Winter of Secrets (18 page)

Faces glowing with cold and exercise, Andy and his daughter put their equipment into the shed and walked back to the house as Sylvester ran around in circles in the cleared driveway.

“You doing okay, Molly?”

“Yeah, Dad. I’m great. Why?”

“Just wondering. Your mother misses you, you know.”

She felt a warm, comfortable glow in her chest. That was Andy’s way of telling her that
he
was missing her. She reached out and touched his arm as they climbed the steps and stamped their boots free of snow.

Lucky was in the kitchen, reading a political magazine. “Moonlight and I are going to drop in on Christa.”

Andy shook his head. “Good luck with that.” He kissed his wife, smiled at his daughter, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and left.

Smith stood on the mat, still wearing coat and boots.

“Before we go,” Lucky said. “Tell me about Lorraine.”

“Lorraine who?”

“Don’t be silly, dear. You know very well who. What’s her involvement with these people staying at Ellie’s place?”

“Mom, that’s an ongoing police investigation. I can’t tell you anything.”

“Of course you can. I know, for example, that one of those boys didn’t die in the car accident. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to tell anyone else. I am concerned about Lorraine. She refuses to let anyone help her, but she needs help nonetheless.”

Smith sputtered for a while. She could only wonder at how her mom knew the results of an autopsy that hadn’t been released to the public. Somehow Lucky always knew everything that went on in Trafalgar.

“She considers herself to have been in love with Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth. He probably led her to think that she was more than a vacation pick-up.”

“I find it hard to believe he could have been attracted to her. He was, what twenty-two, twenty-three? A university student. Lots of money, well traveled, influential parents. Yet he took up with a sixteen-year-old girl who’s never been out of these mountains, daughter of the talk of the town.”

Smith shifted her feet as she remembered something she’d heard someone say about the late Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth. “He was lazy. Liked sex served up like a Big Mac. I doubt there was any need to woo Lorraine.”

“Bastard.” As she passed, Lucky slammed the dishwasher door so hard the dishes rattled.

Chapter Eighteen

Doctor Lee’s official report was waiting in the in-basket when John Winters opened his e-mail.

He skimmed it quickly. A detailed reading would wait.

Then he leaned back in his chair and swiveled to look past Ray Lopez’s desk and out the window. The clouds were weighty and the mountains obscured.
Sort of like this case
, he thought in a rare moment of fancy. A young woman strolled down the hill, wearing a purple hat topped with three drooping spikes, each of which ended in a yellow pom-pom. That, and her matching yellow mittens, gave the only bit of color outside the window, and he watched the ends of the hat bounce as the woman walked on.

Ewan Williams. His last meal had been a mixed-up concoction of salmon, curried tofu, and hamburger and fries, eaten five to six hours prior to death. No alcohol in his system. Winters made a note to ask the friends if they knew what he’d had for lunch. If it had been that strange meal, that would give them some idea of the time of his death. Provided, of course, he hadn’t gone out later and had another burger. Because it was mid-winter there was very little insect activity on the body that might help Lee establish time of death. She estimated between twelve to thirty-six hours prior to the body being fished out of the car and the river. Cause of death: hypothermia. A recent blow to the head had done enough damage to cause confusion and unconsciousness, and he’d died of the cold. The report backpedaled a bit on the trace evidence found in the boy’s head: bits of wood, yes, traces of ash on the wood, but not necessary indicating he’d been struck by a length of wood. He had a bruised cheekbone and scrapes on the right knuckles, but the injuries were partially healed, meaning not fresh enough to have been caused at the time of death. Almost certainly obtained, Winters thought, during the altercation outside the bar on the Saturday before he died. Lee found no more recent injuries, just the blow to the back of the head that probably brought him down, leading to his death. It was, therefore, unlikely he’d been fighting when he died.

Jason Wyatt-Yarmouth: Death by drowning. Marijuana and alcohol, although not in significant quantities, consumed some hours before death.

All of which did little to help him with the two major questions: who killed Ewan, and what was Jason doing in the hours before he went into the river, taking his friend’s dead body with him?

With a reluctant sigh, he looked up a phone number, and dialed.

An answering machine picked it up.

“This is Sergeant John Winters of the Trafalgar City Police,” he said, as if she wouldn’t know who he was. “Returning Ms. Morgenstern’s call.”

The phone was picked up. “I’m here, Sergeant.” Her voice was thick with sleep but she soon shook it off. “Thank you for returning my call. People are wondering why the bodies of Jason and Ewan are not being released, even though it’s been almost a week since the accident, and Jason’s parents are here to take him home.”

By
people
Winters knew that Meredith meant
she
was won dering.

“I’m interested in speaking to anyone who saw or spoke with Ewan Williams on the evening of December twenty-third or anytime on the twenty-forth. A picture would help. Do you have one?”

“One of his friends sent me a couple.”

So Meredith had been talking to the friends. No one had told him that.

“Are you confirming, Sergeant, the rumors that Ewan Williams was killed prior to the accident on Christmas morning?”

She was uncomfortably well informed about the results of the autopsy. Someone in the morgue had a big mouth. The
Gazette
had run a story the day following the accident, with a picture of the car being pulled out of the river, and a brief mention that the dead men were university students in Trafalgar on a skiing vacation. Tipped off by her contact, Meredith must have continued digging.

He tried to remind himself that digging was what good reporters did.

Too bad Meredith Morgenstern wasn’t a good reporter.

“In order to complete our investigation, we would like to confirm Mr. Williams’ activities during the time in question. You can run a story repeating the details of the accident and the emphasizing that the police would like the public’s help.”

“I don’t need you to advise me on how to write a story.”

“A pleasure talking to you, Ms. Morgenstern.”

He hung up as she shouted ‘wait’.

He’d given her the opening she needed to put what was so far only rumor and unauthorized information into print. He hoped the results would be worth it.

***

Molly Smith phoned Christa as Lucky drove across the big black bridge into town. She could tell by the muffled voice that Christa had been asleep.

“Hey, Chris.” Smith tried, and failed, to sound cheerful. “It’s me. Mom and I are in town and Mom said she’d like to drop in for a visit.”

“When?”

“How about now?”

“Now? I’m in bed.”

“Then get up.”

Lucky grabbed the phone and drove with one hand. “Christa, Lucky here.”

“I’m still in bed, Lucky. Can you come back later?”

“We need to talk. I’m parking the car right now. If you look out, you’ll see us.”

“What’s this about?”

“Come down and open the door.” Lucky spotted a parking spot, threw the phone into Molly’s lap, and did a U turn in the narrow street, forcing a pick-up truck to come to a halt. The driver leaned on the horn. Lucky completed her turn in a stately manner. The pick-up sped past as the driver lifted a finger to them.

“You do know that a U-turn is illegal, Mom? Not to mention dangerous. Suppose that guy hadn’t seen you in time to stop?”

Lucky parked with the front tire on the sidewalk. “I calculated precisely how long it would take for him to see me and to bring his vehicle to a complete halt and decided I had sufficient time.”

“Yeah, right. Next time, drive around the block, eh? Or I’ll give you a ticket myself.”

Blinking back sleep, Christa met them at the door. She grunted once in greeting and they climbed the narrow staircase to her second story apartment.

She looked good, although much of the old sparkle was gone from her eyes and she needed to regain some of the weight she’d lost in the bout of depression after the attack. She’d required a lot of dentistry, and although her relationship with her father had always been tense and they rarely saw each other, he paid for the work. The new, straighter teeth suited her.

Once they were inside the small living room, she turned to face them, her skin very pale. “Is it my dad, Lucky?” Her eyes filled. “What’s happened?”

“Your father’s fine. Everyone’s fine. Why don’t we have a seat?”

Christa turned to Smith. “Charlie?”

Smith nodded.

“How about a cup of tea?” Lucky said.

“He’s out?”

“’Fraid so.” Smith said.

“I thought he got six months.”

“Parole. For good behavior.”

“Good behavior! Are you freaking kidding me?” Christa turned, grabbed a glass candleholder off the table and moved to throw it against the wall. Lucky touched her arm. “Tea,” she said, taking the object and putting it back in place. “Moonlight will explain what parole means.”

Smith and Christa followed Lucky into the kitchen. It was barely large enough for the three women. There were only two chairs. Lucky set about putting the kettle on and rooting through the cupboards for mugs and spoons, tea bags and sugar.

Christa dropped into a chair. “So explain.”

Smith leaned her butt up against the kitchen counter. “His parole has conditions, Chris. He’s not allowed to contact you or to come within two hundred meters of you. If you see him, or if he calls you, you’ve got to call us…the police…right away.”

“And he’ll be sent back to jail?”

“Well, uh, the parole board will take it under considera tion.”

“By which time I’ll be dead, right Molly?”

Lucky dropped a mug. It hit the cracked linoleum floor and shattered.

***

It was the morning of December thirtieth. Ray Lopez was still on leave, as were the two most senior constables and Staff-Sergeant Peterson. Tonight and tomorrow night there would be a full complement of officers working, but they’d be kept busy on the streets. Winters had dragged Molly Smith half-way around town yesterday, on her day off, and she was on duty tonight. She’d be sound asleep this morning. He couldn’t call her up and ask for help.

He pushed back his chair. He’d have to pound the pavement himself.

At least it was a Sunday: people would be at home.

Driving through the snow-covered streets, he thought about last night. Doctor Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth sipping mimosas in his own living room. Earlier, he’d decided to visit Jason’s parents this morning to explain why he wasn’t releasing their son’s body.

Instead, realizing that Eliza and Barney would offer her more support than she was likely to get from her own husband, he’d carefully told Patricia about the strange circumstances of Ewan’s death. She’d remained calm, although she finished her drink quickly and asked Barney for another. She asked medical questions that Winters had been unable to answer. She was an intelligent woman, a surgeon of international reputation after all, and instantly realized that the circumstances of Ewan’s death, and where his body had been found, raised questions about Jason’s conduct on the night in question. And, although no one mentioned it, the boys’ friends and Jason’s sister as well.

He offered to drive her back to her hotel, but she insisted on calling a taxi. Somehow Eliza and Barney ended up in the cab with her, and he was glad Patricia had the company.

He hadn’t heard his wife climbing into bed beside him.

Aspen Street was steep and narrow and difficult to negotiate at the best of times. The day after a heavy snowfall was not the best of times. In the older parts of town many houses didn’t have garages or even driveways, so cars parked on both sides of the street year round. The snowplow had been unable to do much other than scrape off the middle of the road. Parking was haphazard; cars scattered across snow packed into ice. Several vehicles hadn’t been moved in days and resembled car-shaped snow sculptures.

The neighborhood was an eclectic mix of modern structures of brick and glass and wood, heritage houses restored to early twentieth-century glory, and heritage houses that couldn’t remember their glory days, if ever they’d had such a time.

The LeBlanc home was one of the worst. The neighbors on the left had erected a tall fence: stiff, varnished wooden planks standing like soldiers protecting their owner from sight of the run-down property.

But Winters wasn’t here to call on the LeBlanc family.

He went up and down the street, knocking on doors, considering himself lucky to find most people at home. At each house he asked if anyone had noticed a yellow SUV on the street on Christmas Eve. Fortunately that was an easy day for most people to remember.

Unfortunately no one had noticed much of anything. A few of the neighbors gave him their uncensored opinion of the LeBlanc family. He thanked them and moved on.

He was heading back to the van, dreaming of a mug of Eddie’s strongest coffee, when a blue Toyota stopped in the middle of the road. The woman behind the wheel rolled down the window and gestured to him. He’d spoken to her at the first house he’d called upon, but she had nothing to tell him.

He crossed the street.

“I’ve picked up my mom from Church,” she said. “I mentioned you’d been asking about Christmas Eve and she said she might have something to tell you.”

A fragile, white-haired lady smiled at him from the passenger seat.

“Follow me,” the driver said.

He did so.

He was invited in for tea. Outside, the house was warm wood and glass. The inside was modern and sparse, painted neutral colors with lots of mirrors and pale hardwood floors topped by what real estate agents called cathedral ceilings.

He was led into a small room overlooking the street, crammed with heavy, dark, old-fashioned furniture. Black-and-white and faded color photographs sat on round white doilies, covering every surface. The last time he’d been in air this warm, he’d been in a sauna.

Winters was offered tea, which he accepted only because he suspected that the elderly lady liked a cup after church.

The daughter left to get the tea, and the older woman, introduced to him as Mrs. Frances James, sat on a stiff-backed, wooden-armed chair covered in brown and orange print. She placed her large black patent leather handbag on the floor beside her. Feeling like the Detective Inspector in a mystery novel of the classic age, Winters leaned against the fireplace—electric, unlike those of the classic novels.

“I do wish Ruth would at least allow the children to accompany me to mass on occasion,” Mrs. James said. “But she sees fit not to. Except for Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday.

“Speaking of which, when Ruth picked me up at Church she mentioned you were asking about events on this street on Christmas Eve.” Mrs. James waved her left hand. The diamond on her third finger wasn’t much smaller than the Koh-I-Noor.

“That’s right. I…”

“When my husband died, my daughter and her husband were kind enough to invite me to come and live with their family here in your lovely town.” Mrs. James’ thin lips were outlined in deep red lipstick and pinched in disapproval. Winters guessed that she wasn’t all that happy living at her daughters’ invitation, but she’d die before admitting it. “I accepted, realizing they need help with the children. It is difficult these days, what with families requiring
two
incomes.” If Mrs. James hadn’t been such a lady, she would have spat on the floor. “It was understood from the beginning I’d need my private space.” Another twist of the lips. “They arranged this room for my use. Isn’t it lovely?”

It wasn’t lovely at all, at least not to John Winters’ eyes. But it did sit at the front of the house, with a big bay window and a clear view of Aspen Street. And the LeBlanc home. Which was all that mattered.

The door opened and a tea tray came in, followed by Mrs. James’ daughter. She placed the tray on a glass-topped wooden table with ornate legs. “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. James said. “It’s rather cool in here. Turn on the fire, will you.”