Winters found himself feeling pleased at the idea. “Go on.”
“She’d run into some difficulties, she and Miller, and she needed help with someone who knew how the world worked. That’s what she said: ‘how the world worked’.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I honestly don’t know. Someone came by, a girl with a baby in a stroller and toddler by the hand and stopped to chat. The girl started chattering, on and on. Obviously we couldn’t talk, so Ashley told me she’d explain everything later. I swear to God, there was no later. Next time I heard about her, it was in the paper.”
Winters got to his feet. Time to leave. Being in the same room with Julian Armstrong made him want to have a long, hot shower before touching his wife.
About the only useful thing that Armstrong contributed, and the only thing Winter believed, was that Ashley went into that shelter prepared to do whatever it took to get herself clean, off the streets, and free of her pimp. Julian Armstrong was interested in nothing more than getting his libido satisfied, but his intervention might, just might, have put her on the track to meet someone who could truly help her make the break. According to Dr. Lee’s report, Ashley had, until the overdose that led to her death, been clean for a good long time.
***
As soon as they got back to the office, Winters called the shelter in Vancouver.
He was prepared for a couple of days of phone tag, and hopping from one shelter worker to another. But sometimes the gods are in a good mood, and the woman who answered the phone, after a bit of description, and mentioning that she’d arrived with Julian Armstrong (A snort of “
Him
!”), remembered Ashley.
“One of our success stories,” she said in a warm voice. “A nice girl. I haven’t heard from her for, oh, must be well over a year. And let me tell you Sergeant, in my line of work that’s a good thing.”
“I’d like to know whatever you know about her,” he said, “But you’ll tell me it’s confidential.”
“As it is.”
“Just one question then. What was her last name?”
“That’s an odd question. But an easy one. Can’t be anything confidential in that, I guess. Watson. I don’t think Ashley was her legal name, but off hand I can’t remember why I thought that. Why are you calling, Sergeant? I do hope she hasn’t fallen back into the old life.”
“No. She didn’t. I can assure you of that. Armstrong mentioned that a man by the name of Graham Buckingham helped Ashley when she was at your center. Do you have a number for him?”
“Oh,” All the warmth and humor left her voice, and he knew what she was going to say before she said it. “Graham, such a dear, died. Not long after Ashley left us, in fact. It was terribly sad. Tragic.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Winters said. “Thank you for your time.”
“We miss him dreadfully. He had a real gift for this work. He was about to get married. I wasn’t able to get to Calgary for his funeral, so I never met the girl, but I would have liked to tell her how much good Graham had done.”
Something niggled at the back of Winters’ mind. Fiancée—Graham—social worker. Wasn’t Graham the name of the man to whom Molly had been engaged? He might mention it to her later.
“I appreciate your help,” Winters said, hanging up. He’d already forgotten Graham Buckingham.
Now that he had a name, he had someplace to start searching. He punched Ashley Watson into the computer and let it do its work. If Julian Armstrong had given them this days ago, he could have saved them a lot of time.
Molly Smith watched Graham as he attempted to nail a roof to their house. The house was situated at the very pinnacle of a mountain, and there was so much snow that only the roof stood out. But for some reason Graham needed to secure the roof right now. Molly laughed from inside a tunnel of warm snow.
Graham laughed back. A deep laugh that sounded almost like a dog barking.
It was a dog barking.
Sylvester. Smith punched her pillow, rolled over, and tried to fall back into her dream.
But Sylvester kept barking.
The Smith home was out in the country, situated between a mountain and a river. Lots of wildlife passed through in the night, and sometimes the dog tried to warn them away.
At last the barking stopped. But the gossamer threads leading her to the lovely dream were gone. The first pleasant dream she’d had about Graham in months.
Awake, she could no longer bring his face into focus behind her eyes at will, and asleep he was drifting further and further away. She worried that the day would come when she couldn’t remember why she’d loved him so much.
Her bedside clock read three o’clock. Time for another hot milk.
She scrambled out of bed and crept down the stairs feeling like a jewel thief. Miller was sleeping. There’d be hell to pay if she woke him up.
About half-way down the steps, she heard Sylvester whining. It was his welcome whine. She expected to see him rush across the hall to greet her.
The hinges on the kitchen door squeaked.
She stopped. Other than the nightlight at the top of the stairs, the house was fully dark. The living room blinds were open, but no light came in from outside. Everyone in the Smith family liked to sleep without a trace of light. Only once Miller took up nightly residence in her parents’ bedroom had Lucky dug a nightlight out of the depths of the junk drawer.
And Andy moved down the hall to Sam’s old room.
“Sylvester,” Smith called. “What on earth are you up to?”
More of his welcoming whine, but he didn’t appear, eager for a scratch behind the ears.
A floorboard creaked.
Smith took the remaining stairs very carefully. She reached the bottom and her fingers felt for the light switch. “Is someone there. I am a police officer. I’m armed, and backup’s been called.”
The back door rattled shut.
Smith jumped off the bottom step and ran.
She knew exactly where the kitchen light switch was located, and hit it, keeping her body tucked out of sight. She probably should have gone back upstairs for her gun, but it was too late for that now. Lights on, she darted into the kitchen, keeping low, heading for the gap between the refrigerator and the wall. No shots rang out; no one shouted or threw anything.
“This is the Trafalgar City Police,” she said. “Step into the light, with your hands up.”
Only Sylvester obeyed. The big dog stuck his face into Smith’s crotch. She almost screamed.
Footsteps on the stairs. “What on earth is going on?”
“Don’t move, Mom,” Smith yelled.
“What do you mean, don’t move?” Lucky came into the kitchen. She was dressed in her pajamas, her hair wild around her head, blinking at the light.
Smith jumped out from her hiding spot. She shoved her mother into a chair. “When I say don’t move, I mean don’t the hell move. You got that?”
“Moonlight?”
“Sit there, and
don’t move
.”
Smith checked the pantry. Empty. The kitchen door was unlocked, which wasn’t at all unusual. Lucky often didn’t bother to lock up at night. Smith threw the dead bolt. No one had passed her in the hallway, and she’d heard the kitchen door close. But she checked the house anyway. Sylvester ran beside her, and she knew he’d sniff out anyone hiding in a closet or under a bed.
“What’s going on,” Andy said, when she threw the light on in Sam’s room.
“Downstairs, Dad. Now.”
Only in her parent’s bedroom did Smith not hit the lights and check the closet. Miller was sleeping and Sylvester didn’t seem too concerned, so she let the baby dream.
Her parents sat at the kitchen table, sleep-befuddled, confused.
“Did you leave this door unlocked when you went to bed, Mom?”
“I don’t remember. What’s the matter?”
“Might be nothing. I thought I heard someone come in.”
“Into our house?” Andy said. “I didn’t hear anything. Did you, Lucky?”
“No.”
“Must have been the wind. Or a bear trying to get into the garbage bin. Bill next door told me that a black bear tossed his garage the other day, after he’d forgotten to shut it.”
“A bear,” Smith said. “Perhaps.”
“Much ado about nothing.” Lucky yawned. “Try to be quieter in the night, will you, dear. Miller sleeps so lightly.” She stood on tip toes to kiss her daughter on the cheek. She smelled of fresh baby power and baby vomit going rancid.
“You think someone tried to break in?” Andy said, as Lucky’s feet echoed on the staircase.
“I don’t know, Dad. I thought so. It sounded like someone had come into the house. But I don’t see anything.” There were no muddy footprints on the ceramic floor, no signs of anything in the house being disturbed. She’d taken a look outside, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The motion light over the garage was on: something had triggered it. “Maybe it was a bear. I’m sorry to bother you. Go back to bed.”
He held her close, for just a moment.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s make sure we lock up, eh? I know Mom wants her friends to be able to come and go, but at least at night we should be a bit more careful.”
***
Saturday morning, Winters had Jim Denton call the owners of The Bishop and the Nun and check the staff schedule. Marigold started her shift at four.
At three thirty he was at her door. He’d also checked the staff schedule at the station, and brought Molly Smith along with him. The young policewoman seemed to rattle Marigold even more than he did. Probably a generation thing—she’d be suspicious of him no matter what he did for a living. But Molly, when not wearing the uniform, looked just like Marigold and her friends.
Smith rang the bell.
“Go away,” Marigold said from behind the door. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Nevertheless, I want to talk to you. May we come in?”
“No.”
“I can take you down to the station, if you’d rather talk there.”
“You can’t.”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do. I’m not playing around any more, Marigold.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I have to get ready for work.”
“The faster we talk, the sooner you’ll get to work.”
The door of the next apartment opened. A young woman with long straight brown hair, dressed in sleek yoga wear, stuck her head out. A wave of incense surrounded her. Winters couldn’t stand the stuff. “Keep it down, will you. I’m meditating here.” She slammed the door.
“I don’t want to bother your neighbors, Marigold,” Winters said. “But I will place you under arrest if I have to.”
The door opened. Only Marigold’s dreadlocked head emerged. “I’m not dressed.”
“I’ll wait here while you get dressed. Constable Smith will come in in the meantime.”
“How do I know she’s not gay? Probably is, being a cop.”
“Marigold, I suggest you start cooperating before my patience runs out.”
The door opened fully. Marigold was dressed in the short skirt and white blouse she wore to work. The blouse didn’t fit very well, and the space between the buttons gaped in an attempt to contain the fat around her middle. Black socks were crumpled around her ankles and she wasn’t wearing shoes. “You might not have anything better to do, but I do. Come in if you must.”
“Thank you,” Winters said.
Smith stood with her back against the door, as he’d instructed her to do, her arms crossed over her chest.
He walked to the window. Marigold couldn’t keep them both in sight, so she turned to follow Winters.
“Watson,” he said. “Name mean anything to you?”
The girl’s eye twitched. “No.”
“I think it does. Is there a first name to go with it?”
Marigold threw up her hands. Her silver rings flashed in the light from the window. “Ashley. It was Ashley’s name, okay, as you obviously know. Can you leave now?” She looked at her watch. “If I’m even a minute late, they dock me fifteen minutes pay.”
“They’ll dock you a lot then,” Smith said. “If you’re spending time in our cells.”
Marigold turned around. “Are you on a power trip or something, cop lady? They say your mom’s okay. What the hell happened to you? Go away, and take The Man with you. I told you people what you want to know.”
“Watson, what?” Winters said. “Or rather what Watson?”
Marigold threw up her hands. “Jennifer. Boring name. Ashley hated it. I don’t blame her. Reminds me of cheerleaders and pom-poms and rah rah and rich bitches blowing football stars behind the bleachers at school.”
Now that Marigold was letting it out, Winters hoped she might be ready to let a lot of other things out as well.
“So Jennifer changed her name. Who cares? You wanna make a big deal out of it?”
“Changing her name? No. Keeping information from the police that’s relevant to their investigation? Yes, that is a big deal.”
A door slammed in the hallway and a man shouted at someone not to forget the recycling. Outside a child laughed. The apartment was very warm. He could smell the incense next door. But it didn’t cover up the smell of pot, recently enjoyed, inside the apartment.
Marigold glared at Smith. Smith hooked her thumbs through her gun belt and stared back.
Winters allowed the silence to fill the apartment. He could wait all day. But, he’d guess, Marigold couldn’t. Smith’s boots creaked as she shifted her feet.
Marigold paced in front of the couch. Her eyes kept straying to the wooden box containing her stash, and she gnawed at her fingernail.
“Ashley died,” he said, “under what we call suspicious circumstances. That means that everyone she knew, everyone she had contact with, falls under the scope of our investigation. It’s not fair, sometimes. But you know what, dying wasn’t fair to Ashley.”
Marigold looked directly at him for the first time. “You got that right.”
“Did Ashley have a problem with you dealing drugs?”
“I don’t deal anything.”
“That’s not what they say on the streets,” Smith said.
“I don’t care what anyone says.” Another longing look at the box.
“You’re known to deal in what’s sometimes called soft drugs, Marigold,” Winters said. Blood flooded into her face, and she looked very angry. “But that’s not my concern. I’ll let the drug squad worry about it.” That there was no drug squad in the Trafalgar City Police, and that, if there were such a thing, Winters and Lopez were it, he didn’t bother to mention. Sometimes people’s impression of police gleaned from U.S. television shows could prove helpful.
“Did you kill Ashley because she objected to you selling marijuana behind The Bishop and Nun?”
“No!” Her eyes opened wide with fright, and she suddenly realized that this was not a game. She fell onto the couch. The springs weren’t very good and she wasn’t watching where she was going. She slid onto the floor. “You’re going to pin Ashley’s death on me so you can screw me for helping a pal out and making a few bucks in the bargain.”
“I’m not going to pin anything on anyone. But I am going to find out what happened to Ashley the day she died. You can count on that.”
What pictures there were in the apartment looked like calendar art, or postcards, stuck into cheap frames and hung on the walls. But there was one picture of Marigold, looking young, and pretty, and happy. He picked it up. It might have been taken on the East Shore of Kootenay Lake.
“Put that down,” she said in a soft quiet voice, “please.”
He put it down.
“Ashley cared about that baby.” Tears gathered behind Marigold’s eyes and overflowed. She didn’t lift a hand to wipe them away. “Miller. He wasn’t her baby, not physically. I asked her what it had been like, and she told me she wished she’d brought life to Miller, but she hadn’t. She didn’t tell me where he’d come from, and I didn’t care. She loved him, and looked after him. Isn’t that enough?”
Winters glanced at Smith, still leaning up against the door. She was a dark threat in the equipment laden uniform, but her face was drawn, her blue eyes questioning.
When Winters looked back at Marigold, her makeup had began to blend with her tears into a black river. A river with nowhere to go.
“We tack on extra penalties for dealing around children.”
“I only ever sell behind The Bishop,” she said, her voice so soft he had to lean forward to hear. “I swear. And not much. Just a toke here and there. Ashley didn’t know. When I came home with extra cash, I told her I’d had a big tipper.” Her nose ran, and mingled with her tears. “As if that ever happens. I liked to buy the occasional thing for Miller, when I could. The day Ashley moved in, I knew she’d leave if she found out I dealt. So I didn’t ever tell her.”
“Thank you, Marigold,” Winters said. “You’ve been helpful. Take this as a warning: stop selling. Stop now. We will be watching you.”
He nodded to Smith, and she opened the door.
They left the apartment and walked down the steps to the street.
Smith let out a deep breath. “You believe her?”
“I’m not sure.” They walked up the hill, heading toward the police station. The sun was hot on his face. Smith wiped the back of her neck. He didn’t know what he thought. So he sorted out his impressions, using Smith as a sounding board. “I believe Marigold truly cared about Miller. But Ashley? Hard to say. I’ll have someone drop into The Bishop tonight, looking to make a buy, looking for something stronger than B.C. Bud. Ashley was killed by a heroin overdose, not marijuana. Marigold can turn on the tears, fast enough. I don’t quite have a feel for how smart she might be. She confessed, when confronted with it, to selling pot. Was she clever enough to be trying to turn my attention away from her other product? I don’t know. But she makes no bones about needing money, more money than she makes at The Bishop. Maybe more than she even makes selling small quantities of locally grown produce. There’s an avenue I’ve failed to explore. Marigold seems to live simply. No car, cheap apartment. But she puts in long hours at The Bishop and it’s a busy place most nights. What’s she do with the money she earns? And how much does she earn, in all of her occupations?”