Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

packed the sidewalks, and the street was heavy with traffic. The patio of Feuilles de Menthe overflowed with patrons and flowers. A steady stream of people walked in and out of Alphonse’s Bakery, those leaving carrying bulging paper bags. It had been a long time, Smith thought, since those
Huevos Rancheros
at George’s. A truck pulled into the parking space beside her. A kayak was loaded on top, and a family of four tumbled out.
    “We have one possibility.” Winters got back into the car. “A family from Montana bought a camp stove yesterday. Theirs died in Banff. Your father gave them a complimentary lighter.”
    “He usually does.”
    “Dad’s a lawyer for the town of Billings, Mom’s an oncologist. The kids were aged around three and five. Sounds like your radical arsonists to me. I’ll drag them in for a session under the bright lights, starting with the three-year-old. Does your father always know so much about his customers?”
    “He likes people.”
    “He’s going to try to put together a list of everyone whose name he recorded as having been given one of those lighters in the last few months. Fortunately your parents believe in the value of building up an e-mail list. No stone unturned, eh, Molly?”
    “Not a one.”
    “The lawyer slash oncologist family’s staying at Valhalla Provincial Park. I’ll have the Horsemen send someone to talk to them. They just might have given the lighter to a tall, dark stranger who told them his name and address as he stopped by the campfire for a cup of coffee brewed in a tin pot.”
    “Are you always this cynical, John? Isn’t detailed investigative work the keystone of policing?” Out of nowhere, Smith felt a surge of anger, as hot and painful as heartburn, deep in her gut. All this man ever did was mock their profession. He had a good reputation, and, so she’d recently learned, a lot of gossip behind him, but if he was too old to cut it, time he stepped out of the way to let the young ones take over. “Should I forget about questioning people, following up clues, all that boring stuff and pull people off the street because I don’t like the look in their eye or the set of their jaw?”
    He turned to look at her. A very long few seconds passed.
    “I can be cynical, Molly, yes. But I assure you that I believe in the value of good, solid police work. It doesn’t hurt to laugh now and again, you know.” He looked out the window. The kayak-owning family opened the trunk of their car. They threw in several bags marked with the logo of Mid-Kootenay Adventures and went next door to Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen. “You’ve got a nice town here,” he said, “nice people mostly. Stay here, Molly. Stay out of the cities; they’ll rot your cop soul. Let’s head back to the station.”
    Maybe she should learn to lighten up a bit. But she was afraid that she might lighten up at the wrong moment. And, in this job, the wrong moment could allow something very bad to happen. Instead of thinking about that, she changed the subject.
    “If you don’t mind, John, I’d like to stop at my friend Christa’s on the way. She’s the one being stalked by that guy we encountered earlier. She isn’t answering her phone, and it bothers me that he was close to her house. I can drop you first, if you want.”
    “I’ll come with you. Then we can call on Robyn Goodhaugh, and I’d like to pay another visit to the not-grieving widow. I don’t see her as her husband’s killer, or even the instigator thereof. But I’ve been wrong before. I’m telling you that in the strictest of confidence, Smith. Don’t let it out around the station.”
    He was a strange guy, Smith thought as she shifted the van into reverse. Best buddies one minute, rude and officious the next. When people blow hot and cold, she’d learned, best to avoid them altogether.
    A green Neon blocked her exit, Meredith Morgenstern at the wheel. She couldn’t quite make out the man beside Meredith. Then the light changed and Meredith pulled away and Smith caught a glimpse of him. She’d last seen that head when it had leaned toward her mother, his low, seductive voice asking her to explain the purpose of the Trafalgar Commemorative Peace Gardens.
    “Hell and damnation,” Smith said.
    “What?”
    “It’s that TV guy. Rich Ashcroft. Being squired around town by Meredith Morgenstern of the
Daily Gazette
. And I’d bet anything the fellow in the back was their cameraman. I was hoping they’d have