Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

morning?”
    She smiled back. Rich bristled. Greg was in his early thirties, muscular from carrying camera equipment everywhere, darkly tanned from an assignment in the Middle East. Rich had invited Meredith up to his room last night, to watch the program and have a drink. She’d refused.
    “I’m interested in this Grizzly Resort,” he said. “The place Montgomery was developing. It has potential to be a good story. I called Irene last night, and asked her to find out what she can about the company. Two-man operation, sounds like. Trying to bring jobs and development to this area. Of course, the local animal rights hysterics are up in arms.”
    “I don’t think,” Meredith said, “hysterics is the proper word. People in Trafalgar are concerned about the environment, that’s all.”
    Rich stuffed a slice of pancake into his mouth.
    “We’ll get all sides of the story,” Greg said. “Don’t worry about that.”
    Rich swallowed. “I need someone who knows this town, who knows the people, to help me out. You were a great help introducing me to Mrs. Smith, Meredith. I wouldn’t have met her without you. If your bosses don’t want to help us anymore, then why don’t you take a couple days leave and work for CNC? I’ll bet the network pays a hell of a lot better than your provincial newspaper.”
    She chewed the lipstick off her mouth. Indecision moved behind the expressive dark eyes.
    Rich pushed his plate aside. “I don’t want to pressure you, Meredith, but I have to know now. Time’s important in this business. There’s a job opening coming up at CNC. No promises, but I am not without influence.”
    “Really?” Meredith whispered. Indecision retreated and her eyes shone.
    Rich wiped his lips with his napkin, tossed it onto the table, and stood up. “Sign the bill, will you, Greg. Are you coming, Meredith? I’ll understand if you’d rather finish your coffee before going to your office.”
    She leapt to her feet. “We’ll have to take my car. I can’t use the paper’s car.”
    “Before we pay a visit to the surviving owner of the Grizzly Resort, tell me something about Lucy Smith’s daughter. You said she’s a cop here in town. That might make an interesting human interest angle.”
    ***
    “Two cancellations. A party of five from Idaho and a couple from Calgary. And it isn’t even nine o’clock yet.” Andy stood in the doorway to Lucky’s office.
    “We’ll get other bookings,” she said, not at all sure of herself. “Don’t worry.”
    “Of course I’m worried. This publicity’s going to kill us. I can’t imagine what you were thinking to allow that TV hack into our house.”
    She stood up. “I was thinking, Andy, that I’d tell our story. Your story, if I remember correctly. Too many people have forgotten what men like you sacrificed for your principles. They need to be reminded, once again. Perhaps you yourself need to be reminded.”
    “The world’s moved on, Lucky. No one cares anymore about what happened back in the ’60s. No one but a bunch of aging war resisters who’ve spent the last forty years hibernating up in the mountains.”
    “The people in this town care. They want the garden. I care. Barry and Michael, Jane and Norma care. And all the rest of the group.”
    “I doubt if Michael even knows where Vietnam is.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “It means that Michael is more interested in getting you into the sack than building a statue.”
    “I’ll not dignify that comment with a response. But you, you of all people, how can you say you don’t care?”
    “The past is past, Lucky. Times have changed. We’ve lost. The military-industrial complex is stronger than ever. The empire is on the march.”
    A heavy glove closed over Lucky’s heart. “I’ll never give up,” she said.
    “Hello? Anyone here?” a woman called from the store.
    Andy turned.
    “Let Duncan take care of it,” Lucky said. “We have to finish this. Where’s Duncan anyway?”
    “Getting coffee.” He walked out of the office, a miasma of bitterness and resentment trailing behind him.
    ***
    Smith reached Pine Street; he was still in sight, pedaling uphill. If he’d headed down, toward the river, she wouldn’t have a hope of catching up with him. She ran up the hill, yelling into the radio at her shoulder for assistance. Vehicular assistance, she emphasized.
    He didn’t look back, just kept pedaling.
    “Stop, police,” she yelled. An elderly gentleman out for his