Where the Ice Falls Read online

  The Falls Mysteries

  When the Flood Falls

  Where the Ice Falls

  Copyright © J.E. Barnard, 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover image: istock.com/ViktorCap

  Printer: Webcom, a division of Marquis Book Printing Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Where the ice falls / J.E. Barnard.

  Names: Barnard, J. E., author.

  Series: Barnard, J. E. Falls mysteries.

  Description: Series statement: The Falls mysteries ; 2

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190117354 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190117362 | ISBN 9781459741447 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459741454 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459741461 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8603.A754 W55 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

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  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

  Printed and bound in Canada.

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  To Geoff, Phyllis, and Loreena

  When I began planning this book, I worried that I might not understand what it’s like to face death — one’s own or that of loved ones — especially with the choice of medically assisted dying. While I was writing the first draft, my father, Geoff W. Barnard, walked the MAID path with courage and dignity to his final breath. My early crime-writing mentor, Phyllis Smallman, healthy when I began this journey, left us too rapidly between the second and third drafts. Yet my friend Loreena Lee, who received a terminal diagnosis early on, still daily lights up the Shadow of Death with her friendship, her artistry, and her zest. She’ll hold this book in her hands yet.

  You three, you taught me much about living well and dying well.

  Thank you.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Wind shrieked through the vent screens, sending swirls of snow against the young man’s face. His eyes flew open and he raised his head. How long had he been leaning against the wall, half dreaming? He pulled himself upright, stumbled over to the plywood door, and pushed as hard as he could. It wouldn’t budge. He stood back and kicked it, over and over, with the same result. He threw his shoulder against it. Still nothing. Finally, he began hammering on it with his gloved fists and yelling for someone, anyone, to let him out. The wind whistled through the drafty shed, mocking him with a howl like his own. He slumped to the floor.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Just before dawn the blizzard let up, leaving the wilderness shrouded in white, the roads snowdrifted, and the oil derricks iced over. Far out on the shoulders of the Rockies, the scattered chalets at Black Rock Bowl were hidden under the blanket of snow. No sign of life disturbed the stillness, save a lone spire of chimney smoke rising up into the lightening sky. As the sun rose, revealing this new white world, it kissed the roof of the shed, slowly melting the snow, the water dripping down to form ever-lengthening icicles.

  Six more days of melting and freezing followed before the plow from Waiparous Village reached the deserted resort. It rumbled around the Black Rock Loop from the northern end, its operator keeping an eye out for a red Toyota Camry reported missing on the first day of the storm.

  Day by day and week by week, the sun added more icicles to its artwork, until the front of the shed resembled a waterfall frozen mid-tumble. The diamond clarity of the ice reflected the surrounding snow, sky, and forest. November ended. December began. The icefall thickened.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Do you want to find my emaciated body in the next chinook, Mom?” Lizi Gallagher pointed out the back door of the chalet, her glittery nail polish glinting in the sun. “Niagara Falls froze over that woodshed. It’ll be Christmas before I get the door open.”

  Zoe rolled her eyes. “You should be in school, but you insisted on coming along to help. Now go. Two hits at the top with an axe and it’ll all come crashing down.”

  With a loud sigh, Lizi flounced out onto the porch and slammed the door. A line of slender icicles shivered on the eaves. She stomped down the steps and set out across the glade, axe on her shoulder, ostentatiously lifting each leg high before lowering it gingerly into the next drift. The woodshed was barely three car lengths away, well clear of the surrounding forest, but here she was treating it like a death march across the Columbia Icefield.

  Teenagers. Ugh.

  Zoe started the kettle and leaned against the granite countertop. The warm, rustic cooking space of her memory had been replaced by a sleek, modern kitchen — slate-grey cupboards, brushed steel appliances, slate-tile backsplash, and a floor that appeared to be coated in concrete. Basically everything was grey apart from two rust-brown throw rugs that matched the stools along the breakfast bar. Nothing about the room said cozy ski chalet or relaxed weekend getaway — more like desolate industrial wasteland. Perhaps a reflection of the owne
r’s second marriage?

  The kettle let out a whine, as if it, too, was conscious of its dismal surroundings. Boiling already? She reached for it. But the appliance was cold, not even a hiss coming from its snub nose. The sound rose to a wail. It was coming from outside.

  Zoe leaned toward the window and saw Lizi flailing back through the snow, her mouth wide, her pink-gloved hands waving above her head. By the time she opened the door, Lizi was halfway up the steps, gasping and screaming alternately like a broken steam whistle. She lunged inside, grabbed the door, and hurled it shut. The icicles plunged from the eaves and shattered, one after another, onto the porch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The yard with the Christmas lights, the first sign of civilization Lacey McCrae had seen in ages, vanished from the rear-view mirror. The forest crowded in again, dark and thick beneath the pale winter sky. “We’re lost,” she said. “We should turn around and head for the airport. We can eat there.”

  “We can’t be lost.” Dee turned the screen of her cellphone toward Lacey. “See? Only one road.”

  “I’d feel better if you had a data signal placing us on that screen.”

  Lacey steered the SUV carefully around an ice-rutted bend. Dee’s Lexus was a warm, safe bubble travelling through the frozen wilderness. A human out here alone would be a self-propelling hot-meal delivery for the Alberta foothills’ apex predators: cougars and grizzlies and wolves. As if answering her thoughts, a deer bounded from a snowmobile trail that intersected the road, barely touching down before vanishing into the next section of trail. She hit the brakes, sending the phone flying. It clunked against Dee’s walking cast and dropped into the footwell. Lacey fished it out and handed it back before driving on.

  After a few minutes, Dee pointed. “There’s the sign: Black Rock Bowl.”

  The Lexus rumbled over a log bridge with its side rails capped by fresh white powder and emerged from the woods onto a model village square bounded on two sides by Tudoresque buildings decked with green boughs and wreaths. Faux-candle lanterns hung between the metal grilles that shuttered the storefronts. A huge tree sat dead centre on the snowdrifted paving, its massive purple decorations peeping through the snow that covered its branches. Beyond it, the ghostly pylons of a ski lift marched uphill toward the grey-black of the upper mountain.

  “Uh …” said Dee.

  “Let me guess. The mall wasn’t here last time you were up here.”

  They left the shops behind and followed a plowed single-lane track up the Bowl’s north shoulder. The first snow-filled driveway led to a large modern chalet with a high glass front and a wide veranda. The second was similar. In the third, a rustic bi-level squatted near the road, its age-darkened logs almost black against the snow. A half-buried shed slumped against the treeline, and what appeared to be a rusty garbage incinerator poked through a snowdrift.

  “That definitely isn’t JP’s place. Nobody would bother putting keypad entry and security alarms on that hovel.” Dee fumbled her phone. The screen glowed. “Yay, I’ve got a signal again! There must be a cell tower for the ski hill. Hmm … looks like we should have crossed behind the square and gone up the south shoulder instead. Damn! Oh well, this road loops around the upper Bowl, runs under the ski hill, and goes where we need to be. It’ll just take a bit longer. And that’s assuming it’s plowed all the way.”

  “It looks like the plow only went through one way,” Lacey said, “otherwise it’d be wider.” As the land fell away to her left, she kept the SUV centred on the narrow track and hoped they wouldn’t meet the plow coming back. They passed a dozen more chalets before reaching the tunnel that ran under the upper ski lift. When they re-emerged into the light, Lacey looked down the long slope at the shops far below. A white truck with a crest on the door sped past the square. She slowed for a better look, but it vanished into the trees on the south shoulder before she could make out whether the insignia was Alberta Sheriffs Branch or RCMP. What trouble had come to this winter playground on a quiet weekday afternoon?

  Zoe threw the last split of birch onto the fire and went over to the window. The sap crackled as flames licked up its length, mocking the cold room with its illusion of warmth. She cupped her hands against the frosty glass. “Blue lights. They’re almost here.”

  “Mommy, come back,” Lizi whimpered. “What if he comes inside?”

  “He isn’t going anywhere, honey. I … checked.” Zoe slid onto the couch and wrapped her arms around her daughter, trying to protect her from the chill. Too soon — and not soon enough — came the sound of heavy boots thudding on the porch. She detangled herself from Lizi’s clutches and pushed a pillow into the girl’s arms before opening the door to admit a blast of frigid air and a huge Mountie. “Thank God you’re here. He’s in the woodshed … out back. Do I need to show you? My daughter’s in here and I don’t want to leave her —”

  “Mommy, it’s cold.”

  The Mountie said he’d find it himself, and Zoe hurried back to her daughter, murmuring soothing words as she stared into the flames.

  A second, younger policeman entered the room and looked around. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m Constable Markov. Did my sergeant come through here?”

  Zoe pointed to the kitchen, then watched as the snowy trail left by his boots melted on the hardwood floor. That mess wouldn’t have mattered in the old cabin, or to the first Mrs. Thompson — Arliss — but Phyl Thompson would probably have a conniption if she saw her beautiful new floor being marred.

  Lizi yanked another tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew her nose. “Will they take him away right away? Or will they have to do a whole bunch of investigating here first, like on the cop shows?”

  “I don’t know, honey. It’s not every day you find a body.”

  The RCMP sergeant reappeared, filling the kitchen archway with his bulk. Zoe lifted her eyes to him. “Do you know who it is? I saw it was a young man, but —”

  He took out a small notebook. “Did you recognize him?”

  Zoe said nothing.

  “You could save us a lot of time, ma’am, if you tell us what you know.”

  Zoe looked sideways at her daughter and shook her head slightly. If he was a parent, he’d get the message. “I’m going into the kitchen with the sergeant, honey. You stay here by the fire.”

  Lizi grabbed her hand. “No, Mommy, please don’t go.”

  Zoe looked helplessly at the officer.

  Lacey swung the Lexus around a hairpin turn and slammed on the brakes. She stopped with her grille a whisper from that of an RCMP cruiser stopped mid-track. Dee leaned forward. “Oh no, that’s JP’s driveway. I wonder what’s going on.”

  “I’ll go see.”

  Lacey got out, bracing herself against the raw wind, and hurried to the driver’s window. The cruiser was empty. Trudging up the drive, she passed a white RCMP truck and then a blue minivan parked in front of the etched-glass doors of a huge log chalet. She’d raised her hand to knock when an officer appeared around the corner of the porch.

  “Markov!” she said, frowning. “Hi. Is this JP Thompson’s place? What’s going on?”

  It took the constable from the Cochrane detachment a second to recognize her. “Oh, hi, McCrae. Yeah, it is. What brings you here?”

  “My friend and I, we’re supposed to be photographing the property for the owner today.”

  A deeper voice came from behind her. “Since when are you a photographer?”

  Lacey spun around. Her old RCMP training buddy, Bulldog Drummond, stood holding open one of the glass doors.

  “Actually, Sergeant, it’s Dee, my roommate, who’s taking the photos. I’m just the driver. We expected the place to be deserted.”

  “Missing person found out back,” Drummond explained. “Deceased. And we’re short-handed. Help me out, McCrae. You finished your Victim Services training, right? Can you sit with a witness until she can give her statement?”

  “I can’t leave Dee in the car, and she can’t walk very well in t
he snow. She’s still in a cast from last summer.”

  “Markov can bring your vehicle up. Are the keys in it?”

  Lacey nodded.

  “Okay. You comfort the kid while I take the mother’s statement.” He hustled her into a spacious living room that overlooked the Bowl. “Lizi, this is Lacey McCrae. She’ll stay with you while I talk to your mom.”

  Boots dripping, still wearing her coat, Lacey lowered herself onto a huge leather couch beside the shivering teen. The girl was clutching a cushion like it was a teddy bear. Streaky black mascara ran down her cheeks, and dyed-blond locks poked out from under a knitted pink toque. She was maybe sixteen, Lacey figured, wearing blue leggings and a hip-length hoodie splashed with neon colours. Pink, fingerless gloves kneaded a crumpled tissue.

  “You must be freezing.” Lacey tugged a quilt from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the girl. “Your name’s Lizi?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Is that short for Elizabeth?” Lacey asked, to keep the girl’s attention off the voices in the next room.

  Lizi sniffled, blew her nose, and tucked her feet up underneath her. “Kinda. It’s actually Lizaveta. Russian, like my mom.”

  “Is your dad Russian, too?”

  “No. He’s from New Zealand.” Gradually, through answering more innocuous questions, Lizi began to relax. Soon Lacey knew she had a cat named Toomie at home and two older half-brothers who lived in New Zealand with their mom but were coming to Alberta for Christmas. “Me and my mom, we’re here to get the place ready for the holidays. Her boss is letting us use it, and all the skis and snowmobiles and things. He’s in England for the holidays.”

  “Her boss is JP Thompson?”

  Lizi nodded. “It’s supposed to be our greatest family holiday ever. Kai and Ari are coming all this way, and now it’s ruined.” A sob slipped out. “I can’t stay here after seeing that dead body. I just can’t!”

  Lacey wrapped the quilt tighter around the girl and left an arm over her shoulder. The fire settled, its half-eaten logs collapsing in a shower of sparks. Her eyes followed the embers, then the chimney stones up to the varnished railing that crossed the upper level. To get the Christmas-themed photos Dee wanted, she calculated they’d need a two-storey tree and endless ells of evergreen swag. She slipped her phone from her pocket and snapped a couple of photos surreptitiously, trying to give Dee a sense of what would be needed. Not quite subtly enough to evade Lizi’s attention, though. The girl sat up.