Winter of Secrets (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Try as she might to be accepting of her child’s life choices, and all that garbage, Lucy (Lucky) Casey Smith hated to see her beautiful daughter wearing that hideous uniform, all bulk and intimidation. When Moonlight joined the police, everything changed, even her beautiful name. No longer Moonlight Legloas Smith, a name as soft as butter melting on the tongue, but Constable Molly Smith. Authority and aggression.

John Winters accompanied Moonlight. Lucky and Sergeant Winters had sparred like medieval swordfighters, but for some strange reason she’d become rather fond of him. She lifted a hand and checked that her hair was tucked into place.

“Mrs. Eleanor Carmine?” Winters said, the statement sounding like a question.

“That’s me.” Ellie’s voice quavered.

“You don’t have to answer their questions,” Lucky said, forgetting about trying to look nice for John Winters and worrying about Moonlight. “Not without legal advice.”

“What? I don’t need a lawyer. I don’t know what any of this is about.” Ellie’s voice shook. Understandable, Lucky thought. anyone would be frightened when faced with the full force of the law. Particularly after two of her guests had been killed in a tragic car accident.

“If you wish to consult counsel that is, of course, your right, Mrs. Carmine,” Winters said, in a voice as deep and smooth as blackstrap molasses. “But if you have no reason to do so…”

Lucky tried to catch Moonlight’s eye, but the girl was looking at everything but her mother.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” Winters asked.

Eleanor Carmine glanced toward Lucky Smith.

“No,” Lucky said.

“No,” Mrs. Carmine repeated. “My guests have gone out.”

“Before we continue with this conversation,” Lucky said, “I must insist, Sergeant, you tell me what’s going on here.”

Moonlight coughed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith, but as far as I can see you have no right to insist upon anything. If you’re acting as counsel for Mrs. Carmine, please identify yourself. Otherwise.” Moonlight coughed again. “This is none of your business, and…well…please be quiet, Mom.”

Lucky stared. John Winters was regarding Moonlight with an expression like someone gazing upon a garter snake that had turned into a python. Ellie Carmine rubbed her hands together.

They all turned at the arrival of Ron Gavin and his forensic bag, clomping up the sidewalk. He’d parked his van half into the road, not able to pull to the side because of the snow drifts as high as a man’s chest. An RCMP patrol car joined Solway’s vehicle in washing the street in red and blue lights.

Curtains moved and doors opened in the neighboring houses. More than a few people came out to their front steps or wandered down to the sidewalk to see what was going on. Solway told them to keep back.

“What on earth is going on here? You need a warrant to bring those people and their equipment in here, Mr. Winters. Do you have one?”

“Mrs. Carmine,” Winters said, ignoring Lucky. “I’d like your permission to search the fireplace in your common room. Due to the highly volatile nature of the search area, I don’t have time to get a warrant. I promise you I’m only interested in the fireplace and its immediate surroundings. I won’t examine anything outside that area at this time. You are entitled to refuse us entry. I’ll then have to wait for the warrant to arrive, in which time vital evidence might be destroyed. Your decision.”

Ellie looked at Lucky again.

What a ridiculous situation. Lucky was here to have tea with a friend and listen while her friend talked out her troubles. She had not planned to engage in a debate over the finer points of the law with the police. Who were, on this occasion, represented by her own daughter.

Moonlight stood slightly behind and to one side of John Winters. She shifted her big black boots, looking at everything but her mother.

“The fireplace is in a common area, open to all your guests, is that correct?” Winters said.

“Yes.”

“May we have a look at your fireplace, Mrs. Carmine?”

“I have nothing to hide,” she said. “Come on in. You too, Moonlight. And I guess all those other folks behind you.”

“Whether or not you have anything to hide,” Lucky said, “is completely beside the point. It’s a matter of the right to…”

“If you’d please step outside, Mrs. Smith,” Winters said. “Mrs. Carmine will ensure we don’t exceed our legal bounds.”

“Ellie,” Lucky said. “I’d suggest…”

“Mom,” Moonlight said keeping her voice down. “Will you get out of here. Sergeant Winters knows the law as well as you do.”

Lucky blinked. “I need my coat.”

“Get it then,” Constable Smith said.

Lucky scurried into the kitchen. She came back, moments later, fastening buttons, pulling on gloves, knotting a blue scarf around her neck. She should stand her ground, convince Ellie Carmine, insist that John Winters produce a warrant before searching…the fireplace? What the heck would be the point? Let them have at it.

Besides, it wouldn’t look good to be seen having a public confrontation with her daughter. Moonlight’s face was set in dark, serious lines. The house was over-warm, and snow melted off Moonlight’s hat and dripped down her collar. She didn’t move. Just alternately glared at her mother, and stared off into space as if wishing she were somewhere else.

It wasn’t easy, Lucky knew, for Moonlight. “I’ll be outside if you need me, Ellie,” she said.

Winters and the RCMP man passed her, and went into the common room.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Winters shouted.

Moonlight ran. Lucky followed her.

John Winters was standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the fireplace on the far wall. The room was beautifully decorated for Christmas with a mixture of old ornaments lovingly preserved and glistening new ones. A miniature Santa’s village ran across the top of the mantle over the fire, which was now dark and cold. Lucky couldn’t see anything wrong.

Winters turned around. His color was high and his arms stiff at his sides.

“Constable Smith,” he said, his voice very low. “Is this the fireplace you told me you saw when you were here last?”

“Yes.” Moonlight’s voice broke. Lucky knew her daughter tried to deepen the pitch of her voice, to make herself sound more authoritative, more serious. But it did have a tendency to squeak under stress.

“Outside, now,” Winters said, molasses replaced by pure iron. “Ron, sorry to have dragged you away from home. Mrs. Carmine, Mrs. Smith, I apologize for disturbing you. A misunderstanding. We’ll get out of your hair.”

All the blood had drained from Moonlight’s face, making the girl almost as pale as the moon on the snowy night she’d been named for. She almost ran out of the room. The policemen followed: the Mountie trying to hide a grin, John Winters looking about to bust a gut with suppressed rage.

“That was odd,” Ellie said.

“You can say that again,” Lucky said, wondering why they’d make such a fuss over a gas fireplace.

Chapter Nine

She chose deep red polish. In summer she preferred something much lighter, pink and flirty. Winter was for fire and passion. The esthetician put the bottle of polish on her tray and ordered Eliza Winters to lift her feet out of the warm water. Taking one soft naked foot in hand, the woman began to apply fragrant lotion. Eliza settled back to enjoy the sensations coming from her feet. Her day at the spa had been as delightful as advertised. She would have liked to have come with John, but she suspected she’d wasted her money on his Christmas gift. When they vacationed far from home, he made use of a spa, and always enjoyed it very much. But it was likely that in the close-knit, gossipy town of Trafalgar, he’d be afraid of running into one of the two policewomen he worked with, or, even worse, the wife of one of his colleagues, while dressed in a fluffy white robe and floppy sandals heading for his facial.

Men
.

A low moan came from the chair beside her. Eliza opened her eyes. The woman seated there lifted her hand and wiped at her face. Her eyes were red, the delicate skin underneath puffy and dark. Otherwise her skin tone was almost perfect, although she must be well into her forties, perhaps even her fifties. The woman saw Eliza looking her way. “Pardon me,” she said, forcing out a smile as frozen as the patch of ice Eliza had skidded on while parking the car.

Eliza came to the spa to relax and be fussed over. She did not come to engage in mindless conversation with complete strangers. But she felt she had to say something. “Are you all right? If the pedicure’s bothering you, you can tell her to stop.”

From her short stool at the woman’s feet, the second esthetician looked up, alarmed.

“Continue, please. Not the pedicure, no. It’s quite lovely. Do you come here often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. Yourself?”

“My first time. I’m only visiting.”

“Here for the skiing?”

“Skiing? No, I won’t be skiing.”

Eliza settled back into her chair. The dead skin was being scraped off her heels. White flakes flew into the air and coated the girl’s black smock. Quite disgusting. The woman beside her wiped at her cheek and closed her eyes. Conversation over. Thank heavens.

The pedicure was the end of the spa day. Eliza floated on a soft cloud of contentment to the changing rooms. She entered a tiny cubicle and dressed before standing in front of the mirror trying to arrange her hair. It was thick with lotion applied during the neck and forehead massage, and the best she could do was force it into some sort of reasonable shape to see her to her car and home.

The woman she’d spoken to in the pedicure room emerged from a cubicle. Eliza’s expert eye took in the quality of her cream wool slacks, navy blue cashmere sweater over a tailored white T-shirt. And were those ox-blood leather ankle boots Jimmy Choo’s? They might well be.

The woman smiled at Eliza and lifted a hand to her own hair. Her nails were perfectly groomed, cut short, the polish clear. Her eyes were red, redder than they’d been in the pedicure room. Eliza turned to her. “I don’t mean to pry, but something seems to be wrong. If this were summer, I’d suspect you have allergies, and leave you alone. If I can help, please let me.”

This small town friendliness seemed to be contagious. Eliza did not normally care to hear anyone else’s problems.

The woman’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I’m parched after all that. And hungry. I didn’t manage to eat much of the lunch they provided. Is there a coffee shop nearby where I could get a drink and perhaps a muffin?”

“Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium is just around the corner. Rather an extravagant name for what’s essentially a corner coffee shop.”

“Sounds perfect. Will you join me? My treat, but I’m afraid I’m not very good company today.”

The woman held out her hand. “I’m Patricia Wyatt-Yarmouth.”

***

Quit. She should quit right now. Go back to university and finish her MSW. Or find a job at a ski resort. Perhaps she could work at Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations, her parents’ store. No, that would be just too humiliating.

She’d driven Sergeant Winters back to the station in silence. Wishing he’d yell and scream and call down plagues and locusts upon her head. Instead his silent anger spread through the car like the monster in a cheap science fiction movie. He’d said nothing more since they’d walked down the neatly shoveled path outside the Glacier Chalet B&B and he’d said, very quietly, “A gas fireplace does not require stoking, Constable Smith. No use for a poker, no logs. No ashes to be discarded. I would have thought that, as a mountain woman, you’d know such things.”

Smith got into the driver’s seat while Winters told Solway and the Mountie to leave. Ron Gavin had followed them out of the house, lugging his bag of equipment, trying not to laugh.

At least someone was amused.

She concentrated on her driving. A SUV had skidded off the road at the corner of Front and Monroe Streets and was blocking the intersection. She could see the police station ahead, up the hill where Monroe met George Street, but was trapped in the snarl of traffic. Heat radiated off her face. She wanted to take her gloves off but was afraid of making a move.

Winters activated the computer. He’d sent the ITO moments before they pulled up in front of the B&B. Now he’d have to withdraw it.

Why the hell hadn’t she noticed that the fireplace in the common room of the Glacier Chalet B&B was gas? Because no one had told her there would be a test later. She’d been there to tell a young woman her brother was dead. Not to examine the scene as if she were Sherlock Holmes crawling across the floor, peering into his magnifying glass.

No excuse. It was her job to see, to observe, and she hadn’t.

A tow truck arrived, a man climbed out and he and the SUV driver stood back to examine the scene. “Looks like you might be here a while,” Winters said. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Okay.”

He put his hand on the door handle. “I need to go back to the B&B and ask very politely if I can check Williams’ room. That will now be somewhat awkward. Ron Gavin came out on his day off because he’s a good officer. Also because he owes me one. We’ll both consider that debt to have been paid. The Horseman who followed Ray will no doubt make sure everyone back at the station gets a good laugh hearing about how I screwed up.” Horseman, Smith knew, meant a Mountie. Winters opened the car door. Unfortunately he wasn’t finished. “And this will be my screw up, Constable Smith. Eventually to become a story spread far and wide for the amusement of police officers everywhere. I’ll wear it, because I will not embarrass myself, or the Trafalgar City Police, by trying to set the story straight.” She ground her teeth and fought back tears.
Shut the fuckin’ door. Just shut up and shut the door.

“I will, however, be required to give a full, and honest, report to the Chief Constable.”

The door slammed shut.

She gripped the steering wheel. Slightly ahead and to her right a bright red Toyota Echo, dotted with magnetic black circles that made the car look like a giant ladybug, backed out of a parking space. The ladybug hit a patch of ice and slid downhill, very slowly, coming to rest against the bumper of the police car.

A tall, slim middle-aged woman climbed out, spiked purple hair, red coat, blue scarf, yellow mittens, and clanging jewelry. She waved her mittens in the air, and mouthed apologies.

Smith could see Sergeant Winters climbing the hill. His head was down and his back bent as his boots stomped through packed snow.

Molly had two choices: she could tell the ladybug woman to leave her the hell alone and go home to bury her head in her duvet, or get out of the patrol car and direct traffic.

She took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

***

Wendy plunked herself down on a bench by the door. She was sick and tired of skiing. She didn’t like it much anyway, but all the fashionable people skied, so she made the attempt. After tossing her salad at the odious reporter, who’d read her intentions in time to duck and avoid most of the barrage, Wendy wanted to head back to town. She’d arranged to meet the others when the lift closed at four. Jeremy had the keys to the SUV. They’d had to rent another car, seeing as to how Jason had driven the first one into the river.

Jason. Wendy’s chest closed. Jason. She’d resented him for almost all their childhood.
Jason the Perfect
, she called him. Their parents’ favorite. At the same time she’d loved him. He was the older brother, the one who looked after her, worried about her, protected her. He couldn’t be gone. He’d be at the B&B when they got back. Laughing his over-the-top laugh at how he’d made fools of them all.

And Ewan. What had the reporter said about Ewan? That there was something suspicious about his death? What the hell did that mean? She chewed at a fingernail.

A young woman fell onto the bench beside Wendy, dropping helmet and goggles into her lap. “It hurts, okay. Get it? Hurt. Pain. Agony.”

A man knelt in front of her. His long hair was black with yellow streaks. Real yellow, not blond. Yellow like out of a child’s box of crayons. “Let me see,” he said, reaching out. Like the woman he was dressed in mis-matching ski jacket and pants.

“Don’t touch,” she shouted.

“Let’s take your boot off, at least.”

“Don’t touch me. It hurts. I want to go home.”

“It might not be so bad. Maybe your boot isn’t fitting right.”

“I know when my boot fits and when it doesn’t. I want to go back to town. Now. If you won’t take me, I’ll call for an ambulance. And you can be sure I’ll remember you left me here, all alone.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll get the car. Can you at least hobble down the steps and meet me out front?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, “it hurts too much. You’ll have to carry me.”

“For god’s sake, Jackie.”

“Why don’t I help?”

Jackie, clearly enjoying her pain and suffering, gave Wendy a look that would curdle milk.

Wendy didn’t care. “I’ll help you down the steps while your friend goes for the car.” She smiled at the black and yellow haired boy. “If you don’t mind, that is?”

He jumped to his feet, throwing her a smile full of gratitude. “That would be so great. Thanks. It’ll take about ten minutes for me to get to the car and bring it around front.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Wendy said.

“I don’t want to take you away from your skiing,” the injured girl said. Her lower lip stuck out. Most unattractive.

“Don’t worry about me. Hey, here’s an idea. I’ve just about had enough today anyway. I’ll come back to town with you, in case you need more help.”

“Great.” The boy ran for the door.

“Nice guy,” Wendy said.

“Keep your paws off, hear me.”

“I’ve problems enough of my own, thanks. But here’s a tip for nothing: bad, bad idea to do the Prima Donna thing. Men tire of it so easily. Lean on my arm if you must and I’ll deposit you at the bottom of the steps. I have to get my skis.”

***

John Winters stormed into the police station. He didn’t say a word to Jim Denton at the front desk, or to the legal clerk who had to jump out of the way to avoid being knocked over. He marched into Barb’s office. She was opening a package of cookies. A cup of herbal tea, smelling like someone’s wet socks left to dry on a fireplace fender, emitted steam from beside her elbow. “Paul free?” he snapped.

Wisely, Barb refrained from making a crack about his mood. She glanced at the phone on her desk. A red button was shining. “Still talking to the mayor. If it’s important, he’ll be glad of the interruption.”

Young, fresh, keen, rash. Sometimes so goddamned stupid.
All words that would have fit John Winters when he was a shiny new recruit.

“Not important enough to drag him away from the mayor. I’ll be in my office for a while. He’ll want an update on the bodies pulled from the river. And it’s a doozy.”

“I’ll tell him.” Barb gave him a sideways glance as she returned to her cookies.

Winters went to the GIS office. He should have spent some time talking to Ellie Carmine about her guests, and he needed to have a look at Williams’ room, to see if anything was out of order, but he was so frigging angry at dragging everyone and their dog around to the B&B for an urgent search—of a
gas
fireplace—that he knew he had to get out of there before he exploded.

He called the Glacier Chalet B&B. The guests, according to Mrs. Carmine, had all gone out first thing and weren’t usually back until four-thirty or five, after the ski hill closed. He confirmed that they’d arrived under one booking, and wrote down their full names as Mrs. Carmine recited them.

The phone rang as soon as he put it back into the cradle.

“Chief’s free,” Barb said.

Back down the corridor he went. The legal clerk clutched a ream of papers to her chest as she saw him coming. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Paul Keller leaned back in his chair as his lead detective came in. Even from the other side of the room, Winters could smell the cigarette smoke that surrounded the man like an aura. The Chief Constable popped the top on a can of Coke. “Want one?”

“No thanks. You know I hate the stuff.”

“Your loss.” Keller took a long drink. “What’s up?”

“Wyatt-Yarmouth and Williams. Car went into the river Christmas morning. All attempts at resuscitation failed.”

“Oh, yes, I’m familiar with the situation. In fact, Doctor Wyatt-Yarmouth has been on to me, demanding that I accelerate the process of releasing his son’s body.
Doctors
Wyatt-Yarmouth, I should say. The wife is, as her husband was quick to inform me, a member of the Order of Canada for her contributions to…” Keller waved his can of pop in the air…“the discovery of some thing that didn’t make a word of sense to me.”

“Just what we need. Someone who thinks they have political clout.”

“Someone who might indeed have political clout, John. Is there a problem?”

“A big one.” As Winters explained Shirley Lee’s findings Keller’s face grew more serious by degrees. “That,” he said when Winters had finished, “is not good.”

“Agreed, but is it a murder case? I can’t say, yet. It’s entirely possible Williams fell and hit his head and lay in the snow for almost a day before his friend found him and tried to rush him to the hospital. In my experience a 24-hour corpse looks nothing like a living person, but Wyatt-Yarmouth might have thought he was getting help for his friend. I checked the weather, and it was minus 5 degrees that night, so the body would have been cold even if he were still alive. Shirley has lots of tests to make still. Right now she’s leaning toward a blow to the back of his head, hard enough to render him unconscious long enough for the cold and the concussion to kill him.” A blow that was
definitely
not caused by the contents of a
gas
fireplace.