by Vicki Delany
At last the speaker droned to a halt. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
Winters stepped forward. “Before you leave, I’d like to take a few more minutes of your time, if I may. I’m Sergeant John Winters with the Trafalgar City Police.” He smiled. The women didn’t smile back. He leaned up against the kitchen counter, trying to appear casual, chatty, friendly. And not look at the feeding baby. “Have you heard what happened here on Thursday evening?”
They nodded.
“Did any of you know Ashley?”
The women glanced at each other. A pregnant one shifted her belly. It looked like she had a basketball stuffed up her shirt. That must be so uncomfortable. He smiled at her. She cracked a trace of a grin in return.
“Anyone?” he asked again. “You’ve seen her here in the center. How about around town?”
Quiet.
“Why do you want to know?” Someone spoke at last. She had hoops running up both ears, a silver bar stabbed into the top of her nose, between the eyebrows, and a hoop, which looked as if it were intended to hold a cow bell, through her nostrils. Her bare arms were covered in colorful tattoos.
“She wasn’t murdered, was she?” another woman said. “The paper said it was an accident.”
The paper hadn’t mentioned murder because the police weren’t releasing the details of Ashley’s death. Let the killer think they believed it was an accidental overdose.
“We investigate any unusual death. Ashley was young, found dead in the woods. That’s unusual. We want to know what happened to her. It would help if we knew more about her. Did any of you ever speak to her?”
“I did,” the basketball girl said. “This,” she rubbed her stomach, “is my first.” She looked about sixteen: Winters certainly hoped it was her first. “I come here to meet the other moms. Find out what it’s like. You know, giving birth. Having a baby.” She blushed and looked down.
“Were you and Ashley friends?”
“Not really. We talked, a bit. She said childbirth was as easy as sneezing.”
Cowbell Girl snorted, and a couple of the others laughed.
So Ashley hadn’t told the girls Miller wasn’t her natural son. Even Lucky had been surprised to hear that. “Do you know her last name?”
“No. Don’t you?”
He answered her question with a question. “Can I ask your name?”
“Carlene.”
“Carlene, thanks. Anyone else?”
No one answered. Winters let his question linger. The women began to shift in their seats.
“She didn’t talk much,” Cowbell Girl said, breaking the silence. “Not to anyone. About a week or so ago she was here, wanting to get some baby clothes.”
“We run an infant and child clothing and accessories exchange,” the fat woman explained.
“Beowulf’s bigger than her baby, so I said she could have some of the things he’d outgrown,” the young mother said. For a moment, Winters thought she was talking about dog dishes and the like. Fortunately before he could ask, he understood that Beowulf must be the name of her baby. “She came over to my place and got them. And that’s about the only time I spoke to her.”
Winters asked the same questions in different ways. But no one had anything more to add. He thanked the women for their time, and asked Cowbell Girl and Basketball to stay a while longer.
The nursing mother pulled her baby’s mouth off her nipple, stuffed her breast back into her shirt, and the baby back into its sling. The young women left quietly, their mood somber and quiet. When the others had gone, Winters pulled a chair up to the table and sat down with Basketball and Cowbell Girl. The fat woman joined them.
But the young women could tell him nothing more. They’d talked to Ashley; she hadn’t talked back. She didn’t tell them where she was from, didn’t talk about Miller’s father, not even to badmouth him. They’d tried to make friends, but she didn’t want to be friends. And so they’d dropped it.
“She wanted to be left alone,” Cowbell Girl, whose name, he’d found out, was Paula. It didn’t suit her. “So I left her alone.”
“Me too,” Carlene said. “She wasn’t rude, like. But she made sure you got the hint.”
“Did you know Ashley at all?” Winters asked the fat woman. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Betty. She came to my classes a few times. But she didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t stay to chat after. The girls usually linger for a social time after class. Sometimes, we go out for coffee. My treat. The girls look forward to that.” Clearly she was telling Winters that he had spoiled their coffee klatch.
He handed Paula and Carlene his card. Paula read it, but Carlene put it into her pocket without looking at it.
“If you can remember anything, I’d appreciate it. We need to find Ashley’s family, otherwise Miller will have to go into foster care.”
Paula looked up. Her lips were dark with purple lipstick, her eyes heavily rimmed in black eyeliner. Water filled her eyes as if a dam had been opened. “Foster care,” she whispered. “The poor thing.”
There was a story there. But it wasn’t his business. “Almost anything Ashley told you might help us find her family.”
Paula gripped the card. “I’ll try to remember. I will, Mr. Winters.”
And he knew she would.
“Thanks.” He stood up.
They gathered their things. Paula reached into a stroller against the kitchen wall, and gathered up a baby. “This is Beowulf,” she said to Winters, bursting with pride. Beowulf burped and opened his eyes.
“How old?”
“Nearly six months.”
“Wow,” John Winters said, “he’s a big one.” Good thing too—with a name like that, the kid would need to be big when he got to school.
Paula smiled and tucked the baby in amongst his blankets. “We’d better get moving. Now he’s awake, he’ll be wanting to be fed. And fast.”
Winters smiled back. Beowulf might curse his mother for his name someday, but he’d not grow up unloved.
The front door opened as the two young women reached it. Carlene was asking Paula if Beowulf was sleeping through yet.
A man stepped aside to let them pass.
It was Julian Armstrong. Armstrong had been at the hospital last night, but left when told he couldn’t see the overdose patient.
“John,” he said with jovial familiarity. “Great to see you again.” Betty held out her arms and Armstrong enveloped her in an enthusiastic hug.
“What brings you here, Mr. Armstrong?” Winters asked when they’d separated.
“Drumming up business, I’m sorry to say.”
“Julian’s setting up a counseling practice in town,” Betty said. “I thought he’d like to meet some of our clients. You’re late. They’ve left already.”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “I apologize, got tied up. Sorry to say, I met Sergeant Winters last night. Heroin overdose in an alley.”
“How awful.”
“It was. But the boy’s going to be okay, right, John?”
Winters didn’t reply.
“The girl I particularly want you to meet didn’t come today,” Betty said, taking Armstrong’s arm. “Let me fill you in on her situation and we can come up with a plan of attack.”
Winters let himself out.
***
Staff-sergeant Al Peterson met Smith and Evans, the duty constables, when they came on shift at three.
“Hot time in the old town tonight,” he said.
“Huh?” Evans said.
“He means we’ll be busy,” Smith said. Her dad used that expression when he was all fired up about something. Fortunately, these days her dad got all fired up about things like the scoring record of the latest Toronto Blue Jays’ prospect. Not about marijuana laws and whether or not his daughter should be enforcing them.
Peterson led them into the constables’ office. It wasn’t used as
much as in the old days, Peterson had told his younger officers many times. These days, constables were expected to be out on the streets, in the cars, using their computers to write up reports and whatever other paper work needed to be done.
“At three-forty-five you’re both to be sitting in a patrol car at the back. Any problems between now and then, I’ll handle it.”
“You?” Evans said.
Peterson raised one overgrown gray eyebrow. “You have a problem with that, Constable Evans?”
Smith kept her face even. Evans had been on the force longer than she. He was out of probation, and she wasn’t. But he was such an arrogant prick that she did get a chuckle, sometimes, at seeing him slapped into place.
Of course he, Evans, liked nothing more than to watch Smith shoved back into line.
“Just curious, that’s all,” he said, his voice deep and smooth.
“Well don’t be. You must have reports to finish up. If not you can eat lunch until then.”
Paul Keller, the Chief Constable, nodded to them as he walked down the hall to his office. A miasma of cigarette smoke followed in his wake. Smith wondered if the CC had ever done surveillance work. Unlikely, as anyone within a hundred yards would be able to smell him out. Something was up. Keller wasn’t an office-hours only, keep-to-the-book Chief, but it was unusual to see him on a Sunday.
The boss stopped in his tracks and turned around. “Molly. If you have a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My office.”
“Catch you in the car,” Evans said.
Her heart tightened in her chest as Keller asked her to shut the door behind her. He walked around his desk and dropped into the big swivel chair. Here it was—the Chief was in on a Sunday to tell her she was sacked. He’d seen her name in the papers once too often and didn’t want an officer who attracted so much local media attention. She stood at attention, and gripped her hands behind her back.
“I’ve had a complaint about your mother,” he said.
“What?”
“Informal, fortunately. Not through channels. Just a private e-mail telling me that Mrs. Lucy Smith is refusing to hand over the Ashley Doe baby.” He rubbed the bit of hair that remained on the top of his head. The afternoon sun streaming in from the window behind him reflected off pieces of scalp floating in the air.
Smith hadn’t even known that child services wanted the kid.
“I don’t know what I can do, sir.”
He waved his hand in the air. “I’m not asking you to do anything, Molly. Please take a seat.”
She plopped herself down.
“I wanted to let you know what’s happening, that’s all. Your mother and I have known each other for a long time.”
Smith shifted uncomfortably. With all the equipment around her waist she had trouble settling into the chair. She’d recently wondered if the CC had a thing for her mother: she’d instantly closed that line of inquiry. But his eyes were turning all soft and dreamy as he talked about Lucky Smith. He looked like a sixteen year old boy thinking about Pamela Anderson.
“Of course, I can’t take sides.” He glanced at his watch. “Tomorrow’s Monday and it’s possible that child services will be back. I wanted you to be aware of what’s going on, that’s all.”
She stood up. “Thanks, sir. But my mom isn’t likely to listen to me, you know.”
Keller again rubbed his hand across his bald dome. “And she isn’t going to listen to me either, Molly. But we can try. Take care.”
“Sure,” she said, not knowing if he was asking her to take care of herself on the streets, or her mother if things didn’t go Lucky’s way.
She went to the parking lot at the side of the building. It was three-forty-three and Evans was behind the wheel of a patrol car.
“What was that about?”
She fastened her seat belt. “Everything and nothing. Everyone in this town knows everyone and everything there is to know about them.”
“Which is why,” Evans said, “I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.”
Small towns had their disadvantages, Smith was about to agree. But if you wanted a life outside of work, someplace to relax, to calm down, there weren’t many places better than Trafalgar.
“Two-five. Where are you?” The radio cracked. It was Sergeant Winters. Smith glanced at the clock. Three-forty-six.
“Office,” Evans said.
“Go to Vancouver Street, park between Redwood and Cedar. Remain in the vehicle until notified. No noise.”
“On our way.” They pulled out of the parking bay onto George Street. Sunday traffic was light and no cars were coming their way.
“What do you think, Mol?” Evans said, his foot hard on the gas.
“Grow-op raid, for sure. Either that or an Al-Qaeda cell.”
“I’ll put my money on the grow-op,” Evans said. “Although it’d be nice to tackle those Al-Qaeda guys. It’s pretty nasty the way they treat women.”
They took a corner and Smith’s head shook, as much with the centrifugal force as with Evans’ remark. Hard to know, sometimes, if men wanted to help women in distant places, or if they wanted to be seen as powerful and macho as they offered their help to women in distant places. There was a profound difference, Lucky had taught her. One approach cared about the result of their interference. One did not.
Evans slid the car up against the crumbling curb on Vancouver Street. An elderly lady was grooming her lush perennial garden.
She approached the car, scissors in liver-spotted hand.
“Oh, goodie,” Evans said. “We have backup.”
Smith rolled down the window. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
“If you’re here about them.” The gardener waved her shears, which were, Smith noticed, well sharpened. “You’re too late. They’re gone. For good I hope, but I don’t expect my prayers to be answered.”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
“It’s those cats. I’ve complained and complained about what they’re doing to my plants, but does anyone listen. No. I’m just an old lady. Who cares what I think? An old lady, I’ll remind you, who’s lived in this town since 1938. How about that?”
“Wow,” Smith said. For lack of anything else to say. “That’s a long time.”
The woman peered into the window of the car. Her eyes were clear and sharply focused. “I know you. You’re the Smith girl. Moonbeam. What a ridiculous name. And now you’re with the police. What could your father have been thinking, allowing you to take a man’s job?”
Evans almost busted a gut trying not to laugh. Smith refrained from slapping him.
“Pardon me, Ma’am. Police business.” John Winters was beside the car, and the gardener bustled away after giving him a simpering smile.
“You’re with me Smith. Evans, pull the car up in front of that alley. This is the only way out. Anyone comes down it, stop them.”
Chapter Nine
Meredith Morgenstern was sitting in her living room, painting her toenails and wondering if she should spend the afternoon at the beach or just sit here on her miniscule balcony. The phone rang, but she was in no hurry to answer it. Nothing of importance would be happening in Trafalgar on a Sunday afternoon.
“Too bad you’re not there,” a voice said into the answering machine. “Interesting stuff happenin’ on Redwood Street.” It was a man, probably, the sound muffled, the words indistinct.
Meredith tossed the bottle of polish onto the low coffee table and grabbed the receiver. “I’m here, I’m here. Who are you? Why are you calling me?”
“Just bein’ friendly. It’s no concern of mine if you go. Do what you like. But you might see an old school chum of yours there.” He hung up.
Redwood was a residential street in the lower east end of town, an area of crumbling older homes and weed-choked gardens. If anything would be happening in Trafalgar on a Sunday afternoon it would be likely to happen on Redwood Street. Meredith ran into her bedroom, not noticing the blood-red pol
ish dripping into the carpet.
***
Smith scrambled out of the car. She plopped her hat on her head and settled the gun belt around her waist.
Winters was dressed in jeans and his raid jacket. “You’re to do nothing but follow me,” he told her. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
They walked up Vancouver Street and turned into Redwood. A casually dressed man tossed a cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and ground it under his heel. Smith had seen him around—RCMP.
429 Redwood Street was a dilapidated shack. Weeds choked the life out of a yard that once-upon-a-time had boasted a pleasant garden. The brick walkway was buried in more weeds and recently laid piles of dog dirt. Paint peeled from gingerbread edging. Particle board covered basement windows.
Meredith Morgenstern watched from across the street. She was dressed in black shorts, red T-shirt, and sandals with heels, a camera bag tossed over her right shoulder.
Meredith saw Smith and Winters arrive. She held up her right hand, index finger pointed out, thumb folding back the other three fingers. She threw them a bright smile, along with the implied threat.
“That woman’s with the paper,” the Mountie said. “If they’ve spotted her, we might as well be home playing tiddlywinks.”
“Someone’s informed on us,” Winters said, his voice low. “Can’t worry about that now.”
The three police officers walked up the weed-choked pathway. Winters and the Mountie looked like they were heading for their mothers’ homes to escort the ladies to church. Smith’s heart pounded so hard in her chest, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the residents of the house heard them coming and ran out the back into Dave Evans’ waiting arms.
Winters knocked on the door.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
The door opened, just a crack. A head, all uncombed hair and unkempt beard peered up. He looked at the men first. “Yeah?” Then he saw Smith, in uniform. “Jesus,” he said.
The Mountie stuck a heavily booted foot into the door before it could be slammed shut.
“Police search warrant,” Winters yelled. “We’re coming in.” He flipped the flaps on his jacket and the word ‘Police’ was displayed. “Smith, secure the street.” He disappeared into the house.
