Winter of Secrets

by Vicki Delany

  An aerial fire truck arrived. The ladder was raised and used to bathe the scene in strong white light. The tow truck driver got ready to fasten to the car. The people in the water, tethered by lines to their truck, moved with care, and signaled to each other with hand gestures. One came back, walking slowly in the heavy dry-suit. Chunks of ice drifted around her legs. Her face was dark and grim beneath the clear visor of the helmet. Firefighters clambered down the riverbank, dragging the end of the cable attached to the tow truck. The woman in the water grabbed it. Washed in the powerful lights of the ladder truck, snowflakes falling around her, up to her knees in black water, reflective stripes on her suit glowing, she looked like an alien, heading back to the mother ship after taking samples of Earth life forms.

  Something soft, gentle and cold landed on Molly Smith’s cheek. She looked up. Snowflakes drifted down from the heavens. She put her hand to her head. She’d lost her hat long ago, tossed into the back of the truck, hopefully, although she didn’t remember. Her hair was soaking wet from snow melting against her scalp. Her boots were good, but even so her feet were getting cold. She wiggled her fingers inside her gloves.

  But all this, she knew, was nothing compared to what the people trapped in that car must be feeling.

  If they were feeling anything at all.

  ***

  Eliza Winters snuggled up against her husband. It was Christmas Eve, Christmas morning now, and she was delightfully warm and content. He was on vacation, and, wonder of wonders, still on vacation. No one had called, sending him back to work, tossing apologies over his shoulder. Nothing urgent, nothing only he could handle.

  In the early days of her marriage, she’d seriously considered unplugging the phone and hiding it behind the sofa, before leading her husband into bed with languid glances.

  But, she’d realized, that would work exactly once.

  And so she’d decided simply to accept the role of the wife of a street cop, a detective, and then, the most unpredictable of all, a homicide detective.

  And thus the last twenty-five years had generally passed quite well indeed.

  “I think we need another log.”

  “I think I need another log,” she said with a giggle.

  “Eliza, you’re drunk.”

  She lifted her crystal flute. “I am not. But I am out of Champagne.”

  He reached over and took the bottle out of the silver cooler. Ice, melting and soft, clinked. He filled her glass. Let her drink as much as she liked; she rarely did, and she wasn’t driving anywhere tonight.

  She’d regret it in the morning, though.

  The seven-foot Douglas fir sparked with miniature white lights and colorful decorations, and the scent of the freshly cut tree filled the house. Eliza had arranged groupings of white candles on the coffee and side tables. The smaller ones had gone out, and the larger ones were flickering. The lamps had been turned off, and the only other light came from the wood-burning fireplace. The Ely Cathedral Choir sang carols in the background.

  Their home was out of town, high in the mountains, on five remote acres. When John Winters had gone to the kitchen to fetch another bottle of champagne, he’d looked outside. Nothing but night and wind and snow.

  He checked his watch. “It’s past midnight. Merry Christmas, Eliza.”

  She smiled up at him. Her eyes were losing some focus around the edges. “Does that mean I can have my prezzie now?”

  He hit his forehead in mock horror. “I knew I forgot some thing.”

  “I didn’t, so you can open yours.”

  A handful of brightly wrapped presents sat under the tree. From their families and Eliza’s friends in Vancouver. A single simple gift to each other, as was their custom.

  He selected two boxes. Her gift to him was wrapped in heavy silver paper tied with a shimmering blue ribbon twisted into curls and spirals. His to her was stuffed into a gift bag with a candy cane pattern and fastened with enough Scotch tape to keep Fort Knox secure. He had, as always, forgotten about wrapping it and ran to the dollar store moments before closing to be faced with nothing but leftovers.

  By common agreement, they didn’t spend much money on gifts. Eliza was a reasonably wealthy woman. She’d been a top-ranked model in her youth and had invested most of her earnings. She now worked as and when it suited her. He was a Sergeant in a small town police department, and had never been anything other than a cop. She could afford to buy herself anything she wanted, but seldom did, and he was notoriously bad at handling money.

  “You go first,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “Nice bag.”

  “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  The bag was very light, probably a gift certificate. She pulled at the tape. “I need a knife.”

  He handed her one from the cheese plate on the side table, and she sliced through the wrappings. An envelope, as she’d suspected. She opened it and laughed out loud. “Oh, John, I do love you. Now open yours.”

  His fingers picked at the ribbon. Still laughing, she handed him the knife. “Just cut it.”

  He opened the box. A book had been placed inside to provide a disguising weight. An envelope lay on top. He ripped it open. “It’s true,” he said, “great minds do think alike.”

  They had given each other gift certificates to the Greenfields Spa. Hers was for the ‘Deluxe Spa Escape’, his for the ‘Men’s Experience.’

  He grinned, and she felt her heart turn over. After twenty-five years of marriage she still loved him so much.

  A log on the fire fell over, spitting sparks. The last of the candles went out, and flames danced on the high ceiling. The CD player clicked off.

  “I’m ready for bed,” he said.

  Eliza had been worried all evening that someone in Trafalgar would get himself murdered and John would be called out.

  Apparently not tonight.

  She hiccupped.

  ***

  The crowd continued to grow as people stood around, bundled up in winter wear, silently watching. Smith kept her eyes on them, but no one seemed inclined to think they could do a better job than the rescue team.

  “Take this, Constable.” A pair of purple wool mittens handed Smith a mug. Steam rose from the top and the cup was hot in her gloved hands. The smell of chocolate rose in the snowy air. She muttered her thanks. Evans stood beside her, sipping from his own mug.

  Dave Evans didn’t like her much. Which was fine with her, as she didn’t like him either. But for some reason she felt she’d been stuck in the role of representing all female police officers whereas the fact that Evans was an arrogant, swaggering jerk reflected only upon himself.

  She stopped worrying about Dave Evans and looked across the faces of the watchers. In the middle of the crowd, she saw someone she wouldn’t have expected to see out on Christmas Eve. Meredith Morgenstern: ace reporter of the Trafalgar Daily Gazette. Meredith was pretty much persona non grata with the City Police these days. Over the summer she’d interfered in an investigation with potentially disastrous consequences. Rumor ran wild that she was going to be fired because of it, but somehow she hung onto her job.

  Meredith was dressed as if she’d left a party, which she might well have done if she’d gotten a call from a Gazette staffer bored enough to spend his holiday evening listening in on the police radio. Sparkling in black fur and diamonds, she might have arrived in the back seat of a Russian troika pulled by matching stallions. Fake fur and fake diamonds, doubtless, but they looked good against her white skin, thick black hair, and large dark eyes.

  Catching Smith watching her, Meredith turned away. There would be no exchange of seasonal greetings here.

  While Evans impressed the young women in the crowd earlier by directing Fire to the scene (or pretending to direct—they needed no help), Smith had taken the report of the driver of the other vehicle.

  Now that his car was safely off the road, and someone had tossed a warm blanket around his shoulders, he’d recovered his wits and could talk
about what had happened. He was heading west, he told her, going home after the holiday dinner at his parents’ house, took the big bend in the road and was turning north up Elm, driving carefully because the visibility was, in his words, like sticking your head into a snow bank and opening your eyes, when a yellow SUV came down the hill. Moving fast, really fast. Probably too fast even for normal conditions.

  Snowplows had been out all night, but they couldn’t keep up with the fall and the roads were thick with drifting snow. There wasn’t enough room for two cars to pass comfortably. He wrenched his wheel in an attempt to get out of the way of the approaching car, skidded on a patch of ice or packed snow, and headed straight off the road where he, luckily, made a soft landing into a snow bank. It was likely that the yellow car had also swerved, trying to miss him, and, losing control on the slick road, failed to make the turn. It had been moving so fast it sailed over the bank only to come to a halt when it met rocks and ice and water.

  “Hey, Molly, Merry Christmas.” The deep voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Constable Adam Tocek, RCMP, stood in front of them, smiling.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said, suddenly feeling warm. “But not, I’m afraid, for them.” She nodded toward the river, where the firefighters had attached the cable to the yellow SUV. It was slowly, very slowly, being dragged toward shore. Two people in dry suits walked beside it. “Yellow submarine. Hey, forget I said that. It was callous.”

  “No problem. Dave, how’s things?”

  “Okay,” Evans said. “What brings you out?”

  “Norman’s in the truck,” the Mountie said, “in case he’s needed.” Tocek was the RCMP dog handler for the district. Norman, he of the unlikely dog name, was Tocek’s bushy-tailed partner. “When they reported that no one had been seen to get out of the vehicle, I got a call. People are washed away sometimes. Alive or dead. Seat belts undone, car window smashed. Washed down river to end up stuck in the branch of a tree.”

  “And a dog can find them?” Evans asked.

  “It’s happened.”

  “Would you like some hot chocolate?” Smith nodded to her cup. “They gave me this, but I don’t want it.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He took the drink with another smile.

  “Better check what’s happening,” Evans said, heading for the fire truck.

  “You do that,” Smith said to the retreating back. “Oops, sorry. Something else I shouldn’t have said.”

  “Not a problem. We’ve all had partners we didn’t care for. Why I like working with dogs—never met a dog I didn’t like.”

  He was good looking, Constable Adam Tocek. He loomed over the five-foot-eight Smith, and his uniform shirt probably came in size XXXL, just to fit across the chest and around the upper arms. His hair was dark, and cut very short. All of which would have made her dismiss him as a professional tough-guy, were it not for the warmth in his brown eyes that reminded her of Sylvester, her mother’s dog, and the soft smile that he seemed to have whenever he was talking to her.

  “I hear,” he said, “congratulations are in order.”

  Her face burned, even as snow fell against it. “Thanks.” She’d passed. There’d been times over the last year when she’d been so sure she couldn’t cut it she’d found herself surprised to realize she made it out of her probationary period. She was now a Constable Third Class with the Trafalgar City Police. Chief Constable Paul Keller had called her into his office, shook her by the hand, and told her he’d notified payroll to move her up a grade.

  Bands had not played. Fireworks had not gone off. A giant banner had not been strung across Front Street announcing the good news. Barb Kowalski, the Chief’s admin assistant, congratulated her, but no one else said a word.

  She hadn’t told her parents or her best friend, Christa.

  She was now a “real” police officer.

  “After that business in the summer, at the resort,” Tocek began, staring at his feet and making patterns in the snow with the toe of his boot, “I didn’t get a chance to say…”

  “Coroner,” Smith said, nodding toward a tall man who’d stepped into the light. “You think they found anyone?” She dropped her voice. “Alive I mean?”

  “No.”

  “I’d better start trying to move people away. They’ll be bringing the vehicle out, and if the coroner’s here…well, we know what he’s here for. It’s tough, seeing dead people brought up, when you’ve been hoping for a miracle. Particularly on Christmas morning. See you, Adam. Give Norman a scratch for me.”

  “Sure, Molly. I’ll do that.”

  Constable Smith waded into the crowd. She felt Adam Tocek’s brown eyes on her back.

  She didn’t turn around.

  ***

  After the car in the river, things began to slow down. The bars were all closed, so there was nothing to do on that front. The storm continued, unabated, but by one o’clock most everyone was off the roads, helped by the early closing of the bars, and there were no more vehicular incidents.

  “I think the convenience store on Aspen is still open,” Evans said, as they were heading back to the office. “I feel like a chocolate bar. Want one?”

  All she wanted was a bathroom.

  “No, thanks.”

  A figure passed by the truck, as indistinct in the swirling snow and black night as a cloaked Sherlock Holmes moving under fog and gaslight. But Smith recognized the walk, which leaned slightly to the left. The result of a childhood injury, apparently an accident, but the parents had been too drunk to take the girl to the hospital until several days had passed.

  Smith hopped out of the truck. “Hey, Lorraine, wait up a sec.”

  The girl turned. A sneer settled over her face when she saw who was calling, but she waited for Smith to catch up.

  “What are you doing out?” Foolish question. Lorraine LeBlanc, sixteen years old, daughter of the town’s number one drunks, went where she wanted, when she wanted. It wasn’t as if anyone cared.

  “Fuck off, will ya,” was the girl’s customary greeting.

  “It’s sure cold,” Smith said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the wind blow like this. Have you?”

  Lorraine shrugged. She let down her guard, just a fraction. “It’s pretty bad. They say someone went into the river. And didn’t come out.”

  Even on Christmas morning the town grapevine was working.

  No one had come out. If by that one meant no one alive, Lorraine was right. The car had been hauled out of the frozen river. Smith had cleared the onlookers while Evans held up a blanket to shield the coroner from public view. The coroner had leaned into the car, done what he had to do, and pronounced them dead. Two young males, looking to be in their early or mid twenties, faces as white as the falling snow, lips blue. They were both clean shaven, with short hair. Smith and Evans had looked at the cold faces and discreetly shaken their heads at each other. No one either of them recognized. The men had been removed from the vehicle and zipped into body bags on waiting stretchers. The ambulance headed up the hill, toward the hospital, not bothering to switch on the siren. The remnants of the crowd watched in respectful silence.

  “What are you doing here, Lorraine?” Smith waved her arms in the air. “The town’s shut down. Everyone’s gone home. The bars and restaurants are all closed. Even the dealers have left.”

  “I’m not looking for a dealer, Molly.”

  “I didn’t mean you were. I just meant there’s nothing happening here. It’s Christmas morning. Hey, I’ve an idea.” She spoke before she thought. “I’m off shift soon, heading home. Why don’t you come with me? I mean it’s just me, my place, but warm and quiet. I’ll pull out the couch to make up a bed.”

  Lorraine’s upper lip twisted. “As if,” she said, “I’d go anywhere with a dyke cop. I value my reputation, you know.”

  “It’s not like that.” And it wasn’t. Molly Smith had a BA in Social Work from the University of Victoria. She’d been about to get her MSW when she’d dropped out and, after
a year of aimless wandering, applied to the Trafalgar City Police.

  Police and social workers sometimes stood on opposite sides of the fence. And, as if she didn’t have enough problems, Molly Smith occasionally found herself straddling said fence.

  “I have a boyfriend, Molly. A nice guy, okay? I’m going to his place now.” Lorraine’s make-up was thickly applied, dripping in the snow melting off her hair. She wore a proper winter coat, although one elbow and a seam in the right shoulder were patched with duct tape. Her boots were good, but they looked too big for the girl’s small feet. Probably from the Salvation Army. Her scarf was full of holes, but at least it protected her neck. “We’re gonna have a real Christmas,” she said. “With presents and a tree and everything.”

  “That sounds good.” And it did. Too bad the boyfriend couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pick Lorraine up and escort her to this Christmas wonderland. Although, Smith had to admit, Lorraine LeBlanc had good reasons to keep a prospective beau well away from her family.

  Particularly as Mom and Dad were spending the night in the drunk tank.

  “The sidewalks are icy, Lorraine. Watch your footing.”

  “I’ve been out after dark before.”

  “Night, Lorraine.”

  “Hey, Molly.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Merry Christmas, eh?”

  “Same to you, Lorraine. Same to you.”

  Evans came out of the shop, ripping the packaging off an Oh Henry. He stood beside Smith, watching Lorraine slipping on the icy streets. “What’d that slut want?”

  “Come on, Dave, give the kid a break. You know what her life’s like. Dawn hauled Mom and Dad off to the cells tonight. Nice family Christmas.”

  “Tough. But she’s still a cheap slut.”

  Chapter Three

  “He’s not here, and I don’t know where he is. There’s nothing unusual in that. He likes to play at keeping people waiting for him.” Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth looked the girl standing in the doorway up and down, not trying particularly hard to hide a sneer. No matter: the stupid girl didn’t seem to know an insult when one scored a direct hit on her butt.