Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

Trafalgar,” Winters said. “Let’s go.”
    A woman edged toward them; her ears might well have been flapping. The details of her face were concealed in a camouflage of cigarette smoke.
    “Can I help you, madam?” he asked.
    “Just bein’ friendly,” she chuckled. Some of the smoke cleared, to reveal a face that was a hundred and twenty if it was a day.
    Winters walked away, heading for the van. Smith would follow or not. And if not, he would be well enough rid of her.
    Heavy boots fell into step behind him. “I thought I’d be ready for it. But I wasn’t. I’ll get used to it, soon.”
    “Pray you don’t get too used to it, Molly. I want to drop in on Mrs. Tyler. Officers have been visiting the businesses backing onto the alley to ask what time they closed up last night, and if anyone saw anything out of the ordinary. I’m hoping that people in Trafalgar will be more accommodating to our enquires than they were in Vancouver.”
    “You were involved in the Sanders case, I’ve heard,” she said, her voice and eyes filling with interest.
    “The depths to which humans can fall,” he said, shaking off many memories. “Alleged, of course.”
    “Of course. Do you want me to drive?”
    The color was back in her face, and her shoulders were set and her back straight.
    “I do.”
    Winters’ phone rang as they settled into the car. He listened briefly, before hanging up with a thanks. “A wallet and cell phone matching the description of Montgomery’s were found in a flowerbed a couple of blocks from the site. There was no cash in the wallet, but lots of credit cards. They’re on the way to the lab for fingerprinting. Too bad, I was hoping our perp would use the cards or make a call.”
    “The watch?”
    “Still looking. That watch is valuable. Might be that he couldn’t bring himself to toss it. If he tries to sell it we’ll have a good lead—I’ve had the description circulated to pawn shops and second-hand jewelry stores all across the province.”
    “Someone else might have picked it up.”
    “That would be a complication we don’t need.”
    ***
    “Hi, Lucky,” a voice said from the doorway. “I’m glad to find you in. Have you got a minute to chat?”
    Lucky Smith glanced at her watch. Past two o’clock, and she’d missed lunch once again. The better the business did, the harder she had to work. She’d thought it would be the other way around. She pushed her glasses down her nose and rubbed her eyes. “Meredith. Hello. What can I do for you?”
    Meredith’s face shone with excitement, and her black hair swung as if a strong wind was behind her. “I’d like you to meet my colleague, Rich Ashcroft.”
    A man, too handsome by half, crossed the room and extended his hand. Lucky rose from her office chair. He was short, with a large head. Close to Lucky’s age, maybe a bit more, but the lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth were stretched tight, the effects of surgery, perhaps. His hair was thick and black, and his perfectly straight teeth were a shade of white rarely found outside of a fashion magazine. Lucky shook his hand, and her skin shivered at the damp touch of his fingers. She sat back down.
    “Rich is here to do a story about the peace garden,” Meredith said. She dragged a chair out of the corner and offered it to Ashcroft.
    “A story?” Her interest caught, Lucky settled into her own chair. When the Commemorative Peace Garden had first been proposed, media attention had risen to a fevered pitch, to the surprise of everyone in town. Reporters from the national newspapers, even from the
New York Times
and Fox News, descended on town. But, as is the nature of media attention, they’d gone away as soon as something else captured their interest. The mayor had made it clear that he intended to approve the Peace Garden, and Lucky’s committee had collapsed with a contented sigh like the master of the house settling into his lounge chair after Christmas dinner.
    But it was all in turmoil again. Tom Maas died, taking his support for the gardens with him, and Reginald Montgomery looked under every rock he could find to locate embers of opposition—of which there were plenty. Linda Patterson, the interim mayor, couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag. The entire pro-park committee was expecting Lucky to do something. And she was just too darned tired.
    She picked an invoice off her desk and waved it in front of her face. Would this damned heat never let