“That’s a great idea,” Gary said.
“No. I’m here to have dinner with my family. They should have been my family. They would have been. They would have, Molly. It’s not fair.”
So, Eliza thought, this was Constable Molly Smith, who had driven John to distraction more than once over the summer.
“Life’s not fair, Lorraine.” Smith dropped her voice so only the people immediately around her, which happened to include Eliza, could hear. “Gary, can you get her up? I don’t want to make a scene, but I’ve been called to get her out of here. How much has she had? And what?”
“Just beer, I think. When I got home, Lorraine was in the kitchen. She had a couple bottles in front of her and was crying. I tried to talk to her, but I had to go to the can, and when I got back, she was gone.”
“What’s the matter with this police department?” Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth yelled. His face was almost as red as Smith’s. But not from the cold, and the effect was not nearly as attractive. “I demand you remove this person.”
“Shut up, Dad,” Wendy said, unexpectedly. “She isn’t going to shoot her, you know, even if you demand her to.”
Jack spluttered.
Sophie let out a burst of embarrassed laughter. Alan studied the tines of his fork. Jeremy leaned back in his chair, looking as though he were enjoying every minute of the other people’s misery.
Gary managed to lift a wobbly Lorraine to her feet. Constable Smith talked to her in a quiet voice. Together they guided the crying girl toward the door.
Eliza let out a soft sigh. Patricia had gone to the ladies with Barney and missed the scene. Jack was huffing and puffing and threatening to blow the straw house down. His daughter, Wendy, after throwing Lorraine a look that would freeze lava, resumed her seat.
“I hope we’re going to eat now,” Sophie said.
Only Eliza saw Gary hand Lorraine to Smith. “What?” the young constable’s lips said.
Gary walked back to the table.
“Pardon me, Ma’am,” he said to Eliza as he brushed up against her to reach the table. He put two big, hairy hands on a tablecloth as snowy white as the night outside. His nails were torn, the cuticles ragged, dirt trapped in the folds of skin. His eyes passed over Wendy, then Sophie, and settled down to flick between Alan and Jeremy.
Eliza glanced toward the door. Clearly Constable Smith didn’t know what to do. She was trying to keep Lorraine standing while watching Gary.
“You guys. You come to our town and throw around your money and show off your flash cars and skis. You fuck our girls, and then you leave. Back to Mommy and Daddy and the trust fund.”
“I scarcely think,” Wendy said.
“I scarcely care what you think, kid. Get this straight, all of you. Your precious Jason was a whoremonger and a cradle snatcher. And, outside of this table, there aren’t many people bothered that he, or his friend, is dead.”
He glanced out of the side of his eyes. Eliza followed, to see Constable Smith, still trying to hold Lorraine upright, coming back their way.
“Gotta go,” Gary said. “Have a nice evening folks.”
He straightened up, and pointed one finger toward Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth. “If you’re a religious sort, old man, you’d better pray my sister isn’t knocked up. Otherwise, you’ll be seeing my ugly mug again.”
He crossed the room in several strides. “Ready to leave, Moon?” he said in a booming voice. “I sense we’re no longer welcome here. Enjoy your dinner, folks.” Gary waved at the crowd, watching him as if he were tonight’s floorshow.
“I want to know what all that was about, and I want to know now,” Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth shouted at his daughter.
Wendy didn’t resume her seat. “I don’t think so,” she said, heading for the door. She grabbed her coat from the rack by the exit.
“How about we grab a pizza?” Alan said. “Pizza’d be good, eh, Sophie.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re going for pizza. Thanks for the champagne, sir.” Alan and Sophie followed Wendy at nothing much short of the speed of light. Jeremy followed at a more leisurely pace.
Eliza was still standing in the middle of the floor. Thank heavens Barney had gotten Patricia out of here before that hideous scene.
Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth was the only one remaining at the table. He stared at Eliza across the detritus of champagne bottles, crystal flutes, menus, and untouched plates. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Wife of a two-bit, hick-town cop. Good night, Jack.”
Eliza headed for the back to check on Patricia and Barney.
The bedside clock radio sprang to life at seven a.m. Molly Smith rolled over and for once didn’t punch the snooze button. With a glance at the picture of Graham on the night table, she reached for her cell phone and flipped it open. In the dim light cast by the face of the instrument, she hit a stored number.
After listening to the brief message, she jumped out of bed.
Twenty centimeters of snow at Big Sky last night. Almost ten inches of fresh—untouched—powder. The nearest thing to heaven on this earth. She ran for the bathroom. It had snowed on the mountain for days, and so the conditions would be good. Good wasn’t worth getting up at seven o’clock after a long shift for, but new powder—that was worth it.
By seven-fifteen she was carrying her equipment down stairs.
Alphonse was at work and the day’s bread was baking. The back door to the bakery opened as Molly reached the landing. A hand passed out a brown bag. She accepted it and the door closed, without a word. The bag was warm and smelled wonderful.
She stuffed it into her pack and headed out into the cold morning. She turned her face to the black sky. Big fat snowflakes drifted down. A lot of big fat snowflakes.
When she moved out of her parents’ house, she no longer had the use of their cars whenever she wanted, so she bought herself a vehicle. An eight-year-old Ford Focus in a rather unattractive shade of green. The seats and armrests had been chewed up a bit, hopefully by a dog not a person, but the engine was in good shape and she’d put on new winter tires.
She owned several pairs of skis that she alternated depending on the environment and where she was, but for Blue Sky under these conditions only her newest powder skis would do. She fastened them to the roof rack and drove to Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium. Patrons were streaming in, adding to the line-up that was almost at the door. Soon it would be. Eddie and Jolene and their two helpers moved to the beat of loud dance music. Everyone in line was dressed for a day on the slopes. They came into the shop stomping snow off boots, shaking colorful woolen hats and scarves. Packs were tossed over shoulders and ski passes hung from zippers.
The line edged forward. People chatted and laughed. Locals leaned across the counter and gave the staff hugs or pecks on the cheek. Jolene toasted bagels and made breakfast sandwiches. Her helpers made mochas and lattes, and Eddie poured coffee and took money.
The seating area was empty. At this time of the morning the customers, like Smith, were here only to fuel up and head out to the mountain before the lifts started and the hills got busy.
As Alphonse had kindly provided her breakfast, Smith bypassed the bagel line and ordered her usual extra-large mocha, with full fat milk and whipped cream. She asked, very politely, for an extra dribble of chocolate syrup on the top.
“Sure, Moon,” the clerk said.
It was about half an hour to Blue Sky. She munched on warm croissants and drank hot mocha on the way. There was no sunrise, just a gradual lightening of the sky. Except for the pure white snow, the whole world was gray. Gray clouds, gray deciduous trees—gray bark and gray branches—gray-green evergreens, and brief glimpses of gray mountains.
The morning’s skiing was as great as she’d hoped it would be. In the early morning, the snow was deep and untouched. The air was so cold and crisp she could almost crunch it between her teeth. Snow continued to fall. The trees were covered in the stuff until it was a wonder some of them didn’t topple over.
Shortly before noon she was lucky enough to find an untouched section of powder, and used it to take her down to the lodge. The croissants and mocha had been a long time ago. Skiing in deep powder is difficult, but Molly was very good. She’d dreamt at one time of going to the Olympics, but she wasn’t that good, and once she realized it she gave up competition. Although her muscles ached from the morning’s exertions, it was a good ache. She headed down the mountain, planting her poles with a light, quick flick of the wrist, accompanied by a flick of the arm that helped to turn the skis in the deep snow. The movement of the skis was gradual, much slower than on groomed slopes, and she barely had to turn to keep herself upright and moving. There was no feeling of friction under her feet; instead, she almost literally floated down the mountain, as if she were soaring on clouds, moving in slow motion, surrounded by nothing by snow and silence. The air was cold on her face, fresh and smelling of pine and ice.
She reached the bottom and rotated her feet into a hockey stop, driving the sides of her skis into the packed snow. Snow flew and she punched the air in sheer joy.
She headed for the lodge, debating between the giant veggie burrito and the wild salmon burger.
Her radio crackled. As a police officer, she could ski for free, provided she wore her uniform jacket over her usual ski clothes, carried a radio, and helped out if needed.
Altercation in the dining area of the lodge. Respond immediately.
She snapped off her skis and left them and the poles in a ski rest. She ran, as fast as she could in ski boots, up the wooden steps into the building. People, many of them with small children, were hurrying down the steps.
The room was warm and damp and smelled of good food cooking, wet clothes, sweat-soaked socks exposed to the air, and steaming bodies.
She had no trouble locating the problem.
People lined the walls, some of them still gripping plates or cups. A long wooden table had been overturned, bowls of food and mugs of coffee spilled onto the floor. Two men were taking wild punches at each other, yelling and swearing all the while. Blood streamed from the nose of the larger man. In their inflexible ski boots they moved as if they were performing a ballet at the bottom of the Upper Kootenay River. The police officer trying to get through the crowd to reach them walked with no less difficulty.
A resort security guard, all of about sixty-five and weighing a good hundred pounds, soaking wet, jumped from one foot to the other, suggesting that the fighters stop this
right now!
A girl was screaming at the top of her lungs. She didn’t look at all frightened, more like she was enjoying the excitement and happy to add her own contribution.
“Trafalgar City Police,” Smith shouted. People in front of her looked over their shoulders and scurried out of the way. The screaming girl toned it down a notch.
There wasn’t a lot Smith could do in these damned boots. Fortunately the fighters wore similar footwear and thus couldn’t do a lot either.
“Break it up,” she said.
They did the opposite, and crashed together, all wild punches and kicks that barely left the ground. They were both young, not a surprise. The heavier one was clean-shaven and short-haired. The other had a scraggly beard and hair that touched the back of his neck.
The bigger guy was closest to her. As he pulled his arm back to aim a punch at his opponent, Smith jumped forward, grabbed the wrist, and twisted. She jerked him back. “Police. I said break it up here.”
He resisted for a brief moment before the fight drained out of him. “Okay, okay,” he said. “No problem, officer.”
Another security guard arrived, running and breathing hard. At least this one was young and looked reasonably fit.
He sized up the scene and launched himself toward the smaller of the fighters, who turned and swung a punch that got the young security guard in the face. He fell back, blood pouring from his nose like lava rushing from an exploding volcano. The girl began screaming again.
“Hey,” the older guard yelled. “You can’t do that.”
The fighter turned toward his opponent. Conveniently restrained by Constable Smith. She read his eyes. “Back off, buddy. Fight’s over.”
He took a step forward into a pile of rice and tofu and curry sauce. He slipped. The old guy stuck his boot under the fighter’s feet to help him to the floor.
Nice.
Smith spoke into her radio. “Request a car. Two to tran sport.”
“Hey,” the guy Smith was holding said, “I gave in, didn’t I?”
“We’ll wait in the office,” she said. The younger security guard got to his feet. He wiped blood onto his jacket sleeve, but didn’t seem too badly hurt. “Take this one,” she said to him. While the taller fighter had given in as soon as the police arrived, the other one had kept on fighting—she’d better take control of him. The old guard was standing over the man on the floor, trying to look threatening.
“Help me get him up,” Smith said. They pulled the man to his feet, and she wrenched his arm behind him.
“Hey,” he yelled. “That hurts. You’re gonna break my arm.”
“Then don’t make me. Let’s go.” Smith headed for the stairs, aware that they must make a strange procession indeed. The arresting officer and the two fighters stomped in ski boots that afforded no flexibility of movement whatsoever. The younger security guard’s face was streaked with blood, and the older one seemed quite pleased with his prize. The crowd parted in front of them. Smith looked for someone who might get it into his head to free his friend, but no one approached them. The man she was holding took a half-step toward the girl who’d been screaming. Smith jerked him back into line.
It got a bit tricky on the steps to the basement, as ski boots were even more difficult to manage on stairs than on flat surfaces.
Behind them, noise flowed across the main room with the force of water bursting through a broken dam.
Five people just about filled the security office. Smith ordered the two offenders to sit down. The bleeding guard grabbed a handful of tissues off the desk and held them to his face.
“I know you,” said the guy who’d given up when the police arrived.
Didn’t everyone in a town this size?
“Last night. You were there last night. At the restaurant.”
Smith looked properly at the guy for the first time. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been enjoying that scene between Lorraine and the Wyatt-Yarmouth family at Flavours. “Name?”
“Huh?”
“What’s your name?”
“Sorry, Ma’am. Sir, Miss.”
“Your name?”
“Jeremy. Jeremy Wozenack. I came here with Jason and Ewan, you know, the ones who…”
“I know.”
He held out his hand, as if offering to shake.
She ignored it.
“Get out your I.D.” She turned to the other man. “You too buddy, I.D.”
“What?”
“I said, I.D. Do you have any on you?”
The man dug under his ski jacket and pulled out a worn wallet. He handed her his driver’s license.
“Mr. D’Angelo.” She handed the license to the older security guard.
“You too, Mr. Wozenack.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got nothing on me. My friend drove so I only brought what cash I’d need.”
“Call dispatch with that I.D.,” Smith said to the guard. “Spell your name, Mr. Wozenack, and give us your address.” He did so and the guard wrote it down.
“Step outside,” she said.
Jeremy leapt to his feet.
“What the fuck?” the other guy yelled, half-rising from his chair. The younger guard pushed him down. “You’re going to let him go because he eats at Flavours, is that it? How much does it take to buy you? Not much, I’d guess.”
“Oh, shut up. No one’s going anywhere. Other than into town when that patrol car gets here.”
Smith and Jeremy stepped into the corridor. She left the door open, but spoke softly.
“What was all that about?”
“Like I know. Guy launches himself out of nowhere, sort of like Superman or something, across the table. All that was missing was the red cape.”
“Let me tell you something for nothing, Jeremy. You’ve ruined my day’s skiing and sent me back to work on my day off. I’m hardly in the mood to hear your flights of fantasy. You have to know what he was mad about.”
“A girl.”
“A girl?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Isn’t it always a girl?”
“No, it isn’t.”
It would keep until they got to the station. But she wanted to know. She’d disgraced herself, totally and completely, when she’d been allowed to step one hesitant foot into this investigation. Perhaps she could learn something worthwhile and salvage a bit of her reputation from talking to the dead men’s friend.
“Are you really taking us to the police station?”
“A car’s been called, your I.D. radioed in for a warrant check. Your pal hit a security guard. People, including children, were fleeing left and right. Yeah, you’re going to town, Jeremy. You can tell your side of the story to a judge.”
“You seem like a nice lady.”
Smith considered spitting on the snow-soaked wooden floor. Sometimes she’d rather be called a pig bitch than a nice lady.
“I planned to meet up with my friends for lunch. They weren’t here so I got my food and sat down. Was it my fault I sat beside a cute girl? Well, yeah, that might have been my fault, but it sure wasn’t when she came over all friendly, was it?”
“You met this girl before?”
“Nice town you’ve got here. Great skiing, happening bar scene after. You see someone in the bars, you see them again on the slopes. What’s your name?”
“Smith. Constable Smith.”
“You must have a first name.”
“I do not.”
“Sorry, sorry, bad line. Yeah, I’d seen the girl before.” He coughed and looked around. The security office was in the bottom level of the lodge. The walls were wood, the floor wood. Outside snow was piled so high it covered the windows. It was cold and damp. “I ran into her a couple of nights ago in a bar in Trafalgar. The Potato Famine, stupid name. The food was about what you’d expect from a name like that. Her boyfriend, who you’ve had the pleasure of meeting, was drunk out of his tiny skull. She was lonely, you know how it is?”
Smith said nothing. Sometimes there were advantages to being a woman on the job. She wouldn’t be taking sides here. The drunken boyfriend and the privileged frat boy; most women would know two assholes when she saw them.
“So we left,” Jeremy continued. “She didn’t want to hang around with nothing to do but watch him get drunk with his buddies, and I,” he looked away from her, “suggested we go to the B&B for a bit. She was game.” He gave Smith a knowing smile. “No undue pressure going on, you got that, right?”