In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  “What’s up?” she said, climbing into the SUV.

  A grin touched the edges of Winters’ mouth. She thought his eyes might be sparkling—but that had to be a reflection of the rising sun.

  “Bassing is in custody in Vancouver, and we have Montgomery’s watch.”

  “Great.”

  “I’m taking the watch to Mrs. Montgomery for a positive identification, and at ten I’m interviewing Harris. I thought you might want to be in on both those events.”

  Her dark night of the soul passed. “Should I go back and put on my uniform?”

  “You’re fine.” He navigated the turning circle. The morning sun played with the green leaves of the trees. A hawk watched them from the top of a dying pine. Andy was always saying that tree had to come down, but he never quite got around to doing anything about it.

  Ellie Montgomery identified the watch as belonging to her late husband. She told them that the coroner had released the body, and the funeral would be on Friday. If Sergeant Winters could attend it would be an enormous comfort to her. Smith hid a smile as he mumbled something about condolences and literally tripped over an untied shoelace in his rush to get out the door.

  Winters sat directly across from Harris in the interview room. His lawyer, Mr. Parker, new in town, and apparently newly out of law school as well, took the chair beside Harris. The lawyer wore a grey pinstriped suit with crisp white shirt and blue silk tie shot through with threads the same shade of grey as his suit. By the time this interview, in this small un-air-conditioned room, was over, the shirt wouldn’t be so crisp. Smith leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, trying to look like she belonged here.

  “I was exercising my rights as a citizen to express my opinion in full view of the public and media,” Harris said, once Winters had gone through the standard notifications and switched on the tape recorder, “when the lady…the officer here present, attacked me with no provocation whatsoever. I couldn’t understand her actions at the time, but later I realized that she mistook me for someone throwing a gasoline bomb. Could have been real nasty. Fortunately the bomb did no damage, and on reflection I’ve decided not to sue her for using unnecessary force.”

  Smith almost swallowed her tongue. Winters had warned her that she was only to listen, not to react in any way. To say nothing.

  “Your client,” Winters said to Parker, “is under the impression that I want to talk to him about the events of last night.”

  “You don’t?” Parker looked up from the yellow legal pad on which he was making notes.

  “Someone else will be around later to talk about the demonstration.” Winters took the plastic evidence bag containing Reginald Montgomery’s watch out of his briefcase and threw it onto the table. “Where’d you get this, Brian?”

  Harris shrugged. “It’s a watch. Never seen it before.”

  “It was found in your truck.”

  “It isn’t mine.”

  “Can you explain what it was doing in your truck?”

  “You planted it.”

  “Sergeant, what’s the significance of this watch? Unless that watch relates directly….”

  “I dropped into the jewelry store in town this morning,” Winters said. “Asked for a quick appraisal of the value of the watch. Just an off-the-cuff estimate. What did they say it was worth, Constable Smith?”

  “Ten thousand dollars, sir.”

  Winters whistled. “That’s why I couldn’t remember. That kind of dough for a watch is way outside the understanding of a simple police officer such as myself.”

  “The point, Sergeant,” Parker said. “Get to the point.”

  “I’d put the value of your truck, and everything in it, at not more than three thousand. If I were being generous. Yet you have this nice watch tucked away in the glove compartment. Want to tell me how you came upon it?”

  “I told you. I’ve never seen it before. Do something,” Harris said to his lawyer. “They’ve got nothing else on me, so they’re trying to frame me for theft.”

  “Theft,” Winters said, “is not the least of it.”

  Smith studied the faces of the three men. Parker was as out of his depth as a two-year-old in the children’s pool at Eagle Point Bluffs Park on a hot day. Harris was like the tough-talking thirteen-year-old trying to make a big splash in front of the prepubescent girls and impressing no one. Winters watched them like an unfriendly lifeguard.

  He rubbed at the face of his own watch. “I’ve been looking for it since it was taken from a murder scene.”

  Parker blanched. His eyes slid away from his client. Smith guessed that he was wishing he’d taken up corporate law.

  “I didn’t take it.” Harris jumped out of his seat. His left eye twitched. Smith leaned forward, ready to move. Parker laid a hand on his client’s arm, and Harris sat down. Smith settled back against the wall.

  “Forensic officers are going over your truck even as we speak. They’ll be able to tell me how many times you jacked off in there.”

  Harris flushed, and Smith guessed that the number would prove to be quite high. The very thought made her stomach roll over.

  “What else are they going to find, Brian?”

  “This is a frame-up, pure and simple.” Harris was showing early signs of panic. “I’m telling you I never saw that watch before. Do something, you’re supposed to be my fucking lawyer.” His eye flickered as if he were trying to send a signal in Morse code.

  “I need to talk to my client,” Parker said.

  “Take all the time you need. It’ll be a while before we get a full DNA analysis on the contents of Mr. Harris’ truck.”

  “Okay,” Harris shouted. “I met with Montgomery. Once. We talked about the park. He was worried that it would be bad for business. I told him I’d do what I could to help him out.”

  “Was Mr. Montgomery ever in your truck, Brian?”

  “No. Never. I didn’t kill him, for God’s sake. And I didn’t steal his watch. I heard the story on the radio about this so-called peace park. What’s pacifism, eh? Let the terrorists win, that’s what it is. Let them think we’re soft and who knows what they’ll do next. That’s what happened on 9/11. They thought we were soft and they attacked. I drove down from Calgary to find out what was happening. I ran into Montgomery in the coffee shop. He was all hot and bothered about what the park’d do to his business. I couldn’t give a fuck about his business, but you find friends where you can, eh? So I told him I’d help him out. Next I heard, he’d died, so I figured that was the end of that. I found out that a bunch of environment nuts were planning a protest outside of his place so I thought I’d check it out. That TV guy, Ashcroft, was there looking for a story, so I made up something, told him all about my dad being killed in Vietnam. Hell, my dad’s laying roof tiles in Toronto right now. It got me on TV, didn’t it, what’s the harm in that? And that’s it. End of story.”

  “A nice story,” Winters said, “except for the fire at the park.”

  Harris’ eyes shifted toward the window. “Don’t know nothing ’bout a fire.”

  Winters stood. “We have a lighter. And now that you’re in our custody we have your prints. Plus video evidence of you inciting a riot and assaulting a police officer. You’re going down, Harris.”

  Harris was screaming at Parker as Winters and Smith headed for the stairs.

  “Your impressions, Molly.”

  She felt a small glow of pleasure at being asked. “He seemed genuinely surprised at the watch.”

  “Yup. But he admitted contact with Montgomery.”

  “Seems thin to me.”

  “Very thin. But, along with the attempted fire bombing of Dave Evans, enough to hold him until we get some proper DNA evidence. All we need is a match to those hairs found in Montgomery’s hand. I won’t be surprised if they find his fingerprints on the lighter found at the arson site.

  “I’ll take you home, Molly. Get some rest. The announcement is scheduled for five, and everyone on the fo
rce has been called in.”

  “You think it’s going to be bad?”

  “Could go either way. Most every demonstration is ninety-nine percent peaceful folks, just wanting to make their point, and one percent troublemakers. If we’re lucky the ninety-nine will have had their appetite for mass disturbance curbed last night. I saw your mother there. I hope she’ll have enough common sense to stay away today.”

  “Common sense and my mother have never been on speaking terms.”

  As they approached the front doors of the station the Chief Constable came in. He looked like a kid who’d just jumped down from Santa’s knee. “Don’t be in such a rush, John, you’ll want to hear this. Morning, Molly.” Keller walked to the reception desk. “Anyone in the constables’ room?” he asked Jim Denton.

  “All out on the road.”

  Barb Kowalski stuck her head out of her office. “What’s going on?”

  “Spill, Chief,” Denton said. “You’re going to announce raises all around, and a doubling of vacation time?”

  “Better,” Keller said. “I’ve come from a meeting with our esteemed Deputy Mayor. And, in her wisdom, she’s decided that in light of yesterday’s near catastrophic events, it would be best not to make a public announcement today about the fate of the peace park.”

  “You think?” Barb said.

  “The council’s going to wait until, as Ms. Patterson put it, tempers cool.”

  “Hell will cool first,” Denton said.

  “Nevertheless, it’ll give us some breathing room.”

  “You want me to tell the guys not to come in later if isn’t their regular schedule?”

  “No. I want everyone here. Anything can happen, and we have to be ready. Tell the Yellow Stripes that we don’t need active officers, but ask them to keep their people on standby. Perhaps I’ll buy a lottery ticket at lunch time. Anything else on the agenda, Barb?”

  “The monthly meeting of Rotary,” she said. “I was going to ask if you want to cancel.”

  “No, let’s act as if everything’s perfectly under control. Like that’s ever happened around here.” He laughed and headed for his office.

  “You ever worn full riot gear, Molly?” Winters asked.

  “Only in police college.”

  “There’s something about it,” he said. “Makes you think you’re invincible. But you’re not. Never forget that you’re nothing more than a human. Get some rest. I’m not quite as optimistic as our chief.”

  □□□

  Rich Ashcroft slapped his phone shut and set loose a stream of naughty words.

  Meredith looked at him from the driver’s seat. “Trouble?”

  “Pull over.”

  “What’s up, boss?” Greg said from the back.

  Ashcroft got out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. Meredith and Greg exchanged a look and followed.

  They were on their way to the park, for Rich to record an introduction to tonight’s program. Meredith had pulled up outside a building with Trafalgar and District Youth Centre painted in giant blue letters across the double roll-up garage doors. A group of scruffy, baggy-panted layabouts leaned against the planters on the sidewalk, smoking and watching them. One of them detached himself from the pack and sauntered over.

  “Hey,” he said. “Rick, right, I seen you on TV. You got a couple bucks for my pals, and we’ll give you an interview.”

  “I’ve got a fist for your face, jerk,” Ashcroft said. “If you don’t piss off.”

  “Screw you.” The boy gestured with his finger and went back to his friends.

  “Not a good idea, Rich,” Greg said.

  “Shut the fuck up, will you.”

  “No. What’s happened?”

  “I’ve been told to get back. They think it’s not worth continuing with this story.”

  “What about the footage Greg took last night, at the protest?” Meredith said. “It’s really powerful.”

  “Who the fuck cares what you think.” Ashcroft spat onto the pavement.

  She was wearing sunglasses that covered about half of her face. He couldn’t see her eyes, but her red lips tightened in the expression of disapproval he was already sick of.

  “I’ve edited out the details of the guy throwing the bomb,” Greg said. “We can make it look like it came from anywhere.”

  “Too late. CBC got footage and aired it this morning. ABC stations in Washington picked it up. There, for all to see, is my goddamned war hero’s son tossing a Molotov cocktail at a little old lady, of all things, and being taken down by a female cop who could be making good money as a stripper.”

  Meredith’s mouth pinched. “I don’t think….”

  “I told you I don’t care what you fucking think.”

  “Never mind him, Meredith,” Greg said. “Rich cares about the integrity of his program so much that he sometimes gets overemotional. He doesn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  Two young women, pushing strollers and carrying coffee cups, approached. Rich glared at them. They looked at Rich. Once they’d passed they turned to each other and laughed. He wanted to strangle the both of them. His interview with Lucky Smith’s daughter had been an abject failure. It had been a mistake, a big mistake, to air even part of it. He’d hoped to get her in a mellow mood, a nice lunch with an old friend, so she’d confide on camera that her mother’s group was a major headache for the forces of law and order. Then he could play up the idea that the police and people of Trafalgar needed help with these troublemakers. Instead the cop bolted and he’d insulted her mother. Irene, his assistant, called him the moment the segment finished to tell him he’d come across not only as a bully, but, worse, a bad interviewer.

  “What do you suggest we do now?” Greg’s tone indicated that he didn’t much care one way or the other. He had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was take the pictures.

  Rich said nothing. There was nothing he could do. Except go back to California with his tail between his legs.

  “Take us back to the hotel, Meredith, then book us on the first flight out.”

  “You know what, Rich? I’m not your secretary. Make your own bookings. I’ll drop you back in town. If you need a ride to the airport, the hotel runs a shuttle.” She turned to Greg. “I have enough problems of my own, if I’m gonna make my boss forget that I almost sold out this town for that jackass.”

  Rich Ashcroft could have said a lot of things. He could make a big fuss, throw his weight around, and crush the girl reporter from the Daily Gazette under his heel. Instead he got back into the car. He’d screwed up here; he had bigger battles to face back at the network. Irene had told him that the young hotdog the network brought in to cover the rest of the program while Rich was away was proving to be very popular with women aged thirty to forty-five, Rich’s prime demographic.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lucky Smith sat in the comfy armchair in the living room. Her book lay open on her lap, but she hadn’t read a word for at least fifteen minutes. She could hear Moonlight moving about overhead, getting ready to go out. They’d scarcely spoken the last couple of days, and this morning, when Lucky used the family computer, she’d seen that Moonlight had been looking up apartments for rent.

  She buried her nose into the book as she heard the tap, tap of heels coming down the stairs.

  “Whatcha reading, Mom?”

  Lucky looked up, as if surprised to hear a voice. “Collapse. It’s a warning about what happens to civilizations that exceed their limits.”

  “Sounds like a barrel of laughs. Duncan should be here any minute.” Moonlight looked stunning in low-rise jeans with a wide belt and a deeply cut, spaghetti-strapped, purple satin shirt. Her shoes were sandals with straps as thin as dental floss and skyscraper heels. A small black bag was tossed over her shoulder. Light from the reading lamp threw golden sparks into her hair, falling loose around her shoulders.

  Lucky swallowed a lump in her throat, put the book down, and sto
od up. She walked toward her daughter and wrapped her arms around her. Moonlight smelled of vanilla hand cream and the locally made soap she loved. She rested her chin on the top of her mother’s head.

  “I hate it when you do that,” Lucky said. “It makes me feel small and insignificant.”

  “Like anyone you’ve ever met has found you insignificant,” Moonlight said.

  The headlights of a car flooded the room. Sylvester ran to the door, barking. Lucky stepped back. “I can’t imagine why Duncan drives that monster of a truck.”

  “Maybe he has a very small penis,” Moonlight said with a wicked grin. It had been a long time since Lucky had seen light sparkle in her daughter’s eyes.

  “Ew. I do not want to know. And if you ever find out—don’t tell me.”

  “Don’t wait up.”

  “Moonlight. Molly. Before you go.” Lucky struggled to find the words. “I haven’t told you how proud I was of you the other night. You were so strong, so brave, so powerful out there. You saved us all from a disastrous situation.”

  Water gathered behind Moonlight’s wide blue eyes. “Thanks, Mom. But as for being strong and brave—well, I wasn’t.”

  Duncan leaned on the horn.

  Lucky swiped her hand across her eyes. “In my day, a gentleman caller was expected to come to the front door. Spend fifteen minutes or so in the den with the girl’s father while the girl and her mother peeked from behind the kitchen door. Only then would they be allowed to go to the boy’s car. In which they would later screw their brains out.”

  Moonlight laughed. “I love you, Mom, do you know that?”

  “I do, dear, I do.”

  □□□

  It felt good to be out on the street, one of the crowd, a person with nothing to do but have fun. Smith threw her head back and let the music wash over her. The concert was held in a typical small-town venue, used for bingo one night, metal bands another. Tonight the place was packed for a concert by BC-DC, the hugely popular AC-DC tribute band from Nelson.

  She saw a few people who might have been on one side of the street or another at the trouble on Tuesday. But no one looked at her maliciously and no one confronted her. And so she enjoyed herself enormously.