Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

guidance, Andy. There was a reason Tom was mayor of this town for so long, you know. People liked him, they accepted his leadership. Chai or Earl Grey?”
    “Strange as it may seem, Lucky, I don’t want tea, okay. I’m going to bed.”
    She pulled out a satchel of fair trade organic white chai. “The forces opposed to the park are gathering now that Tom’s gone.”
    “Will you listen to yourself, Lucky? The forces of Mordor are not gathering. It might just be that this little garden isn’t going to be the salvation of the world.”
    “Don’t mock me, Andy.”
    “Then stop leaving yourself open to be mocked.”
    She felt tears gather behind her eyes, and refused to give into them. Once, he would have felt the same way she did.
    “This park might not be such a good idea. Come to your senses, Lucky. Tourists are our livelihood. How many locals come into the shop or sign up for an expedition? None, unless they have friends visiting. Maybe thirty, forty percent at the most, of our business is Europeans and Canadians. The rest are Americans. Americans stop coming because they think they’ve been insulted by a draft dodger monument, we’re finished.”
    Her fingers worked at the tea bag. “You’d forget about what the garden represents to keep Fox News and a handful of hunting goons happy? Okay, suppose all we care about is the business. Most of the people who come to us are looking for blue waters, green hills, wildlife. They’re looking for a place of peace. It doesn’t matter if they’re from the States or Ontario or Lower Slobovia.”
    “Nice speech, Lucky. Save it for the Chamber of Commerce. I’m telling you that the Commemorative Peace Garden will be the death of this town and thus of our company. All this area has going for it is tourism. Americans won’t come if that garden goes in.”
    “That garden honors you, Andy, and all the men like you. How could you forget?” The bag of tea crumbled to shreds between her fingers. Black leaves sprinkled on the kitchen floor. Sylvester sniffed at them.
    “Times have changed. Let the past be past. I don’t want to argue any more. I’m going to bed.”
    “Andy,” she said.
    The kitchen door slammed shut behind him.
    Lucky Smith stared at the tea leaves on the floor. They’d fallen in a black arrow pointing toward the stove. To the heart of her home.
    The kettle switched itself off. She released her tears and reached for the phone.
    ***
    Tubs of flour, giant bowls, and baking sheets were lined up in Alphonse’s Bakery like soldiers on parade, waiting for orders to head into battle. Floor to ceiling racks, empty, filled the back of the room. Everything was as neat and clean and well-organized as one would hope to find in a laboratory handling smallpox virus.
    A narrow staircase led from the back of the bakery. Alphonse Levalle led the way.
    “What’s behind this door?” Winters asked as they reached the second floor.
    “Apartment for let. Empty.”
    “How long has it been empty?”
    “One week.”
    “Do you have the key?”
    “Of course,
Monsieur
.”
    “We’ll want to have a look. After we’ve seen the roof.”
    Levalle unlocked the door.
    “Flashlight, Molly,” Winters said.
    She flicked it on. The roof was empty, unused. A large, industrial strength spider’s web stretched across the doorway at eye level, caught in the light from Smith’s beam. A fat fly hung upside down, suspended in the gossamer trap.
    “Wait here, Mr. Levalle.” Winters ducked to avoid the web. Smith did the same.
    The night was clear. Above the bulk of the dark mountains looming over town from all sides, stars filled the sky. White and red lights flashed as an airplane flew toward Vancouver and the Pacific Ocean.
    He reached the ledge overlooking the back alley and looked down. Smith stood beside him. Montgomery lay on his back, staring up at them. Evans was standing beside the body. He followed the dead eyes and gave the officers on the roof a salute.
    “Shine that light here, across the ledge,” Winters ordered. “Do you see any disturbance?”
    “Nothing.”
    “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been up here in years. Anyone other than birds, that is.” Winters rubbed his hand along the surface of the ledge. He held his finger up so Smith could see. It was filthy.
    He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hand. “I’ll send the forensics people up here to check, just to be sure. Speak of the devil, here they are now.”
    The RCMP