by Vicki Delany
Andy Smith was a tall, heavy-set man, muscle collapsing to fat. His cheeks were puffy, and his grey hair was interspersed with a scattering of remaining blond strands. Lucky, much shorter and darker, looked like his shadow. But the analogy wasn’t perfect. He was the washed-out one, his face stoic, revealing nothing, whereas she, without saying a word, radiated righteous indignation. She returned, wiping her hands on the seat of her housecoat, and started to offer her guests refreshments, but Paul told her no one wanted anything.
Constable Smith rewound the tape, and they took seats to watch the program.
“Trouble,” Paul Keller said, as Ashcroft’s show ended and an ad for deodorant began. “This’ll bring nothing but trouble.”
Andy Smith jumped up. “I don’t see how you could possibly have agreed to that, Lucky. I thought you had more sense.”
“Leave it, Dad,” Smith said. “You think Mom doesn’t know by now it wasn’t a good idea?”
“You don’t think anyone will watch it, do you?” Lucky smiled weakly at Keller, seeking confirmation.
“Probably not,” the Chief Constable said. “Don’t you worry, Lucky.” His face was flushed, and Winters wondered what on earth the man could be thinking. Of course the program would be seen. As far and wide as Ashcroft wanted it to be.
“Christ,” Andy said, “are you in dreamland? Molly smells of smoke. She’s brought her boss to our house at,” he checked his watch, “five o’clock in the morning to watch you make a fool of yourself, and you’re hoping no one will see it.”
“Whether anyone will or will not see that program,” Winters said, “is out of our control. Molly mentioned that she had a copy of the video at home, and I wanted to see it.”
“We were at an arson earlier,” Keller said. “No one harmed, fortunately. Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Smith.” He smiled at Lucky.
“You come out in the middle of the night to investigate every crime, Paul?” Andy snorted.
Lucky said, “I’m going to make tea. Anyone want some? Sergeant Winters?” She looked like hell. The circles under her eyes were dark and deep, the eyes themselves filled with the ghost of tears. She didn’t look any older than when he’d interviewed her this afternoon, but her air of good humor and enjoyment of verbal combat was gone.
“Another time, perhaps.”
“I for one am going to bed,” Andy said. “So should you, Molly.” He left the room.
Smith’s cheeks were pink, and her eyes threw thunderbolts at her father’s retreating back.
“Night, Molly, Lucky,” Keller said. “John, I left my car behind. You’ll have to take me home.”
Smith walked them to the door and stood watching as they climbed into the car. Before Winters switched on his lights, she was briefly lit from behind, standing in the doorway like a museum exhibit. Homo constableus in her natural environment. He backed out of the driveway.
“That program was bad, John, very bad.”
“I agree.”
“It’ll bring every troublemaker within a thousand miles to town.” Keller pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket. Winters considered telling him that no smoking was allowed, but decided against it. He and Keller went back a long way. But the man was still the Chief Constable. A lighter spat out a thin flame of red and yellow.
“I can’t see the connection between the show, the arson at the park, and Montgomery’s murder,” Winters said, as much to himself as to his boss. “Montgomery was openly opposed to the garden. The program was clearly on his side, and so, I’ll assume for now, was our arsonist. If someone killed Montgomery because of his opposition to the park, I’d expect them to make a statement about it.” The road back to Trafalgar was winding and treacherous. A cliff rose up on the right, and a sharp drop to the river was on his left. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of brilliant eyes reflecting his headlights. A scattering of house lights twinkled across the river.
“I’m thinking of calling in IHIT.”
Winters let out a breath. “I don’t think that’s necessary, not yet.”
The Integrated Homicide Investigation Team was an RCMP unit out of Surrey, prepared to help local forces throughout the Lower Mainland and the B.C. interior with murder cases.
“In the past, I’d have called them right away. But you were a homicide detective in Vancouver for a long time, John, so I figured you could handle it. Tell me why you don’t need them now.”
The undercarriage of the car clattered as they crossed the bridge into town. There was no other traffic. “Scene of the crime evidence isn’t telling us much. In fact, it isn’t telling us anything. The wife and her lover would be the obvious suspects, but she, contrary to what you saw on TV earlier, is so bored by her husband’s death, that I can’t imagine her getting fired up enough to have caused it. And her lover—he’s either the world’s greatest actor, or he’s innocent. Or a complete psycho—I’ve sent some feelers out to ask if he’s been brought to the attention of the police before, but so far nothing. The business partner is another possible suspect. His alibi is rock solid, but the killing might have been contracted. I won’t commit to that line until I’ve found out a bit more about their company, M&C Developments. If there’s particularly hefty partnership insurance involved, I’ll be notified. It could be a random thing—a druggie coming across a well-dressed man in a dark alley. But you know better than I do, that’s never happened in Trafalgar.”
“There’s always a first time.”
The Chief Constable’s home was new, a sprawling bungalow, situated high on the hillside. Far below, yellow lights outlined the bridge and danced on the black waters of the river.
“So what are we left with?”
“Lucky told me that a couple of radical environmental types are in town, aiming to put a stop to the Grizzly Resort. Some of those environmental activists can be ruthless.”
Keller puffed on his cigar. “I’ll tell the Yellow Stripes that we have the matter well in hand.” Winters grinned at his boss’ use of the not-always-polite nickname for the RCMP, derived from the color of the stripe on their uniform pants. Keller pulled the unused ashtray open and ground out the half-finished cigar. “Karen’ll have my hide if I bring that into the house. Look into the resort, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. The situation seems to be all tangled up with this damned peace garden, but my gut tells me the resort’s where you’ll find the answer, John. I don’t see that bunch of old hippies killing anyone over their garden. She’s a good person, Lucky Smith. If she was the slightest bit suspicious that someone would kill to stop her beloved park, she’d tell us. I tell you that in the strictest of confidence, John, as Lucky and I’ve been at loggerheads more than a few times over the years. I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall the day Molly told her parents that she was joining the Trafalgar City Police.” He opened the door, and the interior lights came on.
“How’s she doing anyway, Molly?”
“A bit more self-control and she might make a detective one day.”
The Chief Constable and Lucky may have been at loggerheads, but Keller couldn’t hide the fondness in his voice when he spoke of her. He chuckled as he stepped out of the car. “Glad to hear it, John. Glad to hear it. Let me know what you hear from the arson investigator.”
Winters glanced at the dashboard clock as he crossed the bridge. Six thirty. Time was he loved nothing more than to work all night, pop home for a quick tumble with Eliza, followed by a grease-laden breakfast, another rush to the marital bed, and back on the road as the commuter traffic began to build. But Eliza was in Toronto, and if she were at home, she’d be dishing up muesli and yoghurt for breakfast. Although the twinkle might occasionally still be seen in her green eye, when he’d been up all night, John Winters wanted nothing more than a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep.
He’d told Keller he could handle the case without IHIT. But could he? Even after what happened in Vancouver, was he still arrogant enough to be overconfident of his own abilities? He’d scr
ewed that one up royally: too sure of himself, too proud, too wrapped up in his own prejudices to listen to the words of caution his partner had been trying to give him.
Maybe it was time he did throw the job in. Live a life of leisure as a kept man.
Or maybe just recognize that he wasn’t all-powerful and that even he needed help now and again.
He pulled to the side of the road before taking out his phone and calling the programmed number.
“Huh?” was the reply.
“Breakfast at George’s. My treat. We’ve a lot to talk about before the day starts. Half an hour. Be ready.” He disconnected the call.
Chapter Fourteen
Molly Smith cut into her huevos rancheros. Almost good enough to be dragged out of bed after an hour of sleep. Almost, but not quite.
George’s was a Mid-Kootenay tradition. There was a real George, who’d cooked at the place for more than thirty years. He enjoyed playing with the menu, offering fashionable fare, such as tofu scramble and buffalo sausage, but still sticking with the basics: eggs, bacon, and home fries for breakfast, tuna sandwiches and hamburgers for lunch.
“I’m going to have a chat with the Japanese guys who’re in town to look into the resort,” Winters said, dragging a slice of fat sausage through a puddle of egg yolk. “Although I don’t expect to get much out of them. Seeing as how they’re inscrutable and all that.”
She looked up.
“Just kidding,” he said. “I don’t care what their nationality might be, but no savvy business type’s going to be all that thrilled at having the main guy knocked off in the midst of negotiating a deal.”
It was just past seven; the restaurant was full and a line snaked out the door. Wait staff shouted orders, cooks cursed, eggs and bacon sizzled on the grill, someone shouted for more toast, and the patrons raised their voices so as to be heard over the buzz.
“Today,” he said, “we’re going to split up. I’m taking Evans to meet with the business partners.” He held up his fork, glistening with egg yolk. “I need you to find out where I can find Robyn Goodhaugh, and then poke around a bit more. Go to the alley, go to back to the garden shack at the park.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first.
“Every time you visit a crime scene, Molly, there’s something new to be found. Usually it’s nothing more than a branch that was broken a week ago, a paw print in the flowerbed, nothing significant. But sometimes, sometimes, you see something important. Like a neon light you didn’t notice the night before, and today it’s all you can possibly see.”
“Wouldn’t forensics have seen the neon light?”
“I’m speaking in tongues, Molly.”
“I know,” she said, inwardly steaming. There was no reason she shouldn’t go along to question the men from Japan, in Trafalgar to do business with M&D Developments. No reason, except for simple sexism.
She mixed the last of the refried beans into a pool of hot salsa.
“There’s something in that alley we missed.” He rubbed his thumb across the face of his watch. “I know it.”
The waiter slapped their bill on the table. “Hey, Moon,” he said. “Long time no see. You look great in that uniform. Does your gun work?”
Winters paid in cash. He didn’t think the smart-aleck waiter deserved a tip.
□□□
The early morning light was soft in the alley, and the air aromatic with fresh baking. Yellow police tape still blocked off the spot where the body’d been found and the back door to the bakery.
Smith kicked at a stone, her enthusiasm for the task diminishing. What could she possibly find here that Winters, the pathologist, a team of police, and countless curious citizens hadn’t? She climbed over the tape. Nothing of Reginald Montgomery remained; even the dirt that had soaked up his lifeblood had been scooped up and taken away for analysis. Tracks of a bicycle were outlined against the wall beside the bakery door, reminding Smith of her own bike. Maybe it was time to get a car. She’d seen a great little car in town the other day. A dark blue Mini Cooper convertible. Too cute.
She looked east down the alley, wondering how much one of those cars might cost. The tourist information office was on the other side of Pine Street, not far past Mid-Kootenay Adventures. A bike rack sat outside, one bike parked in the rack—a top-of-the-line men’s red mountain bike. When she next got a day off perhaps she’d go to the dealer. Find out how much a Mini would cost and if it could manage mountain roads in the snow.
As she admired the red bike, and thought about buying a car, a man walked up to the bike rack. He pulled something out of his backpack and bent over the front wheel. A long, thin, red coil fell to the ground. He stuffed the equipment back into his pack and grabbed the bike. He jumped on it and was pedaling up Pine Street while Smith’s brain was registering what she’d seen. The red coil lying on the ground like an embarrassed snake was a bike lock cable.
He’d stolen the bike.
Smith ran.
□□□
“Conflict, Meredith. Television is all about conflict. No conflict, no good TV.”
“I can see that, Rich. But isn’t there enough conflict in the world without making stuff up?”
“What did I make up, Meredith? There wasn’t a word in that program that wasn’t true. People talk to me, I report what they say. At the end of the segment, after everyone’s said their piece, I try to summarize the situation as best I can. Because, to be honest, some of my viewers aren’t that swift on the uptake.”
Meredith sipped at her coffee, still looking dubious. Rich poured maple syrup generously over his pancakes.
This hotel was second-rate, not the sort of place he liked to stay when traveling for a story. But there didn’t seem to be anything much better in this primitive backwater. Now the Grizzly Resort, from what he’d heard, might have promise.
“I had a phone call from my editor. He’s never called me at home before. He thinks your show put Trafalgar in a bad light.”
Rich snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and pointed to his empty glass of orange juice. “Rubbish. My assistant called this morning to say the show was well received. If anything, it’ll be good for the area. Bring Trafalgar to the attention of people who wouldn’t hear about it otherwise. And that can only be good, right?”
She lifted her cup to her lips and looked at him over the rim. “You’ll have to convince me of that, Rich.”
Stupid bitch. But she was pretty enough, and he needed someone to help him navigate around this insular town. He’d only been here one day and was already feeling claustrophobic. The small town, the mountains on all sides. He gulped at his coffee. Dreadful. Trafalgar was probably the only community in North America that didn’t have a Starbucks.
“Morning, folks.” Greg, the CNC cameraman, pulled up a chair. The waitress hurried over with Rich’s orange juice and another menu.
“Good program, I hear,” he said. “How’s the pancakes?”
“Adequate.”
Greg shut the menu with a snap and smiled at Meredith. “How are you this morning?”
She smiled back. Rich bristled. Greg was in his early thirties, muscular from carrying camera equipment everywhere, darkly tanned from an assignment in the Middle East. Rich had invited Meredith up to his room last night, to watch the program and have a drink. She’d refused.
“I’m interested in this Grizzly Resort,” he said. “The place Montgomery was developing. It has potential to be a good story. I called Irene last night, and asked her to find out what she can about the company. Two-man operation, sounds like. Trying to bring jobs and development to this area. Of course, the local animal rights hysterics are up in arms.”
“I don’t think,” Meredith said, “hysterics is the proper word. People in Trafalgar are concerned about the environment, that’s all.”
Rich stuffed a slice of pancake into his mouth.
“We’ll get all sides of the story,” Greg said. “Don’t worry about that.”
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Rich swallowed. “I need someone who knows this town, who knows the people, to help me out. You were a great help introducing me to Mrs. Smith, Meredith. I wouldn’t have met her without you. If your bosses don’t want to help us anymore, then why don’t you take a couple days leave and work for CNC? I’ll bet the network pays a hell of a lot better than your provincial newspaper.”
She chewed the lipstick off her mouth. Indecision moved behind the expressive dark eyes.
Rich pushed his plate aside. “I don’t want to pressure you, Meredith, but I have to know now. Time’s important in this business. There’s a job opening coming up at CNC. No promises, but I am not without influence.”
“Really?” Meredith whispered. Indecision retreated and her eyes shone.
Rich wiped his lips with his napkin, tossed it onto the table, and stood up. “Sign the bill, will you, Greg. Are you coming, Meredith? I’ll understand if you’d rather finish your coffee before going to your office.”
She leapt to her feet. “We’ll have to take my car. I can’t use the paper’s car.”
“Before we pay a visit to the surviving owner of the Grizzly Resort, tell me something about Lucy Smith’s daughter. You said she’s a cop here in town. That might make an interesting human interest angle.”
□□□
“Two cancellations. A party of five from Idaho and a couple from Calgary. And it isn’t even nine o’clock yet.” Andy stood in the doorway to Lucky’s office.
“We’ll get other bookings,” she said, not at all sure of herself. “Don’t worry.”
“Of course I’m worried. This publicity’s going to kill us. I can’t imagine what you were thinking to allow that TV hack into our house.”
She stood up. “I was thinking, Andy, that I’d tell our story. Your story, if I remember correctly. Too many people have forgotten what men like you sacrificed for your principles. They need to be reminded, once again. Perhaps you yourself need to be reminded.”
