Winter of Secrets (2 page)

Dave Evans didn’t like her much. Which was fine with her, as she didn’t like him either. But for some reason she felt she’d been stuck in the role of representing all female police officers whereas the fact that Evans was an arrogant, swaggering jerk reflected only upon himself.

She stopped worrying about Dave Evans and looked across the faces of the watchers. In the middle of the crowd, she saw someone she wouldn’t have expected to see out on Christmas Eve. Meredith Morgenstern: ace reporter of the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
. Meredith was pretty much
persona non grata
with the City Police these days. Over the summer she’d interfered in an investigation with potentially disastrous consequences. Rumor ran wild that she was going to be fired because of it, but somehow she hung onto her job.

Meredith was dressed as if she’d left a party, which she might well have done if she’d gotten a call from a
Gazette
staffer bored enough to spend his holiday evening listening in on the police radio. Sparkling in black fur and diamonds, she might have arrived in the back seat of a Russian troika pulled by matching stallions. Fake fur and fake diamonds, doubtless, but they looked good against her white skin, thick black hair, and large dark eyes.

Catching Smith watching her, Meredith turned away. There would be no exchange of seasonal greetings here.

While Evans impressed the young women in the crowd earlier by directing Fire to the scene (or pretending to direct—they needed no help), Smith had taken the report of the driver of the other vehicle.

Now that his car was safely off the road, and someone had tossed a warm blanket around his shoulders, he’d recovered his wits and could talk about what had happened. He was heading west, he told her, going home after the holiday dinner at his parents’ house, took the big bend in the road and was turning north up Elm, driving carefully because the visibility was, in his words, like sticking your head into a snow bank and opening your eyes, when a yellow SUV came down the hill. Moving fast, really fast. Probably too fast even for normal conditions.

Snowplows had been out all night, but they couldn’t keep up with the fall and the roads were thick with drifting snow. There wasn’t enough room for two cars to pass comfortably. He wrenched his wheel in an attempt to get out of the way of the approaching car, skidded on a patch of ice or packed snow, and headed straight off the road where he, luckily, made a soft landing into a snow bank. It was likely that the yellow car had also swerved, trying to miss him, and, losing control on the slick road, failed to make the turn. It had been moving so fast it sailed over the bank only to come to a halt when it met rocks and ice and water.

“Hey, Molly, Merry Christmas.” The deep voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Constable Adam Tocek, RCMP, stood in front of them, smiling.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, suddenly feeling warm. “But not, I’m afraid, for them.” She nodded toward the river, where the firefighters had attached the cable to the yellow SUV. It was slowly, very slowly, being dragged toward shore. Two people in dry suits walked beside it. “Yellow submarine. Hey, forget I said that. It was callous.”

“No problem. Dave, how’s things?”

“Okay,” Evans said. “What brings you out?”

“Norman’s in the truck,” the Mountie said, “in case he’s needed.” Tocek was the RCMP dog handler for the district. Norman, he of the unlikely dog name, was Tocek’s bushy-tailed partner. “When they reported that no one had been seen to get out of the vehicle, I got a call. People are washed away sometimes. Alive or dead. Seat belts undone, car window smashed. Washed down river to end up stuck in the branch of a tree.”

“And a dog can find them?” Evans asked.

“It’s happened.”

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Smith nodded to her cup. “They gave me this, but I don’t want it.”

“Sure. Thanks.” He took the drink with another smile.

“Better check what’s happening,” Evans said, heading for the fire truck.

“You do that,” Smith said to the retreating back. “Oops, sorry. Something else I shouldn’t have said.”

“Not a problem. We’ve all had partners we didn’t care for. Why I like working with dogs—never met a dog I didn’t like.”

He was good looking, Constable Adam Tocek. He loomed over the five-foot-eight Smith, and his uniform shirt probably came in size XXXL, just to fit across the chest and around the upper arms. His hair was dark, and cut very short. All of which would have made her dismiss him as a professional tough-guy, were it not for the warmth in his brown eyes that reminded her of Sylvester, her mother’s dog, and the soft smile that he seemed to have whenever he was talking to her.

“I hear,” he said, “congratulations are in order.”

Her face burned, even as snow fell against it. “Thanks.” She’d passed. There’d been times over the last year when she’d been so sure she couldn’t cut it she’d found herself surprised to realize she made it out of her probationary period. She was now a Constable Third Class with the Trafalgar City Police. Chief Constable Paul Keller had called her into his office, shook her by the hand, and told her he’d notified payroll to move her up a grade.

Bands had not played. Fireworks had not gone off. A giant banner had not been strung across Front Street announcing the good news. Barb Kowalski, the Chief’s admin assistant, congratulated her, but no one else said a word.

She hadn’t told her parents or her best friend, Christa.

She was now a “real” police officer.

“After that business in the summer, at the resort,” Tocek began, staring at his feet and making patterns in the snow with the toe of his boot, “I didn’t get a chance to say…”

“Coroner,” Smith said, nodding toward a tall man who’d stepped into the light. “You think they found anyone?” She dropped her voice. “Alive I mean?”

“No.”

“I’d better start trying to move people away. They’ll be bringing the vehicle out, and if the coroner’s here…well, we know what he’s here for. It’s tough, seeing dead people brought up, when you’ve been hoping for a miracle. Particularly on Christmas morning. See you, Adam. Give Norman a scratch for me.”

“Sure, Molly. I’ll do that.”

Constable Smith waded into the crowd. She felt Adam Tocek’s brown eyes on her back.

She didn’t turn around.

***

After the car in the river, things began to slow down. The bars were all closed, so there was nothing to do on that front. The storm continued, unabated, but by one o’clock most everyone was off the roads, helped by the early closing of the bars, and there were no more vehicular incidents.

“I think the convenience store on Aspen is still open,” Evans said, as they were heading back to the office. “I feel like a chocolate bar. Want one?”

All she wanted was a bathroom.

“No, thanks.”

A figure passed by the truck, as indistinct in the swirling snow and black night as a cloaked Sherlock Holmes moving under fog and gaslight. But Smith recognized the walk, which leaned slightly to the left. The result of a childhood injury, apparently an accident, but the parents had been too drunk to take the girl to the hospital until several days had passed.

Smith hopped out of the truck. “Hey, Lorraine, wait up a sec.”

The girl turned. A sneer settled over her face when she saw who was calling, but she waited for Smith to catch up.

“What are you doing out?” Foolish question. Lorraine LeBlanc, sixteen years old, daughter of the town’s number one drunks, went where she wanted, when she wanted. It wasn’t as if anyone cared.

“Fuck off, will ya,” was the girl’s customary greeting.

“It’s sure cold,” Smith said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the wind blow like this. Have you?”

Lorraine shrugged. She let down her guard, just a fraction. “It’s pretty bad. They say someone went into the river. And didn’t come out.”

Even on Christmas morning the town grapevine was working.

No one had come out. If by that one meant no one alive, Lorraine was right. The car had been hauled out of the frozen river. Smith had cleared the onlookers while Evans held up a blanket to shield the coroner from public view. The coroner had leaned into the car, done what he had to do, and pronounced them dead. Two young males, looking to be in their early or mid twenties, faces as white as the falling snow, lips blue. They were both clean shaven, with short hair. Smith and Evans had looked at the cold faces and discreetly shaken their heads at each other. No one either of them recognized. The men had been removed from the vehicle and zipped into body bags on waiting stretchers. The ambulance headed up the hill, toward the hospital, not bothering to switch on the siren. The remnants of the crowd watched in respectful silence.

“What are you doing here, Lorraine?” Smith waved her arms in the air. “The town’s shut down. Everyone’s gone home. The bars and restaurants are all closed. Even the dealers have left.”

“I’m not looking for a dealer, Molly.”

“I didn’t mean you were. I just meant there’s nothing happening here. It’s Christmas morning. Hey, I’ve an idea.” She spoke before she thought. “I’m off shift soon, heading home. Why don’t you come with me? I mean it’s just me, my place, but warm and quiet. I’ll pull out the couch to make up a bed.”

Lorraine’s upper lip twisted. “As if,” she said, “I’d go anywhere with a dyke cop. I value my reputation, you know.”

“It’s not like that.” And it wasn’t. Molly Smith had a BA in Social Work from the University of Victoria. She’d been about to get her MSW when she’d dropped out and, after a year of aimless wandering, applied to the Trafalgar City Police.

Police and social workers sometimes stood on opposite sides of the fence. And, as if she didn’t have enough problems, Molly Smith occasionally found herself straddling said fence.

“I have a boyfriend, Molly. A nice guy, okay? I’m going to his place now.” Lorraine’s make-up was thickly applied, dripping in the snow melting off her hair. She wore a proper winter coat, although one elbow and a seam in the right shoulder were patched with duct tape. Her boots were good, but they looked too big for the girl’s small feet. Probably from the Salvation Army. Her scarf was full of holes, but at least it protected her neck. “We’re gonna have a real Christmas,” she said. “With presents and a tree and everything.”

“That sounds good.” And it did. Too bad the boyfriend couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pick Lorraine up and escort her to this Christmas wonderland. Although, Smith had to admit, Lorraine LeBlanc had good reasons to keep a prospective beau well away from her family.

Particularly as Mom and Dad were spending the night in the drunk tank.

“The sidewalks are icy, Lorraine. Watch your footing.”

“I’ve been out after dark before.”

“Night, Lorraine.”

“Hey, Molly.”

“Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas, eh?”

“Same to you, Lorraine. Same to you.”

Evans came out of the shop, ripping the packaging off an Oh Henry. He stood beside Smith, watching Lorraine slipping on the icy streets. “What’d that slut want?”

“Come on, Dave, give the kid a break. You know what her life’s like. Dawn hauled Mom and Dad off to the cells tonight. Nice family Christmas.”

“Tough. But she’s still a cheap slut.”

Chapter Three

“He’s not here, and I don’t know where he is. There’s nothing unusual in that. He likes to play at keeping people waiting for him.” Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth looked the girl standing in the doorway up and down, not trying particularly hard to hide a sneer. No matter: the stupid girl didn’t seem to know an insult when one scored a direct hit on her butt.

The girl’s lanky hair and the shoulders of her second-hand coat were covered in snow. She was making a puddle on the mat at the front door.

“You might as well go home,” Wendy said. “If, and I mean if, he comes in, I’ll tell him to call you.”

“But…I don’t…I mean, he promised. He said he’d call before he came to pick me up. He didn’t, so I came over anyway. I figured his cell phone ran out of juice.” Her voice trailed off.

“My brother promises a lot of things. To a lot of people. Sorry to disappoint you, kid, but he doesn’t believe promises are worth fuck all.” What she said was true, and Wendy wasn’t too bothered by the tears that welled up in the girl’s eyes, or the way her chin quivered.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Carmine helped the visitor divest herself of her coat. “I’m sure the young men will be back soon. In the meantime, I’ve prepared a lovely meal. You’re welcome to join us, dear.”

Whatever.
Wendy went back to the common room. Where, she had to admit,
lovely
was the appropriate word. A fire roared in the fireplace, spreading warmth and light. It was only gas, but was a good imitation of a real wood fire. The Balsam Fir in the corner was green and tall and fat, brimming with delicate ornaments and colored lights. The side tables held wooden decorations, small and lovingly carved, of a manger scene, an Alpine village in winter, and Santa’s workshop. Nine big red stockings, names painted on them in bright glitter, crowded the mantle above the fireplace.

The interloper gasped at the sight. She stepped toward the mantle and reached out her hand, stopping just short of touching the stocking with her name. “It’s beautiful.” Her voice cracked.

Wendy rolled her eyes.

“I made one for you, Lorraine,” Mrs. Carmine said with a big smile. She was short and fat, her hair gray and badly cut, her eyes small and dark like a rat’s. She wore a red velour tracksuit covered with a white apron decorated with gingerbread people. Except for the eyes, she looked exactly as one might imagine Mrs. Claus.

Mrs. C, as she insisted her guests call her, had gone all out to create the perfect Christmas setting.

It would be hard not to enjoy it.

Wendy was not enjoying it. They’d accepted Mrs. C’s suggestion—okay, her quiet bullying—to have a traditional Christmas Eve in the common room. But Jason had left hours ago, and hadn’t come back, and no one had seen Ewan since yesterday.

“We’re going to get old waiting for them,” Sophie said. “It’s long after midnight. Hi, Laurie.”

“Lorraine.”

They’d flown in from Ontario and Quebec. A group of friends getting together for a ski vacation in British Columbia. A cozy B&B in Trafalgar. Days on the slopes, nights in the bars. Christmas cheer and New Year’s revelry.

It had all gone wrong, almost immediately.
Although that shouldn’t have been any sort of a surprise
,
Wendy thought
.
She shouldn’t have come. These were her brother Jason’s friends, and she didn’t like any of them. Now Jason had taken off, leaving her to celebrate Christmas with his university buddies. And the awkward local girl he’d collected like a dog collects fleas—a wide-eyed child who was anything but innocent.

God fucking bless us, every one.

Wendy threw herself onto the couch. “Jason’ll be here soon. I don’t want to open our presents without him. It was his idea to have our party tonight, so we could hit the slopes first thing tomorrow.”

“Get real, Wendy,” Jeremy said. “Jason found something more interesting than us, and he’s snuggled up in someone’s bed getting his private Christmas present.”

“He wouldn’t,” Lorraine said. Light from the fire reflected off her washed-out blue eyes. “He invited me to come. For his away-from-family-Christmas, he said. He wouldn’t forget that.”

Wendy pulled out her phone, one more time, and dialed Jason’s cell. Again, it went to voice mail. Maybe he had run out of juice, like Lorraine said.
But that didn’t explain why he wasn’t here. He had to know she was waiting for him.

“You can sulk all you want.” Alan said. He switched his smile to “on” like the actor he was and turned it full force onto Mrs. C. “I’m in the mood for Christmas. And speaking of something better, I’ll bet there’s something here for me.”

The landlady laughed. “You have to wait, just one minute. Kathy, help me in the kitchen. You stay right there, Sophie,” she said to the girl who’d only leaned over to nuzzle the back of Alan’s neck. “I don’t need any help.”

Mrs. Carmine and Kathy, her daughter, returned moments later, carrying trays precariously balanced with glasses of pale yellow eggnog, platters of sliced shortbread, mince tarts, cheese and crackers.

“I have something to add to that.” Alan ran up the stairs and was back a moment later, clutching a bottle of Champagne. Being Alan it was the real stuff—
Moët et Chandon
.

“Nice,” Jeremy took the bottle from him. Sophie, Alan’s girlfriend, ran toward the tree. “You have to open mine first. You must.”

Alan swept Sophie up as she passed. “Let me get you some Champagne first.”

Everyone jumped as the cork popped out of the bottle. With a big grin, Jeremy held it high. Wendy was still looking at Alan and she saw the cloud flash across his handsome face. He’d wanted to do the ceremonial opening, to continue being the center of attention, but Jeremy had upstaged him. Alan never liked to be upstaged.

Rob and Kathy held the glasses while Jeremy poured the drinks into an assortment of champagne flutes, beer mugs, and wine glasses. Kathy beamed at Rob who seemed impervious to her charms, modest as they might be. Alan threw himself into an armchair, smile fixed in place. Lorraine accepted her drink with wide eyes and brought the glass slowly to her lips.

Pearls before swine
.

When everyone was served, Mrs. C clapped her hands in delight. “Presents, presents. We must have presents.”

Alan opened his gift from Sophie. Good, reliable ski gloves, just shy of being top notch.

Like Sophie herself, solid, respectable, but most definitely not the best.

Wendy sipped at her champagne and watched the rest of them opening their gifts, enjoying the refreshments, laughing and flirting.

Lorraine sat alone on the edge of the sofa, clinging to her glass. If she were a nice person, Wendy would feel sorry for the girl. Thinking she was in love with a good looking guy from a good family and a great university with a highly-promising future, who’d do nothing but screw her and wave bye-bye out the car window as he left town.

But she wasn’t a nice person, and so Wendy didn’t bother herself to care about pathetic little Lorraine.

“There must be a present for our Lorraine,” Mrs. C said, having trouble getting her lips around the words. Wendy suspected she’d been into the Champagne already. Alan had a secret store in his room, and he always knew how to butter up the hired help.

“I’ll have my Christmas at home in the morning,” Lorraine said, “with Mom and Dad, of course. There’ll be plenty of presents.” Her eyes slid to one side, and Wendy knew she was lying.

“Nevertheless there must be something for you under our tree.”

Kathy, Mrs. C’s daughter, another precocious teenager you might as well crush under your shoe as you would a cockroach, rolled her eyes. “As if,” she muttered.

Jeremy laughed.

“Keep digging, Kathy,” Mrs. C said. No sugar was left in her voice.

And sure enough Kathy came up with a small box. She handed it to Lorraine.

The girl hesitated before taking it, looking as if she’d bolt. Then she accepted the box and rubbed her fingers, nails bitten to the quick, across it. “It’s so beautiful.” She pulled at the ribbon, all the colors of the rainbow, and then at the paper.

“Who’s it from?” Sophie asked.

“Jason, of course.” Lorraine’s eyes shone. “See, it says right here on the label. To Lorraine, Merry Christmas, from Jason.”

“What’s in it?” Sophie again, sounding as if she were actually excited.

Lorraine opened the blue box. She gasped, and they all, Wendy included, leaned forward.

Gold earrings. Small, perfectly round hoops.

“How lovely.” Wendy reached out her hand. Lorraine hesitated, but Wendy kept her hand in place, and Lorraine reluctantly put the box into it.

Gold. Pure gold.

***

The hour hand of the clock in the lunch room approached three.

Evans leaned back in his chair and stretched. Like Smith, he’d taken off his coat and Kevlar vest. “I’m going to Emily’s soon as I’m off. She made something she calls a late supper and told me she’s looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas together.”

How nice of you to let me know you have food and sex in your immediate future.

Smith herself would stagger home and go to bed where she’d eventually wake to welcome Christmas day alone. All alone. As every Christmas since…

Enough. Adam Tocek had asked her on a hiking date in the summer, and she’d made a feeble excuse not to go. Undeterred, he was still sending her loud and clear signals. She’d chosen to ignore them, and that was her choice.

It was still too soon.

The hands of the clock touched three. Evans grabbed his coat.

“Say Merry Christmas to Emily for me.” Smith got to her feet.

He was in such a rush to get out the door and off to his girlfriend’s place he didn’t hear her.

“Have a nice screw,” Smith muttered.

“What’s that, Molly?” Ingrid, the night dispatcher, asked.

“I was wishing Constable Evans the complements of the season.”

“My aunt Fanny.”

“Night, Ingrid.”

“Night, Molly.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“As there is no lottery draw on Christmas Day, that will probably be the case.”

The radio spat to life. Smith listened as Ingrid answered. 911. House fire. Christmas tree in flames.

“Forty-two, forty-two,” Ingrid said. Solway answered and Ingrid gave her the details.

“This has been one miserable Christmas Eve,” Smith said. “But at least it’s over.”

“Maybe not.”

“Hold on, I’m going home.”

“Halton called back.” The dead men in the car pulled out of the river were both carrying wallets containing Ontario licenses. The driver, Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth, was from Oakville, and Ingrid had called the regional police to request they contact the address on his license. The yellow SUV had been a local rental.

“They went to Wyatt-Yarmouth’s address,” Ingrid said. “Merry Christmas. Your brother/son/husband/father/friend/life-long enemy’s bought the farm. Don’t let us spoil your turkey dinner. Night. Couldn’t possibly be our Jason, the parents said, as he’s in Trafalgar, B.C., skiing. He’s staying at the Glacier Chalet B&B with his sister and a group of friends.”

“Tough.”

“You got that right, Molly. Tough enough for the sister to hear the news straight off. Not to sit up all Christmas Eve wondering where her brother is.”

“Come on, Ingrid. Tough stuff happens all the time. Why are you laying this on me?”

The dispatcher pulled a tissue out of the box beside the screen monitoring the cells. Tonight’s only guests of the city were Jake and Felicia LeBlanc. The town drunks. They’d been at a party and had gotten into a screaming and hitting match on their way home. In a breach of seasonal spirit they were not sharing a family cell.

Ingrid wiped at her eyes. “I hate Christmas, okay. My sister, my big sister who I adored, died on Christmas day. Cancer. I was twelve and she was sixteen. My parents wouldn’t take me to the hospital to see her one last time. Didn’t want to spoil my Christmas.”

“Gee, Ingrid. I’m sorry.”

“You tell anyone that, Smith, and you’ll be answering every domestic we get for the next year.” Ingrid blew her nose. She was in her late fifties, with short hair the color of a rusty battleship, and hard eyes. Smith didn’t know anything about Ingrid’s background. Other than over the radio, they’d never exchanged more than five words at a time.

“Why don’t the parents phone the sister? This isn’t news that should come from a stranger.”

Ingrid threw up her hands. “I don’t know. They asked us to send someone around to inform the group in person.”

“Ingrid…”

“Dawn’s gone to the fire. Might be there a long time if they have trouble controlling it. Caldwell’s at an OD. Found a nice package of white power while he was there.”

“Send the Mounties.”

“Molly.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll pop round. Not as if I have anything to do Christmas morning anyway.”

***

Try as she might to remain aloof, Wendy found herself forgetting her troubles and falling into the spirit of things. Presents were opened, snacks eaten, champagne drunk, more champagne drunk. The presents the friends gave each other were frivolous stuff: chocolates, bath salts, silly puzzles, costume jewelry.

Alan gave Sophie a barely-there peach nightgown. Sophie turned red and covered her face with the thin fabric while Mrs. Carmine broke into giggles. Their landlady had definitely had too much Champagne.

Mrs. C’s gift to Kathy was a set of flannel pajamas, and Kathy gave her mother an electric kettle.

Lorraine clutched the tiny blue box that was her present and watched the festivities with a gentle smile on her face.

Wendy refused to open her gift from Jason without him present.

As they hadn’t seen Ewan since yesterday, and everyone assumed he’d found more hospitable accommodations, they opened the gifts from him.

Finally there were only a handful of wrapped presents under the tree. Gifts to Jason and Ewan, and Wendy’s from her brother.

“Something must be wrong,” Lorraine said, staring at the small pile of gifts. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Because he doesn’t wanna be,” Wendy said. She took the last piece of shortbread. Homemade, packed with so much butter it melted in her mouth.