by Robin Spano
“Come on, Clare. I’m looking forward to working together.”
Clare stared into her coffee. Tim Hortons wasn’t as good as she remembered it. “I’ve learned a lot in the past year.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Amanda said. “But I’m not your obstacle, despite what you seem to believe.”
Clare looked out the window at the runway, wet with Toronto winter slush. In the distance, a plane took off. Half of her wished she was on it, heading back to Noah and her life in New York instead of about to jump on another plane that would take her even farther away. She was glad Amanda was traveling on a different plane so they wouldn’t be seen arriving together. “So what is my obstacle?”
Amanda pursed her lips, as if trying to decide how much to share. Finally, she said, “You know that Inspector Norris with the Whistler RCMP wants to close the Westlake case as a suicide.”
“Uh, yeah. This has all been in the news.”
Amanda sighed. “If you prove Norris wrong, his credibility comes into question.”
“If I prove him wrong? Is he going to blame me if it turns out Sacha was murdered?”
Amanda tilted her head to one side, which Clare took as a yes.
“Can I meet with him? Maybe in person I can let Norris know I’m not hostile.”
“I don’t think that will help.”
“Why? I can be diplomatic if I have to. I told you I’ve learned a lot.”
“I don’t think he’ll appreciate a twenty-four-year-old trying to placate his professional concerns.”
Clare flashed a super-fake smile. “I love it when you use big words and belittle me all in one sentence.” Okay, that wasn’t a great start in the maturity direction.
“More important,” Amanda said, “Inspector Norris doesn’t know your name. He knows you’ll be arriving — for some reason, one of my colleagues saw fit to loop him in that far — but he doesn’t know who you are or where you’ll be staying.”
“So we’re not on the same team?”
“We are . . .” Amanda frowned. “But Norris grew up in Pemberton. That’s thirty minutes up the highway from Whistler. Two of his high school friends are prime suspects in this case. The decision from above is that the less he knows, the better.”
Clare threw her hands in the air. “Of course the fact he’s local should be a point against the man. No sense treating that as an asset. No wonder he doesn’t want me here. His employers already treat him like garbage.”
“It’s an obstacle, Clare. Don’t turn it into a roadblock. I requested you for this job because I’m impressed by your open mind.”
“You requested me?”
“I think you have the right character to immerse yourself in this culture. You’ll want to add a couple of traits to help you blend in — like an eco-friendly mindset and an appreciation of organic food.”
“Are you asking me to be a vegetarian?”
“No.” Amanda smiled. “Just, if you’re picking up potato chips, grab the hippie kind, with the biodegradable packaging. And drink local craft beer rather than Bud. It’s not a culture of extremists, but they do have a sensibility about preserving the environment. They love the outdoors.”
“Sounds okay,” Clare said.
“You’ll have to watch the marijuana, though. We don’t want you so stoned that you’re not in control of your reactions.”
“I don’t smoke pot. So that won’t be a problem.”
Amanda frowned. “Actually, I think you should smoke, at least a little. It’s an unconventional directive, but your new peer group smokes marijuana liberally.”
“Fine,” Clare said, a small grin tugging the corner of her lips. “But you can’t make me inhale.”
FIVE
WADE
Wade’s head throbbed. It had been throbbing most mornings lately. His throat was dry and so was the water glass on the bedside table. He thought vaguely about cutting back his smoking but really, why? It wasn’t like he wanted a long life.
A ray of sun pierced in from the skylight, hitting the snow on the mountain and reflecting directly into Wade’s eyes. Even nature wouldn’t leave him alone.
Wade recalled a distant past when he used to love waking up. It was a very distant past. Before he owned a bar. Before he was married. Maybe it was a false memory.
He shuffled out to the kitchen and was surprised to see Georgia there, also in a robe, waxed legs stretching down to her spa slippers. She looked like she was in Perfect Housewife magazine. Wade wanted to close the page.
“Isn’t it Monday?” Wade said, meaning, Why aren’t you already at that desk in Vancouver you love so much?
“Nope. Sunday. Would you like me to squeeze you some juice?”
Wade wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist from behind. He tried to figure out how he could slip a shot of vodka into the juice without her seeing. “You squeeze the oranges; I’ll squeeze you.”
“Maybe not at the same time.” Georgia uncoiled Wade from around her.
Wade shrugged and took a stool across the double-wide counter. The vodka was in the cupboard beside him, but he’d wait until Georgia left the room. He pulled that day’s newspaper toward him, hoping — and not hoping — for a new article about Sacha.
“You still read that?” Georgia said. “I was thinking of canceling the subscription.”
“I read it sometimes,” Wade said. “I like that it comes to the door.”
“We’re leaking money.”
“It’s a dollar a day.” Wade flipped as casually as he could to the national news section. Or would the story be in international, since Sacha was American? “Fine. Cancel the subscription.”
Georgia pushed an orange half onto the machine, taking over the kitchen with noise. When she’d finished, she handed Wade a half-full glass of juice.
“I don’t even rate a full glass?”
“Oranges are expensive. When we figure out what’s happening with Avalanche, I’ll squeeze you a full glass of juice.”
“Ouch.” Wade was tempted to reach for the vodka openly. But it wasn’t even eight a.m. Georgia could be really judgmental about morning drinking.
“You know I don’t mean to stomp on your dream. But it drives me insane that I’m making more money than ever before and I still have to pinch pennies when I’m shopping for a pair of shoes.”
Wade’s dream? Oh, right. She meant the bar. “I have an investor for Avalanche,” Wade said. “We’re getting close to a deal.”
“You sure it’s a real investor, not some nosy businessman who wants you to show him the books so he can open his own bar?” Georgia popped the top off the juicer and took the dirty parts to the sink.
Wade casually opened the cupboard. Georgia’s back was to him. When she turned on the water, he’d have a few clear seconds easily. He aimed for a conciliatory tone when he said, “I know the past few people I’ve talked to have been disappointing. But this guy’s for real. I already know him.”
“You do?” Georgia turned back around to face him. Her eyes moved to the open liquor cupboard door and fixed pointedly on it. “Do I know him, too?”
“Maybe. Richie Lebar. Nice guy. In his late twenties and smart. I think he’ll go far.”
“You mean the drug dealer. The one who looks like Jay-Z.” Georgia returned to face the sink, where she started banging juicer parts around in soapy water.
In one swift movement, Wade unscrewed the vodka cap and poured a healthy two ounces into his juice glass, which was still a quarter full. Since Georgia had already seen the open cupboard door, he didn’t bother shutting it when he put the bottle away.
When she’d finished washing up, Georgia walked over and took Wade’s hand. “I can see why you’re tempted — I know how hard you’ve been working to get Avalanche off the ground. But I don’t want to be in business with a drug dealer.”<
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Wade finished the juice in one gulp and set the glass on the counter. “That was good. Thanks.”
“Did you add booze to your juice?”
Wade lowered his brow, trying to look baffled by the question.
Georgia shook her head. Wade remembered when he’d loved to look at her long, mussed-up hair in the morning, before she showered and made it all perfect.
“Look, Georgia, you can’t treat me like I’m a five-year-old with my first lemonade stand. I’m supposed to be your partner in life.”
“You think I like this role?” Georgia’s eyes were tearing up.
“Of course not. I appreciate the fashion sacrifices you’ve made to help me launch Avalanche.”
“Jesus. Have another shot.” Georgia started pulling out bottles from the cupboard at random. “What would you like? Whiskey? Grand Marnier?”
“A vodka would be fine,” Wade said. “It would help me deal with your irrational rage.”
“I’m irrational?” Georgia grabbed the vodka bottle and free-poured into Wade’s dirty juice glass. She stopped just before the glass was brimming over. “Here, Wade. Here’s your fucking medicine. Too bad you never made it as a rock star; your alcoholism would have worked for your public image.”
Wade took a sip.
Georgia’s eyes bugged. “You’re actually having that? It’s not even eight in the morning.”
Wade took a larger sip — more like a gulp.
“Think about it, though.” Georgia’s tone softened into something sad. “We close the bar, then it’s just you and me, living like we used to. We can move back to the city, wander into Stanley Park and have weekends like normal people.”
“Maybe have some kids.”
“I’m too old to have children.” Georgia shivered like a ghost had just passed through her.
“You’re only thirty-six. You want to condemn us to a childless old age?” Wade said, feeling bleaker than ever. He was thirty-eight, which at the moment felt ancient.
“Jesus, Wade, do you have to be so melodramatic when life doesn’t do what you want it to?”
“I’m just trying to find something to make my life worth living.” Because Sacha was gone, and Wade wasn’t sure anything was left.
“Now you have nothing to live for.” Georgia grabbed a towel and began fiercely drying the juicer parts from the dish rack.
Shit. Wade had to get her onside, to agree to the partnership with Richie. “We used to have so much fun together. Remember Morocco?”
Georgia smiled, but it was short-lived. “We were in our twenties. We didn’t know what stress was.”
“I’m taking Richie’s offer. It’s a fair price, and he’ll help pump young blood into the place.”
“No.”
Wade glared at Georgia. Their eyes locked in what felt to Wade like hate.
Georgia shook her head firmly. “I know I said I wouldn’t exercise my signing authority. But this is a hard no. You get partners like that, you’re only asking to get raped. I love you too much to see that happen.”
“That’s not love, Georgia. That’s control.”
“My name is on that lease, and I have a professional reputation to maintain. I can’t have my name dragged through the mud.”
“Don’t you get it? The landlords are taking back the bar if I don’t give them forty-five grand in two weeks. Partnering with Richie solves that — plus it gives the place a cash infusion to really get it pumping.”
“I’m fine with closing the bar. I’m not fine being in bed with criminals.”
SIX
RICHIE
Richie Lebar tapped his fur-lined boot against the police station floor. He saw a tiny tear on the suede at his toe, which annoyed him. He didn’t like leaving his boots in Jana’s foyer — she just threw her stuff everywhere, no regard for anything of hers or anyone else’s.
Inspector Norris was taking forever to read the suicide note. His thin lips pushed in and out from his face like a goldfish in a tank, slow and stupid. Finally, the little inspector looked up. “Thank you for this. You’re free to leave.”
“I promised Jana I’d bring the note back.” As Richie held out his hand, he wondered if maybe he should lose a few of his gold rings. Less bling might make people take him more seriously as a businessman when he became Wade’s partner in the bar. On the other hand, nothing said confidence like personal style. Richie had to make sure he stayed true to his real self, even while he tweaked his image to fit into the business world.
Norris smoothed the note on the desk in front of him. “Jana’s going to have to find another memento to clutch in her sleep. This is evidence.”
Richie shook his head. For a cop on the criminals’ payroll, Norris didn’t seem to understand who was in charge. But the little cop had real control issues — probably why he became a cop — so Richie had to tread lightly, not undermine Norris in an obvious way.
“Do you have anything else with Sacha’s handwriting?” Norris slid the note into a large machine that looked like it served triple duty as a copier, printer, and scanner. Maybe a fax machine, too. He pressed a couple of buttons and two pages came out. He handed one to Richie — the photocopy. “Give this to Jana. I’ll log the note as her official property so when we close the case, it will belong to her. Tell her you’re welcome. She’s about eleven days too late for a thank you.”
Richie’s gaze wandered to the certificates on the wall, commemorating Norris’ graduation from police academy and completion of various officer training. Richie was pretty sure this was why cops were always two steps behind criminals — they stopped to commemorate things while criminals just got on with business.
“How’s your kid?” Richie said.
Norris’ whole body seemed to relax into a smile. “Zoe was invited to play in the junior string orchestra with the Vancouver Youth Symphony.”
“I take it that’s a good thing.” Richie couldn’t help but smile back. If he ever had kids, he was taking a page out of Norris’ book.
“Zoe’s going to have the musical career that I never . . . that she deserves.”
“Good for her,” Richie said. Then he had a thought: “You loved that band, huh? Avalanche Nights?”
Norris frowned.
“Why don’t you revive the group? You’re all still here — you, Wade, Chopper — you’re all still talented.” Richie was clutching at straws maybe. But if he could get Avalanche Nights back together onstage, and especially if he got credit for it, it could be the final in he needed. His goal was clear: Richie wanted to run this town — legitimately.
“I’m not a dreamer. That part of my life is over.” Norris gave a short shake of his head. “You can go now.”
“Sure,” Richie said. “Just give me that original note, and we’re good. Pretty sure I’m not getting laid until I get it back into Jana’s hands.” Totally not true. Jana never stayed angry. But Richie would lay money that Norris’ wife was the type to withhold sex in an argument, so he said, “You know, man to man.”
“Man to man,” Norris said, “does Jana not understand this is a death investigation?”
Richie shrugged. “She’s messed up. Thinks she can talk to Sacha beyond the grave.”
Norris shivered. “You believe in that ghost shit?”
“No,” Richie said. “Not that it matters. Any faith looks like craziness to those outside it.” Richie had learned that from Bob Billingsley at a success seminar in Toronto. Never let someone shake your faith in where you’re going, Bob had said, preaching from his book, The Religion of Success. People will think you’re crazy — they might even call you crazy — but you’ll be crazy all the way to the bank.
“All right, so tell Jana if she gets me a second piece of Sacha’s handwriting — preferably from this side of the grave — this note will be back in her hands all the sooner. If it’s a m
atch, we can close this case, put the RCMP’s resources toward more productive uses.”
“And send the FBI packing?”
“In a perfect world, yes.” Norris scrunched up his face. He looked like he was constipated and confused about it. “Jesus, I wish the FBI would tell me who their damn undercover is.”
“I know,” Richie said with a smirk. “It’s so unfair that they don’t trust you.”
“Fuck off, Lebar.”
Richie grinned. “Yeah, fair. I got one more run I need to make. Tomorrow, to Seattle. Sacha was supposed to make it, but, well . . . anyway, I got it covered.”
“No,” Norris said. “I mean, I’d like to say yes, but we can’t take any chances. You’re going to have to cancel.”
“Can’t. The Mountain Snow is sold — meaning heavy penalties for non-delivery.”
“So stall. In a perfect world, it will only take a day or two for this note to work its magic.” Norris held the original suicide note and waved it briefly in the air.
Richie glanced at Norris’ heavy wooden bookcase. Mostly it held police manuals and other boring-as-shit-looking hardcovers. But from a middle shelf, Zoe glanced out.
“You’re doing all this for her, huh? Because a cop’s salary can’t finance the kind of music education you think she should have?”
Norris scowled. “With all due respect, I don’t ask you your reasons for breaking the law.”
“I break the law because it’s what I grew up thinking I was good for. But I’m changing all that. I’m soon gonna be a legitimate businessman.”
“Are you?” Norris met Richie’s eye. “You’re a weirdo, Lebar.”
SEVEN
CLARE
“Lucy, have you seen my December Snow Betty?” Jana was standing in the doorless doorway between the living room and kitchen. Her thick dirty blond hair fell around her shoulders and one hand was on her hip.
