by Vicki Delany
Smith fell to the pavement. She touched Duncan’s neck. “Trafalgar City Police,” she yelled. “Do you have a phone on you?”
“Yes.”
“Call 911. Fast.”
Chapter Thirty-two
This was one depressing book. Molly Smith tossed it on the table. Right now she did not want to be reading about the collapse of civilizations. Her mother had settled her into a chair in the family room, with a cup of fair-trade tea, oversized oatmeal cookies from Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen, a pile of political magazines, and this book. Lucky had arranged music on the CD player, and the lush, romantic vocals of Il Divo washed over the room.
Constable Smith was not in a lush, romantic mood.
Her face ached, and she hadn’t dared look at herself in a mirror. Her heavily bandaged feet were propped up on the ottoman. Sylvester was curled up on the rug by her chair, snoring. His legs moved now and again, and she wondered if he were dreaming. Hopefully his dreams were better than hers had been of late. Dreams in which she’d been having sex with Duncan, locked to him, gasping with orgasm, staring up at him, as his eyes dripped blood.
Some cop she was—ready and willing to have sex with the perp in her first murder investigation. First and, probably, her last. She’d misjudged this one so badly, she didn’t know if she wanted to ever make detective.
“That was Christa,” Lucky said from the doorway. Smith reached for the phone on the table.
“I’m sorry, dear, but she didn’t want to talk to you. She called to let me know that she’s back home.”
“She blames me. She thinks I should have protected her.”
“She has to blame someone. Perhaps when Charlie comes to trial she’ll turn her anger on him, where it belongs, and realize that you couldn’t wrap her in cotton wool.”
Smith turned the page of her book to avoid her mother’s eyes. Christa might forgive her, but she herself didn’t know if she’d ever be able to.
The doorbell rang, and Sylvester ran to answer it, barking greetings. Lucky didn’t move. Anyone known to the family was welcome to ring and walk right in.
The bell again.
“I’d better see who that is,” Lucky said.
“Company,” she trilled a moment later, sounding as unlike Smith’s mother as if her body had been taken over by aliens.
Sergeant Winters stood in the doorway. Lucky plucked a bunch of peach roses out of his arms. “I’ll put these in water,” she said.
“Step into my office.” Smith made a wide sweep of her arms.
A smile touched the edges of his mouth. “Perhaps I will.” He glanced at Andy’s well-used recliner and settled for an arm-chair covered in plaid fabric.
Sylvester wandered over looking for a scratch. He was to be disappointed.
“How are the feet?” Winters said.
“Ready for replacements. I don’t quite remember all the ER doc told me she found in there. Twigs, pebbles for sure. Ground glass, car oil. Animal poop, that was charming. Thanks for the flowers.”
“My wife told me to bring them.”
“Thanks to your wife then.”
“You did good out there, Constable Smith. Very good.”
“Then why do I feel like a total jackass?”
“We’ve all been fooled at one time or another by someone who pretends to be better than they are.” A shadow crossed behind his eyes, and Smith looked away. She felt marginally better. “We located the family and they’re making arrangements to receive the body. Duncan’s father’s a provincial court judge in New Brunswick. He told me that he hadn’t spoken to his son in some time.”
Lucky returned, the roses arranged in a plastic vase. “Andy had to go into the store. With Duncan—” she stopped and took a deep breath— “gone, he has to find a good tour guide fast.”
“What about the investigation?” Smith asked.
“We found a propane canister in Duncan’s apartment. The lab found traces of blood on it. It’s been sent for comparison with Montgomery, along with a sample of Duncan’s hair to be compared with the ones found in Montgomery’s hand. But it’s looking conclusive—Montgomery’s wallet and cell phone had been wiped, but he missed a partial. The print matches Weaver.”
He cleared his throat, and his glance slid past her eyes to focus on the wall. “I hate to tell you this, Molly, but there were pictures in his apartment. Of you. All over the walls, the screen saver on his computer. The ceiling over his bed.”
A cold finger touched her spine. “Oh, no.”
“Nothing improper, don’t worry about that. You’re in uniform in all of them, around town, on duty, lining up for coffee, visiting your parents in the store, in a cruiser.”
Lucky said, “Duncan. Of all people. I could see that he had an inflated belief in his own importance, as well as a bit of a temper, but he kept it under control. I never would have thought it went so deep as to bludgeon someone to death.” She fluffed pillows behind Smith’s back, and her daughter felt the shiver running through her. Smith had no desire to be fluffed, but she let her mom help. She wasn’t the only one fooled by Duncan.
“How did Montgomery’s watch get into Harris’ truck?” Lucky asked.
“We may never know, but I suspect Duncan planted it. Probably didn’t have anything to do with his obsession with Molly. We found a picture on his computer—you, Lucky, talking to Harris in what looks like the Safeway parking lot. I think Duncan saw him threatening you and wanted to help you out. And get rid of some evidence at the same time.
“Chief told me,” Winters continued, “to let you know that he’ll be around for a visit later. He’s at a meeting of town council.”
“Meeting’s over. They’ve decided.” The Chief Constable came into the room. He carried a bouquet so large he could barely see out from behind it.
“More flowers, Paul,” Lucky said, taking them from him. “You sent some already.”
“These aren’t from me.”
“I haven’t heard anything about the meeting yet,” Lucky said, surprised that she wasn’t ahead of the news.
“The council’s decided, with the approval of the estate, that the park lands will be dedicated to the memory of Larry O’Reilly. Instead of a fountain, there will be a children’s wading pool. The park will have a plaque mentioning O’Reilly’s contributions to the town of Trafalgar, but nothing about his background as a draft dodger. An art gallery in San Francisco wants to continue with the commission of the statue, and the sculptor’s agreed.”
Smith expected her mother to puff up in anger and rush to the phones. Instead Lucky clutched the bouquet and opened the card that came with it. She glanced at it before handing it to her daughter.
Get the hell back on the job. Adam Tocek.
Smith felt the edges of her mouth turning up. They were all watching her. “From the Mounties,” she said. “Nice of them.”
Lucky gathered tea cups. “That situation isn’t exactly what I would have liked. And not what Larry wanted. But a sensible decision, in the circumstances. Larry would have been most distressed to see violence breaking out over his simple bequest. I wouldn’t have thought Linda Patterson to be capable of such a degree of common sense.”
“Surprising what a whisper in the ear of an ambitious politician can achieve,” Keller said. He gave Lucky a look that Molly Smith decided she would never attempt to decipher.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Paul?” Lucky said. “Or something stronger?”
“Tea will do. Thanks.”
“So everyone can say they’ve won,” Smith said, after her mother had left for the kitchen, “and not lose face.”
The Chief Constable settled into Andy’s chair. “We, the Trafalgar City Police, are the biggest winners of all. I need you back, Molly. Soon as you’re able.”
Smith wiggled her toes, wrapped in bandages. “I’m fine, sir. Except that I can’t take a single step.”
“I heard that.” Lucky ran into the room. “You leave my daughter alone, Paul Keller
.”
Constable Molly Smith wanted to fall through the floor. Her mother was arguing with her boss. That would help her maintain the image of a tough, dedicated cop.
Keller smiled. “We can put her on the phones for a while. Typing reports, catching up on computer work.”
“Oh,” Smith said, “the fun stuff.”
John Winters was watching her. She cocked her head to one side with a grimace, and, to her surprise, he winked.
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