Winter of Secrets (4 page)

For Lee to stop an autopsy meant she’d found something significant.

“Why?” he asked.

“I did Mr. Wyatt-Yarmouth first. I found what I expected to find. Healthy, well-fed male in his early twenties in excellent physical condition. Judging by the muscles of his arms and legs, he was a keen athlete. Death by drowning, no doubt about it. Massive trauma to the hands and forearms as he attempted to bash and claw his way out of the vehicle. I recommended that the body be released to the family. I’ve withdrawn that recommendation.”

“Why’d you do that? Because of Williams, I’d guess. What’s funny about Williams?”

“Ewan Williams had been dead for twenty-four hours, at a minimum, before he went into the water.”

Chapter Five

Molly Smith floated into work on a cloud of champagne powder. Although not literally; the big storm had ended by mid-morning on Christmas Day, and nothing but a dusting of snow had fallen in the valley since. She’d come back to work early, having agreed to take someone else’s shift, but she’d spent two great days on the ski hills. Doing run after run; double black diamond after double black diamond. The snow was so dry and light they called it champagne powder. She’d been at the resort when the day began, leaving the slopes when the unlit hills closed down at four o’clock. Holiday time, and the parking lot of Big Sky resort had been full to overflowing, the lines for the lifts long. But the weather was good, the sun bright in a blue sky, and the powder deep and fresh on the hills.

Graham had been the ultimate outdoor adventurer. With one exception. He consistently refused to go skiing with her. She’d tried to talk him into it, assuring him that she wouldn’t laugh, she’d show him the ropes—in school she’d been a skiing instructor and worked ski patrol. He refused to even try it, and one wet winter’s evening in their apartment in Victoria, the night before she was to go up-Island to the slopes of Mount Washington with friends, he’d finally confessed he was afraid. He’d skied as a child, taken a bad fall on a grade four trip, and dislocated his shoulder. Rather than letting him get right back onto the proverbial horse, his skittish mother had gone on and on about what a dangerous sport skiing was, and she’d refused to sign his permission slip for the next trip, when the shoulder was back in place. Her fear had made him fearful.

He’d never been on skis again, and he wouldn’t try even for Molly.

Other than her work, skiing was the one thing that took Molly Smith away from the ghost of Graham Buckingham.

“Anything happening?” she asked Jim Denton, the day dispatch officer.

“Quiet as a mouse. One guy in cells. Picked up last night for drunk and disorderly. Tisk, tisk. We should start getting busy tonight as folks practice for a big New Year’s blow out. You can be glad you’re on days, Molly. It should be a nice, Q, shift.”

As superstitious as actors who never mentioned the name of the Scottish Play or wished each other luck, break a leg being the accepted alternative, police never said the Q word, afraid it would bring on the opposite and the shift would be anything but quiet.

“But not too calm.” John Winters appeared out of nowhere, and both Smith and Denton jumped. The Sergeant could walk on cat’s feet sometimes. “I’ve been reading the report of an accident that happened on Monday. Car went into the river. Two males who didn’t survive. You were at the scene, Molly?”

“Yes. Hell of a shift. We answered more traffic calls in that night than we usually have in a month. The big storm. My dad said nothing’s been seen like it in the Kootenays for decades. Why?”

“What with the holiday season, and vacations, and the flu outbreak at the Seniors’ Residence, and the apparently obvious cause of death resulting from the car in the river, the autopsy wasn’t done until today.”

“So they’ve been busy and understaffed at the morgue. Nothing new about that,” Denton said.

“Apparently?” Smith said.

Winters hid signs of approval. Molly had zeroed in on the right word. She had a long way to go, a very long way, but she just might make detective some day.

“Appearances are sometimes deceiving. You’re with me, Molly. Who’s the shift sergeant?” he asked Denton.

“Peterson.”

Peterson. Who never left an ‘i’ undotted or a ‘t’ uncrossed and would never let a new constable off the beat without an argument.

“I’ll call Al from the car. Let’s go.”

“Where?” she said.

“Trail. The hospital. Doctor Lee’s stopped the autopsy pending my arrival. As you were there, at the scene, I thought you’d want to be involved.”

“Gee, thanks, I’d like that. But, well, why’d she stop the autopsy?”

“An autopsy’s performed in any unexpected death, you know that. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it’s none of our business. But this time, Shirley stopped in the middle of it. Left the cadaver sliced open on the table. She backed away and told her assistant to pack him up as is. Why would she do that?”

“She found something that made her think it’s our business?”

“Yup. Jim, find out where they took the wreck of that car. I want it confined until we can look into it.”

They took the unmarked van, heading for the hospital in Trail, about an hour from Trafalgar. Most of the trip passed in silence.

Smith wasn’t going to break the quiet by saying anything. She’d learned that Sergeant Winters didn’t care for idle chatter or useless speculation.

It hadn’t snowed in town for a few days, but the trees lining the mountain road were heavy with fresh powder. Easy to see why evergreen trees were conical: their branches drooped under the piles of snow dragging them down. Every once in a while something, a puff of light wind, a passing animal, a settling bird, shook a branch, and the snow drifted down in a white cloud all of its own.

The road, slick with patches of ice or hard-packed snow, twisted and turned through the mountain passes. The sky was heavily overcast, and as they drove past the airport at Castlegar, she couldn’t see the mountains. No planes were likely to be getting in or out today.

“Do you know what they call Castlegar, John?” she dared to ask.

“No.”

“Cancel-gar.” Long pause. “’Cause of the number of flights that are cancelled ‘cause of the weather.”

“Thank you, Molly, I understood the reference.”

She concentrated on the road. The last thing she’d want would be to put the Sergeant in a ditch, and have to wait for a tow while he called the RCMP to come and get him.

She hadn’t liked John Winters much the first time she’d worked with him. In fact she hadn’t liked him at all. But he was kinda growing on her, and she thought they were getting on okay. As long as she didn’t screw up. She was more afraid of John Winters’ displeasure than that of the Chief Constable or Staff Sergeant Peterson.

“Uh, John?”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t think you called Peterson.”

“Why would I do that?”

“About taking me off the road?”

“Right.” He pulled out his cell phone. Nearing Castlegar, he had a signal.

She could tell by the one side of the conversation she was party to that Peterson was arguing. But as long as he wasn’t arguing with her, it was all okay.

***

Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth leaned on her poles and looked down the hill they called Blonde Ambition. Then she took a deep breath and pushed off, swallowing her fear. She’d constantly avoided taking this midlevel, or blue, run despite Jason and Ewan’s nagging, but today she decided to ski it. Some sort of tribute, perhaps. Or maybe just to prove to Jason, for the last time, that she could accomplish something.

When Jason had suggested spending their Christmas break skiing in the Kootenays—for the powder, he’d said—she’d agreed, thinking that Blue Sky would be like Whistler. Her parents gave her a holiday in Whistler as a high school graduation present, and she’d loved every minute of it. Whistler was full of the sort of restaurants that were featured in
Gourmet
magazine, designer shops, luxury hotels. And, incidentally, good skiing.

Blue Sky was full of good skiing. Period. The so-called lodge was nothing other than one long, low, two-story building with a cafeteria, a twenty-seat bar, and plenty of room for people to sit on wooden benches to enjoy lunches carted in in paper bags, backpacks, or family-sized coolers.

Despite the death of their friends, the group had decided to continue their ski vacation. They had to do something, or they’d go nuts just hanging around waiting until it was time to go home.

And Wendy did not want to spend any more time with her parents than she had to.

They’d left home the day after Christmas, as soon as they could get a plane heading west. They’d flown to Calgary, where they sat, fuming, for a day because Castlegar was socked in. They could have taken the Greyhound bus, but Doctor (PhD) and Doctor (MD) Wyatt-Yarmouth did not travel on buses. And now they sat in town, at a third-rate hotel because it was the only place with a vacancy, both of them fuming some more, and her father complaining to everyone who’d listen, and many who didn’t particularly want to, about the incompetence of small town policing.

They tried demanding that Jason’s body be released for them to take home, but the police were still waiting for the result of the autopsy.

Didn’t they know that Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number One was on the board of the Halton Regional Police Service?

The Trafalgar City Police, apparently, didn’t give a flying fuck.

Soft white snow flew into Wendy’s face, and she almost smiled. Her smile died when she remembered why her parents were here. To take Jason, and her, home. Yes, she wanted to go home. Get through the ordeal of loading Jason’s coffin onto the plane, making the arrangements, the visitation, the funeral.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Ewan’s parents, were spending the holidays sailing in the Caribbean. No one had been able to contact them. Jeremy and Rob decided to stay in Trafalgar until things were settled. Alan didn’t seem so sure. At first he’d said he was leaving, but then he changed his mind. Which might have had something to do with the fact that Sophie, who hadn’t met Jason until this trip, most definitely wanted to finish her vacation.

Wendy reached the bottom of the hill, and pulled off her goggles and helmet. Alan and Rob had headed immediately for the Black Diamond runs. She’d gone up the hill with Jeremy, who was the same level of skier as she, but she’d lost him soon after stepping off the lift. Sophie, lucky Sophie, was spending the day at the spa. Wendy would have liked to join her but she was afraid of running into Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth Number Two (aka Mom) who’d announced a similar intention. Also, as Wendy didn’t care to admit, even to herself, she couldn’t afford a spa day. If Jason hadn’t bribed her into coming by paying for a good chunk of her expenses, including room at the B&B and a two-week ski pass, she couldn’t afford to be skiing either. She had barely enough room left on her credit card to go shopping in Toronto for ski clothes. The ones she’d worn to Whistler three years ago were so out of date.

She joined the cafeteria line, picked up a tray, and ordered a chicken Caesar salad. She’d waited until close to two o’clock before coming inside for lunch in order to snag one of the wooden benches that served as seating.

She handed her money to a strikingly beautiful woman with a trace of Asian features and grabbed a place by the window. The air was heavy with the scent of soggy clothes, damp woolen hats, exposed socks, fragrant food. She munched on her salad and watched people enjoying the day’s skiing.

A woman threw her tray onto the table next to her. Wendy looked up, mildly annoyed. There was plenty of room, why couldn’t the woman sit somewhere else?

“Mind if I join you?” The interloper sat down without waiting for a response. She wore a knee-length purple sweater over a black T-shirt that emphasized her most valuable assets and snugly fitting blue jeans. Every piece, Wendy couldn’t help but notice, looked pretty high-end.

Although nothing at all like one would wear for a day on the slopes.

Wendy speared a slice of chicken and turned her head to the window.

“Good skiing?”

“It’s okay. I was expecting a better quality of resort.”

The woman laughed. Her teeth were straight and unnaturally white. Her long black hair was gathered into a wild bunch at the back of her head. “You’re not here for just the powder then?”

Wendy’s head turned. Something was not quite right about this woman’s appearance or her demeanor. She was not here to ski, nor did she appear to be all that interested in the beef stew on her tray.

“I’m afraid I have the advantage of you, as they say in the classic English novels. You’re Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth.”

“For my sins, as they say in the more contemporary English TV shows. Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

The woman smiled. She held out her hand. “Meredith Morgenstern.
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
, for my own sins. My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Wendy hadn’t accepted the handshake. The woman didn’t seem put out and picked up a whole wheat roll. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about the death of your brother and his friend.”

Wendy looked down her nose and snorted. “I don’t think so. Take your tray and find another table, before I call security.”

“Please, Wendy, hear me out.” Meredith thrust her fork into the bowl of stew on the table in front of her. Brown liquid bubbled up. “The police will not be releasing your brother’s body any time soon, nor that of his friend. Never mind that your distinguished parents are cooling their heels in town. Recipient of the Order of Canada, eh? Impressive. That makes your family newsworthy. I’m interested in finding out why the police have suddenly started paying attention to the accident, and when I saw you sitting here, by yourself, I thought you also might want to know what’s going on.”

Wendy looked at the black-haired woman on the far side of the large, battered wooden table. Stew had splattered across what were probably surgically-enhanced boobs.

She hadn’t happened upon Wendy having lunch. She’d probably gone looking for her at the B&B, and Mrs. C or Kathy had told her the group was skiing. Wendy’d have a thing or two to say about that. She had a right to her privacy, and the reporter should have been sent packing.

How good could she possibly be anyway, working for the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
? Rather than sticking her nose into the Wyatt-Yarmouth family business, she should be reporting on the results of the Ladies Bridge Finals or the Men’s Curling Quarterly.

Wendy pressed the paper napkin she’d picked up at the checkout to her eyes. “My brother,” she said, “was the most important person in my life. Not only did I love him, but I respected him as well. Jason…well, Jason believed in the dignity of every human being. It was his dream to become a doctor and go to Africa and help the suffering humanity. As for my parents,” Wendy lifted her eyes to check that what-ever-her-name-was was paying attention, “they are quite naturally inconsolable with grief, and I request that you respect that.”