In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  “It doesn’t affect it at all,” she said, aware that she shouldn’t be saying anything. “The Trafalgar City Police have no opinion on the garden.”

  “Some folks have suggested that the Trafalgar City Police has an interest, for some twisted reason, in town council approving the peace garden. With your mother agitating, causing trouble, does that put you in a conflict of interest, or are you representing her to the police department?”

  “Certainly not.” She had to get the hell out of here. People walking past recognized Ashcroft; they pointed at him and whispered among themselves.

  She turned and walked away.

  “Constable Smith, please,” Ashcroft called. His voice was low, soft, charming.

  She turned.

  He stood no more than a couple of feet away from her. He was her parents’ age at least, but still a good-looking man, tanned and fit, with a haircut that probably cost a hundred bucks or more in California.

  “Yes?”

  “Some might think that your mother and her friends are attempting to actively interfere with the U.S. political situation as it is today. Or is it simply that they can’t let go of memory of things long past?”

  Meredith had come out of the restaurant. She held her hands to her mouth, and her face was pale.

  “Fuck you, Ashcroft,” Smith said. “How dare you come to our town and try to tell us what to believe. And fuck you too, Meredith,” she yelled, “for all your let’s-remember-the-good-old-days.”

  “Please, Constable,” Ashcroft said. His smile was as friendly as those of the gargoyles adorning town hall. “Calm down. Is it true that your father was a draft dodger?”

  “He came to Canada because he didn’t believe in the Vietnam War, yes. But, as you said, that was a long time ago. Before I was born, in fact.”

  “How much support does your mother, Lucky Smith, have from the Trafalgar City Police?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. The police don’t take sides on matters such as this. Leave me alone.” She started to walk away.

  “Do you object to the actions of your mother, Constable Smith?”

  Smith turned again. Again Ashcroft was standing in her private space. Rage boiled up behind her forehead, and she fought to keep her eyes from filling up like a pothole in the road in a sudden rainstorm. “Will you leave my mother the fuck alone,” she yelled. A small crowd was gathering. A man spoke to Meredith, and she shook her head.

  “No need to get upset, Constable. I’m only asking you some simple questions.”

  “You don’t back off, buddy, I’ll arrest you for harassing a police officer.”

  “I’m not harassing you, Constable Smith,” he said, in a voice as smooth and sweet as honey. “I only want to know if having a communist, terrorist-supporting harridan for a mother is compromising your ability to serve and protect the people of this town.”

  She’d faced down drunks spoiling for a fight after the bars closed, irate motorists who figured that doing a hundred miles an hour on a winding mountain road was well within their rights, and an abusive husband who’d decided that as his wife was out of battering range, a female cop would make a suitable replacement. And she’d handled them all, calmly, as she’d been taught.

  She took a step forward, expecting Ashcroft to retreat. Instead he smirked. “Closer, Molly,” he whispered, staring into her eyes. “Come closer. Your mother’s a washed-up old hag trying to relive her glory days, and as for your father, they used to hang….”

  A black SUV careened across the street. Brakes protested as it came to a halt, facing the wrong way. A man jumped out, leaving the engine running. Ashcroft’s gaze broke and he stepped back. John Winters pushed his way between them. “What’s going on here?”

  Ashcroft gave Smith a long, lingering look, and then turned to Winters. “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Smith was shaking all over. This close. She’d been this close to assaulting a journalist.

  Winters pulled his wallet out and flashed his badge. “Sergeant John Winters, Trafalgar City Police. If you’re looking for an official statement from our office, the station is around that corner. Otherwise, please be on your way. You’re creating a disturbance.”

  “I might pop by later, thanks,” Ashcroft said. He looked at Smith. His eyes were as cold as the water in Meredith’s ice bucket. “We’ll talk again later, Molly. Count on it.”

  “Anything else we can help you with?” Winters said.

  “Winters, I’ll remember that name.”

  They watched Ashcroft saunter away.

  Meredith’s face was white and she tossed Smith a look somewhere between pain and regret and embarrassment before running after Ashcroft. A fat woman stepped out from the group of spectators and handed Ashcroft a pen and scrap of paper, which he signed with a flourish. He looked around, but no other fans approached him. The crowd began to disperse, a few people muttering. Ashcroft waved, and a man stepped out from an alley. He carried a camera on his shoulder; it was pointing at Smith and Winters.

  “Oh, God. They were filming it.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “I’m okay. I can walk.”

  “Get in the car, Constable Smith, or that cameraman will get a good shot of you being forced into it.”

  She ran around the SUV and wrenched open the passenger door. Winters hit the gas and pulled away with a speed that should have had her giving him a ticket.

  He didn’t take her to the station, as she expected; instead, he drove toward the river. He pulled into the parking lot beside the city hall park. “Get out.”

  “I’m on duty.”

  “Not for another half an hour. Get out.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Get out of the car, Constable.”

  She opened the door and stepped out. The sun was warm on her face. As if she were watching a movie, she saw herself pulling out her truncheon and knocking Ashcroft to the ground. She stood over him and kicked him in the ribs. Maybe a kick to the head as well. And it would all have been captured on camera.

  Winters walked into the park. Smith followed, because she could think of nothing else to do. The public beach was about two hundred yards away. Parents sat in fold-up chairs and watched children playing in the sand or paddling in the water. Two boys chased a squealing girl, splashing water on her, while their father yelled at them to behave. They paid him no attention and he went back to his book. The benches at this end of the park were empty. Winters sat down and watched the families enjoying the beach.

  Smith joined him. Her misery shrouded her like a burka. Except that she didn’t even have eye holes to see out of.

  They sat in silence.

  A mother called her children out of the water to come and eat. They ran toward her, screaming with pleasure.

  “What happened there?” he said at last.

  “I’d rather not talk about it.” It was bad enough just watching the scene play over and over in her head, never mind having to tell him about it.

  “I’m not asking, Smith. I’m ordering you. What happened there?”

  She swallowed bile. “I was set up. Meredith Morgenstern from the Gazette invited me to lunch. I knew her in school.”

  “Yes, you told me, go on.”

  “It was a trap. That Ashcroft asshole arrived, all false charm. I walked out. I don’t think Meredith paid the bill.”

  “If not, they’ll find her. Go on.”

  The tears that had been building up behind her eyes ever since her best friend had told her to leave the hospital began to flow like the river at break-up. She sat on the park bench, hot salty tears running down her face. She made no move to wipe them away. “I screwed up, okay. I screwed up big time. Christ, I can handle the tough guys, but that smarmy bastard.” Her chest closed up, and her shoulders shook, and regardless of how hard she might try not to let it happen, she sobbed. Winters made no attempt to comfort her; he didn’t put his arm around her shoulders, mutter platitude
s or even offer her a tissue. And she knew that her career was finished.

  “Lots of smarmy bastards in the world, Molly,” he said at last. “And I’m sure you’ve met some of them. Why’d this one get your goat?”

  She dug in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. “My mom. He said things about my mom. And my dad. My parents are good people. Really good people. Dad only wants to keep the store going, and to get along with everyone. Mom might be living in the past sometimes, but the things she believes in are so important to her.”

  “I thought as much. It’s tough, doing our job in a town this small. Where everyone knows everyone else. Where we have family, childhood friends, neighbors. But we’re still the police and we have a responsibility.”

  The word “we” sounded nice in her ear. But it wouldn’t be long before she was no longer part of Winters’ we. She started crying again. A young couple passed, holding hands, smiling at each other with that stupid smile that told everyone in the world that they were newly in love. They paused in front of the bench and then scurried on. In other circumstances, Smith might have laughed to imagine what they must be thinking to see a police officer crying her heart out in the summer sun.

  “He filmed it,” she said.

  “I noticed. It’s going to be bad, Molly. Probably very bad. I’d tell you that you shouldn’t have said a word and just walked away, but you know that. If someone like Ashcroft insulted Eliza, and I knew he was planning on slandering her all over national TV, I’d probably deck the guy. So I won’t criticize you.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled. She twisted her sodden scrap of a tissue between her fingers.

  “It’s ten to three. Mop your face and gird your loins, as I believe they say in the classics. You have to tell the chief what happened.”

  “I can’t.”

  Winters stood up. “Whether you can or not is irrelevant. You will tell him the moment you walk into the station. You want him to see you on TV tonight without being prepared?”

  “No.” She got to her feet. Her boots felt like lead weights holding her down. Perhaps she should just go home now. Crawl into bed, grab Jenny, the Cabbage Patch doll she’d been given for Christmas when she was ten, pull the covers over her head and never come out. Why, why did I ever think I could be a cop?

  “Let’s go,” Winters said.

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I would have punched that asshole into the ground if you hadn’t shown up. They’re going to show it tonight, so what does it matter what I say to the Chief. You can prepare him.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Winters said. “I’m going back to my car. I have work to do. I’ll drop you at home, or I’ll take you to the station. Or I’ll leave you here. Your choice, Molly, your choice.”

  He walked up the hill to the parking lot. A colorful beach ball tumbled across the lawn toward him. He scooped it up and tossed it to a little girl with her finger in her mouth. She grabbed the ball and ran.

  Smith took a deep breath and followed him. Might as well face the chief today. He’d be firing her once he’d seen Fifth Column.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  A list of bike thefts in the area was waiting on his computer. Smith had stopped crying on the drive back and had scuttled off to the washroom to wash her face and compose herself before going to see the Chief Constable. Jim Denton had given her a quizzical look and been about to say something, but Winters shook his head behind Smith’s back, and the question changed to a greeting.

  Winters didn’t wait to see if she knocked on the CC’s door. She would either confess, or not. If she ran from this, her career would be finished. And that was up to her. Stupid thing to do, let the press get to her, but she was young and very green.

  He settled down to read incident reports. He’d also asked for reports from the Mounties and other towns in the Kootenays. It didn’t take long to see that in the last four months the number of bike thefts in Trafalgar was sky high compared to a year before, and compared to other towns nearby. He sifted through the reports, looking for something, anything, to focus on. There was nothing obvious—bikes were snatched pretty much any day of the week, any time of day. Almost always from the downtown streets, though, very few from the newer residential areas higher up the mountain. He picked up the phone. “Jim, is Molly still in the station?”

  “No. She was in with the boss for about twenty minutes, then left for her shift. You gonna tell me what that was about?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Ask her to drop in next time she passes this way, will you.”

  “Sure.”

  Winters turned back to the reports. Detective Lopez had worked hard on this file, but bike theft was notoriously hard to solve. Bicycles were easily transportable, easy to hide, and there was an eager market for the stolen goods in Vancouver.

  “You wanted to see me, John.”

  He looked up. Smith stood in the doorway. Her face was pale and her eyes tinged with red. People would think she had a slight cold. “Your bike was stolen the other night. Tell me about it.”

  She wasn’t expecting to have been called in off the street for that. “Why?”

  “I’ve been staring at the damned computer for too long. My head hurts.” He rubbed his eyes. It was getting increasingly hard to read small print if the light was poor, and the computer monitor was giving him headaches. He feared that he was going to need reading glasses soon: reading glasses, and before you knew it, it was a walker and spilling soup down your shirt front. “Let’s go pick up a coffee. My treat. We can talk on the way.” He stood up, trying to ignore the slight twinge in his lower back. “I’ve read the report on the loss of your bike, Molly, but I’m wondering if there’s anything more you can add.”

  The equipment on her belt jingled as she walked. “It was gone, that’s all, the cable lock cut right through. If you don’t mind my saying so, John, as much as I’d like to get it back, I can’t see why you’ve been called away from the Montgomery murder to worry about my bike.”

  He explained about Rosemary Fitzgerald and his search for the person who’d stolen her bike close to the time Montgomery was murdered.

  There were no customers at Big Eddie’s. Eddie was behind the counter, reading the newspaper. Winters ordered a large coffee, strong. Smith asked for a hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. They carried their drinks outside. Cars drove by, but there were few pedestrians on the streets. It was the dinner hour for those with regular jobs.

  “You saw a bike in the process of being pinched,” Winters said, “from the Tourist Info Center.”

  “Yeah. Arrogant bastard. I can’t believe he didn’t see me in that alley.”

  Winters stopped walking. “What did you say?”

  She licked at the tower of whipped cream. “He was so cool, he didn’t even bother to look around to see if anyone was watching. Just broke the lock and took off.”

  “When you found Montgomery, you were on your regular rounds, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you normally check out that alley?”

  “Of course.”

  “Round about the same time, every shift?”

  “You can’t set your watch by the time I’m at the corner of Elm and Front. But I’ll usually go down that way sometime between eight thirty and nine thirty, if it’s a quiet night.”

  “Goddamn it. You’re the common denominator, Smith.”

  Comprehension dawned, her blue eyes opened wide and her pretty face settled into angry lines. She threw up her hands. Chocolate splashed over the rim of her cup. “Hey! I’m not pinching bikes. Ask Solway, she saw me chasing the guy.”

  “I’m not accusing you of stealing them, Molly. Just of being in the vicinity when it happens. Look, we know of three bikes being stolen in the past week. One—Rosemary Fitzgerald’s around the time you could be expected to pass by on your rounds. Two—your own bike. And three—when you saw the guy in action.” He threw his half-finished coffee into a trash can. “I want
to see your shift records for the past six months, and check them against the bike theft reports. And while I’m at it, we’ll look at other minor crimes. Stuff stolen from unlocked cars, for example. See if there’s a spike when you’re working.”

  “Please, no,” she said. “You don’t think I’m in enough trouble without creating my own private crime wave.”

  “You’re creating nothing, Molly. But if I’m right, someone’s watching you.”

  □□□

  Smith and Winters watched the program in the chief’s office. It was not quite as bad as they’d feared.

  “Makes Ashcroft look like a bully,” Jim Denton said, giving Smith a smile that was meant to be encouraging.

  “Makes me look like a storm trooper,” she said.

  “The bully impression isn’t doing us, or Molly, any good,” Winters said. “It implies that the big bad wolf is bullying sweet little red riding hood who happens to be a female officer.”

  Keller pressed the remote and the TV went black. “Not a wolf, nor a storm trooper.” He leaned his elbows on his desk and folded his fingers into a pyramid. “But a public relations disaster no matter how you look at it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,”

  “Never apologize, Molly,” Keller said. “I’d have thought that your mother would have drilled that into you as you lay in your cradle. ‘Never apologize. Never explain. Get the job done and let them howl.’ I think the quote goes something like that.”

  John Winters looked out the window. The blinds were drawn but one of the slats had not met with its neighbor and there was a good-sized gap. A laughing crowd passed under the streetlights.

  “It might not be as bad as you think, Paul,” Winters said. “Ashcroft looks unhinged to me. First he’s trying to get Molly to speak against the garden, and thus by implication her mother, and when that doesn’t work, he tried to rile her up by insulting her parents. He doesn’t show the baiting, but the way in which his interview flies from one point on the compass to another makes him look like a man desperate to get whatever angle he can.”