Valley of the Lost (16 page)

The bartender stood behind the wooden bar running the length of the room, flicking through a skiing magazine. Marigold was reflected in the large, gilt-framed mirror that filled the wall behind the bar, the reflection broken by a crack in the glass. Her back was to the door, and she was examining her nails. Her matted hair hung down her back in thick ropes. The bartender gave Smith a friendly wave. As a beat constable she was in here almost as much as some of the regulars.

“Not you again,” Marigold said, not turning around.

“Me again.” Winters walked down the single step into the room. Smith’s boots hit the floor behind him. “How’s it going, Morris?” she asked.

“Boring,” the bartender said. “And not likely to get much busier. There’s a big act playing at the Potato Famine tonight and tomorrow. They’ll suck our customers away like leeches on a swimmer’s leg.”

“Ugh. That is so gross.” Marigold half-turned toward the police. Her eyes slid over Smith and she looked at her nails. “I can’t talk to you now, Sergeant Winters. I’m working.” She wore a short denim skirt cinched by a wide white belt and a white cotton blouse that left her plump shoulders bare. An order pad was tucked into the back of the belt. White running shoes were on her feet.

“And working very hard indeed, by the looks of it.” Winters took a seat on the stool beside her. Smith hovered at his back. “But I’m sure you can spare me a few moments.”

“You have to order a drink.”

“Happy to. Ice water for me. Constable Smith?”

“Water’d be good.”

“Two ice waters. Heavy on the ice. I’ve been thinking about Ashley, Marigold. And I’m sure you have too.” She turned her head, leaving him looking at the back of her neck. A blue and yellow butterfly spread its wings on either side of her vertebra. “Tell me a bit more about Ashley. She must have talked to you about her family, where’s she’s from. Did you get the impression, for example, that she was new to B.C.? Did she ever mention Vancouver?”

“Maybe. Yeah, I think she’d spent some time in Vancouver. Look, I told you, Mr. Winters, she didn’t want to talk about her family and her past and all that shit.”

“I find it hard to believe that she didn’t say anything. People talk about themselves. Whether they want to or not, they reveal things.”

The girl shrugged. “Guess I’m not a good listener.”

“Look, Marigold,” Smith said. “You might not care much about what happened to Ashley, but surely you have some consideration for the baby. Miller’ll spend his childhood in foster care if we can’t find his family. Is that what you want for him?”

Winters bit back a retort to the probationary constable. She wasn’t here to interrupt his interrogation. But it was a good question, and had an interesting effect. Marigold turned around, lifted her chin, and fastened her eyes directly on Smith.

“Precisely my point. Family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Ashley didn’t want anything to do with her family, and that’s all I know.”

The door opened with a groan and a group of bikers spilled in. Graying hair or balding scalps shook with laughter as they pulled off leather gloves and unzipped unseasonable jackets. Men pulled tables together and women gathered chairs.

“Gotta go,” Marigold said. “But I’ll tell you this. If Ashley didn’t want anyone to find that baby, neither do I.”

Chapter Eighteen

Lucky Smith was making up baby formula when she heard the familiar car turning off the road into their long driveway. She looked out the kitchen window. The tomato plants were heavy with red fruit—if she didn’t get out there soon, they’d be nothing but a rotting mess—and the lettuce beds overflowed. Weeds were moving in on the spinach and chard, like an army that’s discovered the enemy’s sentinels sleeping. Andy’s car rounded the corner and parked in its usual place beside the big red cedar. It was early for him to be home from the store. She was pleased to see that he wasn’t carrying an armload of work for her to do.

Miller was awake, but for once he wasn’t screaming, just watching the sunlight play with the mobile Lucky had strung over his bed. Sylvester was taking his afternoon nap beside the pram. Alone in the Smith family, Sylvester seemed to like having the baby around, and Lucky had moved his bed from its usual place in the master bedroom into the kitchen.

Without even bothering to shut the door Andy gathered Lucky into his arms in a big bear hug. He tired to lift her, as if he was about to swing her off the ground in the way he used to. But he was too fat, and too unfit, to pick her up and Lucky was too heavy to be picked up. Instead he patted her ample bottom.

“What on earth?” she said with a laugh, “has gotten into you? And what are you doing home in the middle of the day?”

“Molly here?”

“No. She took an extra shift.”

He gripped her by the buttocks and pulled her hips toward him. “I knew that. I saw her in town. She was in uniform and with John Winters. I realized that my luscious wife was at home. Alone.” He nuzzled her neck and lifted one hand to grip her breast.

To Lucky’s considerable surprise she felt a bulge in Andy’s pants. “You dirty old man,” she said with a laugh. It had been a long time since they’d had sex outside of their bedroom after the ten o’clock news. In the early days they lost customers when Andy would put the closed sign on the shop door and join Lucky in the storage closet. But soon they accumulated children, and employees, regular hours and responsibilities.

Lucky loved having her nipples stroked. She pushed her chest forward, as Andy’s fingers tightened their grip. “Do you remember the first time,” she murmured in his ear, “on the side of the hill, the lights of the city.”

“Where you wouldn’t let me do it, because I didn’t have a condom?”

“But you made me happy, anyway. I remember that.”

They had been students at the University of Washington. Young, in love, with each other and with radical anti-war politics.

She kissed him, deeply, full on the lips. He wasn’t exactly the handsome, thin student, with hair as long and pale as that of a fairy princess, whom she’d fallen in love with long ago. But she still loved him, not with a fever, but with maturity.

She reached for his belt buckle, and he groaned. It had been a long, long time since they’d done it on the floor.

Miller cried. He didn’t even bother to warm up, simply let loose with a full throated howl.

What on earth do I think I’m doing? I’m an overweight gray-haired grandmother who gets hot flashes, not a sex kitten.
Lucky grabbed Andy’s hand. “You left the door open.”

“So. If someone drops by they’ll get an eyeful.”

She stepped back, out of range of his reaching arms. “The baby’s crying.” She scooped Miller up. “How about later?”

“Later? When later? When you fall asleep before your feet are off the floor? When you stay awake long enough to come to bed? When our daughter’s in the house, not sleeping because of her dreams?”

“What dreams?” Lucky tucked Miller to her chest and bounced on her toes.

“Ever since that goddamned mess, Moonlight cries out in the night, Lucky. And it’s getting worse, not better, since that baby’s been here. She thinks we don’t hear her, yelling in her dreams, crying when she wakes up. Prowling around the house instead of sleeping.”

Lucky thought of the hot milk, the circles under her daughter’s eyes. Moonlight wasn’t sleeping. And her mother hadn’t noticed. “Moonlight’s an adult. She wouldn’t be pleased if her mother came into her room and asked what was wrong.”

“She’s your daughter, no matter what her age. Or her occupation.”

“Pass me that bottle, will you, dear.”

Andy grabbed the baby’s bottle off the counter without looking at it. It slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. It rolled under the table.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Lucky yelled, frustration boiling over. “I can’t use that one. Get another out of the fridge.”

Andy held out his arms. “Give him to me.”

“What?”

“Give him to me. I’ll hold him while you get a bottle ready. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to bake him into a gingerbread house.”

Lucky passed Miller over. Andy took the screaming bundle awkwardly. The baby looked into the man’s face and stopped crying.

“Isn’t that nice,” Lucky said. “He likes you.”

“I doubt that very much. He’s been struck dumb, that’s all. Get the bottle. You can’t keep him, sweetheart. If nothing else, I’m too bloody old. I don’t get a hard on like that much any more.”

Lucky rummaged in the fridge and pretended not to hear him. Tears pricked the back of her eyes.

***

Barb was heading out the door as Smith and Winters walked into the police station. “You still haven’t told me what you’re bringing on Sunday, John,” she said.

“Sunday?”

“The pot luck. My house. You haven’t forgotten have you?”

“Of course not. I’ll check with my wife tonight and get back to you tomorrow morning.”

“You’re bringing lasagna, right, Molly? Your mother’s lasagna is to die for.”

“For sure,” Smith said.

“See you guys later.” Barb skipped down the steps.

“What?” Winters said to the expression on Smith’s face.

“You know this is a command performance, don’t you? Barb hasn’t forgiven you for not coming to Ralph’s retirement party.”

“I’d been working here two weeks. I didn’t know Ralph from the occupant of Cell Number One.”

“Irrelevant. Barb is big on department socializing. She believes it builds teams and helps morale. The CC believes what Barb tells him to believe.”

“I almost forgot about poor little Miller,” Winters said, changing the subject and punching the buttons to let them in the door. “Your mom still has him?”

“And it’s killing us. Mom most of all. She’s so ridiculously stubborn. Won’t admit that she can’t manage. It doesn’t help that that horrid woman from family services is bouncing around trying to make Mom give the baby up. All that’s done is get her back up.”

Winters kept his smile to himself:
Like mother, like daughter
.

“Is anything happening about finding out who Ashley is? And thus getting Miller to his own family?”

“We’re working on it,” he said, automatically.

Ray Lopez was at his desk, typing away. “Chief wants to see you,” he said, without looking up from the keyboard. “Said soon as you get in.”

Winters went in search of Paul Keller, the Chief Constable. The office door to the corridor was closed, but the side one that joined Barb’s office stood open. Keller looked up at the sound of footsteps.

“John, come on in. Have a seat.”

Winters sat. “Ray said you wanted to see me.”

“The Ashley Doe murder. Fill me in.” Keller reached behind and opened the bar fridge where he stored his daily supply of diet coke. He drank about ten to twenty cans a day; judging by the contents of his wastepaper basket it had been a heavy drinking day. The staff assumed the boss needed the pop to keep his mouth occupied because he couldn’t smoke in the building any more. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“What about the girl herself? Any leads on who she is, where she’s from?”

“Not a thing. I have to tell you, Paul, outside of the witness protection program I’ve never seen anyone disappear so cleanly.”

Keller’s eyes lit up. “You think that’s it?”

“No. If she was in the program she’d have been given ID. A background. Ashley Doe appears to have been plopped down in Trafalgar B.C. by a spaceship. We’ve checked all the local banks—she doesn’t have an account. Every restaurant or store she’s been in says she always paid cash. Who does that any more? My wife doesn’t believe in paying with debit, she says it’s too easy to lose track of how much you’re spending, but even she runs out of cash and uses her card now and again. Ashley gave her roommate cash to contribute to the rent. We’ve talked to the women at the support center; they all say she was friendly, but quiet. Kept to herself and never shared confidences. Not one of them could remember her mentioning a thing about her past. And when the women talked about the fathers of their babies—Ashley stayed mum.”

“Strange.”

“Very strange. We’ve circulated her fingerprints, of course, but come up with nothing so far. And the baby’s a real complication. Miller isn’t Ashley’s child, but we can’t find a stolen or missing baby that matches. Although it’s early days for a continent-wide search.” Winters blew out his cheeks. “Two people at least know more than they’re telling—Marigold, the roommate, and Armstrong, the supposed counselor. You read my report on him?”

“Yes.” Keller crunched the pop can in his right hand. “Shady character.”

“Shady past to be sure. You think it’s time to haul him in for a turn under the bright lights?”

“It might be.”

“We’ve been told that Ashley seems to have had some contact in the past with Armstrong, which he isn’t admitting to. And that she seems to have been opposed to the Grizzly Resort: enough to have an angry public confrontation with Steve Blacklock, the new partner, about it. A lot of people in town are, opposed that is, and it’s hardly unknown in Trafalgar for citizens to express their political opinions passionately.”

“Never noticed that myself,” Keller said, tossing the pop can into the garbage. It rattled as it fell in amongst its predecessors.

“But that doesn’t fit with Ashley’s persona, as I see it. Why did she care about the resort, but only that? One of the times I dropped into the center, the young mothers told me they’re trying to get a protest going against the use of pesticides at the golf course. They said it’s bad for their kids, but Ashley wasn’t interested.”

“Who knows why people care about one thing and not another. My wife won’t eat veal—says it’s barbaric—but she digs into lamb readily enough.”

Winters grinned. “You trying to play devil’s advocate, Paul?”

“Just speculating. Maybe because we were out for dinner last night with friends, and when Jay considered ordering veal, Karen gave him a stern talking to.

“We need to lean on Armstrong. Hard. If he’s spinning us a line, reel him in on it.” The Chief made fishing gestures with his hands. He was an avid fisherman. Pictures of himself, proudly displaying salmon of various size, covered his desk, crowding out the single family photo. Winters had been fishing a few times, trying to be one of the boys with his sisters’ husbands or the guys from work. He’d been bored to tears, and hadn’t gone fishing since he stopped pretending to be one of the boys.

Keller spun his chair in a half-circle and looked out the window. In the foreground, the red maple leaf snapped in the wind; in the background the bottom of the sun touched the top of Koola Glacier. Even in late August, the mountain was heavy with snow. Keller cleared his throat.

“Murder’s a rare crime in this town, John, very rare. We hadn’t had a murder in years until that business last month. I don’t want an unsolved on our sheet.”

“Nor do I,” Winters said, but he doubted that he’d been heard.

“I’ve called the IHIT.”

“I could use them.” Although it bothered him to admit that he needed help, he did. The Integrated Homicide Investigation Team was an RCMP unit out of Surrey that could be called upon to help local forces with murder cases. Winters was floundering, and with Lopez tied up in the drug case, he wasn’t getting the help he needed. “When will they be here?”

“Tomorrow,” Keller said, turning his chair back so he faced his lead detective. “Sometime in the afternoon.”

“Good.” And he meant it. His ego wasn’t so big, at least he hoped not, that he’d wish failure on IHIT where he’d failed.

They talked for a while longer, about other cases, before Winters was dismissed and headed back to his own office. The red message light on his phone blinked.

“Six o’clock,” Eliza purred. Her voice always made him think of sex, even if she were calling from Wal-Mart to report on the price of pencils. “And all is not well. This is a reminder that we’re due at M&C at seven for drinks to kick off the advertising campaign. If you’ve stubbed your toe and can’t make it, let me know, eh? Love you.”

It was only six fifteen. Time to get home, shower and change into suitable cocktail party attire and be smiling, clean, and presentable by seven. No one arrived at fashion parties on time anyway.

He wrote
Armstrong
on the note pad he kept beside the computer and headed out the door.

***

“Five-one, five-one?”

That was her. “Five-one. Smith here.” Molly Smith spoke into the radio. Tonight she was in the car. Blessed relief. Air conditioning, bottles of cold water in the cup holders. Dave Evans was on the streets. Lately Evans had been getting the car and Smith sent to pound the pavement. Maybe Sarge noticed, at last, and decided to balance the load. Whatever. Smith had simply been grateful to be out of the heat. It was after midnight, the cool night air should be sliding down the mountains, but there was no sign of it yet.

“484 Aspen Street. Neighbors report a disturbance. Not the first time.”

“On my way.” She flicked on lights and sirens and punched the address into the car’s computer.

The house had a string of complaints. Noise violations, dangerous dogs, blocking the street, him threatening to kill her, her threatening to kill him. Even a complaint of peeing in the neighbor’s foxgloves. And that was her, not him.

A small crowd was gathered on the sidewalk when Smith pulled up. She switched off the engine and climbed out of the car. A man approached her, dressed in a red velour robe, with Tevas on his feet. “I think this is it, Constable,” he said, “He’s going to kill her this time.”