Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

true.” He leaned his head against the seat rest. “I really, really hate doing this.”
    ***
    At last he’d given up. Probably because of the downstairs neighbor’s threats to “rip your cock off and wrap it around your little finger, which is about as far as it’ll stretch.”
    Christa wiggled the small of her back into the indent of the chair. The screen saver on her computer showed images of Hawaii—lush jungle, tumbling waterfalls, pristine beaches, luxury hotels. Did she have the money for a flight to Hawaii? Those hotels looked expensive. She could empty her savings account, but then she wouldn’t be able to afford school in September.
    It was all so complicated; she wanted to do nothing but cry.
    Christa moved the mouse. Hawaii disappeared, and her essay was in front of her. She read the last paragraph she’d written, trying to get back onto the flow of words and ideas.
    But it was gone. William Wordsworth was no longer speaking to Christa Thompson.
    She went into the linen closet and dug the cordless phone out. She pressed talk and hesitantly held it up to her ear. All she heard was silence. Christa punched in numbers.
    “This is Molly Smith. I’m not available, please leave a message at the beep.”
    “Call me, Mol. Any time. I’m up.”
    Christa hung up. She remembered the days when Molly’s voice mail had said something like, “I’m either drugging up a storm, having wild sex, leaping into the mosh pit, or studying for my finals. Leave a message and I’ll decide if I want to get back to you or not.”
    But then Graham died and all the fun left Molly.
    ***
    It was close to eleven by the time the police arrived at the Montgomery home.
    Smith pulled into the driveway, and Winters looked out the window for a moment just to enjoy the view. High on the mountainside, they overlooked the town, the black river, the sprinkling of lights on the far side, diminishing as they climbed up the hill. Where they faded away, leaving nothing but the dark mass of the mountain against the night sky.
    He climbed out of the vehicle, and Smith followed. Shrubbery swayed in the night breeze. A man shouted in the hills, and a dog barked. The light over the front door was on. Waiting for someone who would not be coming home.
    Smith pushed the door bell. Winters listened, but heard nothing. Smith held her finger to the bell again, longer this time.
    Inside the house a dog barked.
    “Shush.”
    A woman peered through the window in the door. Her hair was very black, the dye emphasizing her age, rather than concealing it.
    “Trafalgar City Police,” Smith said. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we need to talk to you.” Her voice was calm, deep, and full of authority. So she could be comfortable, Winters thought, within her area of responsibility.
    The lock turned. The door opened a crack. The dog ran out. It was a minuscule thing—looked like a Doberman that had been shrunk in the wash. It barked hysterically and showed its teeth. Couldn’t weigh more than five pounds. Winters considered giving it a good kick in the ribs to get it out of the way. But that approach probably wouldn’t go down too well with the lady they were here to console on the death of her husband.
    “Henry, you shush.” The woman scooped the dog into her arms. The beast glared at Winters and Winters glared back. Must be tough to defend your property when you couldn’t get out of the grip of a middle-aged lady who looked like she’d fall over in a strong wind.
    “Mrs. Montgomery?” Smith said.
    “Yes?”
    “I’m Constable Smith and this is Sergeant Winters of the Trafalgar City Police. May we come in?”
    She looked from one face to another. “My husband isn’t home, Officer, although I was expecting him some time ago. Can he call you in the morning?”
    “Mrs. Montgomery, ma’am,” Smith said. “We’d like to talk to you, not your husband. May we come in?”
    The woman stood back. Her face a mask of stoic incomprehension. Winters didn’t condescend to smile at her.
    The police walked into the house.
    The front hall was vast, but mostly empty. A thin-legged piecrust table was the only piece of furniture on the squares of black and white tile. As they passed into the living room, the tiles gave way to thick planks of a rich dark pine. The couch and chairs were white leather, a bad match for the rustic floor. The curtains were pulled back, and the lights of the town winked below. The kitchen was open plan; a long granite