Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

irons.
    The camera focused on Meredith’s bouncing bosom in a thin T-shirt. Then it jerked and the screen was full of Lucy Casey, known for the past thirty-five years as Lucky Smith.
    She scarcely recognized herself, screaming, swearing, looking like a child’s idea of a witch, missing only the pointed black hat and the broom.
    Sylvester sensed her distress and nuzzled up against her leg, trying to offer comfort. He was ignored.
    The program ended with a close-up of Meredith standing at Eagle Point Bluffs. She mumbled half a sentence about conflict in a peaceful community, before the camera cut to Rich Ashcroft.
    Trafalgar was laid out behind him. White glacier, green and brown mountains, blue sky behind, blue river in front.
    His closing commentary didn’t call for viewers to descend upon the town with pitchforks and torches. But it might as well have.
    “We are so fucked,” Andy said. “This is all your fault, Lucky.”
    “Mine! I’ve heard enough today about fault and blame.”
    “Maybe you’ve heard enough, because you’re the cause of it all.”
    Moonlight jumped up. “Dad, slow down. Mom didn’t want any of this to happen.”
    Andy struggled out of his La-Z-boy. His face was red and his pale blue eyes the shade of glacier ice. His jowls quivered. Lucky had never before noticed just how much weight he’d put on around his face. “You and your sixties sentiment’s going to destroy my business.”
    “My sixties sentiment? What the hell does that mean, Andy? Are you telling me that you missed the sixties? And what do you mean
my
business? Last I looked it was
our
business.”
    Sylvester barked and ran from one person to the other, his lush tail low. Sylvester never took sides.
    “Calm down,” Moonlight said. “Mom? Dad?”
    “It’s time,” Andy said. “We recognize that we’ve come to a parting of minds, Lucy. I’ll sleep in the den tonight, and tomorrow, I’ll move myself out. Get yourself a lawyer. Night, Molly.”
    He left the room, Sylvester trotting behind.
    Moonlight looked at her mother. “I do not want to know,” she said. “I do not want to know a single thing about this. You will patch this up. Do you hear me? I refuse to hear the ‘D’ word.”
    “The ‘D’ word,” Lucky said. She hadn’t moved from her place on the badly sprung couch. She was so hot she might set fire to the chair; she’d been shown as a screeching harridan to half the population of the United Sates, and probably most of her own family, who already thought her crazy. Her daughter, precious Moonlight, was a cop. Her dream of something to recognize Andy and Barry and all the men like them was crumbling to dust. And Andy himself didn’t give a fig.
    “What’s the ‘D’ word?” she said.
    “Divorce. I won’t allow you to even consider getting a divorce. You are the most perfect parents in all the world.”
    Lucky looked at her daughter. Tears glistened in Moonlight’s eyes like stars reflecting off a mountain lake.
    “You think so, dear?”
    “Yeah, Mom, I do.”
    Lucky stood up. She was a good six inches shorter than Moonlight. She wrapped her daughter—hard cop, loving child, beautiful woman, fragile human being—in her arms.
    “Do you suppose,” Moonlight said, “Harris snatched one of the store lighters out from under Dad’s nose?”

Chapter Twenty-one
    Duncan was at the hospital when Smith arrived. He clutched a bunch of daisies, looking as if they’d been picked from a roadside ditch, in one hand, and she thought the gesture was sweeter than had he brought a dozen perfect long-stemmed red roses.
    “The doc’s with her,” he said. “They said we won’t have to wait for long.”
    She sat beside him on the overused visitor’s couch. Badly painted little girls dancing through fields of wildflowers hung on the walls. A tiny white fridge stood in the corner underneath a bulletin board instructing them as to the location of the emergency exits as well as how to wash their hands after using the bathroom. Duncan slipped his arm over her shoulders. Smith settled into it.
    She allowed him to stroke her shoulder. He took a deep breath, and she felt his ribs move. His lips touched the top of her head, and his hand lightly brushed the gun at her hip.
    She pushed herself away. “Don’t do that. I’m in uniform.”
    “You look great.” He coughed. “That is, you always look great, Molly.”
    Smith studied the pictures on the wall.
    Once Lucky had phoned the hospital and confirmed