Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

this damned peace garden, but my gut tells me the resort’s where you’ll find the answer, John. I don’t see that bunch of old hippies killing anyone over their garden. She’s a good person, Lucky Smith. If she was the slightest bit suspicious that someone would kill to stop her beloved park, she’d tell us. I tell you that in the strictest of confidence, John, as Lucky and I’ve been at loggerheads more than a few times over the years. I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall the day Molly told her parents that she was joining the Trafalgar City Police.” He opened the door, and the interior lights came on.
    “How’s she doing anyway, Molly?”
    “A bit more self-control and she might make a detective one day.”
    The Chief Constable and Lucky may have been at loggerheads, but Keller couldn’t hide the fondness in his voice when he spoke of her. He chuckled as he stepped out of the car. “Glad to hear it, John. Glad to hear it. Let me know what you hear from the arson investigator.”
    Winters glanced at the dashboard clock as he crossed the bridge. Six thirty. Time was he loved nothing more than to work all night, pop home for a quick tumble with Eliza, followed by a grease-laden breakfast, another rush to the marital bed, and back on the road as the commuter traffic began to build. But Eliza was in Toronto, and if she were at home, she’d be dishing up muesli and yoghurt for breakfast. Although the twinkle might occasionally still be seen in her green eye, when he’d been up all night, John Winters wanted nothing more than a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep.
    He’d told Keller he could handle the case without IHIT. But could he? Even after what happened in Vancouver, was he still arrogant enough to be overconfident of his own abilities? He’d screwed that one up royally: too sure of himself, too proud, too wrapped up in his own prejudices to listen to the words of caution his partner had been trying to give him.
    Maybe it was time he did throw the job in. Live a life of leisure as a kept man.
    Or maybe just recognize that he wasn’t all-powerful and that even he needed help now and again.
    He pulled to the side of the road before taking out his phone and calling the programmed number.
    “Huh?” was the reply.
    “Breakfast at George’s. My treat. We’ve a lot to talk about before the day starts. Half an hour. Be ready.” He disconnected the call.

Chapter Fourteen
    Molly Smith cut into her
huevos rancheros
. Almost good enough to be dragged out of bed after an hour of sleep. Almost, but not quite.
    George’s was a Mid-Kootenay tradition. There was a real George, who’d cooked at the place for more than thirty years. He enjoyed playing with the menu, offering fashionable fare, such as tofu scramble and buffalo sausage, but still sticking with the basics: eggs, bacon, and home fries for breakfast, tuna sandwiches and hamburgers for lunch.
    “I’m going to have a chat with the Japanese guys who’re in town to look into the resort,” Winters said, dragging a slice of fat sausage through a puddle of egg yolk. “Although I don’t expect to get much out of them. Seeing as how they’re inscrutable and all that.”
    She looked up.
    “Just kidding,” he said. “I don’t care what their nationality might be, but no savvy business type’s going to be all that thrilled at having the main guy knocked off in the midst of negotiating a deal.”
    It was just past seven; the restaurant was full and a line snaked out the door. Wait staff shouted orders, cooks cursed, eggs and bacon sizzled on the grill, someone shouted for more toast, and the patrons raised their voices so as to be heard over the buzz.
    “Today,” he said, “we’re going to split up. I’m taking Evans to meet with the business partners.” He held up his fork, glistening with egg yolk. “I need you to find out where I can find Robyn Goodhaugh, and then poke around a bit more. Go to the alley, go to back to the garden shack at the park.”
    She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first.
    “Every time you visit a crime scene, Molly, there’s something new to be found. Usually it’s nothing more than a branch that was broken a week ago, a paw print in the flowerbed, nothing significant. But sometimes, sometimes, you see something important. Like a neon light you didn’t notice the night before, and today it’s all you can possibly see.”
    “Wouldn’t forensics have seen the neon light?”
    “I’m