. We haven’t had a murder here in more than twelve months. If this turns out to be a domestic, it won’t look as bad as a political.”

“I hear you.” Winters hung up. Small-town politics. Not much different than the big city, after all. Maybe a bit worse—after all, the stakes were so much smaller. He made a quick call to the voice mail of a friend from his days on the Vancouver PD to request a peek into the state of Montgomery’s business, finished his orange juice, and went to join his wife in bed. Perhaps she’d not be too deeply asleep and he could still salvage something out of their twenty-fifth anniversary.

□□□

Smith pulled off her uniform and put on jeans and a T-shirt. She’d love to take her Glock, go around to Charlie’s place and blast a few holes in his knees. That would keep him away from Christa, all right. Unfortunately, the Trafalgar City Police frowned on independent thinking of that sort.

She picked up the photograph sitting on her bedside table. Graham smiled at her, trapped forever in an organized scatter of colored dots. It had been taken on the beach at Tofino. The sky was dark—a storm moving in, fast. There was no color in the ocean. A wave reared up behind him. His smile was wide, his teeth white, his body young and full of life. They’d danced in the waves, laughed at the storm, held their arms out to the wind, and their mouths to the rain. They’d run back to the B&B and made love while the storm crashed all around them. When both weather and lovers were sated, they’d gone in search of crab chowder, whole wheat bread, good beer.

She blinked back a tear, returned the picture to its place, and ran downstairs. The light over the chair in the living room was switched off, the kitchen deserted.

She grabbed the keys to her mom’s car off the hook by the kitchen door.

Smith drove Lucky’s beaten-up old Pontiac Firefly. down the highway and crossed the long black bridge into town. Trafalgar was an old town; old for western Canada. Streetlights shone through the thick leaves of large walnut trees. The pavements were uneven, most of the houses were originals, many in ill repair. So many transients passed through town, and there wasn’t much in the way of apartments, that many of the historic houses at the foot of the mountain had been broken into flats. She pulled up in front of Christa’s building. A black cat sat on the steps of the house next door, its eyes yellow pools against the dark fur.

Smith knocked lightly, knowing that the neighbors could be nasty if disturbed. Her hand was still raised when the door opened, Christa peeking out from behind it.

The two women climbed a narrow staircase and made a sharp right into Christa’s flat.

Christa threw herself onto one of the two bean bags that, along with three milk crates, made up her living room furniture.

“You okay?” Smith asked.

“Why doesn’t he stop this? He has to know that he’s only making me mad at him. Even if I’d ever considered going out with him, I sure wouldn’t now.”

“He doesn’t know anything of the sort. He thinks he’s reminding you of his devotion. And that you’ll eventually come around to seeing things his way.”

Christa started to cry. Her face was so red and blotchy, it was obvious this wasn’t the night’s first crying jag. She shifted her right hip to pull an almost worn-through tissue from the pocket of her shorts.

“I’ll make tea,” Smith said. “Come sit at the table.” She held out her hand.

Christa took it and Smith pulled her friend to her feet. She wrapped the other woman in a fierce hug. When they separated Smith said, “My mom believes that tea holds the secret to the solution of all life’s problems. And you know my mom’s a wise woman.”

Christa cracked a smile. “I do. How are your folks anyway? I’ve been so busy I haven’t been over for a visit in a long time.”

“Not good, I fear.” Smith knew her way around this kitchen as well as her mother’s. She lit the gas on the stove and placed the kettle on the element. “I’m trying not to notice it, but they’re hardly talking to each other. Mom is so into this peace garden, it’s consuming her.”

“Lucky’s always been like that. You remember when the province removed funding from women’s second stage housing? I was surprised she didn’t have us all manning the barricades. Like in
Les Misérables
. And when that politician told her it was a financial decision? He was lucky to leave with his head on his shoulders.” Christa laughed. “There’s a loaf of bread from Alphonse’s in the cupboard, and cheese in the fridge. I can’t normally afford anything from there—four bucks for a loaf of bread, whew, but I needed a treat.”

Not the time, Smith thought, to remember Alphonse’s Bakery and the alley behind it. “It’s not just Mom rushing to the barricades, to use your analogy, and Dad supporting her. They’re on opposite sides on this one. He thinks the park’s a bad idea.”

“Are they fighting a lot?”

“No. And that isn’t good. They’ve always fought—they’re both so passionate about things—but now they’re hardly speaking. It’s creepy. Kinda like a horror movie when everything goes quiet and you know the monster’s about to crash through the walls.”

“Bummer.” Christa was an only child; her mother had died when she was in primary school, her father devastated by the death. She’d been unofficially raised by the Smith family.

Smith put the loaf onto the table, along with margarine and a pie-shaped wedge of brie. The kettle whistled, and she poured hot water into the brown tea pot with the broken handle. “It’s two a.m. and I’m not here to talk about my mom and dad. Spill, kid.”

Christa explained about taking the phone off the hook, the knocking on the door, the neighbor screaming at her.

Smith munched on bread and cheese. “If you just wanna talk, go ahead. But if you want my advice, you already have it.”

Christa stirred milk into her mug. “I have to get some work done or I’ll fail this course.”

Smith watched a fly trying to find its way out the window over the sink.

“Okay, I’ll make a complaint.”

Smith knew how hard this decision was for her: no matter how harshly life treated her, Christa always believed the best of people. “Charlie Bassing might look like a tough guy, but he’s a weasly no-account nerd beneath all that steroid-enhanced muscle. No point in calling right now, you’ll get night dispatch. Go down to the station tomorrow, that’ll be best. You want me to come with you?”

Christa nodded.