by Vicki Delany
“I don’t think he did it. The man was having an affair with the wife of a prominent businessman. An affair that you yourself told me was common knowledge. Probably to everyone but the husband and wife of the participants. I’ll bet he did have a lot to think about.”
Smith flicked the door opener of the van and the inside lights came on. She glanced at Winters. His face was tight and drawn. “I’ve made mistakes,” he said, “more than a few. But unless Doctor Tyler won an Academy Award that he’s keeping secret, he isn’t that good an actor. When we spoke to him earlier, he didn’t seem to have a clue what we were there for. Said he hadn’t heard of the Montgomery killing.” He fastened his seatbelt. “I’m not dismissing him as a suspect, but I see no reason to drag him, and what’ll probably be an excellent criminal lawyer, down to the station. Not yet anyway. Call in and find out what Tyler drives, Molly. That fancy new Merc, I’m guessing. I’ll send someone up to Eagle Point later to ask if any of the dog walkers saw him there last night.”
A group of barefooted, dreadlocked, tie-dyed-T-shirt-wearing young men and women had gathered in front of Big Eddie’s Coffee and Bagel Emporium at the corner of Elm and George streets. A man squatted on the pavement, pounding on a home-made drum clenched between his splayed knees; a tall, lithe woman shook a tambourine, her hair moving with the rhythm. Two people of indeterminate gender swayed to the music, and a white dog looked very bored.
Winters rubbed his eyes.
“You okay?” Smith asked, not sure whether she should appear to have noticed. She didn’t know what her relationship with Winters was, and was afraid of making a misstep. Winters, she suspected, liked to work alone.
“Just tired. It’s been a long day, and it’s nowhere near over yet. I need to talk to the gentlemen Clemmins and Montgomery had dinner with last night. Highly unlikely that Clemmins would use business acquaintances as a fake alibi, but no stone unturned, eh?”
He gave her a weak smile, but the cloud behind his eyes didn’t go away. He turned his face toward the window.
□□□
For the nineteenth time in the past twenty minutes, Lucky Smith looked out her kitchen window.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” Michael said with a chuckle. “Calm down, Lucky. You told them seven thirty. It’s not even quarter past.”
“Don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s not as if we haven’t spoken to the press before.” She turned from the window. They were sitting around her scrubbed pine kitchen table, exchanging nervous glances. “Perhaps it’s because Barry isn’t here,” she said.
“Barry’s not coming?” Jane Reynolds said. “What’s happened?”
“He called me just before you got here. Marta was seeing him to the door, and she tripped over a dog toy and fell down the stairs. She might have sprained her ankle, so they’ve gone to the hospital.”
“Is it a problem? That Barry isn’t here?” Norma McGrath asked.
Several voices murmured. They were ten, and Lucky’s kitchen table was large enough to accommodate all of them with room to spare.
Lucky said nothing. It was Barry who’d left an arm in Vietnam. Barry who gave their group the gravitas it needed in the face of the media. Jane had a half-century of activity in the peace movement, but age was quickly overtaking her, and she looked and sounded too much like someone’s dotty grandmother. Joe had escaped the draft, but he was so tongue-tied that the press didn’t bother with him. Michael never talked about his past, and Lucky didn’t quite know why he was here. She hadn’t told Andy the press were coming to interview the group—he would have just told her to let it go. Tonight, it was up to Lucky Smith to make their case. Vehicle lights washed across the driveway. She swallowed a glass of wine in one quick gulp.
□□□
It was long after midnight when Winters dropped Smith off. They’d spent the night moving between the alley south of Front Street and Eagle Point Bluffs, looking for someone who’d seen either a disturbance behind the bakery or Dr. Tyler brooding alone in his car.
No one they spoke to had been in the alley at the time in question. The restaurant staff was kept under such tight control, by a chef so tempestuous that he’d been fired from Food TV that they didn’t dare so much as to take a breathing break. The dog walkers had all been either early or late yesterday. On Thursday night, the alley behind Alphonse’s Bakery might well have been on the far side of the moon as far as the good citizens of Trafalgar were concerned.
At the park overlooking the lights of the town far below and the black shapes of the mountains all around, courting couples had been busy with their own interests—watching the stars twinkle overhead, apparently.
All in all, it had been a fruitless night. But Smith did allow herself to get her hopes up, just a smidgen, that she was making some headway with Sergeant Winters, proving to be a good detective. Or, at least, a competent detective’s assistant.
Her mom was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in the loose tank top and cotton shorts she wore as pajamas. Her head was cradled in her hands, and her shoulders shook.
Smith fell to her knees and grabbed Lucky’s hands. They were as cold as the snow on Koola Glacier. “Dad,” Smith said, “where’s Dad?”
“The hell I know.” Lucky lifted her head. Tears ran down her face. “Did you see it?”
“See what?”
“The program.”
“Help me here, Mom. I don’t know what program you’re talking about. I was working, not watching TV.”
“He set us up, Moonlight. Like lambs to the slaughter. And Meredith Morgenstern sprinkled bread crumbs to show him the way.”
“Mom, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who set who up, and what does Meredith have to do with anything?”
Lucky pointed to the door leading out of the kitchen. “Go watch. I taped it. It’s bad, Moonlight. I’ve been a fool.”
Smith scrambled for the small TV in the family room that was older than she. A tape was in the VCR player. She rewound it for a few seconds and pressed play. “Good night from Rich Ashcroft, in Trafalgar, Canada.” A commercial for a North American car began—the car, and the ad, indistinguishable from every other. Smith rewound the tape for about fifteen minutes’ worth.
She watched in increasing horror. The last portion of Fifth Column with Rich Ashcroft featured the town of Trafalgar.
Which, the viewer was told, was the scene of a brutal murder. A still shot of Montgomery throwing a fishing line into a river appeared on the screen as the narrator talked about Montgomery’s love for the Mid-Kootenays. The camera pulled back to reveal Ellie Montgomery holding her husband’s photograph. She was beautifully made up, her blouse a match to the solid black of her perfectly arranged hair. “My husband,” she said, wiping away a tear, “said it wasn’t right that a small group of people should be allowed to tie Trafalgar to the past.” She lifted a pure white handkerchief to her eyes. “He believed in looking to the future, Reginald did. Always.” It was the first bit of emotion the widow had displayed over her husband’s death. The coroner told Winters that Ellie identified the body with as much feeling as if she’d been picking out a steak for supper.
Lucky Smith was photographed from below in poor light. All dark shadows, wild grey hair, wrinkles, hooded eyes. Normally, Lucky talked in compound sentences, thoughtful pauses, deep ideas. The film was so chopped up she sounded like a lunatic. The other members of the committee weren’t treated much better: Norma McGrath said something about the importance of listening to spirit guides, and a man grimaced into the camera and shouted about the resurgence of fascism, while displaying bad teeth. Scenes of Trafalgar interspersed the interviews. Then a handsome, dark-haired man came onto the screen. The lights of the city twinkled in the background, and the Upper Kootenay River flowed toward the sea. “Here,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “in this bucolic community, on the banks of this peaceful river, are the sad remnants of men who abandoned their country in wartime. And now they want to build a me
morial to that shame. The city council’s doing all it can to stop it.”
Deputy Mayor Patterson popped up on the screen. She was at a barbeque lunch at a children’s summer camp. “The Peace Garden,” she said, accepting a hot dog from a smiling volunteer, “has to be stopped.” Several bites of the hot dog had disappeared between one half of her sentence and the other.
“They need,” Ashcroft said, his voice low and serious, his eyes intense, “your help.”
“Whoa—kay.” Smith flicked the video off. She turned to see her mother in the doorway. Lucky’s arms were wrapped tightly around her body, her face drawn. Tracks of tears ran down her cheeks.
“That is seriously bad stuff. Where’s Dad?”
“I. Do. Not. Know.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“His phone’s off. He might be out of town.”
“Did you leave him a message?”
“No.”
Smith dug her cell phone out of her pocket.
“What channel was that program on?”
“CNC.”
“CNC! Mom, what were you thinking? Anyone could have told you that they wouldn’t be at all fair. They’re so right wing, you can’t even see them from where you’re standing.” She punched in the number for her father. The tinned female voice of the operator came on immediately. Smith hung up.
“How was I supposed to know that? I’ve never watched it.”
“Didn’t anyone in your group tell you?”
“He implied that he was from Vancouver, and Meredith didn’t contradict him. Michael was a bit suspicious, but we were rushed into it. It’s all my fault; I insisted on going through with it. I assumed that any news program would present both sides.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“They didn’t interview anyone on the other side. He said tomorrow he’ll set up a meeting so that we can discuss the issue with the local businesspeople and veterans’ groups who’re opposed to the gardens.” Her voice fell. “Talk things over, agree to disagree. I’m guessing that won’t happen.”
“There is no agree to disagree in their world, Mom. There’s only their side and the bad guys.”
“How do you know this?”
“Graham watched CNC some of the time. He believed that you had to listen to what everyone was saying. I never had the stomach for it.”
Smith crossed the room, rested her chin on the top of Lucky’s head, and wrapped her arms around her mother. “Let’s go to bed, Mom. I’ve got to be ready at seven tomorrow.”
Lucky hugged her back. Her chest heaved. They stood for a few minutes, saying nothing. The windows were open and the scent of the warm night air filled the house. A cat howled.
“Never thought the day would come when I’d hug a person carrying a gun,” Lucky said, pulling herself out of the embrace. “Are you getting anywhere with finding who killed Reg?”
“You’ll have to read about it in the papers, Mom. Just like everyone else. All you can do is leave this. Don’t be writing letters of indignation to the network. That’ll play into their hands. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” Lucky looked up and almost smiled. “The program aired at ten o’clock Pacific time. Not many people would have been watching, and no one on the east coast. It’ll all blow over. Good night, dear.”
“Night, Mom.” Smith climbed the stairs. Lucky was such an optimist. This wouldn’t blow over. Not if Rich Ashcroft had anything to say about it—and he almost certainly did.
She pulled off her uniform, freed her toes from the heavy boots, locked her gun in the safe, ran a toothbrush over her teeth, and fell into bed. She felt like killing—Rich Ashcroft first, her dad second. Meredith Morgenstern would be a distant third.
When the phone rang at three o’clock, she reached for it instantly, her heart pounding. Dad. He hadn’t come home. In her job, she herself had made some unwelcome early-morning phone calls.
Instead of a solemn-voiced officer asking to speak to Mrs. Smith, it was Sergeant Winters. “Be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said. “We’ve got a situation.”
Chapter Thirteen
The building was a smoldering ruin. Firefighters were rolling up hoses and packing away their equipment when Smith and Winters arrived. Curious citizens had gathered across the street in an assortment of summer sleepwear. A police cruiser blocked entrance to the park, and Constable Dawn Solway stood beside it.
Winters had said nothing to Smith when he picked her up, thirteen minutes after his call. She hadn’t known if she should put on her uniform, so dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with running shoes on her feet, and her gun and badge tossed into a fanny pack. She hadn’t had time to braid her hair, just stuffed it into a clip as they drove. She’d been pleased to see her father’s car parked in their driveway.
A firefighter met them as they got out of Winters’ car.
The men shook hands and the firefighter nodded to Smith. “Joe Matthews,” he said. His helmet was tucked under his arm, and soot streaked across his face.
They walked toward the scene of the fire, the smell of smoke heavy in the air, wet grass soft underfoot. “I’ll bet my son’s university tuition that this was arson,” Matthews said. “Not the slightest attempt to hide it.”
“No one on the scene when you arrived?”
“Long gone. It was called in by a lady who lives across the street. She was up feeding her baby, looked out the window before settling it back to sleep, saw flames and called us.”
“Is it safe to poke around?”
“Long as you don’t go into the structure itself, and don’t pick anything up. Arson investigator’s been called.”
“Thanks.”
Matthews walked away, the orange stripes on his bunker gear glowing in the lights from police car and fire truck.
The building wasn’t more than seven or eight feet square. Charred gardening implements and workmen’s tools littered the blackened ground. Water soaked into Smith’s running shoes.
This property was owned by the town of Trafalgar, as much as some citizens might not want it. It had been left to the town in the will of Larry O’Reilly—the site of the proposed Commemorative Peace Garden.
“I haven’t heard of an arsonist active in this area, have you, Molly?”
“No.”
“Ineffectual building to want to burn to the ground.”
The fire truck drove away, its big tires digging trenches through the grass.
Across the street, people began to disperse.
“But symbolic,” Smith said.
“How so? It’s a garden shed. I have a bigger one in my back yard.”
“My mom has a draft of the plans.” Smith waved her arm. “This is where the fountain’s supposed to go. As there isn’t anything else to burn, I guess they figured this shed would have to do. The house is over that ridge. The garden was separated from the property immediately around the house, and left to the town.”
“You think this was a political act? Not a couple of drunk teenagers with nothing better to do?”
Smith shrugged. “Why else would you call me out?”
“Because I think this was a political act related to the Commemorative Peace Garden and the murder of Reginald Montgomery. What I’m wondering, though, is why it happened tonight. There hasn’t been any real trouble, criminal trouble, over the park. Just a lot of yelling and shouting at town council. Did the murder of Montgomery bring troublemakers out of the woodwork?”
Smith laughed without mirth. “That TV trash certainly didn’t help.” She felt something squish under her foot, and knew she’d stepped into a pile of dog dirt. Made nice and moist by water from the firefighters’ hoses.
“What TV trash?”
She rubbed her shoe on the grass. “CNC, the cable news channel, sent one of their most incendiary so-called journalists to town. They ran a piece earlier, totally one-sided. It said, if I remember correctly, that people opposed to the park need help.”
Winters blew out his cheeks. �
�They might have found it. You saw this show, Molly?”
“My mom taped it. It makes her look bad.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To your house. I want to see this program.”
As they walked across the lawn, a man stepped out from behind the cruiser. The end of his cigarette glowed in the dark. “I’m thinking that this isn’t a juvenile prank getting out of control,” the Chief Constable said.
“It might be,” Winters replied. “That sort of thing happens. But tonight? The day after the Montgomery murder? Have you seen the CNC program, Paul?”
“What program? I went to the movies with my wife. Some fool thing with women in long dresses and men bowing and scraping to everyone in sight.”
“Perhaps you should come with us. Molly’s about to give me a private showing. Will there be popcorn, Constable?”
She didn’t bother to reply.
The CC tossed his keys to Solway. She caught them in one hand, and looked pleased with herself. “Have someone take my car home,” he said.
□□□
“Hard to imagine it could be much worse,” Paul Keller said.
“Come to Trafalgar and help us create strife and mayhem. That’s pretty much what he’s saying,” Winters said.
They were in the Smith living room. Not only the Constable, the Sergeant, and the Chief Constable, but also Mr. and Mrs. Smith, who’d come downstairs at the sound of the door opening and boots hitting the floor. It was five o’clock and neither of them looked like they’d gotten a minute’s sleep. They gathered nightclothes around them and joined the police in the family room. The room was casual and comfortable, with wood-paneled walls, colorful furniture, and an overflowing bookcase. The coffee table was piled high with magazines and empty mugs, and cushions were scattered across the floor. Photographs decorated the walls. Winters studied Constable Smith growing up while Lucky gathered up the dishes, all the while apologizing for the mess. Many of the photos also featured a freckled red-headed boy, several years older than his sister, looking the dictionary-definition of mischievous. A golden retriever, thrilled to have company at this time of night, weaved itself around everyone’s feet.
