“I only want a half-hour, Moonlight, and I’ll buy the coffee.”
She sighed. “No one but my mother calls me Moonlight. I’m Molly. Let me get my coat. Wait here.”
She shut the door, and locked it behind her.
At a table in the back of Big Eddie’s, Gary skipped around the question of where his parents had gone. What he really wanted to know was when the group staying at the Glacier Chalet B&B would be leaving, taking their dead with them. Lorraine was insisting she go to Ontario for Jason’s funeral. And as he, Gary, had absolutely no intention of paying money he couldn’t afford to finance such a trip, he was afraid she’d approach Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth and, finding them unwilling to provide for her (
no kidding!
) do what she thought she had to do to get there.
“She’s…” Gary coughed into his mug of black coffee. “Never, far as I know, taken money for…I mean…”
“You mean she’s not a hooker, but you’re afraid she’ll turn into one trying to get the money to go to Ontario.”
“Yeah.”
Smith swirled the remains of her hot chocolate around in the bottom of the mug. She knew, and probably Gary did as well, that a last-minute plane trip from remote Trafalgar to Toronto would cost in the region of a thousand bucks. Minimum. If Lorraine started hooking, she’d be lucky to earn a hundred before being busted.
Theft? Where’d she get those nice earrings she seemed so proud of anyway? Did Lorraine have anything to do with the other thefts in town? Such as the two-hundred dollar ski goggles snatched from Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations?
Smith eyed Gary across the table. His head was turned toward the door, where Jolene was turning the sign from open to closed. He’d come to her looking for some sort of help, not to put the idea in her head that Lorraine was a thief. But she hadn’t asked him to drop in to her home of an evening. She’d ask her mom if Lorraine had been in the store around the time the goggles were snatched. However, Smith knew, Lucky would eat the loss before turning a girl she felt sorry for over to the strong arm of the law.
What a mess.
She got to her feet. “Time to leave. They’re closing.”
“You’ll think about what I said?”
“I will. Look, Gary, if you think Lorraine knows something about the deaths of Jason and Ewan, you need to let Sergeant Winters know, okay?”
“What’s to know? They were driving too fast and went off the road into the river. Must have been a shock for a couple of invincible rich boys when they hit the water and knew they were about to die, as if they were mere mortals. I’m not crying any tears for them, Moon, I just want to protect my sister from the fallout. Why’s your boss twisting his boxers into a knot worrying about them anyway?”
“Beats me. He doesn’t have to confide in a lowly constable such as me.”
Was Winters making a mistake keeping what they knew about Ewan’s death under wraps
? No one seemed to be all that worried about helping the police with what everyone believed to be a tragic traffic accident.
Jolene held the door open for them. “Good-night,” she said, her upper-crust English accent making it sound as if their carriages were waiting.
Smith pulled her collar up against the falling snow and dug into her pockets for her mittens.
They stood at the entrance to the coffee shop as the lights were switched off. “Good-night, Gary.” She spoke without a fraction of the class Jolene had put into those two words.
“I’m going your way. I’ll walk with you.”
“I’m not going home yet.”
“Okay. Look Moon…I mean Molly…I was sort of wondering if…well, when all this business is over…if you’d…”
“No.” She waited for him to take the first step. Whichever way he went, she’d head in the opposite direction.
“’night,” Gary turned right, going uphill.
She stuffed her hands in her pockets and turned left. She was starving. Too hungry to go home and take the time to cook something, she headed for Front Street. A yellow curry from Trafalgar Thai would be good. With spring rolls to start. They could have the appetizers on the table in minutes, which would keep her from dying of starvation while waiting for the curry.
She headed down the hill toward the lights of Front Street shops and restaurants. Dark and black. Cloud shrouded the mountain on the other side of the black river. She shivered and pulled her collar tighter.
Gary. He was so bitter, so angry at Jason and his friends. Perhaps he had a right to be. His father left town when Gary was in primary school, never to be heard from again. His mother married the town drunk and almost immediately joined her new husband in his favorite hobby. Barely twenty, and Gary’d been sent to prison to pay for a minor crime gone wrong.
The Wyatt-Yarmouth crowd. Tossing money around like eighteenth-century nobility visiting the peasants. Exchanging status for sex with local girls who were searching for everything from a fun night on the town to a lifetime commitment with a trust-fund guy.
Might Gary have had something to do with the death of Jason? No, Jason died in a car accident. There appeared to be no doubt about that. Ewan? They hadn’t uncovered any link between Lorraine and Ewan.
Smith turned onto Front Street. A bunch of tourists passed her without a glance. Sometimes, in this town where it seemed as if everyone and his dog had either rubbed her head when she’d been a toddler or had been arrested by her, it was nice to be anonymous.
The scent of spices spilled out from Trafalgar Thai. She could almost taste that yellow curry.
A couple came out of the restaurant. They were laughing, their arms wrapped around each other. Light from the streetlamp above them shone on snowflakes drifting to the ground. A car drove by, window down, the stereo playing Sarah Brightman’s duet with Paul Stanley:
You will never be alone,
they sang. The woman tilted her head and the man bent to kiss her. She’d managed to get through almost the whole day without thinking of Graham once.
She brushed past the couple, blinking away the tears.
A slow chill crept down her spine. She looked up to see a dark figure standing at the street corner on the other side of the restaurant. The cap was pulled low, the jacket black and bulky, hands stuffed into pockets, boots large.
Inside Trafalgar Thai, wait staff were hurrying with plates filled high with fragrant dishes. Customers talked and laughed and drank green tea and beer.
He, and it was almost certainly a he, wasn’t moving. Just standing and watching her.
Cars drove by and people looked into shop windows and read posted restaurant menus. A group of giggling teenage girls came down the sidewalk like a river in flood; they parted around the man as water passes a boulder.
He lifted one black-gloved hand. The index finger moved slowly, beckoning her.
The girls swirled by Smith, a splash of voices like rapids running the narrows.
She couldn’t see his face.
She was without uniform, gun, radio. His finger continued to move.
The restaurant door opened, spilling yellow light onto the sidewalk. Smith glanced to her left to see two elderly couples, enveloped in their winter gear.
When she looked back down the street, the corner was empty.
She hadn’t seen his face. She hadn’t needed to. Size and manner were good enough.
Yellow curry forgotten, she pulled out her cell phone.
“Ingrid, I need a parole check and fast.”
“Happy to oblige, Molly, soon as I can. I’ve got a Canada-wide warrant spotted in Uptown.”
“This is bad stuff, Ingrid. Local bad stuff.”
“Go ahead.”
“I need to know if this one’s out of jail. Bassing, Charles F. That’s F as in Fucking.”
A late-model SUV, large and black, was parked in his driveway, a rental company logo slapped on the bumper. Not Barney’s; she’d been picked up by Eliza at the airport.
Lights were on in his house, but that was no surprise. Nine p.m. and for Barney, all seventy-years old of her, the evening was only beginning. That all John Winters wanted to do was drop into bed, preferably in the soft, perfumed, satin-covered arms of his wife, wouldn’t have crossed Barney’s mind any more than the idea that he’d want to go out back and perform a human sacrifice.
He opened the front door. Women’s voices came from the living room. He plastered on a smile and went to join them.
Nothing in all of John Winters life ever matched the joy he got from a first glimpse of Eliza after a long, hard day. Tonight she was curled up in her favorite leather chair, smiling at something Barney was saying, lifting a glass to her lips. A floorboard creaked and she looked up and saw him standing in the doorway.
“John! How wonderful.” She jumped up. She was dressed in loose gray slacks and a sweater of soft pink, without jewelry. Her face was scrubbed clean and her dark hair hung loosely around her chin. She grabbed his face and gave him a lush kiss. “You’re earlier than I expected.”
“You look like a man in need of a drink,” Barney said. “What’ll it be? We’re drinking mimosas, but I’d guess a man of the world would prefer something stronger.”
He smiled. He did like Barney. “A beer would be nice.”
“Coming right up.” She dashed for the kitchen.
“John,” Eliza said, her hand light on his arm, turning him slightly. “This is my new friend Patricia.”
A woman was sitting in the wide-winged armchair by the window, draped in shadow. He approached her, hand outstretched, and she leaned forward. The lamp caught her face. Finely sculpted cheekbones, neat chin, wide brown eyes, soft brown hair, artfully streaked. Perfect make up and expensive hair couldn’t hide the pain behind her eyes.
He took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Patricia. Welcome here.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was deep and rich.
Barney came back with his drink: golden liquid with a creamy head wrapped in an icy glass.
He took a seat, calculating how long he’d have to make friendly before escaping to bed. But first, he needed to eat. Should have picked up something in town. Eliza’s skills did not lie in the kitchen.
“Are you new to Trafalgar, Patricia?” he asked. A husband doing his duty toward his wife’s new friend.
“Just visiting. It’s beautiful here. Early days yet, but I’m thinking I might want to buy a vacation home.”
Barney launched into a discussion of the value of property in the area. Skyrocketing, she put it.
“You’ve missed your chance,” Eliza said. “There were plans to build a major resort outside of town. But that all fell through at the end of the summer, and the developer ran back to the city with his tail between his legs. The property’s now for sale.”
“Why?” Patricia asked.
“No one, almost no one, knows.” Eliza glanced at her husband from underneath dark lashes. Frank Clemmins and M&C Developments had packed up and left as if a posse were after them. Rumor and suspicion swept through town. Someone claimed the site was an ancient alien landing ground with a curse placed against Earthling interlopers.
The reason M&C developments had so abruptly scurried back to Vancouver had nothing to do with space ships or hostile aliens. After being involved in not one, but two, murder cases, Frank Clemmins wanted nothing more than to abandon Trafalgar permanently.
“Resort or no,” Barney said. “You couldn’t do much better than buying a place in the Kootenays. Heavens, you’re not even from Alberta. That’ll give you a leg up right there. They do hate anyone from Alberta, isn’t that right, John?”
“They produce good beef in Alberta,” he said. “Speaking of which, is there anything to eat?”
“We had a late lunch, so didn’t worry about supper. There might be a pizza in the freezer,” Eliza said, sounding not at all sure of her facts.
He finished his beer. There had to be something he could eat—a hunk of cheese, a can of soup, bread, perhaps even the remains of last week’s packaged pot roast. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a hard day. Pleasure to meet you, Patricia.” He fought his way out of the deep chair. “Will you be in Trafalgar for long?”
“As long as required,” she said.
A strange answer. He glanced at Eliza. She moved one finely-sculpted eyebrow. He looked at Patricia. The woman’s eyes were red, the fine skin underneath dark with new strain.
All he wanted was to have something to eat and go to bed. With or without his wife. Instead he sat back down and put his beer on the side table. “Patricia. May I ask your last name?”
***
Rob sat in the big leather armchair by the fire. He lifted his arm to wipe the blood from the cut on his lip onto his sleeve. Kathy handed him a tissue and placed the box onto the side table close to him.
“You okay?” she asked.
“They really arrested Jer?”
“Off he went to the slammer. Molly Smith grew up in this town. Everyone knows her, so she tries to act real tough, throw being a cop into your face.”
“’bout time someone got tough with that jackass. Maybe a night in jail’ll give him some perspective on things.”
“I bet it will. Molly knows what she’s doing.”
He dabbed at the cut on his mouth.
Kathy took a deep breath. Okay, so last night hadn’t gone exactly as she’d dreamed. But now that she was thinking about it, she realized he hadn’t rejected her as she’d thought at the time. “Not now,” he’d said. Not here, a sordid groping in the dark in her mother’s house.
Later.
He’d said later.
She gave him what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. He looked at the floor.
Sophie clattered down the stairs. She dropped into a chair with such force the springs squeaked. “I want to go ‘ome.”
“So go,” Kathy said. “No one’s stopping you.”
“
Alain
is
très
difficult. He wants to stay. To be here for Jason, his
ami.”
“
Jason’s dead. Time you all got over it.”
“Hey,” Rob said. “That’s a bit harsh, Kathy.”
She backtracked quickly. Jason was dead, and she didn’t have much time before Rob might decide to end his vacation and go home early. After that fight in the common room, her mother would have been well within her rights to throw them all out onto the street, without a refund. Fortunately, Ellie felt sorry for them because of the death of their friends, and was satisfied at the arrest of Jeremy, who she saw as the troublemaker. “Sorry, that was unkind. I only meant that it’s bothering you all so much. I mean it should bother you, but not so…”
“Whatever,” Sophie said with a shrug.
Rob said, “Christmas day Alan wanted to leave but you were set on staying. Now you’ve changed your minds. You’re both nuts. You don’t have to stay here just because Alan wants to, do you?”
She studied the nails on her right hand. “No, I do not. But Alan, well you know what ‘e’s like. Jealous.”
“Yeah, I know. Come to think of it, didn’t Alan and Ewan have a bit of a set to at the Calgary airport? Something about Ewan looking at you?”
Sophie preened. “As I said, Alan is jealous.”
“As I remember, there was something about you looking back. You should tell the police about that.”
She shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Alan told Ewan I was with ‘im, and that ended it. No one
killed
Ewan, you know.”
“I wonder. But if you’re so unhappy here, go home.”
“Alan has the ticket information.”
“So stay then. Jeeze, Sophie, I don’t care what the hell you do. Just stop complaining about it, will you.”
Sophie pouted. It was not, Kathy decided with some satisfaction, an attractive look.
She jumped out of her chair, but, to Kathy’s disappointment, didn’t head upstairs to pack. Instead she crouched in front of the rack of DVDs and ran a recently manicured finger along the spines.
Rob stood up. “If you’re going to watch a movie, I’m going for a walk.”
“I’ll get my coat,” Kathy said.
“I’d rather…” Rob began, but Kathy was heading for the door.
“Pathetic,” Sophie said.
Kathy had no idea what the Quebec girl was talking about.
***
In that strange land between sleep and awake, Smith could see Christa, bloodied and beaten as the paramedics carried her out of her house, then lying pale and bruised against hospital pillows. She could hear Christa’s voice: angry and frightened, turning all her rage onto Molly, who should have protected her. She saw Charlie Bassing, leaning into the window of the police van, leering at her, spots of blood dotting the front of his T-shirt.
It was still dark when she gave up any hope of getting to sleep. The bedside clock said six o’clock. She rolled out of bed. She needed to tell Christa Charlie was back in town. But she was afraid to. It was probably too early to call John Winters. There was someone who’d be up, even on a Sunday.
When Molly Smith walked into the kitchen of her family home, her mom was sitting at the big, scarred pine table, eating yogurt topped with Saskatoon berries harvested from the woods around the house over the summer and frozen. A cup of coffee at her elbow, she was reading yesterday’s paper, dressed in her tatty old rainbow-colored housecoat, her blue flannel pajama legs sticking out and slippered feet adorned with the fluffy heads of grizzly bears. The slippers had been a Christmas gift from her grandson, Ben.
Lucky gestured to the coffee pot. “Finish it off, and make more for your dad, will you, dear. He’s not up yet.”
Smith scratched the top of Sylvester’s head. “Nice to see you, too, Mom. I’m doing fine, thanks.”
Lucky lowered her drug-store reading glasses. “I saw you only yesterday and you are obviously not doing fine or you’d be home in bed. You’re on afternoons this week, right?”
Smith poured the last cup of coffee and reached into the cupboard for a fresh filter. “What are you, a mind reader?” she said, pouring coffee beans into the grinder.
“Just a mother. Leave that, your dad can make it. Come and sit down.” Lucky waited until her daughter was seated and sipping coffee. “What’s the problem?”
“Charlie Bassing’s in town.”
“Oh, no.” Lucky put her cup down. “I thought he was in jail.”
“Out on parole. For good behavior.”
“Are you sure he’s back here?”
“I saw him myself.” She neglected to mention that his actions toward her could have been interpreted as threatening.
“Does Christa know?”
“That’s why I’m here, Mom. I’m going to have to tell her, but, frankly, I’m afraid to.”
Lucky let out a long breath. “She won’t take it well. Can you do something about keeping him away from her?”
Smith smiled for the first time since she’d seen the bastard in the street, mocking her. It was unlikely Lucky even noticed that she’d referred to the forces of law and order as ‘you’.
“A condition of parole is that he have no contact with Christa and not come within two hundred meters of her or her place of residence or employment.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“If he abides by the parole order. But we won’t know if he doesn’t until he…well…doesn’t.”
Lucky swirled her mug and glanced into its depths. Sylvester, who loved Lucky above all, put his head onto her lap and whined.
“You couldn’t order him out of town?”
“No. This is where he lives, Mom. He probably told them he had a job to come back to. I think he does some odd-job sort of work now and again, when he runs out of beer money.”
“I’m not going into the store today. I’ll come with you to talk to Christa.”
Which was what Smith wanted to hear, although she didn’t like to admit it. She was a police officer, and good officers rarely took their mother along to break bad news. But Christa wasn’t just a citizen, she was Molly’s friend. And probably soon to be her ex-friend.
“I don’t like to ask you, but, thanks, Mom.”
Lucky glanced at her watch. “Not even seven yet. Too early to call on Christa. Around nine would be best. I don’t want to phone ahead and tell her I’m coming over. She’d worry about what I want to talk about.
“You might as well have some breakfast. You’re looking a bit thin. When did you last eat?”
“I’m doing fine, Mom.” Smith didn’t say that her last meal had been yesterday’s breakfast in the car. Seeing Charlie had killed her appetite for spring rolls and yellow curry.
Lucky went to the fridge. Without asking she pulled out sausages and eggs and put a frying pan onto the stove.
“Thought I heard your voice.” Andy Smith came into the kitchen. He kissed the top of his daughter’s head. “Early for a visit, isn’t it?”
Lucky explained the situation. Andy said something about rearranging Charlie’s anatomy before asking, “Is that for me?” He cast an eager eye on the cooking sausages.
Lucky cracked eggs into a bowl. “I could probably be persuaded to give you some.”
“I left my car at the bottom of the driveway,” Smith said. “Too much snow to try to get up. I’ll give you a hand with it after we eat, Dad.”
“Always happy to have help. That old snowblower’s on its last legs. We’ll have to get a new one for next year. I’ll look for something on sale in the spring.”
“You don’t usually go into work on Sunday, Dad.”
“It’ll be busy with Boxing Day sales and Christmas returns. I remember when it
was
just Boxing Day. Now they call it Boxing Week. Next all of January will be Boxing Month.”
Andy finished preparing a second pot of coffee and Lucky served them a hearty breakfast of sausages, scrambled eggs, and piles of toast with homemade raspberry jam. After they ate, Smith and her father struggled into their heaviest winter clothes and went outside. Six inches of snow had fallen in the night, and the morning sky was heavy with the threat of more to come. Andy started up his snowblower and worked on the driveway while Molly shoveled the front path and cleared a route into the woods at the back of the property for Sylvester. Not even New Year, and the snowbanks along the driveway were almost three feet tall.