Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

stretcher and taken away.
    “Where’s that fellow who owns the apartment?” Winters said.
    “Inside.”
    “Then let’s go up and have a look.”
    The apartment above the bakery was neat and tidy. A thin layer of dust lay over everything, including the floor. The bedroom looked over the alley. Winters stood at the window staring out. Smith glanced around the room. The windows were closed and the day’s heat still lingered. It was a spacious apartment, with simple but adequate furniture. The double bed was stripped down to the mattress. It would be nice to wake up to the scent of baking bread and croissants. It was past time for her to get out of her parents’ house. The living arrangements were getting tense. When she’d told her family that she’d been accepted by the Trafalgar City Police, her mother couldn’t have been more dismayed if Molly’d announced that she was going to take the veil. Or become a lawyer for an oil company, which was what her brother had done.
    “Right?” Winters said.
    Smith grabbed her head back from thinking about the apartment and her family. “Right,” she said, hoping that he hadn’t just asked her if she’d killed Montgomery.
    He grabbed the window latches and pulled upwards. The window opened with a deep grumble. They could hear Evans talking, someone laugh in response, and the back doors of the coroner’s van slam closed. “When were you here last, Mr. Levalle?” Winters said.
    The baker was wringing a dishcloth in his hands. “The day the tenants left. Eight days ago. I checked for damage or property missing. My wife cleaned the apartment and then we locked the door. He…he wasn’t killed here, was he?”
    “Probably not.”
    Levalle wiped his forehead with the dishcloth. “Good. That would make it hard to rent the apartment. To decent people. Lots of weirdos in Trafalgar.” It was an old-fashioned word, but Levalle was right: there were plenty of weirdos in Trafalgar. The small town, nestled deep in the mountains in the interior of British Columbia, was a magnet for drifters. Along with more than its share of artists, the comfortably retired, and Internet workers.
    “I said probably,” Winters said. “Nothing is definite.”
    Levalle paled.
    “The technicians will be wanting up here. Give me the key and you can go home. They’ll call you when they’re finished.”
    Levalle forgot about renting his apartment, and excitement filled his doughy face. “CSI, right. Looking for fingerprints and DNA. They’ll be wanting mine, for elimination, yes?”
    Winters led the way down the stairs. “That damned TV show again,” he muttered.
    In the alley a woman was scraping something off the pavement, where Montgomery’s head had recently been. Smith’s eyes slid away. A flash of sharp white light as a photographer moved in to shoot the scene.
    “Is someone going to notify the family?” she asked.
    Winters turned to Smith with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Funny you should mention that, Molly. It’s our next stop.” He tossed a wave toward the restaurant windows, where staff had their noses pressed up against the glass. Most of them ducked.
    He headed toward the street; she hurried to keep up.
    “I’ll take the car, Dave.”
    “I can drive you, Sarge,” Constable Evans said.
    “No need. Keep this alley secure until further notice. The keys.” Evans handed them to Winters. He glared at Smith.
    “Your chariot awaits, madam.” The sergeant bowed toward the marked SUV. “You can drive. Call dispatch and get us Montgomery’s address.” He tossed her the keys. “I’ve found that it’s always nice to have a female officer on hand when giving news of a loved one’s death, don’t you agree, Molly?” Winters fastened his seat belt as she started the vehicle.
    She picked up the radio and called dispatch. Montgomery’s home was within the Trafalgar town limits, they told her. In a prestigious new development high above town. Smith pulled into the slight evening traffic.
    “If you think I’m full of shit, you may say so.”
    “You’re full of shit, sir.” Smith’s teeth ground together. She narrowly missed a cyclist, without lights, crossing an intersection. He was steering so erratically that if he’d been in a car she would have pulled him over for a breath test. “We’re not calling upon the widow Montgomery in order to make a nice cup of tea and serve chocolate biscuits while we cluck in pretentious sympathy.”
    “Too