Valley of the Lost (21 page)
“What are we going to take to the pot-luck?” John Winters asked, peering into the depths of the stainless steel refrigerator.
Eliza looked up from her toast and coffee and yesterday’s paper. “Pot luck?” She shivered at the very mention of pot luck. The most dreadful of all social occasions. Food, prepared hours (days!) ago and trucked to the party in the back of a van with failing air conditioning. Macaroni salad. Chili finished with too heavy a hand on the spices (or not enough). Reheated pasta. Spinach dip in a bowl carved out of bread. Iceberg lettuce browning around the edges, drenched in supermarket-brand bottled dressing.
“The pot luck at Barb’s place this afternoon. For the whole department. Remember?”
If he’d told her they had to go to a pot luck, she would have remembered. “John, you haven’t said one word to me about a party.”
“Sure I did. Didn’t I?”
“No.” She dragged out the word as if it were polysyllabic.
He ducked his head and looked sheepish. Toast popped out of the machine and he grabbed it. “Guess I forgot. I can’t get out of it. Barb’s been on my case for weeks, demanding to know what I was going to bring.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’d sort though the multitude of Winters family favorites and let her know. I need to go, sweetheart. Show the flag, so to speak. It starts at four. I’ll get there around four-thirty and I should be able to escape by six.”
Police functions. Booze. Shop talk. More booze. And more booze. They’d come to Trafalgar to get away from that.
It wasn’t hard for John to read her mind. “I swear, on the grounds that you are the most understanding woman in the whole world, that I’ll have one beer and be out of the place by six, five-forty-five, if I can make it. Call my cell at six. Something about an emergency at home. The toilet is overflowing. That’ll do it.”
Eliza put down her toast and pushed back her chair. A soft breeze came in the open window and lifted the edges of the newspaper. “Most people bring casseroles, salads and desserts to a pot luck, potato chips if they can’t cook, and forget about appetizers. I’ll get some smoked salmon and cream cheese. Mix that with a bit of chives for color, paprika for kick, roll it all into a tortilla and slice it thin. Voila. We have a tasty, pre-dinner treat.”
“You’re coming?”
She put her hands on his shoulders. “In Vancouver I avoided everything to do with your profession, John. That was a mistake. I left you alone to battle your demons.”
“You didn’t….”
“Now that we’re here, making a new start, I’d like to meet your colleagues.”
And she meant it. In Vancouver they lived separate lives, and were content to have it that way. He was a police officer—long hours, crazy job. She was a model with her own long hours, crazy job. She had been in Florida when the crisis she’d been too pre-occupied to notice arrived and John had fallen apart. She’d been helping her parents after her mother fell when an absent-minded rollerblader ran into her and broke her leg, but she might as well have been on the catwalk in Milan. John had needed her. Badly. And she hadn’t been there.
“The other wives are coming?”
“And the husbands, yes. Barb told me specifically that I was to bring you. Are you sure? I know you hate those things.”
“Almost as much as you hate the parties I take you to. Like that awful thing at the Grizzly Resort. Incidentally, I heard that José’s girlfriend had way too much to drink at the restaurant, made a play for one of the ad execs, and José told her to make her own way back to the hotel and be out of town next morning.”
“I’m so sorry we missed that.” Sarcasm dripped off his tongue as thickly as the marmalade he was spreading on his toast. “You finished with the paper?”
She handed the
Gazette
over. He took his reading glasses out of his pocket and popped them on the edge of his nose. He hated the glasses, but she thought they looked good on him. Sophisticated, mature.
“What are you staring at?”
“I can’t look at you?”
“Not like that.” He wiped at his face, trying to remove nonexistent crumbs.
“I’d better decide what I’m going to wear,” she said. “Then I’ll go shopping for the food.”
***
Molly Smith was also thinking about Barb’s party. She checked out the big freezer in the basement. A few packages of summer fruit and vegetables—last summer’s—lay at the bottom. Enough bags of bagels to see them through a nuclear winter. Frozen waffles. Packages of the sausage rolls and small frozen pizzas her father loved.
Nothing she could take to the department pot luck. Smith had told Lucky about the party a week ago. Whereupon she’d assumed her mother would prepare a casserole that would be the hit of the event.
Lucky had a recipe she’d cut from
Martha Stewart Living.
It was expensive, complicated, wordy. And it made a meal that tasted like something served in heaven to angels fluttering their wings on fluffy white clouds. Lucky named it Five Hour Lasagna because of the time involved.
Smith had sort of hoped that her mom would get up in the night and make Five Hour Lasagna for the City Police’s pot luck.
Apparently not.
What was the point of living at home if you couldn’t count on your mom to cook for you?
She’d signed up to bring lasagna, so she’d have to head over to the supermarket and buy a frozen slab of mass produced product.
At least none of the older guys would ask if she’d made it herself.
***
She didn’t bother to get a shopping cart. She was here for one thing only. A package of frozen lasagna.
Smith stood in front of the freezer case and stared. The variety was impressive: seafood lasagna, vegetable lasagna, chicken lasagna, three mushroom lasagna, four cheese lasagna. Nothing called five hour lasagna, unfortunately, so she settled on the package with the simple label of:
Lasagna
.
The line at the checkout was long. To pass the time, Smith read the label on the container.
Defrost overnight.
Otherwise, three hours to bake from frozen.
Who knew frozen food was so time-consuming?
Eventually she was allowed to pass her money over and leave.
She had to get this thing home. Three hours of cooking and she’d barely make it to Barb’s on time.
It wouldn’t do for a probationary constable to be late.
When she got home, she let herself in through the kitchen door. Neither Sylvester nor the big blue pram were at their usual place. Lucky must have taken the baby for a walk. Smith removed the packaging from the frozen meal, put the lasagna into the oven, and turned the dial to set the temperature.
For once the house was quiet. A nap would be nice, while the party food cooked.
***
They’d had little more than a sprinkling of rain for more than a week, but somehow the wheels of the pram found the only patch of mud between here and the coast in which to get stuck. Lucky wrested the awkward carriage back onto firmer ground. Miller didn’t seem to mind, and he slept on. Movement seemed to be about the only thing that put the child to sleep. At fifty-five years old, feeling every day of it, Lucky figured she could provide the baby with just about anything except constant movement.
What is the one thing that money can’t buy?
Youthful energy.
Sylvester brought up the rear. His step was slow and his tongue hung almost as low as his tail. Even the dog was getting tired of all these walks.
Why am I doing this
? Lucky asked the trees.
She parked the carriage beside the vegetable beds and took her canvas shopping bag out of the pram. She’d promised to bring fresh produce to a sick friend, and even though she might be ready to drop to sleep on the soft ground between the spinach and cabbages, she would deliver fresh produce. She set the brake on the pram. Miller didn’t move, and Sylvester collapsed in the gentle shade of a large maple. The garden smelled of good dark soil and ripening vegetables. A cloud of white butterflies rose into the air from the compost heap. Lucky moved among her tomato plants, lifting green leaves, and selecting brilliant red cherry tomatoes. Many, too many, were overripe, split and spoiled or fallen to decay onto the ground, but there were still plenty good for eating. She also selected two fat beefsteak tomatoes and placed them carefully in her bag.
She picked a variety of greens from the lettuce beds. The zucchini plant was overflowing, some of the vegetables too large to be any good, but she she found one a nice size.
Lucky’s garden had been sadly neglected, but at this time of year it pretty much took care of itself.
Her bag full, Lucky returned to the pram, and walked slowly back to the house. The sun was warm on her face, the vegetables fragrant in her arms, Miller dreaming happy baby dreams. Lucky was content.
Moonlight opened the kitchen door. Sylvester ran ahead and dove face first into his water bowl. “Thanks, Mom. That’ll go nicely with the lasagna.”
“Lasagna?”
“The pot luck? Today?”
“I forgot about it, sorry, dear. Help yourself to the garden, there’s lots left, and the zucchini’s running rampant.” Lucky put the produce bag onto the counter. “Eileen’s having a hard time since her stroke, so I thought I’d take something from the garden to her. I was going to go after our walk, but Miller’s sleeping so peacefully, I hate to disturb him.”
Moonlight looked into the pram. The baby’s pink face was crunched in sleep. He shifted slightly and then lay still. Watching her daughter, Lucky felt something move in her chest. Instead, she said, “What’s in the oven?”
“I bought a lasagna to take to the pot luck.”
“I suppose I’ll have to wake Miller, if I’m going to go. I told Eileen what time to expect me, and she has to keep to a strict schedule.”
“Oh, all right.” Moonlight threw up her hands. “I’ll look after him while you’re on your errand of mercy. But don’t be long, I have to get ready for the party.”
Lucky stood on her tiptoes to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “You’re a dear.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t want Eileen to feel she has to entertain you and Miller. That’s all.”
Lucky picked the bag of vegetables off the counter. “I’ll wash these at Eileen’s. Don’t want to give you the chance to change your mind. If you need it before I get back, there’s a bottle made up in the fridge. Be sure and warm it up first.” She grabbed her keys and, calling “car” to Sylvester, left. Sylvester was never too tired to go for a ride in the car.
***
Molly Smith cracked the oven door open to check the lasagna. It sat on the shelf like the lump of frozen preservatives it was. The coil at the bottom of the oven burned red hot.
She looked into the pram. “I’m sure you’d be very happy with family services, right?” she whispered. “After all, you’re just a baby. I don’t know why Mom can’t see that.”
Still, she thought to herself, he was a cute wee tyke. At least when his mouth was shut. She carefully maneuvered the pram out of the kitchen. The oven would soon be heating up the house. She took Miller into the family room and parked him beside the black eye of the TV, before running upstairs to get a book.
The baby hadn’t moved while she was away. She settled into an armchair to read, curling her legs up under her.
Smith was deep in the book, one of the historical mysteries her mother loved, when the bell at the kitchen door jerked her out of the foggy, gas-lit streets of London and back to the present. She stretched her neck to peek into the pram; cuddled in his yellow sleeper suit, Miller slept on. The bell rang again. A friend of Lucky’s, probably. Smith ignored it, and returned to the book. Might be Jody Burke coming back to try, again, to talk Lucky into giving Miller up. Smith had no interest in getting involved in that business. Let her mother sort it out.
The bell rang again, harder. Miller began to stir. Smith cursed under her breath and tried to breathe quietly, willing him back to sleep.
She felt ridiculous. Hiding in the back as if there were a Jehovah’s Witness, or an unwanted suitor, at the door. But she had no interest in exchanging the time of day with one of her mother’s friends, or in receiving another lecture from Jody Burke.
The ringing stopped.
Miller cried.
Smith swore.
The kitchen door was old, original to the house. The hinges needed oil and they always squeaked when opened.
They squeaked.
Of course Lucky hadn’t locked the door behind her. She never did.
Miller cried again. Not a soft whimper this time, but a deep throated bellow. He was warming up to his full, impressive, repertoire.
“We’re back here,” Smith yelled, deciding that there was no point in trying to be quiet any more. The visitor had well and truly woken the baby up.
As she leaned into the pram to pick him up, she heard footsteps on the old wooden floorboards in the hall and sensed someone behind her.
“You’ve woken Miller,” she said to whoever was there.
“Too bad.”
The voice was hard, cold. Not one of Lucky’s friends to be sure.
Molly Smith turned around.
All she could see was the business end of a .22.
Eliza Winters knew a thing or two about making people feel at ease. She marched up to Barb’s front door, carrying her tray of canapés. Her husband followed.
“Hi. I’m Eliza. This is such a pleasure,” she said to their hostess. “Thank you for including me. What a fabulous view you must have. Do you mind if I take a look?”
Barb beamed, and took the food. “Of course not. Please, come in. We’re all out back. Glad you could make it.”
Eliza exclaimed over the décor and went with Barb into the kitchen. Winters walked through the house, following the sound of men’s voices.
As he stepped onto the deck, Ray Lopez handed him a beer. The smell of fresh cedar, newly laid, still hung over the deck. The view, as Eliza predicted, was spectacular. Far below the town of Trafalgar was tucked into the curve of the river. Only the glacier had snow, sparkling in the afternoon sun. A few more weeks and the white stuff would dust the peaks like icing sugar sprinkled on chocolate cake.
Most of the department was here, accompanied by wives and husbands or friends. Winters felt a soft hand on his arm and turned to see Eliza smiling at him. “Please introduce me to your colleagues,” she said. She wore khaki capris with a blue shirt, a simple silver chain and earrings. Her sandals were flat and she’d tied her thick hair into a casual knot at the back of her head.
He made the introductions. He’d met the Chief Constable’s wife, Karen, previously, but none of the other spouses or companions. Dawn Solway had come alone. Dave Evans, dressed as if he were about to catch a wave in Hawaii, was with a pretty young woman Winters recognized as the shop assistant at Rosemary’s Country Kitchen. Properly introduced, Eliza melted into the crowd. She touched her lips to the rim of her wine glass and looked fascinated at what everyone had to say. Winters leaned on the railing of the deck, holding his beer. The air was warm, and close, but the promise of fall, and winter, to come, lingered about the edges of the day. A cat screamed a warning in the woods.
Barb offered him another beer and he took it. One more wouldn’t hurt.
But then Eliza was beside him. “No one,” she said to Barb, “is eating my lovely salmon rolls. John, you have to take one for the team. If you don’t drop dead on the spot others might dare to give them a try.” She pulled the bottle out of his hand. Her smile was radiant. He’d have preferred to have the beer, but he could hardly wrestle her for it.
He went to the table where appetizers had been laid out and filled a small plate. What happened to his beer he never did discover.
Jim Denton’s wife, Gale, joined him at the railing. “Aren’t these good,” she said, munching on Eliza’s offering.
“Very,” he said.
Gale chatted on about the view and the company. The deck was filling up as late-coming guests arrived.
Gale Denton was a bit of a bore. Winters had finished his salmon rolls long ago and was wondering how to excuse himself. Going for another beer would be a legitimate excuse. Paul Keller was lecturing Barb’s husband, Carl, on the finer points of operating a barbeque as Barb hovered with a plate of hamburger patties.
“I work for the government,” Gale said in answer to Winters’ question. “Don’t we all? I’m with Children and Family Development. It’s a hard job, let me tell you, and getting harder. I could tell you some stories. It was only last week when…”
“You must know about the baby Miller Doe situation then,” he said, not wanting to hear what happened last week. He looked around, searching for an escape route. Eliza was chatting to Dave Evans; the young constable almost drooling under the force of her charm. His date clung to his arm and pouted. “What’s your take on Jody Burke?”
“Burke?” Gale’s eyes covered over as she searched her memory banks. “Can’t say I know her. She must be new, although I would have expected to have been told if someone new was coming. But we’re so busy that things don’t always happen as they should. Why just last week…”
“If you’ll excuse me, my wife’s signaling to me.” Eliza was doing nothing of the sort. But Gale’s back was to her, so she wouldn’t know that.
“It’s unlike Molly to be late,” Barb said as Winters escaped from the chatty Gale Denton.
“Maybe she took an extra shift.”
“I know who’s working today and she isn’t. She was supposed to bring lasagna. Her mother’s lasagna is famous over half the province.”
Winters smiled. “I think you have enough food, Barb. More than enough, I’d say.” The large patio table was set with napkins, cutlery, plates, and condiments. Bowls of chips and nuts sat on side tables, and the legal clerk was passing appetizers. Mr. Barb piled racks of ribs and burgers and hot dogs onto the sizzling barbeque. Al Peterson held the door open as Karen Keller and Dawn Solway brought bowls of salad out of the kitchen.
“There’s never enough,” Barb replied. Then she laughed. “Okay, time to confess. It’s me I’m worried about. I can eat lasagna every night of the week and still want it for breakfast. I was hoping for one of Lucky’s vast casserole dishes, enough leftovers to see me through the winter. Molly said she was coming.”
Winters’ cell phone rang. He dug into his jacket pocket and flipped it open.
“John Winters.”
“This is Lucky Smith. I’m not sure where Moonlight is, but she left her cell phone behind, so I hope you don’t mind that I found your number and am trying you.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Winters turned his back to the party and looked out over the valley. Purple shadows wrapped themselves around the black mountains. A red light flashed on the highest peak, warning airplanes away. Behind him the air was full of the scent of barbequed meat, pungent salad dressings, and warm casseroles.
“Can I speak to her, please?”
Winters hesitated at telling Smith’s mother that she hadn’t shown up where she was expected. “Why do you think she’s with me?”
“I’m sorry. I assumed you’re at the department party. I’ll try Barb’s house. I have the number here somewhere.”
“I am at the party. But Molly isn’t.”
The silence was so complete that Winters thought he’d lost the connection. “Lucky?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Sorry to bother you, John. Bye.”
“Don’t go, Lucky. Tell me what’s worrying you. I’d guess she found something better to do than come to a work party. That’s not hard for a young woman to do.”
Lucky laughed, the sound nervous, broken. “Probably not. But not with a baby.”
“Baby?”
“Moonlight’s not here. And neither is Miller. I’d think she’d taken him out for some air, except that the pram’s in the family room. And I found the casserole she bought for your party still in the oven and very overcooked.”
“Let me ask around, Lucky. See if anyone’s heard from her. You contact the hospital. If Miller took sick, she might have taken him there.”
“I called them already. Nothing.”
“You don’t think she took the baby for a walk?” As he talked, Winters slipped into work mode. Molly Smith was not where she was expected to be—at the annual police department party. A young, highly ambitious, probationary constable would not pass attending a company function on a whim.
“Stay by the phone, Lucky. I’ll find out what’s happening and call you back. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Talk to you soon.” He snapped the cover shut on his phone.
“Problem?” Eliza asked. The party swirled around them. People were lining up at the barbeque, paper plates in hand. Barb staggered out of the house under the weight of a casserole dish. Cabbage and onions and bacon by the scent of it. There wasn’t much John Winters loved more than cabbage and onions.
He kissed his wife.
Thanks to you I’m sober.
“Nothing major. Help yourself to dinner. I have to make a call. Guard that cabbage with your life, will you, until I get back.”
One perfectly formed black eyebrow lifted, telling him that she didn’t believe him. Then she turned to Barb. “Is there anything more that needs to be brought out?”
Barb laughed, and the only word he heard was ‘lasagna’.
Winters walked to the railing. The sun was moving west, toward Koola Glacier, the Upper Kootenay River a thin blue line carving a passage between the deep green and brown of the mountains on either side. Traffic moved on the highway. Motorcycle engines, a lot of them, heading out of town.
Should he worry about Molly Smith? Her mother didn’t know where she was. If the police responded to every worried mother… But the baby was apparently missing as well. Daughters in their twenties might get up and walk out of the parental home, but infants didn’t.
Molly had left a casserole in the oven, skipped the company party (for which he could hardly blame her, wanting to do the same himself) and headed off for amusements of her own. She’d probably taken the baby to give her exhausted mother some relief. The last thing in the world she’d want would be the entire complement of the Trafalgar City Police searching for her.
“These ribs are great,” Dave Evans said, sucking on a bone. The pretty girl from Rosemary’s Country Kitchen stood beside him, smiling, eyes shining. “Nice party. Where’s Molly anyway?”
“Busy,” Winters said. “Save me some of those, will you. Ray, give me a minute.”
