by Vicki Delany
“She has no record of any sort.”
“Okay. We’ll look elsewhere. Speaking of which, you,” he turned to Smith, “do you know where Winters lives?”
“Me?” she blinked. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“You can take me there. I’m going to speak to the wife again.” Madison looked at Lopez. “Do you have a problem with that, Detective?”
“Yes, actually, now that you’ve asked. I know Mrs. Winters, not well, but I’ve met her a few times. I do not believe she snuck up behind some guy and shot him in the head. Didn’t happen.”
“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. You, do you have a personal opinion about Mrs. Winters?”
“I’ve never met her,” Smith said.
“Then you can drive me. You’ll wait in the car, though. This department appears to have a problem with confidentiality.”
He walked away. Smith and Lopez exchanged looks before she hurried to catch up with the Mountie, who was pounding at the elevator button as if the number of hits would determine the speed at which it would arrive.
He said not a word in the car. When they pulled up at the Winters home, he ordered Smith, once again, to remain in the vehicle, and stalked up to the front door. There wasn’t a car in the driveway, but the double garage doors were closed, so that meant nothing.
Getting no answer at the door, Madison walked around the house. Smith knew where Winters lived only because her mother, who knew everything that went on in the Mid-Kootenays, had told her. The house had been built to blend seamlessly into the forest setting. It was all wood and stone, aged perfectly, with lots of tall windows, and evidence of a gigantic fireplace. The property was high up a winding mountain road, the last home before the mountain got steeper and civilization was defeated. The view, Smith thought, must be spectacular; you could probably see the river from up here. The property was large, dotted with outbuildings. Lawns led from the house to the woods, and no other homes interrupted their privacy. Scattered piles of dirty snow still lined the driveway and walkways, and the flowerbeds were bare, with only a few thin dead stalks sticking up out of the mud. A cluster of purple and white crocuses, the first brave flowers of spring, huddled against one wall. Their faces were partially closed on the cloudy day. A spacious deck ran off French doors at the left side of the house. Orange tarps protected stacked outdoor furniture from winter storms. A large gas barbeque, judging by the shape, was covered, but placed close to the door, ready for action.
It was a beautiful home, probably well beyond the pay of a police sergeant. Rumor said Mrs. Winters had pots of money.
The front door opened. The woman herself peered out, looking over a pair of reading glasses pulled down her nose. She saw Smith watching. Smith half-lifted her hand to wave, but put it back on the steering wheel. Should she go in search of Madison, tell him Mrs. Winters had answered the door?
But he was back. He climbed the front steps, spoke to Mrs. Winters. She stepped aside to let him in. She looked at the patrol car, once again, and shut the door.
Madison wasn’t inside for long. He let himself out, and Smith didn’t see Eliza Winters again.
They drove down the twisting road, back to the highway that followed the river and over the big black bridge into town. “To the hotel?” she asked.
“You’re a local, Smith.” She was surprised he knew anything about her, including her name.
“Born and raised.”
“Do you know what Sherlock Holmes said about the countryside?”
“No.”
“’The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’ The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.”
“The great detective never came to Trafalgar, sir. I think he’d find it peaceful here. Most of the time.”
“I’m not interested in what happens here most of the time. Drop me back at the hotel. I have an appointment to see the grieving widow.”
She pulled up to the hotel entrance. Madison made no move to get out of the car. The silence lay between them, long and uncomfortable. Peter Wagner, the hotel manager, stood on the steps talking to guests. He didn’t look pleased to see the patrol car parked out front. A reminder of what had happened in his hotel only days ago. “Friends with Sergeant Winters, are you?” Madison said at last.
“Me? Heavens no.”
“I heard you were close.”
“You did?”
“His wife denies killing Steiner. She would, wouldn’t she? She says he was alive when she left his room that night. She also says he wanted to photograph her and was rude when she told him no. I can’t help wondering if photograph is a euphemism for something else.”
Smith had no idea why he was telling her this.
“My first wife,” Madison said bluntly, “was a slut. We lived in a small town in Saskatchewan. She screwed half my colleagues before I realized what was going on. Until I came to my senses and divorced her, I might have done some damage to any guy I found with her.” He opened the door and went into the hotel.
Smith sat in the car, stunned. What the hell? What was there about talking to Mrs. Winters that made Madison think about Sherlock Holmes and sin? Was he warning Smith to stay clear of Winters? He couldn’t seriously be suspecting John Winters of the killing. Could he?
That last statement sounded as if he were dismissing her. She checked her watch. What with the upset stomach in the night, then the worry about her dad, she hadn’t eaten all day. She’d stop for a quick sandwich before going back to the station.
The Sunshine Grill was the closest place to the hotel. Smith parked the patrol car in a no-parking space and went in. The place was full, all the tables taken. A row of strollers lined the walls and babies bounced on parents’ laps and toddlers ran around the room, dodging people ferrying food and drink to tables. Although there was a long line in front of the cash, no one was in much of a hurry. The woman making the lattes and cappuccinos, who looked about to give birth any minute, chatted to a man with a beard almost to his chest and a tattoo, in full color, of a Canadian flag on the back of his bald head. The boy taking orders described, in great detail, the provenance of the ingredients in each of the cookies to an elderly woman in twin-set and pearls who kept asking him to repeat himself.
Smith took a place in line and studied the chalk board displaying the menu. She was debating between the smoked salmon bagel and the curried chicken wrap when her sixth-sense prickled. She turned her head to see Meredith Morgenstern at a table in the back corner. The reporter was with an older man, dressed in a very good suit, and a skinny young woman. The woman wore a crisp white blouse, with several buttons undone, and tailored jeans. Her legs were crossed and a shoe with a heel like a knife blade dangled from her toes.
Smith and Meredith had been in high school together. They’d hated each other back then. Now that one was a cop and the other was, in Smith’s opinion, an interfering journalist of the sleazy sort, their relationship hadn’t improved.
She’d find a place with a better class of clientele.
“Molly, hold on a minute,” Meredith called.
Smith bolted for the street. The last thing she needed was to be seen talking to Meredith Morgenstern. As Denton had said, the Chief was on the warpath, and his quarry was Meredith’s informant.
“Wait up.” The reporter skirted tables and brushed past chairs. People gave her questioning looks and stepped aside to let her by. A young boy pulled his cup of hot chocolate, precariously topped with a mountain of whipped cream, out of the way with barely enough time to avoid disaster.
Smith stopped. She could hardly run down the street, pursued by loud-voiced journalist. She’d look ridiculous.
“What do you want Meredith? You must know you’re persona non grata for the police today.”
“Can I quote you on that, Moonlight?”
“No.” Not another word, Smith told herself. Don’t say another word.
“I’m wondering if
you can make a comment for the press? I couldn’t help but notice you driving Sergeant Madison earlier. What’s the status of his investigation?”
Meredith’s table companions had joined her. The man held out his hand. Smith instinctively took it.
“Larry Iverson. Pleased to meet you, Constable.”
The skinny woman dismissed Smith with a glance.
“I have nothing to say, Ms. Morgenstern.”
“I was telling Larry and Mrs. Steiner what old friends we are. Sorry to hear about your dad.”
Mrs. Steiner. Smith eyed the woman with new interest. So this was the widow. She didn’t look too broken up, but then again you can’t judge by appearances. Iverson must be her father.
“The department will make a statement to the press at the appropriate time, Ms. Morgenstern. My condolences on your loss, Mrs. Steiner.”
“Thank you.”
“Nice meeting you, Constable,” Iverson said.
Meredith didn’t follow when Smith walked away.
She was unlocking the door of the patrol car when a woman ran past. Tall and thin with an overlarge nose and hair cut boyishly short, she wore loose jeans, a baggy jacket, and well-used running shoes. Her sharp features were set into tight lines, and her eyes formed narrowed slits. “What the hell are you playing at?” she yelled when she reached the group on the sidewalk.
She stabbed one finger into Mrs. Steiner’s abundant chest. “I’m talking to you, you fucking bitch.”
Meredith’s ears almost visibly stood up, like a dog when he heard a sound on the wind.
Mr. Iverson said, “Now see here, young lady.”
“You’re next, buddy,” she said. “Those pictures are mine, and I want them back.”
“Diane,” Mrs. Steiner said, with an expression as if she’d stepped into a steaming pile of dog poo, “Larry will explain the situation.”
“There is no situation.” The woman poked again, hard enough to make Mrs. Steiner totter on her ridiculous heels.
“That’s enough.” Smith walked over. “I suggest you go somewhere and talk this over in private.”
“I assume,” Iverson ignored the police officer, “you are Diane Barton, Mr. Steiner’s assistant.”
“I was a damn sight more than an assistant and I want my pictures.”
People stood in the café doorway watching. Across the street, a dog finished peeing against a lamp post, but his owner made no move to continue on his way.
“Miss,” Smith said. “You’re creating a scene. I’m asking you to move along.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you’re asking me to do. In fact, you can arrest her. She’s stolen my property.”
“Okay, let’s go to the station and sort this out.”
“That’s hardly necessary,” Iverson said. “Miss Barton, you must realize it will take time for the family to go through Mr. Steiner’s possessions. The police gave Mrs. Steiner his papers and his cameras back yesterday. In light of his tragic death, his photographs may have some considerable value and…”
“My photographs. That decrepit old man hasn’t taken a picture worth five cents in years. She’s going to pretend they’re his and sell them.” Spittle flew, propelled by the woman’s rage.
Smith touched her arm. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, Miss.”
“Will you mind your own business,” Barton yelled. Turning, she shoved Smith in the chest, hard. Taken by surprise, the policewoman stumbled backwards.
“I don’t think…” Iverson began.
Barton punched Mrs. Steiner in the face. Quicker than she looked, Mrs. Steiner pulled her head to one side, and instead of breaking her nose, the blow glanced off her cheek. With a scream so piercing she sounded like the banshee of Irish legend Smith’s Grandmother Casey had told her about, Steiner flew at her attacker. Her blood-red nails were as sharp as knives. She went for Barton’s eyes. Barton lifted her arm and blocked the hand, but Steiner’s other hand slipped in to scrape down her opponent’s right cheek. Blood spurted, and Barton screamed.
“Break it up.” Smith pushed the button to activate the radio at her shoulder and shouted for assistance. The crowd was growing, fast. Someone yelled that he had twenty dollars on the tall one. Smith threw herself between the two women. They continued the fight around her. Barton swung at Steiner’s face, blood flowed from the woman’s nose, and she was back again, red nails outstretched and moving like claws on an attacking grizzly bear. They were both howling abuse, at each other and at the policewoman. Smith hooked her foot around the back of Barton’s knee and pulled. The woman went down, knocking into the one leg Smith was using to hold herself up. She crashed to the pavement, landing hard on her butt. Shock raced up her spine into her head, and stars danced in front of her eyes. She could hear a siren, very far away.
“Who hoo,” a man shouted. “Now they’ve gone and done it. Forty dollars on the bitch with the nails.”
“My money’s on the cop. Shoot ‘er, Molly.”
“I’ve called 911,” someone a bit more helpful said.
With her opponent on the ground, Steiner moved in. Her feet moved as fast as a dancer’s, her heels were high and the toes of her shoes sharpened to a point. She managed to plant one good kick in her enemy’s ribs before Smith’s head cleared. She grabbed a flailing foot and twisted and brought Steiner down. The woman looked at her. Her face was ugly with hate, and bloodlust moved behind her eyes. Mascara ran down her cheeks in a river of black, her nose was bleeding, and her carefully tousled hair was just tousled. She swung her right hand, and pain streaked across Smith’s face. She launched herself back to her feet and pulled the baton off her belt. With a practiced flick of the wrist, it extended.
Red and blue lights washed the sidewalk and the sound of sirens was everywhere. Steiner and Barton were on the ground, rolling together like lovers. Larry Iverson hopped from one foot to the other, his mouth open in shock.
“Break it up,” a man’s voice said. Dave Evans grabbed the woman on top, Steiner, by her hair and dragged her away. She swore as she landed on her feet, and swung toward Evans, but he caught her hand. “Don’t even think about it.” He flipped her around, pulled her wrists together, and snapped handcuffs on.
Sergeant Winters looked at Smith. “Okay?”
“I’ll live,” she said. She stood over Barton, and waved her baton. “Is this over?” Barton wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and nodded. “Good. Get up,” Smith ordered. When the woman was standing, Smith cuffed her.
There must have been a hundred people watching. A sizeable crowd for an April afternoon in Trafalgar. Meredith was holding a camera up. She must, Smith thought with a spurt of anger, have gotten some good shots. Meredith saw the policewoman watching her, smirked, pointed the camera directly at Molly Smith and pressed her finger. Smith turned away.
Evans’ car was half on the sidewalk, lights flashing. Winters had come in the nondescript blue GIS van, now parked in the middle of the road. Drivers leaned out of their cars, gawking.
“You can remove the cuffs, Constable,” Iverson said to Evans. His suit was still perfectly clean, his cuffs and tie straight. “I am this lady’s lawyer. I can assure you she won’t cause any trouble.” His voice was tight with anger, and, judging by the look he gave his client, she was in for a stern talking to.
“I don’t think so,” Evans said.
“Constable Smith,” Winters said. “Where’s your vehicle?”
She pointed.
“Come back for it later. Go with Constable Evans and take these ladies to the office.”
“Yes, sir,” Evans said.
“I’ll come with you,” Iverson said.
“You can follow, if you must,” Winters said.
“My client…”
“Is under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”
“Hey, I didn’t hit her.” Mrs. Steiner tried to play insulted innocence, but she couldn’t pull it off. “She just got in the way.”
“Te
ll it to the judge,” Evans said.
“Interfering bitch,” Steiner said.
“Don’t say another word, Josie,” Iverson warned her.
Smith and Evans stuffed the two women in the back of the car. Smith was afraid they’d start kicking each other, but they sat down and said nothing. Mrs. Steiner tried to give Evans a flirtatious smile, but it didn’t look too good with the blood and mucus all over her face.
Winters waded into the multitude to take details for later statements if necessary. Most of the spectators gathered around, happy to contribute, a few slipped away.
Charlie Bassing stood on the steps of the hairdresser next door to the café. He was laughing, and made the thumbs up gesture at Smith. He came down the steps and swaggered away.
Over the roof of the car, Evans studied her face.
“What?” she said.
“Hope your tetanus shots are up to date.”
Chapter Fourteen
Molly Smith eyed herself in the mirror, and didn’t like what she saw. The cut across her cheek wasn’t too deep, but it had bled, and Smith had been told to take care of it while Evans processed the two women. Those fingernails should be registered as lethal weapons. As she’d pulled Steiner out of the car, she’d noticed with a small tinge of satisfaction that half the woman’s nails had broken off.
Better put some anti-bacterial on the cut. No telling where those fingernails had been. The thought made her stomach move, and she leaned over the sink. She breathed carefully, paying attention as each breath moved in and out, and when she felt stronger she lifted her head, and turned the water on to scrub off the dried muck. Her rear hurt where she’d ignominiously landed on it.
She and Adam planned on going to the hospital tonight to visit Andy. Her father and Adam seemed to like each other and got on well. Lucky, who had not been pleased when her daughter joined the police, wasn’t too enthusiastic at having a cop as a potential son-in-law, but Lucky’s earlier attempt at matchmaking had gone so disastrously wrong she accepted Adam with warmth.
Smith hated to think what Adam and her dad would have to say about her face. She touched the wound, now clean. She could plaster the make-up on, but that was so out of character they’d immediately know she was trying to hide something.
