Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

keep him away from Christa, all right. Unfortunately, the Trafalgar City Police frowned on independent thinking of that sort.
    She picked up the photograph sitting on her bedside table. Graham smiled at her, trapped forever in an organized scatter of colored dots. It had been taken on the beach at Tofino. The sky was dark—a storm moving in, fast. There was no color in the ocean. A wave reared up behind him. His smile was wide, his teeth white, his body young and full of life. They’d danced in the waves, laughed at the storm, held their arms out to the wind, and their mouths to the rain. They’d run back to the B&B and made love while the storm crashed all around them. When both weather and lovers were sated, they’d gone in search of crab chowder, whole wheat bread, good beer.
    She blinked back a tear, returned the picture to its place, and ran downstairs. The light over the chair in the living room was switched off, the kitchen deserted.
    She grabbed the keys to her mom’s car off the hook by the kitchen door.
    Smith drove Lucky’s beaten-up old Pontiac Firefly. down the highway and crossed the long black bridge into town. Trafalgar was an old town; old for western Canada. Streetlights shone through the thick leaves of large walnut trees. The pavements were uneven, most of the houses were originals, many in ill repair. So many transients passed through town, and there wasn’t much in the way of apartments, that many of the historic houses at the foot of the mountain had been broken into flats. She pulled up in front of Christa’s building. A black cat sat on the steps of the house next door, its eyes yellow pools against the dark fur.
    Smith knocked lightly, knowing that the neighbors could be nasty if disturbed. Her hand was still raised when the door opened, Christa peeking out from behind it.
    The two women climbed a narrow staircase and made a sharp right into Christa’s flat.
    Christa threw herself onto one of the two bean bags that, along with three milk crates, made up her living room furniture.
    “You okay?” Smith asked.
    “Why doesn’t he stop this? He has to know that he’s only making me mad at him. Even if I’d ever considered going out with him, I sure wouldn’t now.”
    “He doesn’t know anything of the sort. He thinks he’s reminding you of his devotion. And that you’ll eventually come around to seeing things his way.”
    Christa started to cry. Her face was so red and blotchy, it was obvious this wasn’t the night’s first crying jag. She shifted her right hip to pull an almost worn-through tissue from the pocket of her shorts.
    “I’ll make tea,” Smith said. “Come sit at the table.” She held out her hand.
    Christa took it and Smith pulled her friend to her feet. She wrapped the other woman in a fierce hug. When they separated Smith said, “My mom believes that tea holds the secret to the solution of all life’s problems. And you know my mom’s a wise woman.”
    Christa cracked a smile. “I do. How are your folks anyway? I’ve been so busy I haven’t been over for a visit in a long time.”
    “Not good, I fear.” Smith knew her way around this kitchen as well as her mother’s. She lit the gas on the stove and placed the kettle on the element. “I’m trying not to notice it, but they’re hardly talking to each other. Mom is so into this peace garden, it’s consuming her.”
    “Lucky’s always been like that. You remember when the province removed funding from women’s second stage housing? I was surprised she didn’t have us all manning the barricades. Like in
Les Misérables
. And when that politician told her it was a financial decision? He was lucky to leave with his head on his shoulders.” Christa laughed. “There’s a loaf of bread from Alphonse’s in the cupboard, and cheese in the fridge. I can’t normally afford anything from there—four bucks for a loaf of bread, whew, but I needed a treat.”
    Not the time, Smith thought, to remember Alphonse’s Bakery and the alley behind it. “It’s not just Mom rushing to the barricades, to use your analogy, and Dad supporting her. They’re on opposite sides on this one. He thinks the park’s a bad idea.”
    “Are they fighting a lot?”
    “No. And that isn’t good. They’ve always fought—they’re both so passionate about things—but now they’re hardly speaking. It’s creepy. Kinda like a horror movie when everything goes quiet and you know the monster’s about to crash through