Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

capital firm looking to invest in the B.C. tourism industry. They left the restaurant about eight-thirty, quarter to nine.
    “Early to wrap up an evening of business entertaining,” Winters said. “You didn’t suggest going on to a bar after?”
    “Once business talk was complete, Reg just wanted to go home to bed. That was his way, and last night was no different. Bit of a stick-in-the-mud, Reg was.”
    Smith was itching to dive head first into the interrogation. But Winters sat in the visitor’s chair, shoulders relaxed, legs crossed, chatting amiably. “So when you left the restaurant….”
    “Reg said good night to Mr. Yakamoto and Mr. Takauri, and we arranged to meet at noon tomorrow, today, here. Then he left us, heading for his car, I thought.” Clemmins lifted his hands to his face. “This is a disaster. It was hard enough to keep Yakamoto happy once he realized the extent of opposition to the resort. Foreign investors can be mighty shy of controversy. But now—he’ll be on the next plane back to Tokyo.”
    “Someone has added their opinion to the sign out on the highway,” Winters said.
    “That’s the second time this week our sign’s been defaced. Bernice has called for a replacement. I might as well place the sign company on stand-by.”
    Winters changed track so abruptly Smith almost fell off. “After you saw Mr. Montgomery on his way, what did you do then, Mr. Clemmins?”
    “Our guests wanted me to show them some entertainment. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you, Sergeant, what they were interested in.” He cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon me, Constable.”
    Smith straightened up.
    “Perhaps you could explain it to me, Mr. Clemmins,” Winters said.
    Clemmins glanced at Smith, and then slid his eyes to one side. She wanted to slap him upside the head.
    “They said they’d like to meet women.”
    “And?” Winters said, as cool and casual as if he were waiting for the Bell operator to connect his call.
    “And.” Clemmins snatched a tissue out of the box on his desk and wiped at the back of his neck. “I told them that I don’t know any unattached ladies I could contact on a moment’s notice. I don’t think there’s a red light district in Trafalgar. Is there?”
    Smith said nothing—prostitution in Trafalgar was pretty much limited to casual arrangements. Women didn’t walk the streets, and the police had no knowledge of any houses of ill repute. Winters, however, wasn’t interested in continuing that line of conversation.
    “You saw Mr. Montgomery to his car?”
    “No, I’m sorry to say. Perhaps if I had he’d be sitting in his office this morning and you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. We parted outside the restaurant. Reg walked toward Elm Street, and we crossed Front. That was the last I saw of him.”
    “Do you know where he was parked?”
    “Sorry, no. We’d come separately. I’d been here, at the site, and he’d been in town, at a meeting at city hall, or so he told me.”
    “So he told you. You have reason to doubt that?”
    “Of course not. Reg is…was…an honest man. A great partner. We were…I mean I am…going to do great things here at Grizzly Resort.”
    “What did you do for the rest of the evening?”
    “I took our guests to the Mess Hall on Pine Street. They were in the mood for entertainment. They’d mentioned that they liked hard rock, and a good band was playing there. I made my excuses around midnight and headed home. Leaving them behind. God, they’re a couple of bores.”
    “Where are they staying?”
    “Hudson House Hotel.” Clemmins jumped as the phone on his desk rang. “That’s gotta be Mr. Yakamoto. What am I going to tell him?” He buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”
    “The truth would be a good place to start.” Winters stood up. “You might also tell him that we’ll be around to talk to him in the course of our investigation.”
    Clemmins looked up. His face was even more ravaged than when the police had arrived.
    “If you need to leave the Kootenay region for any reason, let the station in Trafalgar know.” Winters placed his card on a pile of blueprints. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
    In the outer office, Bernice was clutching the phone in one hand and sopping up tears with the other. “It’s Mr. Yakamoto,” she said. “Is Frank going to pick up? What am I going to say if he doesn’t?”
    “I suggest,” Winters said, “you tell him that the