Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

the bridge of her nose. But when he looked again, the resemblance was there. The high cheekbones, the firm set of the chin, the shape of the eyes.
    Winters had identified himself to a young man lounging behind the cash register, flicking through a mountain biking magazine. The boy was darkly tanned, short brown hair streaked from the sun. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy surfer shorts. His eyes widened; he dropped the magazine and lifted up his hands. “Hey, man,” he said. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Duncan. Duncan Weaver. I work here. I was out on the river with a tour. Just got back.”
    The boy was so nervous, he probably had a stash of marijuana in his back pocket. Not Winters’ concern. “I’m looking for Mrs. Smith.”
    Weaver let out a sigh that would have filled a child’s birthday balloon. “You’re here about the murder, right? I already spoke to the cop who came around asking about it. I was wondering why you’ve come, that’s all.”
    “Is Mrs. Smith in?”
    “She’s in the back. How come Molly didn’t come?”
    “Who?”
    “Molly Smith, you know her, right? I was thinking that Molly’d be the one to come in and ask us questions. She’s the beat cop around here, you see.”
    “Yes, I see. Mrs. Smith?”
    The bell over the door tinkled. A man headed for a display of water bottles.
    “If you see Molly, can you tell her to drop in? I don’t know anything about that killing, but if she lets me play with her handcuffs, I’ll make something up.”
    Winters looked at him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
    The boy shrugged. “Can’t you understand a joke, man? Lucky’s office’s through that door.” He pointed. “Knock first.”
    Winters knocked.
    Lucky’s desk was piled so high with papers that the whole mess threatened to tumble onto the floor. John Winters was almost psychopathic in his hatred of paper. He had to keep his own desk in perfect order or he’d break into a panic. When he was a rookie Vancouver cop, he’d had a situation: a man who hated heights so much that when he somehow found himself on Capilano suspension bridge, he’d tried to throw himself off, simply to get the terror over with. Looking at Lucky Smith’s desk, Winters understood what the man had been going through.
    “I don’t know if I can help you,” Mrs. Smith said, after offering her visitor a chair. Winters tore his eyes away from the mess of papers. “Dave Evans was here earlier. I told him I left shortly after four yesterday, long before closing.”
    “Mr. Montgomery was known to be opposed to the Commemorative Peace Garden, to which, I’ve been given to understand, you’re a prominent advocate.”
    “Did my daughter tell you that?”
    “It seems to be common knowledge.”
    “No reason for it not to be. I want to see the park become a reality. Tom was about to sign the papers. But he died, and the town council said they wanted to reassess the situation. Cowards, all of them.” Lucky’s eyes burned with green fire. “I won’t pretend that I liked Reginald Montgomery. Foul man. Comes out of nowhere, and tries to tell people who’ve lived here most of our lives how to run our town. His horrid resort was bad enough, but then he decided that the peace garden would be an impediment to investment.”
    “You’re pleased at Mr. Montgomery’s death, then, Mrs. Smith?”
    “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’d have been pleased if he’d taken his foolish project and gone home. I am not pleased when a man dies prematurely.” She gathered stray tentacles from the back of her neck and stuffed them into the clip holding her hair in place. “No one calls me Mrs. Smith. I’m Lucky. Or Lucy, if you prefer to be more formal, John.” She picked a piece of paper off the desk and waved it in front of her face.
    Winters hid a smile. The room was cool, the windows shaded, a large fan spinning in the corner. Younger officers might take Lucky’s sudden rise in temperature as a sign of a woman with something to hide, but he knew she was having a hot flash. Although Eliza was several years younger than Lucky, she’d begun to suffer from them. They got worse, she told him, under stress of any sort: difficulty screwing a light bulb in would have her drenched in sweat.
    Not for the first time, he thanked his stars that he hadn’t been born female.
    “You know everyone involved in planning the peace garden,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
    “I do. And I