In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  “Adult children should be living on their own,” he said, twisting the cap off the bottle. “Your mother and I have our disagreements. You never noticed that before?”

  “Seemed like more than a disagreement to me.”

  “You want a beer, Molly?”

  “Okay.” She accepted a bottle and popped the top. “Cheers.”

  “Bottoms up,” he said, taking a long drink. He scratched at the label on the bottle. “I love your mother, Molly. I love her with all my being. Thirty years together and I don’t feel any the less for her than I once did. I hope that someday you find someone to love as much.”

  An image of Graham flashed behind her eyes. They were on a kayaking trip in Desolation Sound. She’d left the campsite, stepped over the rocks and logs, and rounded the cove, seeking someplace private to go to the bathroom. When she’d returned, she stopped, and for a long time simply watched Graham’s profile outlined against the orange flames of their fire. He leaned forward and pushed a log with his stick, and then, sensing her presence, looked up with a smile.

  “But she drives me crazy,” Andy said. The image of Graham faded. “She can’t let go of the past. You’d think it was still the Seventies, that we all had long hair. Well, me anyway.” He rubbed his thinning scalp. “And bellbottoms and were protesting Vietnam, to hear her talk sometimes.”

  “Perhaps Mom just cares about things that haven’t changed. War, for example.”

  “Fine when we were twenty, young and innocent,” he said. “But we have a business to maintain, employees who depend on us, children, as old as they might be, to worry about.” Sylvester barked. “And dogs to keep in the style to which they have become accustomed.”

  “Where’s Mom anyway?” There was something most uncomfortable about learning the details of your parents’ marriage. Next he’d be telling her about the night she was conceived.

  “Another meeting of that goddamned committee. I just hope that rabid idiot from CNC doesn’t get wind of it. He’ll egg your mother on until she loses it, and then display her as a model of radical lunacy.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost ten. Time for the program. I’d better watch it just to see if Lucky’s making a display of herself once again.”

  Smith had pulled a chair up to the scarred kitchen table. One scratch, among many, cut through the surface. As a teenager she’d smashed her plate, containing her entire dinner, into the table. The plate had shattered, food flown everywhere. Lucky had done the same. Sam had grabbed his own plate and fled for the comparative safety of the family room.

  She picked up one of Lucky’s political magazines and flicked through it. She heard Andy switch off the TV (there hadn’t been any swearing or throwing of things, so presumably the program hadn’t been too bad) and the light from the living room was extinguished.

  “Same rubbish,” he said, “A lot of people gathering in town to protest the garden. That young jackass, Harris, was on again. You wouldn’t know from watching that show that there are reasonably sane people in favor of the park. Your mother’s late, probably stayed to watch Ashcroft’s program. You’ll let Sylvester out before going to bed?”

  “Sure. Night, Dad.”

  She returned to the magazine.

  Lights flooded the kitchen as a car pulled into the driveway. She recognized the out-of-tune engine of her mother’s car, and Sylvester recognized his footsteps of his beloved.

  He was at the door, tail wagging, when Lucky came into the kitchen. Long strands of hair had come out of the clip, and lines of age and stress radiated from the corner of her mouth and the edges of her eyes. But those eyes shone with determination, and Molly Smith had known, without a word being said, that the battle was on. Once again.

  A bug zoomed in under her flailing hands like a fighter plane and hit the back of her neck. She swatted it and her finger came away with a streak of red blood. She called Sylvester to get out of the water and they ran for home.

  She was online, looking at cars and their prices, and scratching the back of her knee, when the phone rang.

  “Molly Smith.”

  “Hi, Molly. I’m glad I caught you. How are you doing?”

  That squeaky voice was unmistakable. Why would she be phoning here? “Meredith?”

  “It’s been a long time since we talked, about anything aside from our professions that is, so I wanted to give you a shout. Did you hear that Darla Wozenk is pregnant? Again? What’s this, her third? My mom figures that she’s keeping herself preggers so she can stay on welfare.”

  “Meredith, why are you telling me this?”

  “Maybe just for old times’ sake, Molly. I miss the high school days sometimes, don’t you?”

  Like I miss the time I had a root canal. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I called the station. They said you weren’t due in until three. Why don’t we have a late lunch, say around one thirty? A quick bite, a place just down the road from the police station, and then you can pop on over to work after. How’s that sound?”

  As appealing as that root canal. There had to be some reason that Meredith Morgenstern wanted to have lunch with Molly Smith. And it certainly wasn’t for old times’ sake. If this was April 1, Smith would suspect an elaborate joke. Meredith the reporter could have called Smith the cop and asked for a meeting, if she’d wanted. All this let’s- do-a-girls’-lunch joviality—which must have Meredith wanting to vomit up her breakfast—had to be for an audience.

  Who else but Rich Ashcroft.

  “Okay,” Smith said. “I’ll bite. Where?”

  Meredith laughed. “Flavours at one thirty?”

  Flavours was the hottest new restaurant in town. Very, very expensive.

  “I can’t afford Flavours on a cop’s salary. We don’t have expense accounts, you know.”

  “My treat, Molly.”

  “Well, okay. I can change into my uniform at the station.”

  “That’s not necessary. Everyone in town knows who you are. And your uniform suits you so well. That blue is perfect for your coloring.”

  Smith wondered if she’d fallen though a wormhole into a parallel universe. “I’m not having lunch with you as a police officer, Meredith. You said it was a chance for us to get together.”

  “Sure it is. I don’t want you to be inconvenienced, that’s all.”

  “I’ll see you at one thirty.” Smith hung up.

  Something was up. And that something almost certainly had to do with Rich Ashcroft and his interest in the peace garden. But what Meredith hoped to learn from Molly Smith, who knew nothing more than anyone who’d read this morning’s edition of the Daily Gazette, Smith couldn’t imagine. Meredith probably knew more about what Lucky’s committee was up to than Molly did.

  She’d have lunch with Meredith, order the most expensive stuff on the menu—too bad she had to work right after and thus couldn’t select something outrageous from the wine list—and listen to her hostess make small talk. As long as she said nothing about police business, what would it matter? If she kept her ears open she might even learn a thing or two.

  She turned back to the computer. Half an hour looking for cars, get dressed for work, and she’d have time to visit Christa in hospital, and then meet Meredith. Her parents had gone into work together so she could take Lucky’s car. She looked at the computer screen. A new Mini Cooper convertible was looking to be outside her budget. But Toyota had some nice deals on almost-new cars.

  □□□

  Once again the alley behind Front Street was closed off. Ron Gavin and his team arrived, ready to go over every inch of ground, one more time. Brad Noseworthy was with them. He was the only qualified crime scene investigator on the Trafalgar City Police, and mighty pissed off at having been out of town and thus missing the initial investigation of their first murder in more than a year.

  “A bicycle was stolen from over there.” Winters pointed to the back of Rosemary’s store. “At almost the exact time our Mr. Montgomery was on his way to meet his maker.”

&
nbsp; “Coincidence?” Gavin said.

  “Probably. But it’s possible our bike thief saw something. If he’s the witness I need, he’s not going to come forward and say ‘Hey, Man, I was like, lifting this bike the other day, and I, like, saw this dude killing this old guy.’ So I have to find him.”

  “Don’t give up your day job,” Gavin said. “You do not have a career on TV.”

  “Follow those bike treads to my witness’ back door, and you’ll make me a happy man, Ron.”

  Winters stood to one side and watched them work. This had to be the break he needed. Fitzgerald had seen two men arguing in the alley behind the bakery shortly before nine o’clock. One overweight with a good-sized beer gut—the description fit Montgomery. It also fit half the men in Trafalgar, but half the men in Trafalgar had not been murdered in that place around that time. The other fellow was young, probably, tall and wiry. Definitely not the short, chubby Dr. Tyler.

  He called Paul Keller. “I need someone to pull together everything we have on bicycle thefts in town, going back, let’s say, six months as a start.”

  “Why?”

  Winters explained about Fitzgerald’s bike. “It’s possible that the thief saw Montgomery arguing with his killer. Even if he just saw someone else in the alley, it’ll be a lead we badly need.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. You know that most bike thefts don’t get reported?”

  “I am aware of that, Paul, thanks.”

  “Just reminding you. Start with Molly Smith.”

  “Is she in charge of bike theft investigation?”

  Keller laughed. “Her bike was stolen from the back of the station a couple of nights ago. Fortunately the press didn’t get wind of it. They would have made us look like the Keystone Kops.”

  Winters remembered Smith telling him the first day she’d worked with him that she’d decided it was too late to bike home, and was looking for a ride. “I’ll talk to her. This is a priority, Paul.”

  “Good thing I have officers sitting around with nothing to do all day. I’ll put someone on it right away.”

  Winters hung up and stuffed his phone in his jacket pocket.

  He had to talk to that bike thief.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Christa Thompson stared at the flowers on her windowsill, listening without interest to the murmur of a busy hospital. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Three nurses stopped to talk in front of her door. A child yelled, and was hushed. The meal cart clattered. Someone cried out, in pain or sorrow, Christa couldn’t tell. Nor did she care.

  She’d pushed her lunch tray away, without touching the unappetizing mess. Her father had come in last night, not long before the end of visiting hours, bearing fat cream roses in a crystal vase. He sat in the visitor’s chair and talked about the weather and federal politics. At last the nurse came in to check on her before turning out the lights, and her father had left.

  She heard Molly’s voice in the corridor, saying hello to someone. Christa closed her eyes and settled her breathing.

  “Hey, girl. How ya doin’?”

  Christa breathed.

  “Oh, sorry. Are you asleep, sweetie? It’s me, Molly.”

  Christa breathed. Why couldn’t fucking Molly Smith just leave her alone? She’d gone to the police station, like Molly had told her, but Molly wasn’t there, was she? More important things to do. More important people to be helped.

  Behind her eyelids, she saw the rays of sunlight dim. Molly was standing at the window. Christa cracked her right eye open. Molly bent over and sniffed at the roses. She was in uniform, looking tough and imposing in the dark uniform, bulletproof vest, trousers full of pockets, blue stripe down the pant leg, belt jingling with equipment.

  “Hey, you’re awake. Good. I can’t stay for long. You won’t believe who I’m having lunch with.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What’s up? This is good.”

  “Just go away, will you. And don’t come back.”

  Now Molly didn’t look so tough. Underneath the uniform, she was small and female. Vulnerable. Like Christa.

  □□□

  Early afternoon on a Monday, Flavours was pretty much empty. The hostess, hair a shade of orange that existed nowhere in nature, not even on an orange, waited at the door to greet her. “Constable Smith, so nice of you to join us. Ms. Morgenstern is just this way.”

  She followed the orangehead through the empty restaurant. Meredith occupied a table at the back tucked into a small alcove. “Hi, Molly. Have a seat. This is so cool.”

  Smith sat. The table was set with crisp linen, silverware so shiny it reflected light, and wineglasses you could drown a small dog in.

  A bottle of wine sat in a silver ice bucket beside the table. Meredith’s glass was half-empty. “Wine?” she said. “It’s a California chardonnay. Very good.”

  “No thanks. I’m on duty in an hour.”

  “Then we’d better go ahead and order. Have anything you like.” Meredith lifted her hand.

  A good-looking young man came up to their table and gave them a warm smile. He was dressed formally in a black suit, starched white shirt and thin black tie. But his hair was gathered into a ponytail and a cluster of earrings outlined his left ear. The marks of a piercing ran through his eyebrow.

  Smith would have loved a steak, rare, with a baked potato piled high with sour cream, but she had a twelve-hour shift ahead of her, and a meal like that would have her asleep on her feet. She ordered a spinach salad. Meredith went for the salmon.

  “So, Molly, how’s your family? How’s Sam? I don’t mind telling you that I had a bit of a crush on him when we were in school. He was so much older than us, seemed so sophisticated to me.” Meredith giggled and downed the rest of her glass in one gulp. She poured herself another.

  “Everyone’s fine,” Smith said, as the waiter brought her a bottle of San Pellegrino. He opened it with a great flourish and poured a glass as if he were pouring liquid gold.

  “I guess you heard that my sister, Andrea, graduated top of her class in law school. Mom and Dad are so proud of her. Of course….”

  “Look, Meredith, as interesting as the doings of your family are, I’m afraid I have trouble believing that you’re wanting to catch up on all we’ve missed. Why don’t you get to the point?” Smith was not in the mood to spar with Meredith. She’d chewed herself out all the way, stinging from Christa’s attack. In her gut she knew it was her fault that Christa had gotten beaten up; Charlie Bassing may have done the beating, but Molly Smith hadn’t been there to protect her friend.

  Meredith took another slug of wine. Her eyes darted around the room and settled back on the woman sitting across from her. “Okay. The point is that I need your help, Moonlight. Never thought I’d say those words but there they are. First, in all honesty, let me tell you that I always envied you that name. I was named after my maternal grandmother. I have the name of an eighty-year-old.”

  Smith was momentarily taken back. Everything Meredith had said rang as false as Rich Ashcroft’s concern for the wellbeing of the town of Trafalgar. Except for this sudden confession. Meredith showed Smith her sparkling white teeth as she twisted the stem of her wineglass in her manicured fingers, and Smith remembered who she was talking to. Meredith Morgenstern might have liked the name Moonlight, but she’d certainly never liked the person.

  “I’ll tell my parents you said so. Spit it out, I haven’t got all day.”

  “You are having lunch at my expense.”

  “True. So if you want me to tell you about Sam and his wife Judy and their two lovely children, Ben and Roberta, I’ll be happy to. Where to begin? They live in Calgary. Sam’s a lawyer with Western Canada Petrol, and Judy is a producer at….”

  She stopped talking as the waiter put their lunches on the table. He pulled a gigantic wooden phallic symbol out from under his arm, waved it in front of their faces, and asked if they wanted fresh ground pepper.

  They declined.

  Smi
th stabbed her fork into a pile of helpless spinach.

  “…a radio station,” she continued. “Ben’s in the rep hockey league and Sam’s making plans to manage his career in the NHL. While Roberta excels at piano.”

  “Oh, look who’s here,” Meredith said with a smile so sharp that her salmon might have turned into shark.

  A middle-aged man, trim, well dressed in comfortable casuals, enjoying his own self-importance, was walking toward them.

  “Meredith. I’ve been looking for you. But don’t let me interrupt your lunch.” His smile was broad and as false as his mouthful of teeth.

  Smith dropped her fork. “I’m outta here.” She pushed her chair back.

  “Don’t leave on my account,” Rich Ashcroft said. He grabbed a chair from another table, swung it around, and sat down. “Constable Molly Smith.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “As you obviously know who I am. So let’s not beat about the bush. I’m here to do a profile of your lovely town. I had no idea that you were friends with my colleague, Meredith, but now that we’ve met, I’d like to interview you for my program.”

  Smith looked at Meredith. “You must be out of your mind, to think you could trick me into something like this.”

  The waiter and the hostess hovered, watching. “Perhaps you could give my viewers background on Trafalgar,” Ashcroft said.

  “Hardly.” She headed for the door. What on earth was Meredith thinking? That she’d give a TV interview while dressed in full uniform? She might as well hand in her resignation on the spot. Could Meredith and Ashcroft possibly have believed that she wouldn’t have seen, or even heard about, the CNC program on Trafalgar?

  She stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun was bright and in her eyes. She fumbled for her sunglasses.

  “I understand that your mother, Mrs. Lucy Smith, who everyone calls Lucky, is one of the leading organizers of the Commemorative Peace Garden, Constable Smith.” Ashcroft had followed her out. He was standing close to her. Much too close. Perhaps she’d pull out her handcuffs and cuff him. That would shut the pompous bastard up. Instead she took a couple of steps backward. He followed her. She could smell his breath, all mint and mouthwash. “As someone charged with the maintenance of law and order you must be concerned about your mother and her group. How does that affect the performance of your job?”