In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  “Get to the point, Meredith.”

  “The point.” She placed her Drambuie glass onto the table with an audible thud. Her eyes were clear and alert and Rich saw that this girl could hold her liquor. “Is that I can get to Constable Molly Smith, whereas you, on your own, wouldn’t be able to approach her with a ten-foot pole.”

  “A disturbing metaphor. Get to the goddamned point.”

  “I will,” she said, “arrange for you to meet with the elusive Constable Smith. It’s up to you what you get out of her. If anything. That has nothing to do with me, because I’d guess that Molly’s a good deal smarter than you.”

  “Are you here to insult me, Meredith?”

  “Not in the least. I’m pointing out a few truths, that’s all.”

  “What do you want in exchange?”

  “A personal introduction to the producer of North America Tonight.”

  “You’re a crafty little bitch, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve spent the last three days watching you at work, Rich. Deal?”

  “Deal. And just so you know, I’m going to mean it.”

  She laughed.

  The bill was sitting on the table between them, the charge already run through. Rich signed the receipt with a scrawl.

  They stood up and headed for the door. The group of elderly women whispered to each other as he passed, watching him out of the corner of their eyes. He gave them his publicity photo smile.

  Three of the women turned away. Two stared. And one woman lifted her middle finger.

  Get him the hell back to L.A., where women who looked like your mother didn’t make obscene gestures.

  They stood in the street. The night air was warm and dry.

  “So,” Meredith said. “Let’s go to your hotel, eh?”

  □□□

  The freezer at Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen was almost empty. Tired as she was, she’d now have to spend the night cooking. “I’ll pay time and a half if you help me in the kitchen tonight, Emily.”

  “Okay.” The girl answered so quickly that Rosemary suspected there hadn’t been a date on tonight’s plans after all. “I can’t cook, though,” she said.

  “I’ll tell you what to do. First, go to Safeway. I’ll prepare a list.”

  “You’d better call the cops. They really have been bugging me about you.”

  “All right, all right.” Rosemary looked in the pantry. No onions, almost out of rice, enough tins of tomatoes and beans.

  When she emerged from the pantry, list in hand, Emily was holding the phone. “Call the police, Rosemary, please. The cop who keeps coming around is really cute, and I wouldn’t mind if he dropped by off duty, understand, but I’m afraid that he’s going to arrest me and throw me in jail for killing you and burying the body in the cellar.” She exchanged the phone for the shopping list.

  “You are such a nag.” Emily had saved Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen these last few days. A less reliable assistant might have taken the opportunity to close up, and say that business had been slow. She owed Emily something. “What’s the number?”

  “911.”

  “I can’t call 911 if it isn’t an emergency.”

  “Well, if you listen to the dishy Constable Evans, it’s like there’s a terrorist attack threatening Trafalgar and only you can stop it.” She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a card. She handed it to Rosemary. “Be back soon.”

  The bell over the door tinkled as Emily left on her errand. Rosemary looked at the card. All this fuss over a bike. In Toronto they could hardly be bothered to talk to you if you called to report a stolen bike. She punched in the numbers.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald. Sergeant Winters has been trying to get in touch with you,” the person who answered the phone said in tones that might be used to admonish a child who’d failed to return their signed report card.

  “I’ve been out of town on a family emergency.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At my shop. 343 Front Street in Trafalgar.”

  “Hold on please, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

  Rosemary hung on. She’d start with beef stew. And then make vegetarian chili and macaroni and cheese. Why had she thought cooking for a living was going to be easy?

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Sergeant Winters requests that you remain in your shop until he gets there. He’ll be about ten minutes.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. But I don’t understand. It’s only a bike, why is all of this so critical?”

  “A bike?”

  “The bike that was stolen Thursday. I didn’t even report it—I didn’t think you’d much care.”

  “Please wait for Sergeant Winters, ma’am. He’s on his way.”

  “Okay.” Rosemary hung up. There were some wilting vegetables in the back of the fridge. Soup was always a hit with campers.

  □□□

  John Winters also had his head in the freezer. There had to be something in here he could eat. He’d told Smith that tomorrow she would be back on regular duty. Her face had sort of crumpled in on itself, but she recovered and said something about happy to be back on the streets.

  There was no point in dragging a constable around after him any longer. A constable who’d be needed for crowd control if this business got any more intense. Rich Ashcroft’s program was on at ten. By ten thirty there might well be barbarian hordes descending upon Trafalgar, British Columbia. Lopez was due back in a couple of days. Maybe he’d bring a new perspective to the Montgomery murder. Winters studied a package of frozen pizza. The best-by date was six months past. How reliable was that date, anyway? Did it mean he was going to die if he ate it one day late, or was it a marketing gimmick to get him to buy another pizza? He ripped open the package and threw the frozen circle of dough into the microwave. If he died, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the Montgomery case any more.

  The microwave pinged and he took out his dinner. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and went into the study. Tonight was a night for a good solid action flick. If he couldn’t solve the Montgomery murder, he could at least watch a tough cop mow down the bad guys. In the movies it was easy to sort out the bad guys from the good guys. The bad guys had greasy hair and wore good suits or baggy trousers and smoked a lot. People who had nice, normal middle-class families, stable jobs, were the good guys.

  They didn’t use their own children as sex toys and blame an itinerant gardener if something went wrong. It was always there, in the back of his mind. Samantha Blakely, daughter of a vice president of a major bank, had been murdered, in her home, the day after her birthday. As she’d turned twelve, her mother decided that she didn’t need to go to the babysitter’s after school, as long as she came straight home. Manuel Estavera, the gardener, discovered the body, raped and strangled, stuffed into the shrubbery beside the pool like a bag of autumn leaves. The investigation, led by John Winters, immediately focused on the gardener. There was no DNA on the girl’s body; the killer had worn a condom, nowhere to be found, but the gardening gloves were bloody. Numerous strands of the girl’s hair were found in the gardening shed. She liked to watch him work, Estavera explained through a Spanish translator. He’d been wearing his gloves when he found her, and he tucked her dress around her lower body. To preserve her modesty, even in death. The autopsy revealed that abuse had been going on for some time. The bank VP was a good-looking guy, dressed in two-thousand-dollar suits; his wife was a tall, blond stunner who worked two days a week in an art gallery and did charity work the rest of the time. She was home by five on her gallery days, and she’d thought that Samantha could handle the responsibility of two hours on her own. Because of the prominence of the family, and the luxury Grey’s Point community where the crime had taken place, press attention was relentless. Columnists called for stricter immigration controls; others took the opportunity to bay for their favorite hobby horse—the return of the death penalty. And John Winters, charmed by the gracious
wife, admiring the perfect home with the perfect view, maybe a bit jealous of the quality of the suit, zeroed in on Manuel Estavera, the gardener.

  Winters had been in his office, about to leave to charge Estavera with the murder of Samantha Blakely, when his partner called. He’d found someone from Blakely’s gym, where he’d supposedly been at the time, who thought that he’d seen the man leave much earlier than he’d said. Once Winters turned some of his attention from the gardener and started to dig into Blakely, the case came together like the wheels of a Swiss watch. Richard Blakely was now doing life in Kingston Penitentiary; the glamorous wife was doing life in therapy. And John Winters was wrapped in the guilt of how close he’d come to railroading an innocent man.

  His prejudices and arrogant confidence in his own judgment had almost seen an innocent man convicted, and a guilty one left free.

  The phone rang, and he lunged for it, glad of the chance to shake off his memories.

  “Rosemary Fitzgerald’s back, Sarge,” Ingrid, the night dispatch officer, said.

  “Where is she?”

  “At her store. It’s called Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen at…”

  “I know where it is.”

  “I’ve got her on the line. She mumbled something about a bike. You think maybe she knows something about a motorcycle gang?”

  “God only knows. Tell her to stay put until I get there.”

  “Will do.”

  Beer and pizza forgotten, Winters headed for the door. When he’d arrived home, he’d changed into shorts and a Vancouver Grizzly T-shirt. He stuffed his gun and handcuffs into the belt of the shorts and pulled a flannel shirt on to cover them. No need to let Mrs. Fitzgerald think he’d come to arrest her at gunpoint.

  Winters drove into town. People strolled up and down Front Street in the warm evening air, and light and music spilled from the town’s many bars and restaurants. He couldn’t find a place to park close to his destination, so he ended up at a lot several blocks away. He jogged toward Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen.

  The Closed sign was on the door. He knocked, grateful for the chance to control his breathing before he had to talk. He was getting old.

  A woman opened the door. She was as lean as whippet.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

  “The one and only. Come in. But please understand that I’m so backed up, what with rushing off to Toronto for absolutely no reason at all, that I have to keep cooking.”

  He stepped into the shop. The smell of frying onions and garlic reminded him that he’d abandoned his dinner.

  “It was grayish blue, ladies’ style, no distinguishing characteristics. Cost me four hundred and fifty bucks. That might not be a lot to some people, but it sure is to me. The deductible on my insurance is five hundred. I’d have to give them fifty dollars to make the claim, eh? It was taken on Thursday sometime before I left after closing. Whoa, my onions are burning. Got to get to them. No one likes burned onions in their chili.”

  Winters’ head spun, and not only from the scent of burning onions. Rosemary disappeared behind a red curtain. He followed. The back of the shop was about the same size as the front. A freezer lined one wall, an oven and range were set against another. The shelves were piled with kitchen implements.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he said. “But I’m not following you. What was grayish blue?”

  She stirred the onions, while reaching for a spice bottle.

  “Why, my bike, of course. That’s why you’re here, right? Can you pass me that green bottle? Second on the right.”

  “No, I cannot. Mrs. Fitzgerald, please. I see that you’ve a business to run. But I must insist that you sit down and talk to me.”

  “This isn’t about my bike, is it?”

  “The theft of your bike, perhaps not. But I’m interested to hear that it was taken on Thursday.”

  “Would you like a coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Your bike was stolen on Thursday. What time did you notice it missing?”

  “A few minutes before nine.”

  Winters’ heart took a jump. When dispatch had called to tell him that Mrs. Fitzgerald was back in town, he’d almost asked them to send the beat constable around to talk to her. But his pizza had been so unappetizing, and Rosemary had been so elusive, that he decided to come himself. That was looking to be a wise decision. “Are you sure of the time?”

  She shrugged. “Roughly. The store closes at eight. Some nights I stay and cook for the next day, but last week I had plenty of stock, thank goodness for that as it turned out, so I left after cleaning up.”

  “When did you notice your bike was missing?”

  “Right away. I park it just outside the back door.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Sure.” She unlocked the door and stepped out into the alley. Winters followed. Looking west he could see the rear of Alphonse’s Bakery. The shadows were long, but the alley was fully visible. A dog sniffed at the garbage bags at the rear of the convenience store.

  “What did you do when you realized your bike was gone?”

  She shrugged. “Went back inside. My lock was lying on the ground, right there.” She pointed. “The cable was cut through, so I knew it had been stolen. No point in looking around, was there?”

  “Did you see anyone while you were out here?”

  “You mean behind my store? No.”

  “I mean anyone at all. Anywhere in sight.” He pointed west. “That way perhaps.”

  “What’s all this about, Mr. Winters?”

  Rosemary had been out of town since Friday morning; it was possible she hadn’t heard about the Montgomery murder. “I’ll explain in a minute,” he said. “Take your time, just look around. You were probably pretty angry when you realized someone stole your bike.”

  “Damn straight,” she said. “Perhaps I didn’t go right back inside. I might have stood here and stewed for a few minutes.” A car drove down Elm Street, windows rolled down, hip hop music cranked up. From the houses behind the alley someone called “Buster,” and the dog at the store lifted its head. It took one last sniff of the garbage before trotting away.

  “There were two men down that way, on the other side of the street. I often see the staff from the restaurant out in the alley at this time of night, having a smoke or getting some fresh air.”

  “Two men? Did you notice anything about them?”

  “They were arguing.”

  He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “How do you mean?”

  “They weren’t exactly yelling, but their voices were raised, sharp, you know?”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “Sorry, no. Just the tone of voice? I’m guessing that something happened there that night, am I right?”

  “In a minute, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

  “Call me Rosemary.”

  “Can you describe them at all?”

  “The light was poor, like it is now. So they were in shadow. And I was only thinking about my bike.” She closed her eyes. Winters said nothing.

  “One was large, fat, big pot belly. The other taller and much thinner. I think. Well, I don’t want to guess.”

  “Go ahead and tell me what you think, Rosemary. Your impressions are important.”

  “I thought that the fat one was older, and the thin one younger. He had that sort of wiry body that young guys have. You only see that on middle-aged men if they run marathons or something.”

  Instinctively Winters sucked in his gut. No one would ever call him wiry.

  She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice them all that much. I was upset about my bike.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Rosemary, thank you.”

  “Now can you tell me what all this is about? And while you’re at it, I’ll put the coffee on, and I have a couple of double chocolate cookies left.”

  “It’s a deal. But first I have to make a call.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket. Rosemary ground
beans and ran water into the coffee maker; Winters could almost see her ears flapping as he talked into the phone.

  “Call Ron Gavin of the Mounties.” He recalled bike treads in a patch of concrete against the back of the bakery. And that Alphonse said he didn’t own a bike, nor did any of his staff ride one to work. Was it possible that Rosemary’s bike thief had gone that way, and perhaps seen Montgomery and his killer? “I need a full ident team behind 343 Front Street in Trafalgar ASAP. Tell him I want them to see what they can find in the way of bicycle prints. It’s been a long time, but at least there hasn’t been any rain. Let me know when they’ll be here.” He hung up.

  “Cookie?” Rosemary said, holding out a plate piled high.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Molly Smith didn’t have to be on duty until three in the afternoon for the start of a twelve-hour shift. But on Monday she was up early, restless and troubled.

  She and Sylvester trudged through the bush along the banks of the Upper Kootenay River. Sylvester chased noises in the undergrowth and Smith kicked at leaves and small, helpless plants. Off the case. Sent back to the beat. Without a resolution to the case anywhere in sight. Her chance to make an impression, to show them that she could cut it, gone. Finished. Back to the beat with the likes of Dave Evans. It was another hot day, but the woods were cool. The bush ended about twenty yards short of the river, opening into sandy flats. The mosquitoes were bad, and she waved her arms in the air around her head and neck like a human windmill. Sylvester leapt into the river, and Smith smiled as she watched him lapping at the water while swimming, his pink tongue working hard. Watching a happy dog could always make her troubles fade, for a little while.

  When she got home last night, she’d found her father rooting around inside the fridge.

  “You’re still here,” she’d said.

  Andy straightened up and turned. He was holding a bottle of beer. “Where else would I be?”

  “Last I heard, you were leaving Mom, abandoning me, and heading off to an ashram in Tibet.”