by Vicki Delany
“Agreed, but is it a murder case? I can’t say, yet. It’s entirely possible Williams fell and hit his head and lay in the snow for almost a day before his friend found him and tried to rush him to the hospital. In my experience a 24-hour corpse looks nothing like a living person, but Wyatt-Yarmouth might have thought he was getting help for his friend. I checked the weather, and it was minus 5 degrees that night, so the body would have been cold even if he were still alive. Shirley has lots of tests to make still. Right now she’s leaning toward a blow to the back of his head, hard enough to render him unconscious long enough for the cold and the concussion to kill him.” A blow that was definitely not caused by the contents of a gas fireplace.
Keller drank more Coke. The staff joked, well out of the Chief Constable’s hearing, that the copious cans of pop he drank were his security blanket now that he couldn’t smoke in the building. To his credit, Keller restricted himself to two smoke breaks a day—ten a.m. and three p.m. Although every time he had to leave for a meeting, he could be seen sucking as much nicotine as possible into his lungs before getting into a vehicle.
“What about his friends? Didn’t they notice him missing?”
“I haven’t spoken to them yet.”
“I’ll take a wild guess and say they assumed he was snuggled up with some dolly bird, all warm and comfortable.”
Dolly Bird? Keller sometimes tried to remind everyone, himself most of all, that he too had been hip once upon a time. Although his hipness pretty much remained locked in a time warp from the mid ‘70s when he’d been lucky enough to snag a couple of months in England on a course on counter-terrorism. Fortunately the CC’s time warp was restricted to his speech patterns, and not to his understanding of fighting terrorism.
They made fun of the CC quick enough—his incredible tobacco addiction, the ten or more cans of coke he guzzled every work day, his unfashionable phrases, but they all knew he was a good cop and a fair boss. As far as Winters knew he was the only one who suspected the CC’s big secret: the man was in love, had been for many years, with Lucky Smith, Constable Smith’s mother.
“What hotel are they staying at?” Keller asked.
Winters hesitated. He could mention the Keystone Kops invasion of the B&B. He could mention what had prompted it. But he decided to keep quiet. Word might never cross the CC’s desk, and if it did, Winters would admit he’d made a mistake.
He could withstand a mistake easier than Constable Third Class Molly Smith.
“Glacier Chalet B&B.”
“Ellie Carmine’s place. My wife adores that house. She told me once she’d dreamt that we bought it. I can’t imagine a deeper level of hell than owning a B&B. I live in fear that’s what Karen has in mind for when we retire. Until you have reason to believe otherwise, this is a highly suspicious death, John.”
“Agreed.”
“So young Mr. Wyatt-Yarmouth—I hate those double-barreled names—and Mr. Williams will remain in the tender care of Doctor Lee until she’s learned all she can from them. Are you going to inform the Doctors Wyatt-Yarmouth, or shall I?”
Winters got to his feet. “I need to speak to them anyway. Find out what they know about their son and his friend.” He had plenty of people to talk to. He needed Lopez. But his partner was on the coast, on vacation. In the past he’d taken Molly along, if he thought she’d be a helpful listener. Today he was in no mood to make her think she was anywhere near his good books.
He’d manage for now.
***
Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth tried to come in the front door as quietly as possible. She’d sat in the front seat of the rusty old Toyota Tercel while the girl with the sore foot smoldered away in the back, where, under Wendy’s careful direction, she’d been placed in order to keep her leg straight and her foot up. Wendy gave directions to the Glacier Chalet. When they arrived, the boy leapt out to help Wendy unload her skis, thanking her profusely for her help. The girl glared out the back window with pure white rage.
Wendy wiggled her fingers in farewell as the Tercel slipped and sided up the hill. The boy had wanted to get her number so, he explained loud enough for the girl in the back to hear, they could buy her a drink to thank her for her help. Wendy considered it briefly—not that she wanted to see either of these people again, but just giving the guy her number would probably send the girl into a fit. She wasn’t in the mood for that sort of fun, so Wendy said no, and didn’t bother to make an excuse.
She tried to nip into the B&B without being noticed, but Mrs. Carmine, who probably heard every mouse in the place scratch its little mouse ass, stuck her head out of the kitchen. She wiped floury hands onto an apron featuring pictures of Mrs. Claus doing her Christmas baking.
Shoot me now.
“You’re back early, dear.”
Feeling that she had to say something, Wendy said, “I’m not in the mood for skiing, Mrs. Carmine. To be honest, Jason was the one keen on skiing.” She swallowed, determined not to break down in front of this well-meaning, but nosy, stranger. “I left early. The others’ll be back at the regular time. I’m going to have a nap.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but that’ll have to wait,” Mrs. Carmine pulled a cell phone, a trendy little purple and silver piece, out of her apron pocket. She punched it only once, meaning a stored number. She turned and muttered something Wendy couldn’t catch.
Snapping the phone shut, Mrs. Carmine turned with a smile. “They’d like you to remain here, dear.”
“I told you, I need a nap. If I cared, I’d ask who would like what, but I don’t.” She headed toward the stairs.
“The police, dear, will be here shortly. They have questions about Jason and Ewan. Sad, so sad.”
“Speaking of questions, you shouldn’t have sent that woman from the newspaper after me. I’d call that an invasion of my privacy.”
Mrs. C braced her shoulders. “I didn’t…That might have been Kathy. I’ll have a word with her. You can wait for the police in the common room, unless you want them in your bedroom. I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like coffee or tea? It’s afternoon, but police officers seem to like their coffee. You go ahead and get settled. Shall I send them up to your bedroom?”
“I’ll be downstairs,” Wendy said.
Which was where she was when the doorbell rang. After brief greetings, Mrs. Carmine led a man into the common room.
He was an older guy, about her dad’s age, but a lot, definitely a lot, better looking. Most of his salt and pepper hair was cut short, not grown into hideously long strands to try, and fail, to cover a bald patch. He had a mustache, black streaked with gray, which suited him as it did few men these days. He was tall and lean, with nothing but a hint of middle-aged belly.
Sergeant John Winters, he introduced himself. He expressed his sympathy at her loss and launched into the questions.
Wendy answered them, as best she was prepared to. Here for two weeks of skiing, they’d arrived in Trafalgar on December 18th. They were friends, but they didn’t spend all their time together. She pulled at a tissue in her pocket.
“Tell me about Ewan Williams,” he asked. “When did you see him last?”
She could blow the cop off. Burst into tears and run upstairs to her room. But he’d be back. Guaranteed. She wondered whether to let him know that the reporter had told her there was something suspicious about Ewan’s death. She decided not to.
“Sunday. The day before Christmas Eve. We went skiing and came back to town together when the hill closed. Then,” she dug for that tissue, and began shredding it in her fingers, “we went to our own rooms.”
“Mr. Williams as well?”
“Cookies?” Mrs. Carmine came into the common room, all smiles. She carried a tray, groaning under the weight of coffee carafe, cups, cream pitcher, sugar bowl, plate piled high with Christmas baking.
The cop’s face tightened at the interruption, but Wendy was glad of it. “You are such a dear, Mrs. Carmine. Isn’t she wonderful, Sergeant…uh…whatever? I’ll hav
e to spend the next month in the gym, non stop, to get over all these treats.”
Mrs. Carmine made to settle into a comfortable arm chair. Sergeant Winters wasn’t shy about telling her, politely, that she wasn’t wanted.
She left in a barely concealed huff.
“You were telling me about the last time you saw Mr. Williams. Sunday evening, after skiing?”
“Right.”
“What time was that?”
“Five, at a guess.”
“You didn’t have dinner together?”
“I told you no. We didn’t necessarily all eat together every night.”
“Who did you have dinner with?”
“Why are you bothering me with useless questions? My brother is dead. It was a car accident, plain and simple! Can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for your loss. But I have my reasons, and my questions are not useless. Dinner, Sunday night?”
“I went with Jason and Alan and his girlfriend Sophie.”
“What did the others do, Jeremy, Rob, and Ewan?”
She took a deep breath and studied the wooden Santa Claus on the table. Jolly old Saint Nick. Fuck him too. “I don’t know. They went their way, we went ours.”
“What did you do after dinner?”
“Came back here. Alan and Sophie like to go to bed early. They’re tired after a day’s skiing.”
“Did Jason go out again?”
She knew exactly what Jason had done and Ewan as well, but she wasn’t going to tell the cops. She tried to look as if she were struggling to remember. “Sorry, Mr. Winters,” she said at last, “but I can’t say for sure. I didn’t see him leave, but he might have.” He had, in fact, phoned Lorraine, his bootie call, from the sidewalk outside the restaurant. He drove the group back to the B&B, went to his room for a few minutes, and then left, without telling anyone where he was going. Jason and Ewan were a couple of tom cats, always on the make. And that was none of this damned cop’s business. She looked at the tissue in her hands—it was shredded to ribbons. She wiped at her nose with the back of her sleeve. Winters got a box of tissues from the table and handed it to her. She pulled one out, and blew her nose, resisting the urge to be polite and say thank you.
He walked to the window and looked out on the snow-covered garden, allowing Wendy a few moments of privacy to wipe her face and compose herself.
Sunday night she’d been lying in bed, not able to sleep, when she heard footsteps in the hall and Jason’s voice. A female said something in return. Jason had been alone at breakfast the next morning.
Sergeant Winters turned from the window. “You didn’t see Ewan Williams again, after approximately five o’clock on Sunday evening?”
She wiped her eyes. “No.”
“I’ll need to speak with the rest of your group, Ms. Wyatt-Yarmouth.” He handed her his card. She took it. “I’d appreciate it if you’d ask them to give me a call the minute they get in.”
Nice words: Appreciate it. As if he wouldn’t hesitate to clap them in irons if they didn’t call.
He hadn’t touched his coffee or the homemade cookies. Mrs. Carmine would be disappointed. Wendy could imagine the old bat leaning up against the kitchen door, ears flapping.
“We want to help,” she said, getting to her feet to show him out.
Mrs. Carmine came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’d like to have a look at Ewan’s room, if I may,” he asked her. “Have you cleaned the room since they died?”
“Of course I have. And I removed their things. Wendy wasn’t up to it, so Sophie helped Kathy pack their suitcases.”
“I’d still like to have a look.”
Mrs. Carmine led him back through the common room and up the stairs. Wendy threw herself into a chair. She heard Sergeant Winters ask Mrs. C if she had noticed anything out of order. She answered in the negative.
It wasn’t long before they came back down. Wendy was still sitting in the common room, a pile of soggy tissues on her lap.
This was all such a nightmare. Her parents wanted her to wait in Trafalgar and go home together. She wanted to leave but the effort of organizing a flight home seemed beyond her.
It was just so unfair.
Mrs. C gave her what she probably thought was a sympathetic smile. Wendy got to her feet and followed them to the hall, wanting to see for herself that the cop got through the door and wasn’t about to jump out and say “One more question.”
“Isn’t he just the cutest thing,” Mrs. Carmine said, as the two women watched John Winters walk to his van. “His wife is a famous supermodel.”
Yeah, right. Kate Moss secretly living here in back of nowhere British Columbia.
“Enjoy your nap, dear.” Mrs. Carmine returned to her kitchen.
Wendy made major noise heading up the stairs. She used the bathroom and then tiptoed back down.
Never mind a nap. She needed to go shopping.
***
Lucky Smith came out of her cramped office at the back of Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. It was past four o’clock and the sun had dipped behind Koola Glacier. She zipped up her bulky winter coat and wrapped her beloved hand-woven blue scarf twice around her neck. Lucky didn’t normally indulge in luxuries, but she’d fallen so in love with a scarf she’d seen being created on an old wooden loom in Crawford Bay that, after months of agonizing about the cost, she’d gone back to buy one.
The shop was busy. Andy, her husband and partner in the business, was helping a young woman, an outsider, choose a ski jacket. Flower, their employee, was ringing up a pair of gloves and woolen socks for a local.
A man examined snowshoes hanging on the back wall, and a young mother held her toddler up to see the display of nature and eco-adventure books. The child pointed to one; his mom took it off the shelf, and without checking the price, carried it to the counter. It was the 28th of December and, so far, they hadn’t had too many Christmas returns.
In years past the company had offered guided snowmobile tours and cross-country ski trips into the mountains, but as Andy got older and the children, Samwise and Moonlight, grew up and left home, they’d given up that part of the business and concentrated on the shop in the winter. The rest of the year, they offered guided hourly and multi-day hiking and kayaking trips.
The bell over the door tinkled as a group of vacationers came in. Laughing, they shook heads full of fresh snow and stamped slush-covered boots.
Lucky waved her fingers at Flower, and smiled good-bye to Andy. He gave her a wink so suggestive Lucky felt the color rising into her cheeks. Since Moonlight had moved out Andy’s libido seemed to have gone into overdrive. And Lucky didn’t mind one bit.
She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he told Flower he was going for coffee and hurried home after his wife. Even Flower might think an hour’s coffee break was a bit much. It had been easier when they were young and operated a shoe-string operation. Not having to worry about employees or inquisitive children, Andy would toss the sign on the door to closed and take Lucky into the broom closet.
Those had been good days for sure.
The glove-and-sock-purchasing local said hi to Lucky and left the store. She prepared to follow.
“Lucky,” Flower said. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” Her face was drawn into serious lines.
“Sure.” Lucky rounded the counter. “What’s the matter?”
Flower lowered her voice. Lucky leaned closer in order to hear. “I think we’ve been robbed.”
“What?”
“See those goggles over there? End of the table beside the helmets?”
Lucky looked. The table featured a display of ski accessories. Helmets, gloves, a pair of very expensive goggles.
“Half hour ago, there were two goggles.”
Lucky looked around the store. The outsider had decided that white wasn’t what she wanted and asked Andy to find her a colorful jacket in the same size. She carried a s
houlder bag not large enough to conceal anything bigger than a deck of cards. The man looking at snowshoes took a pair down from the wall. Unless he’d stuffed them into his coat pocket he didn’t have the goggles.
The snow-covered group picked their way through the goods. Just browsing.
“Are you sure?” Lucky asked Flower. “Maybe Andy sold it.”
“I’ve been the only one on cash for the last couple of hours. It didn’t go through me, Lucky. There were three of them sitting there when I got back from lunch. Andy sold one about an hour ago. Half-hour or so ago, I noticed that the goggles—both of them—had been knocked askew. I was about to go and adjust them, when we got busy. Next time I looked up, one was left and no one around who might have picked them up while thinking about buying them.”
Andy escorted his customer to the check out. She’d chosen a tight-fitting pink ski jacket that, in Lucky’s opinion, did absolutely nothing for a woman in her fifties with hair dyed as red as a rotting tomato.
Flower smiled at her and accepted the garment. “I’ve had my eyes on this myself,” she said. “It looks fabulous on you.”
The woman beamed and pulled out a credit card.
Lucky drew Andy to the side and told him what Flower had told her.
He sighed heavily. “Can you do a quick search of the store? Look under tables and check the change room. If nothing, I’ll call the cops, although that’ll be a waste of time.”
He looked so dejected Lucky knew she’d been right—he’d been planning on following her home.
Chapter Ten
Molly Smith worked her shift in robot mode. She guided traffic around the mess of cars on George Street. A car with Florida plates and no winter tires slid off the road into a ditch. A fight broke out at the Bishop and Nun, apparently over a girl who decided that she’d found someone more to her liking. She answered a call of a theft from, of all places, her parents’ store. An expensive pair of ski goggles, allegedly snatched in the middle of the day in the middle of a crowed shop.
She’d seen Lorraine LeBlanc wandering down Front Street, her face white and her gaze blank. Smith hadn’t spoken to her since Christmas Eve so she pulled up to ask how the girl was doing. Lorraine had tugged at the straps of her big bag and basically told Smith to take up sex and traveling.
