Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

overbearing jackass, but he’d kept her on the case. And that was all that mattered.
    Constable Jim Denton was at the front desk. A solid, reliable cop of the old school, happy to remain a constable and to staff the desk while watching the calendar flip toward retirement. He gave Smith a smile as they came in. She tried to smile back, but it felt weak.
    “Who was out questioning the shopkeepers this afternoon?” Winters asked.
    “Evans, Sarge.”
    “Ask him to come in, will you.”
    “Right away, Sarge.”
    “Anything I need to know?”
    “Several folks dropped by. Lady that lives up the mountain, name of Jenny Jones, you know her, don’t you, Molly?”
    Smith nodded. Everyone knew Ms. Jones, or at least knew of her.
    “She came into the station.”
    “Wow,” Smith said. “And it’s only July.” For more than thirty years, Jenny Jones had come into town every November, did some Christmas shopping, mailed her parcels to Montreal, and retreated back into the mountains for another year.
    “She hitched a ride down,” Denton said. “Came straight here because she’d seen Reginald Montgomery killed.”
    “I’m guessing by your lack of urgency that Ms. Jones’ statement was none too reliable,” Winters said.
    Denton chuckled. “Saw it happen in the flames in her fireplace, she did. The killer was a dark-skinned man with dark eyes, a black beard, and a cloth wrapped around his head. Shot Montgomery in the heart.”
    “She had a fire,” Smith said. “In this heat?”
    “Old bones, she told me.”
    “Most amusing. Is there anything more reliable I could be working on?” Winters asked.
    “A couple of calls from the people who always let us know that they’re on hand to help if we need it. And that’s it, I’m afraid, Sarge. The Vancouver papers called, but the CC handled them. A bike theft this morning. Lady didn’t bother to lock up her bike before going into the co-op for milk, and when she came out it was gone.”
    Smith blanched. She’d forgotten to report her own stolen bike.
    “Send Evans in when he gets here. Molly, write up your notes. Come to my office when Dave arrives.”
    She watched Winters head down the hall to the office he shared with Detective Lopez. Then she turned to Denton. “Speaking about bike theft, I have something to tell you.”
    ***
    A shout of male laughter followed Winters down the corridor. The detective’s office was barely large enough for two battered antique desks. A beautiful painting of a child playing in a yellow meadow hung over one wall, a long-ago gift from a grateful citizen. Otherwise the beige walls were covered with official notices and wanted posters. A bookcase, crammed full of papers, coffee mugs, manuals, and family photographs, separated the two desks. Having worked here longer, Lopez had the desk beside the window, where he tended a row of African violets on the windowsill. They needed watering. Winters threw himself into his chair and switched on the computer.
    There was an e-mail from Ron Gavin, the RCMP scene-of-the-crime officer. The report was very preliminary: they’d found nothing to indicate that Montgomery, or anyone else, had been either in the apartment above Alphonse’s Bakery or on the roof in at least a week. No sign of the murder weapon, nothing in the bags of garbage behind the shops in the alley. Heavy foot traffic complicated the scene—lots of shoe and boot and paw prints, cigarette butts, marijuana butts, a coffee container, residue of dog poop. A bicycle had rested up against the door to the bakery recently—there were no footprints on top of the treads. Strands of hair had been found between Montgomery’s fingers. Short hair, about an inch long, brown, no dye or hair spray used. A couple had roots still attached, so they might be able to make a DNA identification. If they could find something to match it with. Montgomery’s wallet and cell phone: wiped clean.
    A whole bunch of nothing.
    Winters’ friend in Vancouver had sent him an initial assessment of Montgomery’s company, M&C Developments. Apparently a solid business, they’d built condos in Vancouver, homes in the suburbs, a small resort near Golden, a slightly bigger one in Radium Hot Springs. The Grizzly Resort development was bigger, in terms of luxury and cost, than anything they’d tried before, and they’d put themselves very far out on a limb for it.
    The CC had given him Molly Smith because he thought that this killing had local political