In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  The window looked out onto George Street. Sunlight and dust mites performed a waltz in the air. Smith pulled up a chair and logged onto a computer, thinking about Winters’ interview with her mother. Time was, she’d heard, Lucky Smith wouldn’t have given a police officer the time of day. But Lucky had mellowed with the years, and the times, as her hair lost its fiery red and her face settled into lines of responsibility, and Molly Smith was sure, well, as sure as she could be, that her mother would do what she could to answer Sergeant Winters’ questions.

  She called the Vancouver Police, identified herself, and asked to be put through to Inspector Rose Benoit. A surprisingly strong New York accent answered on voice mail. Smith left her message and disconnected.

  Christa. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she’d forgotten. Again. She dialed Christa’s cell. The phone rang four times before it was answered.

  “Mol, is that you?”

  “Sorry I missed you, Chris, but I got called away. I hoped you’d wait for me,” Smith lied.

  “I understand you’re busy. What with such an important job and all. But so am I, you know. I can’t hang around waiting for you all day. I have to get back to my essay. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever done. I’ll send it to you when it’s finished and you or your mom can check it over before I submit it.”

  “Come back. I’m here, at the station, and we’ll get the restraining order started.”

  “No, thanks Molly, but I’ve heard that restraining orders are useless anyway. Ideas are filling my head, and I have to get them down before they decide that I’m not interested in them and fly away.”

  “Chris, please. Let us help.”

  “You know what I’m going to treat myself to? Butter chicken with dhal and rice. Just the thing for an all-nighter, finishing up that essay. Look for it in your inbox tomorrow, Mol.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Chris, and if I could tie you up and stuff you in the back of the cruiser and drag you here, I would. But as I can’t, enjoy your dinner. Call me if you need anything.”

  “You’ll be there, right, Mol? Like you were an hour ago when that fat cop told me you’d left and he didn’t know when you’d be back.”

  “That’s not fair.” But Smith knew that it was perfectly fair. She’d failed Christa. Again. “I was out on a call.”

  “A more important call than me. Hey, I understand. I still expect you to edit my paper. Bye.”

  The dial tone rang in Smith’s ear.

  □□□

  At first glance Lucky Smith looked nothing like her daughter. The Smith Winters knew was tall, slender, a pale blue-eyed blond. The mother was short and plump. Her curly red hair, as fluid as a river in flood, crossed by streams of gray, flowed every which way around her head. Green eyes, a cluster of freckles spilling across the bridge of her nose. But when he looked again, the resemblance was there. The high cheekbones, the firm set of the chin, the shape of the eyes.

  Winters had identified himself to a young man lounging behind the cash register, flicking through a mountain biking magazine. The boy was darkly tanned, short brown hair streaked from the sun. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy surfer shorts. His eyes widened; he dropped the magazine and lifted up his hands. “Hey, man,” he said. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Duncan. Duncan Weaver. I work here. I was out on the river with a tour. Just got back.”

  The boy was so nervous, he probably had a stash of marijuana in his back pocket. Not Winters’ concern. “I’m looking for Mrs. Smith.”

  Weaver let out a sigh that would have filled a child’s birthday balloon. “You’re here about the murder, right? I already spoke to the cop who came around asking about it. I was wondering why you’ve come, that’s all.”

  “Is Mrs. Smith in?”

  “She’s in the back. How come Molly didn’t come?”

  “Who?”

  “Molly Smith, you know her, right? I was thinking that Molly’d be the one to come in and ask us questions. She’s the beat cop around here, you see.”

  “Yes, I see. Mrs. Smith?”

  The bell over the door tinkled. A man headed for a display of water bottles.

  “If you see Molly, can you tell her to drop in? I don’t know anything about that killing, but if she lets me play with her handcuffs, I’ll make something up.”

  Winters looked at him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  The boy shrugged. “Can’t you understand a joke, man? Lucky’s office’s through that door.” He pointed. “Knock first.”

  Winters knocked.

  Lucky’s desk was piled so high with papers that the whole mess threatened to tumble onto the floor. John Winters was almost psychopathic in his hatred of paper. He had to keep his own desk in perfect order or he’d break into a panic. When he was a rookie Vancouver cop, he’d had a situation: a man who hated heights so much that when he somehow found himself on Capilano suspension bridge, he’d tried to throw himself off, simply to get the terror over with. Looking at Lucky Smith’s desk, Winters understood what the man had been going through.

  “I don’t know if I can help you,” Mrs. Smith said, after offering her visitor a chair. Winters tore his eyes away from the mess of papers. “Dave Evans was here earlier. I told him I left shortly after four yesterday, long before closing.”

  “Mr. Montgomery was known to be opposed to the Commemorative Peace Garden, to which, I’ve been given to understand, you’re a prominent advocate.”

  “Did my daughter tell you that?”

  “It seems to be common knowledge.”

  “No reason for it not to be. I want to see the park become a reality. Tom was about to sign the papers. But he died, and the town council said they wanted to reassess the situation. Cowards, all of them.” Lucky’s eyes burned with green fire. “I won’t pretend that I liked Reginald Montgomery. Foul man. Comes out of nowhere, and tries to tell people who’ve lived here most of our lives how to run our town. His horrid resort was bad enough, but then he decided that the peace garden would be an impediment to investment.”

  “You’re pleased at Mr. Montgomery’s death, then, Mrs. Smith?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’d have been pleased if he’d taken his foolish project and gone home. I am not pleased when a man dies prematurely.” She gathered stray tentacles from the back of her neck and stuffed them into the clip holding her hair in place. “No one calls me Mrs. Smith. I’m Lucky. Or Lucy, if you prefer to be more formal, John.” She picked a piece of paper off the desk and waved it in front of her face.

  Winters hid a smile. The room was cool, the windows shaded, a large fan spinning in the corner. Younger officers might take Lucky’s sudden rise in temperature as a sign of a woman with something to hide, but he knew she was having a hot flash. Although Eliza was several years younger than Lucky, she’d begun to suffer from them. They got worse, she told him, under stress of any sort: difficulty screwing a light bulb in would have her drenched in sweat.

  Not for the first time, he thanked his stars that he hadn’t been born female.

  “You know everyone involved in planning the peace garden,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I do. And I can assure you that we’re not going to bump anyone off to achieve our objective.”

  “Pardon me, Lucky, but I think we both know that there are people in many situations who will go to almost any length to get what they think’s right.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I’m ready to believe you’d do everything possible to promote the park you so obviously care about. Within the bounds of the law. Am I right?”

  Now it was Lucky’s turn to try to hide a smile. “Not entirely, John. The bounds of the law as defined by a bunch of white men in suits don’t mean too much to me. But the bounds of morality and living together in what we call civilization do.”

  “Do you know anyone who’d step outside those bounds, Lucky, to stop Montgomery?”
>
  “Will this heat never end? You’ve been honest with me, John. So I’ll be honest with you. In my own circle of citizens, those opposed to the Grizzly Resort and those in favor of the Commemorative Peace Garden, and they’re pretty much one and the same, I’d be astonished if anyone committed an act of physical violence against people opposed to our aims.”

  Winters settled back into the uncomfortable chair facing Lucky Smith’s cluttered desk. This woman knew how to choose her words.

  “And people outside of your circle of citizens?”

  She grinned. She was attractive, in an earth mother sort of way, her hair un-dyed, her face un-made up, her nails chewed to the quick. Clothes chosen for comfort rather than style. “I’m not going to accuse anyone, nor am I going to name names based on rumor and conjecture.”

  “Which tells me that rumor and conjecture have something to say.”

  “Trafalgar is a strange town. It attracts a lot of strange people. There probably are people in town who’d consider killing Mr. Montgomery over his resort, although maybe not over the peace garden. Most of the people who favor the garden are aging hippies like me, long past days of violent resistance. Even some of the men Larry O’Reilly wanted his garden to honor, men like my husband, men who had the courage to abandon all for their values rather than be sucked into the war machine, want to let it go. Let the past be past, they say.

  “Environmental issues, however, may be another matter. I’ll admit that some people might be prepared to go to extremes.”

  “You know these people?”

  “I know of them. I know of a lot of people, including those who claim they’ve been abducted by space aliens.”

  As a boy, Winters had been considered a good chess player, usually beating his dad and Uncle Joe, and most of the members of the high school chess club. But when he’d joined the club at University he soon dropped out: he couldn’t begin to outthink the people he was expected to compete against.

  Talking with Lucky Smith gave him the same feeling.

  “If you think you know someone who might have killed Reginald Montgomery in a dispute over his resort, you need to tell me. I’m not looking to railroad anyone.”

  “Fortunately for you, John, whether or not I believe you is irrelevant. My daughter’s assisting in this investigation?”

  Winters nodded.

  “I believe in Moonlight’s integrity,” she said.

  Winters felt himself veering off track. Was this competent, intelligent, skillful woman about to turn airy-fairy on him? “Please don’t tell me that your astrology readings have advised you to cooperate, Lucky. The light of the moon has nothing to do with any of this.”

  The edges of her mouth turned up. “My daughter’s name is Moonlight. As I may have mentioned, I’m an aging hippie. When she was born, the light of the moon outside my window shone on freshly fallen snow. She was so fair, as if reflecting the scene outside. Do you have any children, John?”

  “No.”

  “A blessing and a curse, all at the same time. Two outsiders arrived in town a couple of months ago. Stuffed full of rhetoric about animal rights and the spirituality of the untouched wilderness. The sort who talk about the noble Native Canadian but have never bothered to actually meet one. They were quick to badmouth citizens’ groups, such as I belong to, as too arthritic to accomplish anything.” Lucky fanned the back of her neck. “There are people who believe in fighting for animals against people. I may not always disagree with them, but one can cross the line.”

  Winters said nothing.

  “You understand I’m making no accusations. Just chatting.”

  “Why are you not a lawyer?”

  Winters meant the question to be rhetorical. Lucky didn’t take it so. “Because I got pregnant with my son Samwise, and because Andy was on the run from the Selective Service and without government-sponsored child care and….”

  “Please, Lucky. The point.”

  “Kevin Sorensen and Robyn Goodhaugh. Very, very passionate animal rights types, although I suspect he’s just following her lead. Robyn’s been heard to say, or so I’ve been told, that the Grizzly Resort is equivalent to the opening of the earth down to hell. The Hellmouth, she calls it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Your mother told me your full name.”

  “Oh for God’s sake.” Smith slapped the steering wheel. She was trying to make her way through the world as a competent adult. A cop, no less. That god-awful name haunted her. “It’s completely embarrassing.”

  “I thought it was nice,” Winters said. “The exhausted, but thrilled, young mother looking out her window and seeing the light of the moon reflecting onto freshly fallen snow.”

  “Moonlight’s not so bad, I guess. But they had to follow it up by a ridiculous name from The Lord of the Rings.”

  She could tell by the look on his face that she shouldn’t have mentioned it. “My mom didn’t tell you my middle name, did she?”

  “No.” He was smiling now; it made him look almost likeable.

  “Legolas.” She practically spat out the word. “A fey elf. One of the Fellowship of the Ring. Utterly humiliating. In school one of the teachers suggested that I try out for the archery team. I considered showing her an arrow, all right.”

  Her parents had been Lord of the Rings fans back in the day. Smith’s brother Sam was a hotshot corporate lawyer in Calgary. She wondered if his blue-blood wife knew that his proper name was Samwise. When the Lord of the Rings movie came out a few years ago, Smith had been horrified to see that the actor playing the elf Legolas bore a strong resemblance to her. Tall, lean, thin face, high cheekbones, long, straight blond hair the texture of corn silk. She had not gone to see it.

  Sergeant Winters laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh, straight from the diaphragm. She felt a smile tug at her mouth.

  “We all have our crosses to bear, Molly. I had a classmate who gloried in the name Robin Hood. His parents should have been shot.”

  When they walked into the dentist’s waiting room, the wide-eyed receptionist buzzed the doctor without a word.

  All of two seconds passed before he made an appearance. The dental hygienist peeked out from a side room.

  “I’ll be making an official complaint about this harassment.” Dr. Tyler was puffed up and full of his own self-importance. Smith decided on the spot that he wasn’t guilty of the murder of Mr. Montgomery. If he were, surely he’d be a bit more ingratiating.

  “That is, of course, your privilege, Dr. Tyler,” Winters said. “But if it would make you more comfortable, we’ll continue this discussion down at the station.”

  Tyler deflated slightly. “I wouldn’t want to take up your time.” He turned on his receptionist. “Shouldn’t you be going home, Gloria? It’s past closing.”

  She yanked at a drawer in search of her handbag. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Pens, highlighters, markers, a stapler, packets of brightly colored Post-it notes, and a heavy-duty tampon spilled out. The hygienist laughed.

  Tyler spun around. “The office is closed,” he yelled. “If you repeat anything you heard here today, you’ll be fired, the both of you.”

  The women grabbed lunch bags and purses and scrambled for the door. Smith’s brother had once briefly dated Rachel, the hygienist. They exchanged glances, and Rachel tripped over a loose bit of linoleum.

  “Common gossips, both of them. It’s difficult to get competent help in this damned town,” Tyler said.

  Smith pulled her notebook out of the pocket at her thigh.

  Winters got to the point. “I spoke to your wife earlier.”

  Tyler threw himself into the receptionist’s chair. He didn’t offer his visitors a seat. “A boring conversation, I’m sure.” He spun the chair around in circles.

  “Don’t make too much fun of this, Doctor. Murder is a serious business.”

  Tyler studied his nails.

  “You told me,” Winters said, “that you were with Mrs. Montgomery until eight forty-fi
ve and then you went home.”

  “Which is what happened.”

  “Your wife says you didn’t get in until after ten.”

  He stopped spinning. “She’s mistaken.”

  “She seems sure. Do you agree, Constable Smith?”

  “Ten it was, sir. She was positive.”

  “Some evenings, when I’m not home, my wife enjoys more wine than perhaps she should.”

  “What did you do after leaving Mrs. Montgomery, Doctor?”

  The dentist stood up. He patted his comb-over and wiped his hand down the side of his trousers. He looked at Smith.

  “Dr. Tyler, can you answer the question?”.

  “Nothing. I did nothing. I went for a drive. I was emotionally unsettled.”

  “What caused you to become emotionally unsettled?”

  “Can’t you just accept that I went for a drive and got home around ten-ish?”

  “I can’t just accept anything. If you don’t tell me where you were between eight forty-five and ten o’clock last night, I will consider you a suspect in the murder of Reginald Montgomery.”

  Tyler blanched. “I drove up the mountain. It was a clear night. I like to look at the lights from Eagle Point Bluffs when I have things to think over. I sat in my car at the side of the road for a while.”

  “What were you thinking over?”

  Tyler shook his head. “Personal problems.”

  “Nothing’s personal, I’m afraid, in a homicide.”

  Tyler blew out a breath of air. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Not if it’s not relevant to the investigation.”

  “Molly?”

  “Get on with it, man.” Winters’ patience snapped like a rubber band loaded with a spitball. “Constable Smith is not here to collect gossip.”

  “I was considering asking Ellie to leave Reg and come with me. We have children, Ruth and I. It’s a big decision.”

  “If you have to leave town, Doctor, call the station and let us know. We wouldn’t want to have to try to locate you. We can find our way out.”

  “You’re not arresting him?” Smith asked as they walked to the van. A shiny grey Mercedes SUV was the only other car in the lot.