In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  Smith punched in the number as she ran outside. “Mom?” she said. “I need you, Mom.” And the tears fell.

  □□□

  Lucky Smith splashed cold water across the back of her neck. God, she’d decided, was not a woman.

  This could not be happening. A bomb threat, of all things, and now the police were questioning them about the barbeque lighters they used to promote the store. Barbeque lighters. John Winters hadn’t said why he wanted to know. He hadn’t had to. There’d been a fire last night. Burned the gardening shed that was all the Commemorative Peace Garden consisted of, so far, almost to the ground.

  Had someone happened upon a Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations customized lighter, or was it a direct threat? It had to be the latter. They sold and gave away a lot of those lighters over the course of a year, but nowhere near the numbers that would be bought at the Wal-Mart in Nelson, or any retail outlet.

  She studied her face in the mirror. Water dripped from the tendrils of grey hair at the back of her neck. Lines of worry and stress pulled at the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth. When, she thought, did I get so old? About the same time my husband abandoned all our ideals, my daughter became a cop (a pig, as I used to say) and my son graduated from law school, and instead of taking on pro-bono cases for the poor and dispossessed, joined an oil company.

  The phone rang. Lucky considered not answering it. A supplier explaining that they were backordered. Another supplier wondering why they hadn’t been paid (because the check is in the mail, goddamnit!). A booking calling to cancel. Duncan reporting that they were still waiting for the last of the overnight group and had she heard anything.

  Who would care? It would just go into the ether that was voice mail. Where she’d answer it or not, as she chose.

  “Lucky, phone,” Flower, the weekend employee, called. “Can you get it? I’m with a customer.”

  She took the call. “Welcome to Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations.”

  “Mom? I need you, Mom.”

  Lucky ran out of the store so fast that the customers thought a hurricane was blowing through. “Christa’s in hospital,” she shouted. “Tell Andy I’ll call soon as I know anything.”

  As worried as she was about Christa, who had pretty much grown up in the Smith house, Lucky was just as worried about Moonlight. The cry in her voice was so sharp that Lucky knew her daughter was reliving the morning she’d rushed to the hospital in Vancouver. Too late. Because Graham was already dead.

  □□□

  Rich had planned to have Meredith walking down the street, through the slowly moving crowds, passing Mid-Kootenay Adventures while Greg got a long shot of the store frontage. He positioned her at the corner of Elm Street and stationed Greg on the other side, to get a wide view before narrowing in on Meredith and the store through the traffic. Rich hadn’t bothered to wire Meredith. She’d never make it outside of print journalism; she was pretty enough, but her voice was too high pitched. He’d let her say something on camera and tell the producer to edit almost all of it out. He’d blame the network for cutting her best lines.

  He fastened a mike to his own shirt front and stood with Meredith. He’d walk behind her, just out of camera range. A few passers-by glanced at Greg and his camera, but most people were preoccupied by their own affairs.

  “Okay, babe,” he whispered to Meredith. “Show time.”

  She walked. Her hips swayed under the denim skirt; her heels tapped on the sidewalk. An old lady, all purple dress, sensible shoes, slate gray hair and pearls, smiled at her. Perfect local color.

  As Meredith reached Mid-Kootenay Adventures the door crashed opened and a tiny red tumbleweed fell into the street.

  “Lucky,” Meredith said, forgetting that she was supposed to keep walking. “Are you okay?”

  Lucky Smith was clearly not okay. Her face was flushed, her eyes showing so much white she looked like a horse smelling smoke in the barn. “Meredith,” she said, “hi. Gotta run.”

  “Mrs. Smith.” Rich broke from his planned scenario and ran forward. He tapped at the mike fastened to his lapel as if it were a talisman. “Do you have a moment for our viewers, Mrs. Smith?”

  “You,” she shouted, “how dare you come anywhere near me?” A section of red-and-gray hair broke free of its clip.

  He stepped directly into her path. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said, using his calm interviewer voice.

  “Get the fuck out of my way,” she shouted. Spittle flew from her mouth. He hoped Greg was focused good and tight. She stretched out both arms and pushed Rich in the chest, with as much force as butterfly crashing into him. He grunted and staggered backward.

  “What’s the matter?” Meredith said.

  “My daughter,” Lucky yelled, “I have to get to my daughter.”

  “Molly? What’s happened to Molly?”

  “Please, Mrs. Smith,” Rich interrupted. He placed his foot firmly on top of hers. “Get yourself under control.”

  “I’ll get you under control, you fucking monster, if you don’t get out of my way.”

  Crowds were gathering. Rich heard a voice call his name in recognition. It was not a friendly voice. Several people asked Lucky, by name, what was happening. Rich backed away and put up his hands, palms outward. “I don’t want any trouble here. Just doing my job.”

  The crowd parted to let a tall, chubby man through. “What on earth?” He recognized Rich. “My God, it’s you. Haven’t you done enough harm to my wife?”

  Rich ran across the street, dodging cars as if a mob were chasing him, rather than just Meredith. The onlookers remained behind to suggest that someone call the police, or an ambulance, or to ask Lucky if she needed help.

  Perfect.

  Chapter Twenty

  Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium was empty. John Winters had walked up from the station, needing time to think. He was still surprised at how many people he passed knew who he was, and how many of them smiled a greeting. Sometimes, after the anonymity of the city, it felt nice to be part of a community. Nice, until you were with your partner when she found the battered body of her childhood friend. He ordered four coffees to take back to the station.

  “Is Christa gonna be all right?” the black woman behind the counter asked him. Her accent made him think of the late Princess Diana. “She was in here just this morning.”

  Amazing how fast news traveled. “She was here? When?”

  The woman shrugged. “Morning rush. I can’t say for sure, it gets so busy.”

  “I’m John Winters, by the way.” He put his hand across the counter.

  She shook it with a flash of white teeth. “Jolene.”

  “Was she with anyone?”

  “No. Christa’s always on her own.”

  “Anyone seem to be paying her any particular attention?”

  Jolene passed him a take-out tray for the coffees. Her hair was a mass of braids sprinkled with beads so colorful they might have been selected from a child’s toy box. They flew around her face as she shook her head. “No. People were talking about that TV program last night. This isn’t a town where people keep their opinions to themselves.”

  He smiled. “So I’ve noticed. In your opinion what was the general feeling about the show?”

  She tilted her head to one side and thought before speaking. “Sixty percent maybe were upset about it. They thought it put the town in a bad light, regardless of their thoughts about the park. Twenty percent thought that any attention to the garden was a good thing, as it will get support moving again. Another ten percent said that if it helped stop the park it was a good thing. What am I up to?”

  “Ninety percent.”

  “And at least twenty percent felt bad for the park committee, saying that it made them look like fools.”

  “You’re over one hundred, Jolene.”

  “I haven’t even counted those who agreed with everyone,” she said, placing Styrofoam cups into the tray.

  “Nor those who disag
reed with everyone,” the bulky man behind the cash register said. “There are always folks who just like to get up everyone’s noses. So what’s the story about the fire, eh? Not an accident, I’m suspecting, not after that TV show. I’m Eddie by the way. Welcome.”

  “Thanks. John Winters.” He balanced the tray of coffee and shook the outstretched hand. “The full report on the fire isn’t in yet.” He pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket. “Did you notice Christa Thompson here earlier?”

  “I might have. But before you ask, I didn’t see anything that made me sit up and pay attention. Too busy.”

  “If you remember anything, either of you….”

  “I’ll call you,” Jolene said.

  “We care about our customers here,” Eddie said as he rang up the charge. And somehow it didn’t sound to Winters like an advertising slogan.

  He walked back to the station. He handed out the coffees and was told that Rose Benoit had called. His former partner, Rose was an inspector now, in charge of the commercial crime section. Which suited her—there was not much Rose loved more than getting her head around a set of books.

  He returned the call, and caught her at her desk. They exchanged pleasantries before Benoit got to the point. “There’s no reason to believe the resort’s in any trouble.” Winters put his feet up on his desk and took a sip of his coffee. “Unless….” He straightened up. “Unless opposition to the resort, which opponents claim will disrupt prime grizzly bear territory, finds focus and draws enough attention to the environmental dangers that people hesitate to buy into the resort. In addition, if the proposed Commemorative Peace Garden is built in Trafalgar, the nearest town, and vacationers from the U.S., to whom the company is aiming sixty percent of their marketing efforts, avoid the area because of the political implications, the Grizzly Resort could be in deep financial trouble. It’s unlikely that M&C Developments could survive the collapse of Grizzly.”

  “Partnership insurance?” he asked.

  “Seems straightforward. Enough to help Clemmins and the business absorb some of the blow caused by the death of Montgomery, but nothing excessive. By the look of things, John, I’d say Montgomery was the drive behind the partnership. Clemmins dug up the start-up costs and worked to get investors interested in putting up more money, while Montgomery negotiated with construction companies and townships. I also took a peek at the Japanese firm negotiating with M&C. They seem to be squeaky clean. From what I’ve learned, without Montgomery M&C Developments is hanging on by its fingertips. Clemmins has more to lose with the death of his partner than he has to gain. Although….”

  “I like the sound of that, Rose,” he said. “Carry on.”

  “Just rumor and conjecture.”

  “Rumor and conjecture to a detective without a lead is like mother’s milk to an abandoned kitten.”

  “Whatever. The business community’s buzzing with talk about Montgomery and M&C. There was some strain between Montgomery and Clemmins. They were overheard not long ago having an intense discussion.”

  Winters had no idea where Rose got all her information. But it was always reliable.

  “Seems that Clemmins was getting cold feet. The Grizzly Resort was pretty much the sum total of M&C the last few months. Montgomery even rented a house in Trafalgar to be near the action.”

  “Clemmins didn’t like that?”

  “He was worried that they were getting too deep into the resort. With local groups and environmental activists opposing the development, and the possibility of an American boycott of the town if this monument to Vietnam draft dodgers is built, the risk of losing it all was climbing.”

  “So he decided to cut his losses and take out a contract on his partner?”

  “Been done before. But both Montgomery and Clemmins have clean reputations. For developers in this market, anyway. If you want my off-the-record opinion.”

  “I do.”

  “Clemmins might bash Montgomery’s brains out, or visa versa, in an argument over the resort. But you say he’s got a good alibi, so it would have to have been a contract killing. And I can’t see that. There might be something I haven’t found out, but I’d say Clemmins has too much to lose from Montgomery’s death.”

  They hung up with the promise of dinner when he was next in Vancouver. Eliza enjoyed the company of Rose and her husband, Claude, who was, of all things, a sculptor. One of his pieces had been bought by the city for a prominent square. It was a minor scandal, as everyone thought that the sculpture was a stylized giant penis about to penetrate a woman. It was, Claude had sniffed, the arrow of truth breaking into the cave of narrow minds.

  Even now Winters laughed when he thought of it. He tossed his coffee cup into the trash. Time to head off to a visit with Ellie Montgomery. That would surely be a waste of time.

  “Tell me you’ve heard from Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he said to Denton at the front desk.

  “No can do.” Denton was still nursing his double-double. “The Horsemen called. They talked to the Baxter guy.”

  “Who?”

  “Got a lighter from Andy Smith’s store yesterday?”

  “Right.”

  “Waved it in front of their faces.”

  Yet another dead end. “Anything from the people checking gas stations?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Bassing?”

  “Not at his place. His car’s gone, which is good news. We’ve sent his license plate number to the border guards, all across B.C. and down to Washington State. That girl was in here only yesterday, asking for Molly. Any word from the hospital?”

  “Not yet.”

  □□□

  As expected, Winters learned nothing new from Mrs. Montgomery, but driving back to town, Ron Gavin called to tell him that the entrance to Christa’s apartment was a gold mine of forensic evidence—evidence up the wazoo, he said. Her key was on the floor, two sets of fingerprints on it. Two sets on the door knob. The neighbor had been watering his lawn that morning, and had also watered the sidewalk. Muddy footprints too large to be Christa’s had stomped up the path, overlaying a smaller set that was probably hers, and went through her front door.

  Dave Evans called next to say that he’d found a neighbor who’d seen Christa in the company of a man only steps from her door. And the neighbor was sure he’d be able to identify the guy.

  Winters heard nothing from Smith at the hospital nor from the hospital itself, and he hoped that no news was good news. They should be able to get Bassing well and good. Now all they had to do was to find him.

  Time to head home, change and go for a good long run. Something to clear the cobwebs out of his brain.

  And maybe he’d have a flash of insight about the Montgomery case while pounding the pavement.

  □□□

  Andy Smith was sitting at the kitchen table in the center of a puddle of yellow light when Lucky and her daughter got home. Sylvester leapt to his feet and greeted them as if they’d been away for months, trekking in the Himalayas. Lucky pushed him aside. She wasn’t in a mood to endure his usually joyful greeting.

  “Christa?” Andy asked.

  “She’ll be okay.” Lucky collapsed into a chair. Sylvester kept nuzzling her, until she relented and gave him a half-hearted pat. “A couple of broken ribs, a lot of bruising on her face. A cracked cheekbone.” Christa had been wrapped in bandages, her right eye swollen and blackened, her lips thick and cut. She’d been sleeping when Lucky and Moonlight were allowed a minute in her room. Her breathing sounded harsh and ragged. Lucky kissed her lightly on the cheek, her heart breaking, and Moonlight had clenched her own hands together until her knuckles turned as white as the face of the moon, and they left.

  Moonlight tossed her boots onto the mat beside the door. She filled the kettle. “She was starting to regain consciousness when I found her. She could have lain there for days calling for help before that bitch of a neighbor did anything other than hammer on the wall and scream at her to shut up.”

  “Can I
visit tomorrow?” Andy asked.

  “You should be able to,” Lucky said.

  “Good. I want to catch the late news.”

  Moonlight tossed her gun belt on the table. Lucky winced at the sight of it, as she always did. At least it was her daughter who carried a gun, not her son. She didn’t know why that seemed preferable, but it did.

  A loose floorboard creaked under Andy’s footsteps. He hadn’t reached out to comfort her. These days they seemed to interact like two bubble people, each confined to their own private world. It would have been nice if he’d sat with them for a while. Had tea and cookies around the kitchen table, and talked over their troubles. Like they used to.

  “It’s my fault,” Moonlight said, taking mugs off the drying rack and bags of tea out of the canister on the counter.

  “Nonsense,” Lucky said. “It’s the fault of Charlie whatshisname. And don’t you dare forget that.”

  “I told her to take out a restraining order. But when she came to the station, I wasn’t there. I had more important things to do. I forgot her. She could have died.”

  “Look at me, Moonlight,” Lucky said. “Look at me.”

  Moonlight turned her head. Outside the sun was setting, and the shadows of the trees were as long as those across her high cheekbones. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “You did all you could. You tried to warn Christa. You told her to make a complaint. You couldn’t force her to go in front of a judge, could you?”

  “No, but….”

  “No buts about it. I’ve seen it before.” Lucky accepted a cup of tea. Moonlight threw herself into a chair. The gun belt lay on the table between them. The Great Divide—tearing the one strong river that had been their family into two. “A nice young woman like Christa, she can’t believe in the violence of the world outside.”

  “That’s the point, Mom.” Moonlight hit the table so hard the sugar bowl jumped. “I know! I knew she was in danger. I wasn’t there when she turned to me. I was too busy.”

  “Too busy,” Lucky said, “trying to find the person who murdered a citizen of this town. I may have disagreed with Montgomery, profoundly, but I want his killer to be caught. Don’t make it sound as if you were smoking a joint and reading Cosmo, Moonlight.”