Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

loneliness. She took an office job in Calgary, at her brother Sam’s law firm, two days before what should have been her wedding day. Six months later she was back in Trafalgar, and shortly after that announced that she’d been accepted as a recruit by the Trafalgar City Police. Her parents, Lucky in particular, were vehemently opposed to the very idea. But Molly didn’t argue, simply told them that she’d decided this was what she was going to do and they could accept it, or not. Sensibly, they accepted it.
    Christa fumbled in her pocket for her key. A day at the beach would do Molly a world of good. It had to be tough, working on this murder case. She was still a rookie, and although she hadn’t said so, Christa sensed that Molly wasn’t getting on with the sergeant guy all that well. Even if she were working all day, she should be able to get away for a couple of hours later. They’d borrow Lucky’s car, take fold-up chairs, big straw hats and trashy magazines, and wine hidden in a thermos, and have fun. Like when they were kids.
    The key slipped out of her fingers. She balanced the coffee cup, tucked the bagel bag under her arm, and bent over to retrieve the key.
    “Let me help.” An arm knocked her against the wall, and long fingers grabbed the keys.
    “I can manage, Charlie.”
    “I’ll just help you take your things upstairs, okay?”
    He unlocked the door.
    “I don’t want your help. Good-bye.” She held out her hand. “Give me the key.”
    “Don’t be like that. I’m trying to help you, aren’t I?” He reached for the coffee cup.
    She pulled it out of the way. The brown bag fell to the ground. “I’m calling the cops.” She thrust her hand into her shorts pocket seeking her cell phone. Oh, no. She’d left it behind, thinking that it wouldn’t be needed on a quick walk to the coffee shop on a pleasant summer’s day.
    He pushed his body up against hers, forcing her inside. His breath was rancid, like he’d been drinking all night and hadn’t brushed his teeth. The front hall was small, barely large enough for one person. He slammed the door behind him and they were plunged into near darkness, the only light coming from the small, dirty window in the top of the door. Christa fell onto the bottom step and scurried up the stairs, backward, on her butt. Hot coffee soaked the front of her tank-top.
    “I’ve had enough of you and your shit,” Charlie yelled. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Chrissie?”
    White hot pain streaked across her face. Her head felt as if it were flying off her neck.
    “I don’t want to do this, but you just won’t listen to reason.”
    He lifted his foot.

Chapter Sixteen
    “Call for you, John. Rosemary’s Country Kitchen.”
    “Sergeant Winters.”
    “Hi, Mr. Winters. It’s Emily here, from Rosemary’s Country….”
    “Have you heard from Mrs. Fitzgerald?”
    “Constable Evans told me to let you know soon as she called. Her son in Toronto’s had a heart attack. She’s flying straight there. She said it sounds bad. I don’t know how I’m going to manage this store on my own. I’ve been run off my feet this morning.”
    “Did you tell Mrs. Fitzgerald that I want to speak with her?”
    “She said she can’t be bothered with that now.”
    “Did you tell her why?”
    “I didn’t get a chance. She said she wondered how you’d heard what’d happened, but she’ll phone the station when she gets back.”
    Winters spluttered. “How I’d heard….Do you have a number where she can be reached?”
    “She told me to call her on her cell phone.”
    “What’s the number?” He jotted it down on a pink Post-it note.
    “Something up?” Smith stood in the doorway.
    “Fitzgerald’s left the building.” He dialed the number. A pleasant voice answered, asking him to leave a message at the beep. He did so. If she was in the air, then rushing to her son’s side, perhaps in the hospital all day, she might never turn her phone on.
    “You think Rosemary’s got something to do with this?”
    “No, I don’t. But it bothers me to have stones unturned. She said something odd to her assistant, although I suspect the assistant got the message mixed up. If she doesn’t call by tomorrow, I’ll ask the Toronto Police to track her down; her son’s in the hospital, so they should be able to find him. Oh, God, I hope the son’s name is Fitzgerald. It might not be. Whatever happened to the days when a son could be expected to have the same