Winter of Secrets

by Vicki Delany

  “You don’t seem too upset,” Stockdale said.

  “His loss.”

  Molly Smith wondered what it must be like to have that much confidence in yourself. “Did you see him again? Or hear from him?”

  “Nope. Look, I figured I’d go out with him that night, check him out, right? What the hell, he was good looking, sure knew how to lay it on, and seemed to be rolling in dough. My boyfriend and I were having problems. I agreed to meet Ewan in town after I got off work. It didn’t exactly break my heart when he didn’t show. Tell you the truth, Constable Smith, I went home and phoned my boyfriend. We had a long talk and I think that when he gets back after the holidays we’ll be okay.”

  Marilyn fidgeted in her chair. “I need to go back to work now. It’s not fair to May for her to be the only one on cash.”

  “We’re done here. Thank you for your time.”

  Marilyn stood up. “I’ve seen you before, Constable Smith, skiing. Here’s a tip: try the Shanghai noodle bowl. It is to die for.”

  Smith grinned, liking this young woman very much. “Are you trying to bribe an officer, Ms. Chow?”

  “Guaranteed.”

  Marilyn put her hand on the door.

  She turned around. “Hey, I never asked. Why all the questions? I’m guessing Ewan was up to some trouble that night. What happened to him anyway?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth opened her eyes. She’d fallen asleep, fully dressed, draped across the bed. The weak winter sun was slanting through her window, the angle low. She must have slept for hours.

  She pushed herself off the bed and went into the tiny bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror. Hair standing on end, dark circles under her eyes. The necklace she’d bought this morning was draped around her throat. She lifted a hand and fingered it. So beautiful. Blue stones set into silver.

  And it hadn’t been all that expensive. Hundred and fifty dollars for a piece of handmade jewelry. You’d pay twice that in Toronto, maybe more.

  She’d hesitated at the matching earrings, not sure if her credit card could stretch for another fifty bucks.

  Wendy eyed her reflection in the mirror. The blue stones did look great against her white throat, and would look even better with the earrings. What was the worst that could happen? Her card would be rejected: she’d act indignant and huff and puff and vow to sort it out. And leave.

  Not a problem.

  If Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number Two got wind of how much Wendy’s credit card was carrying, she’d have a fit, but what did it matter. Jason was dead. Which proved what they said: life was short. Live fast; die young. And then her parents could take care of her bills.

  Wendy grabbed her leather coat and left the room. She didn’t bother to lock the door behind her. Her suspicions at the room having been broken into were largely forgotten. Besides, what did it matter? She’d tossed her underwear, including the lavender bits, into a trash bin on the street corner and bought more. Who would have thought that in a town the size of Trafalgar one could find an exclusive lingerie shop?

  Before selecting what she’d come for, the blue and silver earrings, Wendy wandered through the gallery again. The large spacious room was full of soft winter light, the floor a warm blond wood, the walls aging brick. Items on display, glass and wood, copper and iron, paint on canvas and paper, were arranged with care and without clutter, allowing the beauty of the gallery itself to draw shoppers in. The woman behind the desk wore a hand-painted scarf around her neck and large gold hoops in her ears. She smiled warmly at Wendy in recognition but, with discretion rarely found in sales staff these days, hadn’t rushed forward to ask Wendy what she was looking for.

  She was studying the prints on the walls when the bell over the front door tinkled. It was that dreadful Lorraine thing. The one who actually thought Jason cared for her. How pitiable was that. The last thing Wendy wanted was to have to speak to the creature. She ducked behind a rack of postcards.

  Lorraine drifted through the shop with that slightly crooked gait she had. The buttons on her big black coat were undone and the coat flopped behind her as she walked. Her scarf hung limply around her neck and her boots dripped on the wide-plank floors. She pulled her gloves off and stuffed them into a pocket.

  Wendy saw the sales clerk rise to her feet, watching the new customer. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched together and the official smile disappeared.

  Lorraine lingered over a group of glass balls hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Light shone onto them and the balls shot sparks of color as if from the wand of a magician. She ran her fingers across the surface of one of the balls. Her nails were plain, chewed to the quick.

  The sales clerk rounded the desk watching as Lorraine touched the precious things. “Can I help you with something?” she said. Her voice was not welcoming.

  Lorraine didn’t turn around. “No thanks, just browsing.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Lorraine made her way toward the jewelry display. Another couple of steps and she’d see Wendy hiding behind the wall.

  The phone rang. The clerk picked it up, her eyes still on Lorraine. “Good afternoon. This is the Trafalgar Craft Gallery.” Her salesperson’s voice, as chirpy as a cricket, was turned back on.

  “I told you not to call here if it isn’t important.” The clerk’s eyes met Wendy’s and she turned to face the wall. “Tell him I said no. Isn’t your father home yet?”

  Lorraine reached the jewelry display. Eyes on the clerk, whose voice was starting to rise, Lorraine grabbed a gold bracelet. It disappeared into the depths of her coat.

  The clerk dropped the phone, letting it swing in the air from the cord, and whirled around. “Hey,” she shouted. “I saw that.”

  “You saw nothing,” Lorraine said, jumping back. “You think your store’s too good for the likes of me.”

  “Put that back, right now, or I’m calling the police.” The woman gathered the phone, and hung up on the person yelling at her from the other end. A large gilt-framed mirror behind the cash register showed Wendy most of the back end of the shop. Obviously, it was not just there for display.

  Lorraine headed across the floor. “Nothing to put back. Screw you, you stuck up old Nazi.”

  Wendy ran out from the alcove, through the gallery, and jumped in front of Lorraine as the girl reached for the door. “I saw her take it,” Wendy shouted to the sales clerk. “It’s in her coat.”

  Lorraine’s eyes widened as she recognized Wendy. “You bitch.”

  “Thought you were good enough for my brother did you?” She pitched her voice too low for the sales clerk to hear. “I wonder what he’d think now.”

  Lorraine dug into her pocket, and pulled out the bracelet. It wasn’t even a particularly good one, just a thin bit of ten-carat gold. She threw it on the floor. “Here, you can have it.”

  “I’ve called the police,” the clerk said.

  “Too late to give it back then,” Wendy said, feeling quite smug.

  ***

  Molly Smith was also feeling pleased with herself. As ordered, she’d found the woman Ewan Williams met at the ski resort, and the woman had a lot to tell them about Williams’ activities the day he died.

  Perhaps she’d make a detective yet.

  She backed the patrol car into its bay and went into the station. She scratched the back of her arm and said hello to Jim Denton, huddling over his computers and consoles.

  “What’s up?”

  “Shoplifter nabbed in the act. They’re bringing her in.”

  “I’ll see if they need a hand.”

  She went back downstairs. The patrol car would drive into the garage, doors would close, and the officers would take the prisoner out of the vehicle to be processed in the adjoining room. And put in the cells, if necessary.

  Smith punched in the code to bring up the computer as she heard the doors open and the car pull in.

  The door to the booking room opened. “Jesu
s, Molly, you have to help me. It was that sister of Jason’s. She framed me.”

  The prisoner was Lorraine LeBlanc.

  “You know this young woman, Constable Smith?” Nose worthy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It was frame-up. You know she hates me. Let me go and we’ll forget all about it.”

  “I’m sorry, Lorraine, but it’s not my call. Constable Nose worthy?”

  “Clerk at the Craft Gallery saw her pinch a bracelet. We got there and the bracelet was on the floor. Witness, a shopper, says she saw this woman take the item and drop it when she was accused.” Lorraine’s eyes were round and wild. She was dressed in her winter coat and boots. Noseworthy carried a tattered scarf. He tossed it onto the counter.

  “Tell them, Molly,” Lorraine pleaded. “Please tell them.”

  “I’ll call Gary,” was all Smith could say as Noseworthy went to the computer.

  “Full name?” he said.

  Lorraine moaned.

  ***

  Fortunately Gary was home when Smith called. He arrived at the police station red-faced and breathing heavily. He placed his hands on his thighs and gathered his breath for a few moments as Smith explained the situation.

  Lorraine was a minor, with a local address, a relative to take care of her, and no prior record. She was released to her brother’s care.

  Smith walked with them to the door. The air was sharp but the sky clear in the approach of night. A few stars were popping up in the east. “This isn’t over, Lorraine. You’ll have to appear in court.”

  The girl avoided her brother’s eyes. He put an arm around her and gave her a hug, but his fist was closed tight, knuckles white. “We’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Gary said. “You understand, Moon, that this is a vendetta by that Wyatt-Whatever bunch.”

  Smith let out a breath. It turned to mist in the cold air.

  “Wait for me at the bottom of the stairs,” Gary told his sister.

  Lorraine left them. Her head was bent, her coat formed a black shroud around her thin frame.

  Gary LeBlanc and Molly Smith watched until Lorraine was standing on the sidewalk, underneath a street lamp. A patrol car pulled out of the station parking lot. Brad Noseworthy glanced at them.

  “Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth was in the shop, Gary,” Smith said. “But she only backed up what Mrs. Roberts told Constable Noseworthy. And that was that she saw Lorraine take the bracelet, put it into her coat and head for the door. When she was stopped, at the door, Lorraine dropped the bracelet.”

  “When she was stopped by Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth who, as we all know, has a personal animosity toward my sister. Mrs. Roberts didn’t see the bracelet emerge from Lorraine’s coat. She only says that it was there on the floor.”

  “I’m not an attorney, Gary. Don’t argue your case in front of me.”

  “They won’t be hard on Lorraine, will they, Moon? She’s never been in trouble before, you know that.”

  “I’ve no idea what the courts will do. But I can tell you one thing: you don’t want a repeat of this. Talk to her. Get her some help.”

  Gary lifted his chin, but his eyes shifted to one side and the slightest touch of color crept into his face. He could afford professional help only if he used the money he was trying to put together for Lorraine’s education.

  “Call the Trafalgar Women’s Support Center. Ask to speak to my mom. She’ll know what to do to help.”

  “Thanks, Moon.”

  An RCMP car drove past. It signaled a turn into the Trafalgar City Police parking area.

  Constable Smith stood on the steps of the police station as Gary LeBlanc wrapped his arms around his sister and guided her up the street toward their home.

  Molly turned and headed back inside.

  Adam Tocek was talking to Jim Denton. They looked up as Smith punched in the code to let her into the station.

  Tocek had deep brown eyes and curly black hair and a five-o’clock shadow no matter the time of day, but his face always seemed to light up from inside when he saw Molly Smith. “Hey,” he said. “Haven’t seen you for a while. How’s it going?”

  “Problems. Always problems. Where are you from, Adam?”

  “From? My grandparents emigrated from Slovakia in 1950. My father was very premature, born on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic. Lucky, so the story goes, to have lived.”

  “Sorry, no. I mean where are you from? Where did you grow up?”

  “Toronto. The Big Smoke.” He glanced at Denton. Denton shrugged. “Why are you asking, Molly?”

  “To be honest, Adam, I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know that it’s almost four and if my replacement doesn’t get here in the next two minutes, you’ll be short a dispatcher,” Denton muttered to no one who cared. “Not again.” He took a 911 call.

  “Do you have time to grab a coffee, Molly?” Tocek said, in deep contemplation of the floor.

  She could feel her heart beating in her chest. A coffee. With Adam Tocek, the big, tough Mountie who turned to mush around Molly Smith. Should she have a coffee? Would that be a betrayal of Graham? Graham would want her to be happy.

  She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

  “Vehicle out of control,” Denton said. “Corner of Front and Elm. Pedestrian injured. Brad is occupied and can’t take it. Sorry to break up this tête-à-tête, Mol, but we have work to do here.”

  “See you, Adam.” She ran for the parking lot.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Low clouds covered the tops of the mountains and mist rose from the river running through the valley. The trees, thickly covered with fresh white snow, seemed almost to float in the gray air, neither anchored to earth nor reaching to the sky.

  Someone might have stolen all the colors from God’s crayon box, leaving only black and white, and a stub of brown, to work with. John Winters stood at his kitchen window, drinking strong dark coffee.

  “More snow?” Eliza wrapped her arms around him from behind and laid her warm cheek against his back.

  “What day is it?”

  “December thirty-first, as you know full well. Why do you ask?”

  “This much snow I thought it’d be February at least.”

  He felt her smile. “Let’s buy a home in the mountains, I believe I heard you say. Fresh air, great views.”

  “You could have reminded me that it has been known to snow at higher elevations.”

  She chuckled, and he felt her move away.

  They’d house hunted in November, when the snow was a dusting high on the mountains, and moved into their new home in the middle of March, after two weeks of spring sunshine had gone a long way toward reducing the size of the snow pack.

  Winters was from Vancouver. He’d lived most of his life in that coastal city where winter meant thick gray clouds and lots of rain. When the snow did fall, the city ground to a halt for a day or two, then the temperatures rose and it all melted.

  “You might have to get the snowblower out,” Eliza said.

  “The SUV can handle it. That’s why we bought it. The plow guy will be here soon.” He turned away from the window. “Any chance of a working man getting breakfast around here?”

  “I might be able to rummage up an egg or two.” Eliza opened the fridge. “You haven’t forgotten we’re going out tonight, have you, John?”

  “New Year’s Eve. I haven’t forgotten.”

  Eliza preferred to spend Christmas Eve and Day enjoying a quiet celebration at home, but tonight was a night to party. They always went to one of the best restaurants in Vancouver or to a fashion-industry party. Always, that is, once he’d moved up the police ladder enough to be allowed the night off. This would be their first celebration in Trafalgar, and he’d made a reservation at Flavours.

  A thump on the stairs, another thump, then the sound of a body being dragged across the floor. Barney came into the kitchen, having deposited her wheeled suitcase, which was the approximate size of a steamer trunk, at the door. “I
t doesn’t look too promising for my flight.”

  “In the mountains the weather can change on a dime.” Winters desperately hoped such would be the case today. Barney was due to take the one o’clock flight out of Castlegar to Vancouver. If it was cancelled, there was another at three-forty-five. If that one didn’t go, she’d be coming with them to Flavours. He liked Barney well enough, but, like fish, after three days her time was up.

  Eliza pulled the cast-iron frying pan out of the cupboard. Barney pushed her aside and made bacon (crispy) and eggs (not tough) and toast (unburned) for the hungry working man.

  “Did you speak to Patricia yesterday?” Winters asked around a mouthful of bacon as he ran a sliver of toast through the smear of yellow egg yolk on his plate.

  “Briefly. She’s not doing too well, John.”

  “I get the feeling,” Barney said from the stove, “that her marriage has been a train-wreck for a long time. Instead of bringing them together, this horrible business has driven her and her husband even further apart.”

  “He’s a right prick.” Eliza rarely, if ever, used bad language. “Why an educated, wealthy woman, a doctor for heaven’s sake, would put up with that sort of emotional detachment, I can’t imagine.”

  Winters said nothing, although he wondered if emotional detachment was a family trait. According to Molly, the police had to notify Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth of her brother’s death although her parents knew about it, and Patricia appeared to be so wrapped up in her own grief that she wasn’t much concerned about her daughter’s precarious mental state.

  “And now she’s still sitting around that cheerless hotel,” Eliza said.

  “I expect to order the release of the bodies today. The Wyatt-Yarmouths have a funeral home ready to accept them and arrange transport to Toronto. Everything will be shut down tomorrow for the holiday, and I don’t see any reason to keep them any longer. You’re not to say a word, either of you. If something changes, I don’t want Patricia’s hopes to be up.”

  Barney and Eliza smiled at him with as much innocence as two puppies in the window of a pet shop.