Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

speaking in tongues, Molly.”
    “I know,” she said, inwardly steaming. There was no reason she shouldn’t go along to question the men from Japan, in Trafalgar to do business with M&D Developments. No reason, except for simple sexism.
    She mixed the last of the refried beans into a pool of hot salsa.
    “There’s something in that alley we missed.” He rubbed his thumb across the face of his watch. “I know it.”
    The waiter slapped their bill on the table. “Hey, Moon,” he said. “Long time no see. You look great in that uniform. Does your gun work?”
    Winters paid in cash. He didn’t think the smart-aleck waiter deserved a tip.
    ***
    The early morning light was soft in the alley, and the air aromatic with fresh baking. Yellow police tape still blocked off the spot where the body’d been found and the back door to the bakery.
    Smith kicked at a stone, her enthusiasm for the task diminishing. What could she possibly find here that Winters, the pathologist, a team of police, and countless curious citizens hadn’t? She climbed over the tape. Nothing of Reginald Montgomery remained; even the dirt that had soaked up his lifeblood had been scooped up and taken away for analysis. Tracks of a bicycle were outlined against the wall beside the bakery door, reminding Smith of her own bike. Maybe it was time to get a car. She’d seen a great little car in town the other day. A dark blue Mini Cooper convertible. Too cute.
    She looked east down the alley, wondering how much one of those cars might cost. The tourist information office was on the other side of Pine Street, not far past Mid-Kootenay Adventures. A bike rack sat outside, one bike parked in the rack—a top-of-the-line men’s red mountain bike. When she next got a day off perhaps she’d go to the dealer. Find out how much a Mini would cost and if it could manage mountain roads in the snow.
    As she admired the red bike, and thought about buying a car, a man walked up to the bike rack. He pulled something out of his backpack and bent over the front wheel. A long, thin, red coil fell to the ground. He stuffed the equipment back into his pack and grabbed the bike. He jumped on it and was pedaling up Pine Street while Smith’s brain was registering what she’d seen. The red coil lying on the ground like an embarrassed snake was a bike lock cable.
    He’d stolen the bike.
    Smith ran.
    ***
    “Conflict, Meredith. Television is all about conflict. No conflict, no good TV.”
    “I can see that, Rich. But isn’t there enough conflict in the world without making stuff up?”
    “What did I make up, Meredith? There wasn’t a word in that program that wasn’t true. People talk to me, I report what they say. At the end of the segment, after everyone’s said their piece, I try to summarize the situation as best I can. Because, to be honest, some of my viewers aren’t that swift on the uptake.”
    Meredith sipped at her coffee, still looking dubious. Rich poured maple syrup generously over his pancakes.
    This hotel was second-rate, not the sort of place he liked to stay when traveling for a story. But there didn’t seem to be anything much better in this primitive backwater. Now the Grizzly Resort, from what he’d heard, might have promise.
    “I had a phone call from my editor. He’s never called me at home before. He thinks your show put Trafalgar in a bad light.”
    Rich snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and pointed to his empty glass of orange juice. “Rubbish. My assistant called this morning to say the show was well received. If anything, it’ll be good for the area. Bring Trafalgar to the attention of people who wouldn’t hear about it otherwise. And that can only be good, right?”
    She lifted her cup to her lips and looked at him over the rim. “You’ll have to convince me of that, Rich.”
    Stupid bitch. But she was pretty enough, and he needed someone to help him navigate around this insular town. He’d only been here one day and was already feeling claustrophobic. The small town, the mountains on all sides. He gulped at his coffee. Dreadful. Trafalgar was probably the only community in North America that didn’t have a Starbucks.
    “Morning, folks.” Greg, the CNC cameraman, pulled up a chair. The waitress hurried over with Rich’s orange juice and another menu.
    “Good program, I hear,” he said. “How’s the pancakes?”
    “Adequate.”
    Greg shut the menu with a snap and smiled at Meredith. “How are you this