Free Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier by Vicki Delany

Lucky. It’s not nine o’clock yet. I haven’t seen my face in the mirror. Although that’s no great pleasure these days.”
    Lucky had lain awake all night, while Andy slept stiff and flat, as far to his side of the bed as he could without falling off. She’d debated whom to call first with the news, all the while knowing that the decision shouldn’t be a hard one. Barry Stevens had lost an arm in Vietnam. When he was released from hospital, he could have gone home to Tennessee. But he brought his cousin, who’d just received his draft notice, to Canada. The cousin accepted amnesty and returned to the States long ago, but Barry stayed behind. He married a Trafalgar girl, had three kids, and built one of the first computer businesses in the B.C. interior. He never spoke of the war, of his trauma, the father he hadn’t spoken to in more than thirty years, or the mother who told her husband she was going to quilting conventions and snuck across the border to visit her grandchildren. He played no part in local politics; Lucky knew him only from mutual friends. Then Larry O’Reilly died, bequeathing his property to the town for the Commemorative Peace Garden, and Barry Stevens came down from the mountains determined to see the park a reality.
    “Something tragic has happened,” Lucky said, trying to sound somber. “I read about it in the morning paper. Reginald Montgomery died last night.”
    “You don’t say. Goddamn, shoulda bought a lottery ticket.” After thirty years in British Columbia, Barry’s Tennessee accent was as thick as the day he’d left. “Does the paper say how it happened?”
    Lucky didn’t know—she hadn’t read it yet. But the headline did say something about “tragically.” “I’m going to call a meeting of the committee, say seven? My house?”
    “I’ll be there. After I’ve bought that lottery ticket.” Barry hung up.
    Lucky turned her swivel chair to look out the window and propped her feet on the windowsill. It wasn’t much of a view, just the alley behind the shop. But the sky was blue, and the vegetable garden of the house on the other side of the alley was dressed in more shades of green than one could name.
    She called Michael Rockwell last. He was at his desk in the realtor’s office, about to go out, he explained, to show a riverside property to a retired couple from Toronto. He told her the asking price, a million and a half. Not for the first time she wondered what had attracted a prosperous businessman such as Michael to their controversial project.
    “Of course I’ll be there,” he said. “My calendar’s empty tonight, so I don’t have to make any excuses. You won’t have time to fix dinner. Why don’t I pick up a few things?”
    “That’d be nice. I’ll get something for dessert.”
    “It’ll be like a party.”
    “A man has died, Michael. It’s not a celebration.”
    “I only meant party, as in a gathering of good friends around a meal.”
    “See you at seven then.” Lucky hung up. She alternately read the newspaper article and watched the woman on the other side of the alley moving through her garden, selecting tiny red tomatoes and plump peas.
    “No work today, Lucky?”
    She started and dropped her feet to the floor. She spun her chair around. Her husband stood in the doorway, a mug of coffee in hand. It saved twenty-five cents at the coffee shop if you brought your own cup. He put the mug down and picked up the paper. “Nasty,” he said.
    “Very.”
    “Murder in Trafalgar.”
    “It doesn’t say anything about murder.”
    “Read between the lines, Lucky.”
    “I try to take everything at face value.”
    “And I take it that your committee will be taking over our kitchen yet again. No supper tonight, eh?”
    “Michael offered to bring supper.”
    “Michael has, has he? How kind of him. Will it be enough for everyone, Lucky, or just for two?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means that the council is reconsidering having