Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

people should be allowed to tie Trafalgar to the past.” She lifted a pure white handkerchief to her eyes. “He believed in looking to the future, Reginald did. Always.” It was the first bit of emotion the widow had displayed over her husband’s death. The coroner told Winters that Ellie identified the body with as much feeling as if she’d been picking out a steak for supper.
    Lucky Smith was photographed from below in poor light. All dark shadows, wild grey hair, wrinkles, hooded eyes. Normally, Lucky talked in compound sentences, thoughtful pauses, deep ideas. The film was so chopped up she sounded like a lunatic. The other members of the committee weren’t treated much better: Norma McGrath said something about the importance of listening to spirit guides, and a man grimaced into the camera and shouted about the resurgence of fascism, while displaying bad teeth. Scenes of Trafalgar interspersed the interviews. Then a handsome, dark-haired man came onto the screen. The lights of the city twinkled in the background, and the Upper Kootenay River flowed toward the sea. “Here,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “in this bucolic community, on the banks of this peaceful river, are the sad remnants of men who abandoned their country in wartime. And now they want to build a memorial to that shame. The city council’s doing all it can to stop it.”
    Deputy Mayor Patterson popped up on the screen. She was at a barbeque lunch at a children’s summer camp. “The Peace Garden,” she said, accepting a hot dog from a smiling volunteer, “has to be stopped.” Several bites of the hot dog had disappeared between one half of her sentence and the other.
    “They need,” Ashcroft said, his voice low and serious, his eyes intense, “your help.”
    “Whoa—kay.” Smith flicked the video off. She turned to see her mother in the doorway. Lucky’s arms were wrapped tightly around her body, her face drawn. Tracks of tears ran down her cheeks.
    “That is seriously bad stuff. Where’s Dad?”
    “I. Do. Not. Know.”
    “Have you tried calling him?”
    “His phone’s off. He might be out of town.”
    “Did you leave him a message?”
    “No.”
    Smith dug her cell phone out of her pocket.
    “What channel was that program on?”
    “CNC.”
    “CNC! Mom, what were you thinking? Anyone could have told you that they wouldn’t be at all fair. They’re so right wing, you can’t even see them from where you’re standing.” She punched in the number for her father. The tinned female voice of the operator came on immediately. Smith hung up.
    “How was I supposed to know that? I’ve never watched it.”
    “Didn’t anyone in your group tell you?”
    “He implied that he was from Vancouver, and Meredith didn’t contradict him. Michael was a bit suspicious, but we were rushed into it. It’s all my fault; I insisted on going through with it. I assumed that any news program would present both sides.”
    “Oh, Mom.”
    “They didn’t interview anyone on the other side. He said tomorrow he’ll set up a meeting so that we can discuss the issue with the local businesspeople and veterans’ groups who’re opposed to the gardens.” Her voice fell. “Talk things over, agree to disagree. I’m guessing that won’t happen.”
    “There is no agree to disagree in their world, Mom. There’s only their side and the bad guys.”
    “How do you know this?”
    “Graham watched CNC some of the time. He believed that you had to listen to what everyone was saying. I never had the stomach for it.”
    Smith crossed the room, rested her chin on the top of Lucky’s head, and wrapped her arms around her mother. “Let’s go to bed, Mom. I’ve got to be ready at seven tomorrow.”
    Lucky hugged her back. Her chest heaved. They stood for a few minutes, saying nothing. The windows were open and the scent of the warm night air filled the house. A cat howled.
    “Never thought the day would come when I’d hug a person carrying a gun,” Lucky said, pulling herself out of the embrace. “Are you getting anywhere with finding who killed Reg?”
    “You’ll have to read about it in the papers, Mom. Just like everyone else. All you can do is leave this. Don’t be writing letters of indignation to the network. That’ll play into their hands. Do you hear me?”
    “I hear you.” Lucky looked up and almost smiled. “The program aired at ten o’clock Pacific time. Not many people would have been watching, and no one on the east