Valley of the Lost (3 page)
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Doc,” John Winters said. “Something killed her.”
Molly Smith had pressed herself against the far wall like a martyr facing the firing squad for the duration of the autopsy. The sights were bad enough, but the sounds… When the doctor had spread the dead woman’s legs apart Smith felt her own legs buckle. Russ, the doctor’s assistant, had touched her arm and nodded toward the door. Smith gave him a weak smile and shook her head. Russ seemed like a nice guy, with a bit more warmth than the pathologist who might as well be replaced by a robot. Smith and Russ had chatted briefly as Doctor Lee got ready to do her job, and Smith told him about her own mother finding the baby beside the dead body of his mother. Russ had been full of sympathy, for baby as well as mother, and that helped Smith endure the ordeal of the autopsy.
“Heroin overdose,” Lee said. “That is, of course, an unofficial opinion. I’ll need to see the chemical analysis first. But I suspected it soon as I saw her—the size of the pupils was pretty much a giveaway, plus the blueish color of her fingertips and lips, and the discoloration to her tongue.”
“Stupid. Stupid.” Winters shook his head.
“You saw the marks on her arm. She’d been a regular user.”
“Old marks,” he said, holding the door open for the two women. The pathologist was small, not any larger than the body she’d just examined. Smith wondered if she bought her latex gloves at a specialty children’s store.
“That’s the interesting point,” Doctor Lee said. “Other than the most recent injection site, I’d say she hadn’t injected for a year at least.”
“So she misjudged the quantity needed. Out of practice so to speak, and used too much,” Smith suggested.
“What she did or did not do is not my concern. I can only tell you what I observed. You figure out why. You’ll have my report soon. John. Constable.”
They watched her walk away.
“Is she always so chatty?” Smith asked.
“Sometimes she’s reluctant to offer information. But she’s good at her job.”
They walked out of the hospital and got into the unmarked van. “Your opinion, Molly?”
Smith started the engine. Pleased at being asked, she waited for a mint-condition, mint-colored, vintage Corvette to pass before pulling out of the parking space. “She hadn’t used for a while, gave into the temptation one more time, and misjudged the amount. I’ve read that people who haven’t taken heroin for a long time often use the amount they needed at the height of their addiction, and it’s too much for them now. Tough about the kid though.”
“And the restraints?”
“Restraints?”
“As well as old needle tracks on the arms, there were signs of restraint around her wrists and ankles. Very recent, Shirley thought. What do you think of that?”
Smith swore under her breath. At that vital moment, she’d probably been concentrating so hard on holding onto the contents of her stomach that she wouldn’t have noticed the corpse sitting up and pointing an accusing finger at Russ.
“Kinky games, probably.”
“If you didn’t hear the conversation, Molly, please don’t pretend to know what’s going on. Ashley, our victim, had been a heroin user in the past, and she went out in one final big bang last night. But the marks of restraint around her wrists and ankles suggest that it might not have been entirely of her own volition.”
The woman smiled at Lucky. “It was kind of you to take the child in last night. I’ll take over from here.”
Lucky smiled back. “I think it would be best for Miller to stay with me for the time being.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Smith. We’ll find a suitable foster family for the child. Until his natural family can be contacted.”
“The child,” Lucky said, “is named Miller. I’ll save you the bother of looking for a
suitable
foster family and volunteer for the position. Didn’t I read recently that the province is short of foster parents?”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, but you haven’t been approved. Therefore I can’t leave him, uh, Miller, with you.”
Lucky glanced at the basket in the corner beside the stove. The black head stirred, and the colorful blanket, fawns and bunny rabbits playing, shifted. Sylvester lay beside it, his brown eyes open and his ears alert.
“Miller approves.” Lucky got to her feet. “If you’ll pardon me, I have things to do.”
“You’re not equipped to handle a baby.” Jody Burke remained seating. She sipped at her tea. She was with Child and Youth Services, and had only arrived in the Mid-Kootenays earlier in the week to take up her new position, a much-needed addition to the existing structure of the Ministry of Children and Family Development. Lucky hadn’t met her before, and had taken an instant dislike to the woman. Burke had an aura of cold efficiency surrounding her that Lucky had often run across in people too tied to the regulation book to worry about those they were supposed to be helping. Burke’s lips were outlined in a bold red lipstick that did nothing but accentuate their thinness. Silver bangles ran up her right arm, and long silver earnings dragged at her earlobes. She wore a loose flowing dress in shades of orange and red. Her gray hair was cropped short and she was close to Lucky’s age.
The kitchen door flew open, the old hinges squeaking as they always did, and Andy Smith staggered in, arms laden with white plastic bags from Safeway. “Hi,” he said to the visitor. “I think I got everything you wanted, Lucky.” He put his shopping on the counter. Bags toppled over and containers of formula and packages of diapers spilled out. “I ran into several people in town who told me they’d heard that we’ve taken in this child and will be coming around with their grandchild’s cast-offs. I fear we’re going to be buried in baby supplies.”
“So it appears I am equipped,” Lucky said, giving Jody a smile. “Anything else I need, I can get from the women’s support center or the second hand shops. I hope you didn’t block Ms. Burke’s car, dear.”
“Nope. I have to get back to work. Flower’s not happy at being called in for an extra shift, and I can tell you right now it’s going to cost us.”
“Mr. Smith,” Burke said, “Please explain to your wife that as a representative of the Province of British Columbia, I’m here to claim the child until we contact his family. Which, of course, we all hope will be soon.”
“I never explain anything to my wife. She doesn’t allow it.” Andy opened the cupboard and rummaged through cans of beans and packages of spices.
Lucky smiled at his back. She and Andy had been together for more than thirty years. Tumultuous, passionate years. Two people of strong personalities and stronger opinions. They’d disagreed on a lot of things over that time, sometimes to a fevered pitch. But in all those years, they’d never had troubles such as were propping up recently. She wanted to keep on fighting against all the injustice she saw in the world: he wanted to drift into a contented middle age, heading for a comfortable retirement.
But he’d gone shopping for the baby, and had essentially, but very politely, told Burke to piss off.
A soft murmur came from the basket by the oven. The fawns and bunnies shifted as Miller stirred. Sylvester stretched from claw to claw and stood up.
Lucky opened the door. “If you’ll excuse me, the baby needs attention.”
“I’m not going to drop this.” Burke’s red lips were pinched in disapproval, and spots of high color had broken out across her thin cheeks. “I’ll be back with the authorities if I have to.”
“Mind the bump on the right side of the drive,” Lucky said. “It can rip into your undercarriage.”
Burke stomped down the steps toward her car.
Lucky half-turned her head back toward the kitchen. “By the way, dear,” she shouted. “Did you remember to call the police station and ask Officer Smith if she’ll be home for dinner?”
Andy came out to the back porch and draped his arm over his wife’s shoulders as they watched Jody Burke escape down their driveway. “Don’t drag Molly into this, Lucky. You don’t want her to be a police officer, so don’t call on that position when it suits you.”
Lucky shrugged his arm off. “The baby’s crying,” she said.
Andy decided not to go back inside for the bag of peanuts he wanted.
***
“She lived here. And you can’t tell me anything more about her?”
Marigold, the woman called herself. “On the outside I’m merry,” she’d explained. “And inside I am gold.”
“I can see that,” Winters said.
“Pure gold.” She smiled, wiggling her fingers in the air. She wore a silver ring on every digit. She wasn’t overweight, but came close, dressed in a short denim skirt and loose, colorful blouse that left one shoulder bare. Her long dreadlocks, streaked blond from the sun, were stuffed into a haphazard bundle at the top of her head. She talked without looking the police officers in the eye.
“You don’t even remember her last name?”
Marigold shrugged. “I never knew it. The baby was cute. Miller. Nice name. He was an active baby, particularly when he wanted to be fed. Didn’t sleep much. I read somewhere that’s a sign of intelligence. Don’t know if that’s true or not. I need help with the rent, and Ashley paid up on time. The last girl who lived here? Wow. Can you say psycho?”
Smith leaned against the wall, saying nothing. After they left Kootenay Boundary Regional Hospital in Trail, Winters asked her to accompany him to interview the girl’s roommate. He felt more comfortable, he explained, with a female officer in the room when he was questioning a young woman. The girl had given Smith a sideways glance when they arrived, and spoke only to Sergeant Winters.
The apartment was typical of many: an older, badly-maintained downtown house broken up into apartments. Small rooms, low ceilings, a whiff of mold and cooking spices. But Marigold and Ashley had decorated with a colorful hand: bright posters on the walls, multihued afghans tossed over the sagging couches, a woven rug covering part of the stained carpet.
The unmistakable scent of skunk mixed with coffee—marijuana—lingered around the room. Marigold had obviously been smoking pot when the police pressed the buzzer and identified themselves. Smith heard a toilet flushing before the door opened. Winters must have smelled it as well, but they weren’t here for a minor pot bust.
“What about her mail?” he asked. “What was the name on her mail?”
“She never got any.”
“No bills? No offers of cheap credit?”
“Not a thing.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Of course I have a job. I wait tables at The Bishop and the Nun. That’s why I didn’t mind sharing with a baby. I work nights, don’t get home ‘till three or four, usually go to bed around six. Ash gets up with Miller.” She swallowed. “I mean she got up with Miller early and they usually went out so I could sleep.” She pulled a worn tissue out of the pocket of her skirt.
“Did Ashley have a job?”
“She had a baby to look after.” Marigold blew her nose.
“She have a boyfriend?”
“Not that I knew. I mean, no one ever came round, least far as I saw. I’m sorry, Mr. Winters, but I really don’t know anything about her. She paid her share of the rent and otherwise kept herself to herself.”
“You said she went out in the mornings? Where?”
Marigold shrugged. She glanced toward a small wooden box on the side table, presumably where she kept her supply of marijuana.
“You didn’t know?” Smith asked.
Marigold’s eyes were red and moist and her nose ran. She looked directly at Smith for the first time. “That’s quite the face you have there, cop lady. Last time I saw a bruise like that I was leaving home. If your boyfriend’s knocking you around, there are places you can go for help, you know.”
Smith felt herself blushing. No one would ever assume that a male officer, Dave Evans for example, had been hit by his girlfriend.
“Constable Smith’s perfectly capable, Marigold,” Winters said, causing Smith to blush even more. “No need for you to worry. Back to matters at hand. Are you telling us you didn’t know where Ashley and Miller spent their days?”
“Honest, Mr. Winters. She didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”
“She ever go out with you? In the evenings, your days off?”
“I need the money, so I don’t take many days off. But no, she didn’t. I don’t think I ever saw Ash without Miller. Unless the baby was sleeping and then Ash was watching TV and listening for him to cry.”
“She take drugs? Be honest with me, Marigold. I’m trying to find out why she died, not bust her for using.”
“I never saw her take anything, honest, Mr. Winters. Why she wouldn’t… wouldn’t use anything.”
Smith guessed that Marigold almost said that Ashley wouldn’t even smoke any of her pot. Winters pretended not to notice the slip.
“What’s going to happen to Miller now?”
“That’s why we’re trying to find her family. In the meantime, he’s being well looked after. Don’t worry about that.”
He stood up, and Smith moved away from the wall. “Thank you for your time, Marigold. I appreciate it.” He handed the girl his card. “If you can think of anything, anything at all. Who her friends were, maybe something she mentioned about her past, call me at that number.”
She blew her nose again, and tossed the card on the coffee table. The table appeared to be of good quality, solid wood, careful workmanship. Someone had carved an obscenity, deeply, into the table top.
Smith and Winters clattered down the rickety stairs to the street. Winters’ phone rang, and he dug it out of his shirt pocket. He said a single word and snapped it shut. “I have to get back to the station for a meet with Ray. But I could use a coffee first.” Winters led the way to Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium and Smith followed, unsure as to whether she’d been invited to tag along or not.
She didn’t know what her relationship to the sergeant was. They’d worked together just once, a few weeks ago, and she’d begun to get the feeling that he, if not actually liking her, at least thought she might make a competent cop one day.
He’d joined the Trafalgar City Police recently. A step down the ladder from a high-profile career in Vancouver homicide. Among the rank-and-file officers, only Smith knew something about the near-disaster of a case that had caused him to abandon the big city and seek sanctuary in the small mountain town of Trafalgar. She’d never told him she knew.
He ordered a large coffee, strong, for himself and a hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles for Smith, without asking her what she wanted. Hot chocolate was what she’d ordered the last time they’d been here. It was a mite warm for hot chocolate today, but as she wasn’t paying she wasn’t going to object.
“You ever see her, Marigold or whatever ridiculous name she’s taken on, around town, Molly?” he asked once they were back on the street.
“She works at The Bishop, that was true. She’s there almost every night. She hangs around with an after-hours crowd. Cooks and bartenders and wait staff who are too wired after work to go home to bed. They usually go to someone’s house, or have a private party in the back after the bars close.”
“Trouble?”
“No. When the bars let out, the staff are generally stone cold sober. There are exceptions, but I haven’t heard of the people from Tthe Bishop being among them.”
They reached the steps of the police station. The red and white maple leaf flag hung limply in the warm, humid air. “What about Ashley?”
An image leapt into Smith’s head of the tiny pale girl, laid out on the steel autopsy table, under the harsh, unforgiving white lights while Doctor Shirley Lee prepared to open her up. “You might ask Dawn,” Smith said, referring to Constable Dawn Solway, who, on her own initiative, did a lot of work with the kids who drifted into Trafalgar. Seeking a pot-soaked, neo-hippie paradise and finding sky-high rents, expensive food, and not much in the way of affordable accommodation. And attentive police.
“Good idea.” He tossed his coffee cup into the trash bin at the foot of the steps. “Thanks, Molly. You’ve been a help.” He took the stairs two at a time. She crushed her own cup in one hand. But she hadn’t finished the drink, and chocolate splashed onto her yellow T-shirt. She swore under her breath. She hadn’t wanted hot chocolate anyway, and now she was wearing it. She looked at her watch. Not much more than an hour to go home, change into uniform and get back to town in time for her shift. And she’d been left without a lift. She lived about 12 kilometers outside of town, obviously too far to walk. Her parents’ store, Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations, was located on Front Street, only a couple of blocks from the police station. She set off down the hill toward town. The sun was hot on her face, but black clouds, heavy with rain, were gathering behind Koola Glacier.
Bloody John Winters.
***
Lucky looked up as her daughter staggered in. Moonlight’s short hair was plastered to her scalp and the yellow T-shirt clung to the girl’s generous curves.
“Raining?” Lucky said.
“No, Mom. It was so hot I went for a swim in the fucking river.”
Lucky turned back to the baby in her arms. Miller’s dark blue eyes were open wide and he waved pudgy fists in the air. “Mind your language.” Lucky said.
“Fuck. There, I said it. Now he’s contaminated for life.” Moonlight kicked off her shoes. “I need a car. Dad was not pleased at having to give me a lift.”
“I thought you were with John Winters.”
“Fuck him too.” Moonlight stomped out of the kitchen.
Lucky stroked the baby’s soft cheek. Miller looked back at her, and Lucky thought she might have seen the trace of a smile.