Evans growled. Smith doubted he got her point, but it had been fun making it anyway.
They were sitting in the patrol car outside the Potato Famine watching the clock tick toward midnight. The window was rolled down and they could hear pounding music, shouts, and overly-loud laughter coming from inside. The music was cut off in mid-note, and people began to chant. Smith glanced at her watch. “Midnight,” she said. “Happy New Year, Dave.”
“Same to you, Molly.”
Cheers and cries of Happy New Year filled the street. A group of young men ran out of the bar, waving brown bottles over their heads and yelling. A bottle hit the brick wall of the pub and shattered. The red light in the bar window advertising a brand of beer glistened off shards of glass. Smith and Evans got out of the car and went back to work.
Warnings were issued, beer emptied into snow banks, and the broken glass was being picked up, piece by piece, by the miscreants to be deposited into a trash bin when radios crackled. Fight at the Bishop and Nun. Evans took the car and Smith remained behind, to continue walking the beat. “Am I going to hear anything more from you guys tonight?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Not a peep.” They swayed slightly and their words were stirred, but they’d sobered up quickly enough at the sight of Evans and Smith approaching and poured out their beer before being told to do so.
“Make sure of it,” she said. “You can go now.”
“Happy New Year,” they shouted, as they continued on their way.
She watched them go for a few moments before turning to take a walk through the pub, to check that everything was under control. The hair on the back of her neck bristled and she looked around. The light over the entrance of the small office building across the street was burnt out. The streetlamp touched the edges of a black shape standing in the doorway. A red glow from the end of a cigarette did nothing to illuminate the face. It was a man. He was very large and was watching her.
She placed her hand on the butt of her gun. He stepped into the light.
Charlie F. Bassing.
He looked at Smith, his expression unreadable in the light hitting his face from above. Or, perhaps, there wasn’t an expression for her to read. He flicked the burning cigarette into the street and walked away with slow, lazy strides.
Smith took a deep breath and watched until he turned at the corner.
She felt a blast of hot, sweat-filled air. The bouncer stepped out and joined her on the sidewalk.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“So far. But there’s some serious drinking going on in there. One or two that might be trouble later.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay, Molly?”
“Sure,” she moved her hand away from her gun and tried to smile. “I’m fine.” She flexed her fingers.
Molly Smith was late getting to the ski slopes. Last night’s shift had been long and tiring, but other than a handful of arrests for drunk and disorderly, uneventful. She hadn’t seen Charlie again, but he played at the back of her mind all night. She could hardly make a complaint against him for standing on the other side of the street and not talking to her. She’d call Christa tomorrow evening and find out if Charlie had been watching her. That Smith could complain about. Christa had promised to contact the police, or Molly, if she saw Charlie, but Christa might decide to ‘not make a fuss’. Not wanting to make a fuss was what had gotten her beaten up in the first place.
Smith had made it home at four-thirty, had a quick shower, laid out her ski clothes, and gone to bed, planning to get up at seven. When she opened one eye to peer at the clock, the room was light and it was after nine.
She was on the road before nine-thirty, at the hill by ten. She’d considered paying her money for a lift ticket so she could be sure of spending the day in peace, but New Year’s Day should be quiet. The partiers would be sleeping it off, or too subdued to make trouble. It would be mostly families today and those serious enough about their sport to avoid overindulging the night before.
A cheerful yellow sun shone in a pale blue sky. In the meadows, snow sparkled as if ground glass had been sprinkled across the surface.
The parking lot wasn’t full, but Smith had to park far away from the lodge. She left her skis and poles on the racks outside and went into the basement to let them know she was here and get a radio. The equipment rental area was next to the security office. Crowds of people were stomping their feet into unfamiliar boots, testing the length of poles and checking out bindings and the surface of skis. The wooden floor was wet with melting snow and the enclosed room smelled of damp wool, human sweat, and excitement.
“Hi, Constable Smith, what are you doing here?” Ellie Carmine’s daughter, Kathy, lifted goggles away from her face. Her smile was broad and her eyes shining. Without her habitual hangdog expression, she looked good. One of the guests from the B&B was beside her, although he was not looking quite as pleased with himself. Smith dug around in her memory banks for his name, but couldn’t find it.
“Same as you, I’d guess,” Smith said. “Out for a day on the slopes.”
“Maybe we’ll see you out there,” the girl said. “I’m so excited. I’ve never skied before.” She lifted her poles as evidence. “Can you believe it? I’ve lived in Trafalgar my whole life and I’ve never been here.”
“Have fun,” Smith said. She always felt uncomfortable when, in her civilian persona, she ran into people she’d met in her professional capacity.
“Rob’s going to show me the ropes. Aren’t you Rob?” She gave him a big smile.
The boy shrugged and went back to measuring her poles.
“That makes one of us.”
“Pardon?”
“One of us who’s excited about today’s little adventure.” Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth followed Smith toward the security office. Not that she was really following the police officer. More like drifting along in her wake because she couldn’t think of anything better to do. Her yellow ski suit was formfitting and expensive. “This morning, Mrs. Carmine asked if Kathy could come skiing with us. What a presumption, as if we’re friends or something rather than paying guests. She acts as if we owe her because of that little scuffle at the B&B. I told her my dad would pay for what got broken, but Rob’s all embarrassed about it and trying to make nice. Which suits Kathy, you can be sure. Rob’s too nice by half. He needs to get some backbone and tell Kathy to get lost. Oh, well, not my problem. I’m not going to waste my time holding her hand.”
It might not be Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth’s problem, but she was enjoying talking about it. “Have a nice day,” Smith said, putting her hand on the security office door.
“I doubt it. This place is a gigantic bore. You’ll be pleased to hear, Officer, that we’re getting the hell back to civilization tomorrow.”
Won’t be sorry about that
, Smith thought as she said, “Have a safe trip.”
It had snowed the night before and, as she’d expected, the harder runs were relatively empty and the snow pure and untouched. As the morning drew to a close, heavy clouds moved in, promising more new snow. She hoped it would arrive before closing. She loved skiing through a whiteout. Visibility was reduced to nothing, giving her the feeling of being wrapped in a white blanket, only able to see as far as the tips of her skis. That sense of soaring through clouds was unbeatable and it required all of her skill to just let go and allow the texture of the snow beneath her skis to tell her when to turn.
The radio was quiet, and she stopped only once, for a late lunch, peeking around corners and tucking her head down at a table in the back of the room in an attempt to avoid any more encounters with the gang from the Glacier Chalet. She saw Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth sitting at a table across the room. Wendy was alone, leaning up against the wall, just staring off into space. A group of several families grabbed the table next to hers. They were too many for the big table, and a young woman spoke to Wendy. The girl waved her arm languidly. The parents didn’t spare her another glance as they tried to organize the pack of children who, cheeks rosy from the cold and exercise, eyes gleaming with exhilaration, alternatively bounced in their seats or ran around in circles. Moms and dads were young, lean, well-scrubbed, with good hair and nice teeth, and the children laughed with sheer pleasure at being free and alive.
Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth leaned up against the wall and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She paid the children no attention, but kept her head down and stared into her lap. Her shoulders shook, and Smith knew she was crying.
Poor Wendy. Smith ate her lunch quickly and went back outside to get her skis.
She was standing in the line for the lift to Bear Cave Run when the man beside her took a double take. “Hey, Moonlight. It’s you, right Moonlight? How are you?”
“I’m fine, Doug. You?”
The line stopped moving. A child was yelling something about not wanting to get into the chair. “Just great, Moonlight. Back in town for a visit with the folks over the holidays. You too?”
“Yeah.” Just the other day she’d thought of Doug Whiteside for the first time in years, and here he was in real life. She hoped her thoughts hadn’t conjured him up.
What the hell was the problem with this line, couldn’t they move it up?
“What’s with the jacket?” Doug grabbed her arm and half-turned her to have a look at her back. She wrenched her arm away. “Hey, didn’t I hear something about you becoming a cop? I figured that was a joke.”
“No joke.” she inched forward. Her face burned. After all these years, she was still embarrassed about what had happened between them.
“How’s Sam anyway?”
“He’s a lawyer. Lives in Calgary.”
”Funny, isn’t it, how some people grow up exactly like you’d expect them to, and others turn out completely different. Never would have figured you for a cop. I saw Meredith a few days ago. In school all she ever talked about was being a reporter. And she went and did it. Between you and me, I got the feeling she’s not too happy being on the staff of the
Gazette
. I think she figured she’d at least be a foreign correspondent for the
Globe and Mail
by now
.
She looks good, though,” he added, almost wistfully.
Doug chatted on while Molly’s cheeks burned. Years passed, and they finally got to the front of the line. The next chair had room for just one more person and Smith leapt in, leaving Doug waving and suggesting they go for a drink and talk about ‘the old days.’ She’d rather spend the night in the Trafalgar jail.
Doug Whiteside had been friends with her brother Samwise when they were in school. Sam was several years older than Moonlight, and so were his friends.
Doug had been a popular guy, good looking, pitcher on the school baseball team. His parents were well off, and he’d been one of the few kids in their school who had a car of his own.
She’d been thirteen the summer Sam and Doug were seventeen. When they weren’t chasing girls, or begging rides from sailboats on the lake, the boys liked to go fishing where the Upper Kootenay River broke off a branch and ran through the back of the Smith property.
One warm, lazy day Moonlight was at home alone. Her parents were at the store and Sam had taken a hiking party on a three day wilderness trip. She was on the dock by the river, swinging her long brown legs in the air, reading and daydreaming, and ignoring the chores her mother had left her. Doug drove up and walked over to the dock to say hi. He asked if Sam was ready to go. When Moonlight explained that Sam had gone away for a few days, Doug smacked his head with a laugh and said he’d forgotten. He turned to leave, and Moonlight jumped to her feet.
She asked him if he’d like to go to see a movie tonight.
“I thought Sam didn’t get back until Monday?”
“I mean, go with me. Just me. I mean us.”
He ran his eyes slowly down her skinny, young body, all long limbs, sharp angles, and knees, making her feel like a slab of meat in the butcher’s display counter, and then he began to laugh. It was not a kind laugh. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. “You’re a cute enough kid, but I’m not into robbing the cradle.”
Humiliated, embarrassed, she stood rooted to the spot while he sauntered across the lawn back to his car. “Although…,” he said, turning.
“Yes!”
“You could do me a favor and set me up with your pal Meredith Morgenstern. She might be the same age as you, but she looks, you know,” he made a gesture like he was weighing two coconuts in his hands, “older.” He winked and got into his car. He drove away in a cloud of dust, while Jerome, Sylvester’s predecessor, ran alongside, barking.
Moonlight wanted to die. From that moment on she’d never had a kind word to say about her brother’s friend.
***
For the rest of the afternoon, the memory of the teenaged Doug’s mocking laugh followed Molly Smith around the hills. He didn’t seem to have been laughing at her today, though. Perhaps, she told herself, he’d forgotten what had happened and was genuinely interested in talking about the old days. He’d never dated Meredith, far as Smith knew, and he’d probably forgotten all about Moonlight’s awkward attempt at asking him out.
But it was still so mortifying.
She remembered the way her mother’s eyebrows rose in a question when, from that day on, Moonlight had mocked, ridiculed, slandered, disparaged Doug Whiteside every time his name came up. Even more embarrassing, Lucky probably knew why her attitude had changed so abruptly.
Smith barely missed colliding with a snow-laden Douglas fir. She dug the edges of her skis in and came to a hockey stop in a swirl of cold powder.
Who the hell did all that remind her of?
She took refuge near the tree, getting out of the way of anyone who might be coming down, before pulling her helmet off and rubbing at her face.
Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth didn’t have a good word to say about her brother’s friend, Ewan Williams. What was it Smith had overheard Wendy saying about Ewan?
When it came to women, he liked to scrape the bottom of the barrel.
John Winters read the e-mail from Doctor Shirley Lee confirming that the body of Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth would be released to the funeral home arranged by his family.
He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d arranged to come in to work later today, thinking that rank had its privileges and he’d take the privilege of enjoying a pleasant, relaxing New Year’s morning at home, breakfast on the sun porch, catching up on the newspapers. Perhaps he’d bundle up later and go for a run. A perfect morning following a perfect evening out with his wife.
It hadn’t quite worked out that way. Instead, Barney had come with them to dinner, and he’d been woken by the sound of the phone ringing and Barney chattering in the computer room next door as she made calls to re-arrange her schedule, having been unable to get a flight out yesterday. Barney wanted to go to town at noon to see the annual polar bear swim in the Upper Kootenay River. John Winters had absolutely no interest in watching a pack of people without a lick of common sense between them jump into an icy river. But Eliza asked him to drive, and, like a good husband, he’d put the newspapers aside and done so.
Winters swiveled his chair and looked out the window. The sun was shining in Trafalgar, but there were several mountain ridges between here and Castlegar, and that meant a lot of weather. The one o’clock flight had gotten away, but it had been full, and Barney was booked on the later one.
Hopefully tomorrow’s planes would leave on time. It would not be good for Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth if she had to spend hours in the waiting room while the body of her son lay next door in the cargo area.
With the departure of Doctors Wyatt-Yarmouth the friends would also be heading back to Ontario. He had no reason to keep them in Trafalgar, but once they were gone it would be difficult, if not impossible, to continue with the investigation.
Whether Ewan Williams’ death was deliberate or accidental, one of his friends had to know a lot more than they were saying.
Winters stared out the window. An old van, the sort of Volkswagen Kombi that had bounced down the road to Woodstock, clattered up the hill, puffing and wheezing as if, like an old timer still trying to keep up with the kids, its age was catching up with it. The inside was loaded with young people and the roof with skis. Ewan Williams had been alone, supposedly, when he left the B&B on Sunday evening after the day’s skiing. He was never seen again. At least not by anyone who was prepared to tell the police so. He had met a woman earlier that day at the lodge and arranged to meet her at a bar in the evening. He hadn’t arrived. Winters had sent an officer to the bar to check that the woman, Marilyn Chow, had told Smith the truth. Chow was attractive enough that the bartender had no trouble remembering her. He’d watched her sitting in a table in the corner, alone, for about an hour, and then leave, alone, at the time she’d told Smith she had.
Winters mentally checked the hard-to-accept scenarios off on his fingers. The B&B wasn’t in the wilderness, and there were only a few blocks of well-travelled and well-lit city streets between it and the Bishop and the Nun. Ewan was on foot: if he’d had an accident on the way into town, someone would have reported it. If he’d been mugged he would have been rumbled and left on the sidewalk for a passer-by to find. If he’d changed his mind and was heading for someplace other than the Bishop, the same rules applied. Ewan didn’t have a vehicle except for the rented SUV, which had not gone missing, so he would have been walking.
He might have been picked up. A random or serial-type killing, Winters dismissed off hand. He’d come back to that if necessary, but right now the idea was way out in left field. Someone Ewan knew, one of the men he’d been in a fight with because of paying attention to the guy’s girlfriend? Unlikely. Ewan didn’t seem to be naive enough to accept a lift from someone he’d offended.
Lucky told Molly she’d heard that Alan and Ewan had sparred over Alan’s girlfriend, Sophie. Clearly the incident hadn’t been forgotten: Winters remembered the dirty look Alan had given his girlfriend when the discussion had come around to Ewan’s sexual habits. He made a note to have a talk with Alan Robertson.
Ewan had stepped out the front door and disappeared for twenty-four hours. It was highly likely he’d never left the grounds of the Glacier Chalet B&B.
Winters thought about the property around the lovely old house. Neat gardens and perfect lawns, now covered in deep snow, backing up against a patch of woodland. No fence, the lawn was outlined by perennial beds.
What do you find in a forest? Lots of wood. Dead branches.
Tomorrow, when everyone was back after the holidays, he’d get the Mounties’ forensic team crawling through those woods.
Jason had been at Lorraine LeBlanc’s house in the hours before his death; his bright yellow SUV parked on a city street in clear view of any one passing. Highly unlikely he’d left a dead body in the front seat while he went inside for his Christmas Eve supper with Lorraine. So he had to have found, or recovered, the body between leaving Lorraine’s and midnight, when he went off the road. Where had Jason told Lorraine he was going when he left her?
Back to the B&B.
Like a movie unraveling in his head, Winters tried to play out the last movements of Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth’s life.
He leaves the LeBlanc’s around nine, telling Lorraine to join him later at the Glacier Chalet. He gets into the car while Lorraine watches from the door. Jason drives back to the B&B. Does he get there? Winters had sent reserve officers down the street, asking if anyone had seen the yellow SUV parked at the B&B between nine and midnight. A few people said they might have, but they were unsure about the time, or even the day.
For now, Winters would assume it had been there. The movie continued.
Jason parked the car, but didn’t go inside. The house was busy with preparations for the midnight celebration, someone would have seen or heard him.
Why didn’t he go inside? Did he remember something he had to do? Buy a last minute gift, perhaps? As he drove through town, Jason would have noticed that the stores were all closed.
Winters watched Jason get out of the car. With a flick of his finger on the remote door-lock he takes a step toward the house. It’s snowing heavily.
Someone steps out of the shadows. Snow covers head and coat. He or she had been waiting.
Why is someone else involved? Jason could have been coming back to get the body he’d stashed earlier.
Again, unlikely. Jason had, by all accounts, not behaved that day like a man with the death of his best friend on his mind. Like his friends, Jason thought Ewan had met up with his date and it had gone so well he was still with her. Apparently it wasn’t out of character for Ewan to instantly drop the company of his friends when he found more pleasing companionship.
In John Winters’ private movie, the figure waiting for Jason stepped out of the shadows. The streetlight shone into her face. Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth’s expression was bleak and her face was wet with melting snow and tears.
Winters stopped the movie, and thought about Wendy. A bitter and angry young woman, who appeared to be veering perilously close to the edge of a breakdown. One would think that with all the money and influence her parents had, they’d have taken her to a good therapist. Maybe they had, and it wasn’t working.
Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe the depth of Wendy’s problems had only started coming to the surface on this vacation.
He glanced at his watch. Almost four. He had one last chance to get Wendy to tell him what she knew before she left tomorrow.
He reached for his coat.