Corporal Ron Gavin of the RCMP strode over; he and Winters shook hands. The Mountie nodded at Smith. “Coroner’s right behind me,” he said. “Saw her in my rear view mirror.”
“I’m going inside,” Winters said. “To talk to the witness.” He gestured to Smith to follow him out of the woods. Gavin needed room to work.
Smith pulled off her hat and rubbed at her head. Winters didn’t care much for the new short haircut. It was cut about two or three inches long, all over, and either stood out from her head in spikes or was flattened by the hat. She was pretty, tall and lean and fair, with wide blue eyes and hair the color of summer corn. The new hair style made her look even younger, and more vulnerable, than the neat braid. Like the sort of London street urchin Charles Dickens wrote about.
“Is your mother looking after one of her grandkids?” Winters asked.
“My mother? No. It certainly isn’t mine and to the best of my knowledge my brother hasn’t spawned lately. I assume it belongs to one of the clients. That’s what the center’s for, mostly. They teach new mothers how to care for their babies, and help them access resources and stuff.”
“But they’re closed.” The sign beside the front door had given the hours and an emergency phone number.
“Someone left it behind, maybe?” Smith said, sounding not too interested.
“Don’t make assumptions, Molly. Your mother found a dead woman, and now she’s minding a baby. She seems calm about all of this.”
“I figured she was busy with the baby.”
“Has anyone contacted your father?”
“Not me. Should I?”
“I think your mother needs some care, Molly. She found a body in the woods and she’s showing as much emotion as if it had been an abandoned shoe.”
Smith pulled out her cell phone.
“Take Dave’s place on the street, and tell him to come inside and join Mrs. Smith and me.”
“I’d rather…”
“Get Dave.” He walked away without looking back.
Lucky Smith sat in a big armchair in the main room. The fiery red head, heavily streaked with gray, bent over the child in her arms. A strand had come loose from the clip at the back of her head and caressed the baby’s cheek. At five foot two, Lucky was much shorter, and pudgier, than her tall, thin daughter. You wouldn’t think they were related, at first, until you saw the firm set of the chin, the high cheekbones, the shape of the eyes—Lucky’s green, Molly’s blue.
The Trafalgar Women’s Support Center was located in a heritage house. Still arranged like a home, it had a large living room with comfortable sofa and thread-bare chairs, a kitchen, last remodeled in the 1960s, dining room featuring a scarred wooden table with seating for ten or more, and stairs leading to the second floor. The house was old, wallpaper fading, paint chipping, floorboards lifting and carpet edges curling. A cork board, covered with information from government and social service agencies, filled one wall of the kitchen. Beneath a framed print of sky, lake, and flowers in the high alpine, Lucky cooed softly to the bundle in her arms.
Winters took a seat in the couch opposite her. The springs were none too good and they sagged beneath his weight.
“That’s a cute baby, Lucky. Whose is it?”
“I can’t believe you missed the whole thing, Meredith. What on Planet Earth were you up to?”
Meredith Morgenstern shifted in the hard-backed chair. She endured the stream of abuse and tried to settle her breathing into her chest. One breath after another. One breath.
He’d told her to cover August’s Fourth Thursday. The fourth Thursday of every month in spring and summer, the stores along Front Street put on a street festival. Musicians, wandering buskers, street-side food stalls. Her cell phone had conked out somewhere between interviewing a clown on stilts, and a lady selling homemade jam and chutney. She hadn’t heard the order to get to Cottonwood Street and check out the police activity converging on the area.
Only once she’d gotten home and plugged her phone into the charger, did she get the message. By the time she arrived at Cottonwood Street only Constable Dave Evans, as handsome as ever, was there. He’d told her to go home.
She gave him her card, as if he didn’t know who she was, and suggested they have a coffee some time when he was off duty. He’d put the card into his pocket and said he’d think about it. Arrogant prick.
Meredith knew better than to relate all that to Joe Gessling, her editor. A newspaper legend in his own mind, Joe held firm to the belief that he could do no wrong. So she cranked out a smile and said “They kept it under the radar, Joe. You know how it is sometimes.”
“Sure do,” he said.
Meredith doubted that he had any idea at all of how it was. His grandfather had started the paper; his father kept it going, year after year, without making the slightest change. A few months ago, Gessling Père collapsed onto his desk while pouring over copy, victim of a massive heart attack. He survived, but barely, and Joe had been brought back from a paper in Picton, Ontario. Wherever that might be. Joe talked long and loud about his ideas to bring the
Gazette
into the 21
st
century. Whatever that meant. He’d already tried to introduce more color and a lifestyle section. The idea had failed when it turned out that there wasn’t enough lifestyle in town to gather advertising revenue.
That might change once the Grizzly Resort began building. Word around town said the resort partners had the huge advertising budget necessary to attract investors as well as persuade the citizens of Trafalgar that the resort would be good for their town.
In Meredith’s opinion, the latter was a long shot indeed. The citizens of Trafalgar were legendary for their opposition to anything that smelled of corporate money or government interference. But the resort promised top-of-the-line boutiques, quality restaurants, high-flying clientele, and Meredith was all for it.
“I want tomorrow’s paper to have the full story,” Joe said. “Front page, at least half the page, devoted to this. We don’t get enough unusual deaths in Trafalgar, so I want to squeeze this one for all it’s worth.”
Meredith registered her boss’ idea of ‘enough’ deaths. But it wasn’t her place to suggest that he pretend to have some sympathy.
“You got it.” She got to her feet and turned toward the welcome sight of the door.
“You’re pals with Constable Smith, I hear.”
Truth be told, in school Meredith Morgenstern and Moonlight Smith had hated each other. They’d been bitter enemies, facing off across the gym floor or into the mirrors in the girls’ bathroom. Recent events had done nothing to reconcile the newspaper reporter and the police officer.
“Yeah,” Meredith said. “We go back a long way.”
“Great. Squeeze that for all you’re worth, will you.” He turned toward his computer monitor. He shook the mouse and the Star Wars screensaver disappeared.
All Meredith wanted in life was to land a real job at a real newspaper and get the hell out of this hick town.
“Half the front page. Tomorrow,” he said. “Or I’ll know the reason why.”
***
“What the hell happened to you?”
Andy Smith paused in the act of pouring himself a cup of coffee and stared at his daughter.
“Please, Dad. Don’t make a fuss. I had an argument with a doorknob.”
Lucky looked up from the stove. The edges of the blue plastic spatula she held in her right hand had partially melted years ago. “I’ve heard that one before,” she said. “From the women down at the shelter. Almost every one of them, when they first arrive.”
“You mean someone hit her,” Andy said. “Is that it, someone hit you?”
Smith dropped into a chair. She’d dared to sneak a look at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, and guessed how her parents would react. The swelling had spread up to her nose and into her cheek. The purple and yellow color did nothing to distract from the effect. She’d carefully checked out each tooth. Fortunately they were all firmly fixed in place.
“You should see the other guy,” she said.
A vein throbbed in her father’s neck and his eyes began to bulge. He clenched his fists. “He should be strung up in the town square. What kind of a bully hits a woman?”
“I am not a woman. I am a police officer. Calm down, Dad. It’s not a big deal.” Her face hurt like hell. If she hadn’t known that her parents almost prayed for the day she’d come to her senses and quit the police service, Smith would throw herself into her mother’s lap and cry for sympathy.
Andy passed her a cup of coffee. “What are you doing up so early, anyway?”
“Like I could sleep.”
Once the coroner had arrived, signed the paperwork, and allowed the body to be removed, and Winters had told Andy to take his wife home, and Ron Gavin and his partner were hard at work examining every inch of the forest floor behind the women’s support center, Smith had been sent back to the beat, while Evans stayed to keep curious bystanders at bay.
To Smith’s surprise, the rest of her shift had been uneventful. Apparently everyone had had enough excitement for the day seeing a female cop belted in the mouth and hearing that a body had been found in the woods.
She’d gotten home at four, and had been woken only a few minutes ago by a screaming baby.
Lucky took a bottle off the stove and squeezed a drop onto her forearm. She reached into a laundry basket on the floor beside the stove and gathered up a pink blanket. Sylvester, the big sloppy golden retriever, sniffed at the bundle.
“Mom, where did that baby come from?”
“This is Miller,” Lucky said. “He is not ‘that baby’, Moonlight.”
To her constant embarrassment, Molly Smith’s given names were Moonlight Legolas. Her parents had been ‘60’s era hippies, Americans who fled the States for refuge in Canada when Andy received his draft notice. They’d named their daughter Moonlight for the light falling on snow the night she’d been born, and Legolas because they were big
Lord of the Rings
fans. Molly’s brother, now a lawyer with a petroleum company in Calgary, endured the moniker of Samwise.
“That’s the baby of that woman found dead behind the center, isn’t it?” Smith said.
Smoke began to rise from scrambled eggs cooking on the stove. Andy pulled the frying pan off the heat, with a shrug of his shoulder toward his daughter.
Lucky lifted her eyes from the baby. “I remembered his name after you’d left. I’m only looking after Miller until his family can be located.”
“Gee, Mom. There are government people to do that.”
The phone rang and Andy Smith answered it. “Nope,” he said, “she’s right here.” He passed it to his daughter.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Molly.” Sergeant Winters. “As you seem to be up already, how’d you like to come with me to Trail? The autopsy’s set for noon.”
Smith’s chair might have been an ejection seat on a fighter plane. “You bet, John. I’m ready.”
“I’ll pick you up at eleven.” He hung up without bothering to say good-bye.
Smith looked at her parents. Lucky’s attention was concentrated on the baby, happily sucking on the plastic teat. Andy watched his wife, his face dark and troubled.
Smith went upstairs to get dressed. Her parents had almost split up recently. But the marriage had held. After all they’d been through it was unlikely a baby would be able to come between them.
Ready well before Winters said he’d pick her up, she went back to the kitchen in search of coffee.
“Where’s Mom?” she asked her father.
“Taken Miller upstairs to change him.”
“Mom needs some help, Dad.”
“Perhaps they’ll be able to track down Miller’s family today, and someone will come and get him.”
“I mean help dealing with this.”
Andy Smith looked into the depths of his own cup. “She’s fine.”
“She’s certainly not fine.” Smith took a mug off the shelf and poured black liquid into it. “She found a dead woman in the woods. Granted there wasn’t blood and gore or anything, but the woman was still dead.”
“She doesn’t seem bothered by it.”
“That’s my point, Dad. She should be bothered. She needs to deal with it, and I don’t think she is. She should see a counselor. Victim services will send someone out. I’ll give them a call.”
“Don’t.” Andy tossed the remainder of his coffee into the sink, and put his mug into the dishwasher. “Time to get to the store. Your mom can’t come in long as she’s looking after Miller, and we’re short staffed without Duncan as it is.”
“Dad. Listen to me. Despite appearances, Mom is not handling this well.”
“Leave it, Molly,” he said, with a sharpness in his voice she rarely heard these days. “You of all people should know that your mother would hardly appreciate any interference from the police, or anyone associated with them.” He grabbed his car keys from the hook beside the back door and left.
Smith chewed on a fingernail.
Her parents hadn’t exactly been overjoyed a year ago when she’d told them that she’d been accepted by the Trafalgar City Police. But she’d thought they, her father at least, were coming to accept it.
Apparently not.
As well as keys, the hooks mounted beside the kitchen door held raincoats, Lucky’s gardening hat, a fanny pack that no one had claimed for several years, three dog leashes, and a pair of mittens left by Ben, Sam’s son, on his last visit. Smith grabbed a leash.
“Time for a quick walk, Sylvester.”
The dog scrambled out from under the kitchen table, tail wagging, mouth open, ears perked.
Upstairs, Miller began to cry.
***
“The baby was found only a few feet from his mother’s body. If Lucky Smith hadn’t heard him crying and he’d been out there all night, it’s unlikely he would have survived.”
Eliza Winters shivered. “I can’t imagine how anyone could be so callous.”
John Winters smiled at his wife. “That’s why you’re such a nice person.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “That’s why I’m such a perfectly normal person.”
“Normal is not a word I’d use.”
She laughed and walked behind him. Cupping his neck in her hands she began to work at the tense muscles. He groaned softly and settled back into the gentle warmth. “Down a tiny bit. That’s it, there.”
She applied pressure to the right spot for just a moment before taking her hands away. “Don’t you have someplace to be? Like at work?”
He wiggled his shoulders, disappointed at how soon the neck rub had ended. Time was a massage would only have been second on the list of things he wanted before heading out to work. He looked at his watch. “I have thirty minutes.”
She stood in front of him, bent over and kissed him deeply. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and she pressed her chest against him. “But,” she whispered between his lips, as her fingers sought out the skin between the buttons of his shirt. “I don’t.”
Eliza stepped back and straightened up. She touched his cheek with one finger. “I’m already late. Even considering Kootenay time. Wish me luck.” She scooped up her bag and headed out the door.
Winters sighed and turned the page of the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
. It was a thin paper, more classified ads and concert announcements than real news. Which was, he thought, definitely a good thing. Nothing about the body found last night, or the abandoned baby. Probably too late to get into today’s edition.
Eliza’s car roared down the driveway. God, but he loved her. They’d been married for more than twenty-five years, and every day John Winters thanked his lucky stars that she continued to put up with him. She’d been a successful model in her youth; now she did magazine ads and TV commercials. The sort of thing, she always said with a twinkle in her eye, designed to appeal to women with a social conscience and encroaching wrinkles. She kept a condo in Vancouver, somewhere to stay when she had an assignment in that city. But a resort development outside Trafalgar wanted to start advertising, and Eliza’s agent had suggested she was exactly the woman to be the spokesperson for a condo project aimed at affluent, comfortably retired baby boomers.
It would be nice if she could get work that didn’t require her to go away for days at a time.
He finished the paper. Time to pick up Constable Smith. He’d called to ask her to accompany him to the autopsy on a whim. Ray Lopez, his detective and the only other member of the General Investigation Section, was tied up with other business and Winters didn’t want to take him away from that. Last time Smith came to an autopsy, she’d run from the room, hand over mouth.
Perfectly normal for a first-timer.
Perhaps he wanted to give her another round of exposure. It took time to build a hard shell, to make one seemingly impervious to all that the pathologist’s knife would reveal. Winters had fainted at his first autopsy. The embarrassment of the experience had not been made easier when his supervisor told the whole department, in graphic and highly exaggerated detail, about the thud young John Winters made when he hit the floor.
He tossed back the dregs of coffee. Time to go. For better or for worse he’d invited Molly to tag along, so he’d better go and get her. Hopefully she’d break down soon and buy herself a car. Since her mountain bike had been stolen, she usually got around by borrowing one of her parents’ cars.
***
“No indication of rape. Nor of sexual interference of any kind. No battery. She might have fallen asleep and died. Wrapped in the welcoming arms of Orpheus.” Doctor Shirley Lee snapped off her latex gloves and tossed them into a bin.