A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series)

by Delany, Vicki

  “Sounds like a shooting. Let’s go see.” He pulled on his gloves and tightened the scarf around his neck. Fat cheerful flakes fell from a pewter sky.

  Norman led the way. Trained to follow the freshest scent, he found Smith’s trail immediately. Not that they would have had any trouble without the dog. Boot prints made clear indentations in the fresh snow.

  Winters shouted, and Smith answered.

  No more than a hundred yards along, the path took a sharp bend. Two paramedics were waiting, their packs resting on the ground. They nodded greetings. Smith stood in the center of the path, next to a man. A small dog tied to a tree nearby set up a chorus of frantic barking as Norman approached, straining to free itself from the restraints of its leash.

  A body lay on its back in the snow. A woman. Her arms were tucked against her sides, her face wet with melting snow, her eyes glassy, staring up at nothing. As Winters looked, white flakes fell gently onto her face. She did not lift a hand to brush them away. She wore a winter coat, green scarf, gloves, and boots. The coat was spread open and red liquid soaked her chest. Blood spread around her, like broken Christmas lights scattered on a white carpet. The snow was churned up around the body; small paw marks, trailing blood, led to the nearly hysterical small dog.

  The paramedics approached. “I’ve called it, Sarge. No pulse. H.R. zero.”

  “Did you move her?”

  “She was lying face down. We turned her and opened the coat to check for a heartbeat.”

  “Thanks.” Winters pulled out his cell phone. He called Jim Denton and said he needed officers to seal off the area. He wanted the entire walking trail placed out of bounds.

  Denton reminded him they didn’t have enough officers, some of those with young families had taken vacation time.

  “From the parking lot then, to whatever street is after Martin to the east. We’re in the middle of a public path. I can’t have curiosity seekers picking through the bush for clues, trying to be helpful. Oh, and call the coroner.”

  Winters went over to Smith and the man standing beside her. Townshend and Tocek hung back, waiting for orders. The paramedics packed up their equipment.

  “This is Sergeant Winters,” Smith said. “Sergeant, Matt Hornbeck placed the 911 call. His wife was here, but I said she could take her dog home.” Her voice dropped. “Hope that was okay?”

  It wasn’t okay, but he was scarcely going to say so in front of a civilian. Smith should have known better than to display a degree of uncertainty. Just when he thought the young officer was coming along nicely, she slipped.

  “What can you tell me, Mr. Hornbeck?”

  “Not much. Janice and I were taking Rex, our dog, for a walk. We hadn’t gone far when Rex bolted up the path ahead of us. He wouldn’t come when we called, which is unusual. He’s an old guy and doesn’t like to be out of our sight. We followed. This is what we found.” He spread his hands.

  “Do you live nearby?”

  “Redwood Street. We drive up here to walk Rex most weekends.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  The man turned green around the edges. He swallowed heavily. “Yes, I did. I wanted to help. At first, I figured she’d fallen. Her dog was going nuts, trying to encourage her to get up, I guess. Don’t know why I didn’t see the blood at first. I touched her cheek. Cold. So cold.” He shuddered. “So still.”

  More people in uniform began to arrive. Falling snow picked up its pace.

  “Do you recognize her?” Winters asked.

  “No.”

  “Ever seen the dog before?”

  Hornbeck glanced at it. The poor creature was set to pull down the tree to which it had been tied.

  “Can’t say. It’s not an unusual breed. Lots of people walk their dogs here.”

  “You said the dog was jumping on the woman. How’d he get tied up?”

  “I did that. Hope it was okay?” he echoed Smith. “I thought it should be out of the way.”

  “Is that your leash?”

  “No. She was holding it. I uh…sorry, but I pried it out of her hands. I probably wouldn’t have been able to stomach it, but she’s wearing gloves. Somehow that didn’t seem so bad.”

  “Did you disturb anything else?”

  “No.”

  “How much time passed between finding the body and calling 911?”

  “Probably less than a minute. This close to town, cell phones get a strong signal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hornbeck. We’ll need you and your wife to come into the station and make a statement. Give your contact information to Constable Smith. I’ll call you when I’m done here.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you hear anything? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “You mean like a gunshot?”

  Winters did not reply.

  “No. Nothing. Lovely and quiet.”

  “See anyone else on the trail?”

  He shook his head. Ice and snow were trapped in his beard and mustache. “No. We only just started walking. There might be people further toward the parking lot.”

  “Thanks.”

  Winters left Smith to take Hornbeck’s information.

  “Let’s have a look, Alison.” He pulled latex gloves from his coat pocket.

  “Humane society’s here.” Tocek indicated a small woman peering myopically up the path. Norman waited patiently beneath a tree.

  “Thank heavens. Let her take that dog away. Man can’t hear himself think over that racket. Before she does, Adam have a look at it. Make sure there isn’t a clue tucked into its collar.”

  “Better keep your gloves on,” Townshend said. “She may be small, but I bet she’s nasty when frightened.”

  Winters and Townshend approached the body. They crouched down on either side. He was conscious of Molly Smith peering over his shoulder, of the humane society woman talking softly to the frenzied dog. He could hear officers, city as well as Mounties, arriving. He couldn’t see them around the bend, but he could hear onlookers and curiosity seekers also gathering.

  Snow fell harder now. A light veneer covered the woman’s face, melting in the still warm blood on her clothes.

  “Gunshot.”

  “No doubt about it,” Townshend replied.

  “Hard to tell how many. One maybe. If two, they’re together.”

  “Fired from a distance, probably. Not close anyway. No powder burns.”

  “Can you tell what type of weapon?” Smith asked.

  “Not yet. There’s not an excessive amount of blood. She must have died almost immediately the bullet hit.”

  The woman stared at them through sightless brown eyes. He checked her body. No other visible wounds.

  She was probably in her late thirties, early forties. Her shoulder-length blond hair was expensively cut and streaked. John Winters’ wife was a fashion model. In her youth Eliza had been so successful she’d sashayed down the catwalks in Paris and Milan for the likes of Dior and Chanel; her pouting face had been on the cover of Vogue several times. On occasion he’d found himself being dragged to boring industry parties and dinners to drink European beer or expensive cocktails and exchange empty conversation with mindless models and superficial designers. He knew, more than most men, the cost and effort that went into being beautiful.

  This woman wasn’t beautiful, but she was well cared for. In life she would have been attractive. Her skin, turning the color of skim milk with death and cold, was smooth and taut. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream, and he could see perfect white teeth. He gently pulled the glove off her left hand. The nails were short, the pink polish unchipped, the fingers long and smooth. A good-sized diamond ring graced the third finger, along with a plain gold band.

  “Recognize her, Molly?”

  “I’ve seen her around. Can’t think where.”

  “It’ll come to you.” Winters pushed himself to his feet, trying not to grimace as his knee protested. He studied the area. Ahead, the trail carried on for about twenty yards be
fore disappearing around a bend. On his left, through a break in the trees he could see the road, houses and garages, gardens and sheds, and the maze of streets leading down to town. On his right, a patch of thick trees and undergrowth, then the rocky mountain face climbing at about a forty-five degree angle. Behind him, the trail went back to where it began. The woman had been struck in the back. He studied the way she’d fallen.

  “Adam.”

  “Here.”

  “The bullet must have come from that direction.” Winters pointed at the mountain. “I’m interested to know what’s on the other side of that line of trees. Molly, you’ve been there?”

  “There’s a small clearing. The mountain face levels out a bit, but it’s very rocky so not much grows. People stop there for a rest or a picnic in the summer sometimes.”

  “Adam, check it out. You and Norman see what you can find. You’d better hurry, this snow will start covering tracks soon.” He glanced up. Snow spilled from thick gray clouds. “I thought we were supposed to get less than a centimeter today.”

  “Whatever the forecast says,” Townshend replied, “I believe the opposite.”

  “Molly,” Winters ordered, “you’re with Adam.”

  Chapter Six

  Molly Smith followed Adam and Norman, man and dog fully intent on the job at hand. Norman’s head was down, his ears up, his nose moving, casting about for a scent. Adam held the leash balanced in his right hand, waiting to feel as much as see a signal from the dog. All of the dog handler’s attention would be focused on his animal. Another officer always accompanied the pair, watching their backs.

  Smith kept her own head up, her eyes moving through the trees surrounding them. A shooter had been here. Highly unlikely he’d hung around, but you never knew. He might be watching the police, the dog, the curiosity-seekers on the road. A shiver ran down her back. Was he watching her, now? Her Kevlar vest protected her to some degree, but was a high-powered scope trained on her face?

  A gray squirrel broke cover and dashed up the trunk of a scraggly cedar. Smith almost leapt out of her boots.

  Get a grip.

  They slipped into the line of trees. Second growth forest, the area had been logged many times. Trees were tall but thin and close together, the undergrowth thick.

  Hard to get a clean shot on a moving person.

  In a few steps they emerged into a small clearing with a foundation of solid rock where only a handful of tough saplings and scraggy bushes grew. The undisturbed snow lay deep, higher than the top of Smith’s boots. They waded through drifts, feet breaking the crust, while Norman picked up his pace. Adam let him have his head.

  Beneath a single pine, drooping with the weight of snow, the ground had been churned up. From there a line of boot prints, coming and going, led west across the clearing to disappear into the woods.

  Smith turned. Through the gap in the trees she could see John Winters examining the body, Alison Townshend crouched beside him. Corporal Ron Gavin, Townshend’s partner, had arrived and was photographing the scene. The coroner approached as Smith watched, wrapped in a white scarf. Winters got to his feet to greet him. Falling snow swirled around them.

  “Bang,” Adam said. “A clear shot.”

  “You think it came from here?”

  “Almost certainly. The shooter didn’t worry about covering his tracks.” Adam pointed to a bright red splotch lying on the ground near their feet. “He didn’t seem to worry about it at all.” Falling snow was beginning to cover the shell casing, but it was still highly visible. Tocek touched the radio at his shoulder. “You were right, Sarge. Someone was here. The snow’s trampled as if he stood around for a while, and he left a casing behind. His tracks head west, probably back to the path. Want us to follow? Ten-Four.” He turned to Smith. “Let’s see where Norman takes us.”

  Norman had the scent now and he set off at a strong loping pace following two sets of boot prints close together, one coming into the clearing, one leaving. Smith glanced at them as she passed, careful to keep her own feet out of the treads. Large boots by the look of it. A man’s boots.

  Not that that was much of a surprise.

  Women could kill, but they rarely used firearms and even more rarely would stand in wait, like a sniper.

  Walking was difficult. Occasionally her feet broke through the icy crust beneath the fresh snow and she sank almost to her knees. Norman led them back into the line of trees. Naked branches raked at their faces and arms, hidden twigs and rocks tried to trip their feet, snow fell into their collars. Instead of getting brighter, the day progressively darkened as clouds thickened. Falling snow had turned from light fluffy flakes to small, icy pellets.

  They broke through the bush and found themselves back on the trail, west of Martin Street. Along this section, the path meandered behind the last row of houses. Many of the homes had gates in fences, allowing ready access to the trail. A German shepherd, even bigger than Norman, leapt against the fence around his property, snarling and barking. Norman ignored him.

  They jogged down the path. The prints continued, not far apart indicating that the man had not been running. After about a quarter of a kilometer, Norman swerved, left the trail, and headed down the street. The boot prints disappeared into tire tracks and other footprints, but the dog kept moving.

  A family, wrapped in colorful scarves and mittens, children dressed in puffy snowsuits, were erecting a snowman on their front lawn. The bottom pieces were in place, and the two kids were pushing a snowball downhill. They stopped what they were doing to watch the police jog past. Smith lifted a hand in greeting. Faces peered through windows, and a woman came out onto her front porch to watch.

  A church occupied the corner of the second intersection. Smith and Tocek arrived to see the last few cars pulling out of the parking lot. The minister stood on the steps, a red shawl tossed over her cassock.

  “Oh, no. I hope…,” Adam said as Norman veered into the parking lot. The dog ran across the empty space and came to an abrupt halt. He looked baffled for a moment, and then he began casting around trying to regain the scent in the mass of tire treads and foot prints, crossing back and forth over each other. Falling snow gathered in the depressions.

  “Can I help you, Officers?” The minister approached, holding her shawl to her throat. She was in her sixties with a helmet of gray hair and twinkling hazel eyes.

  “Ma’am,” Adam said. “My dog followed a scent here. A man on foot. I don’t suppose, uh, you noticed anyone around.”

  “I noticed a great many people this morning. Makes a change from the rest of the year. I conducted a funeral service.” She gestured to a sleek black limo parked at the bottom of the church steps. “I have to get to the graveside. They’ll be waiting for me.”

  “A couple of quick questions first, please,” Smith said. “What time did the service start?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  Smith checked her watch. Ten forty-five. “What time did you arrive? Were there cars here before you?”

  “The youth group had a sleepover in the church basement to celebrate the start of March Break. Their parents were told to pick them up by eight-thirty, to give me time to prepare for the funeral, so yes, cars were coming and going all morning. As for the parking lot…The big room in the basement faces out the back. I’m sorry,”

  Norman and Adam walked in circles. The shoulders of both man and dog were slumped.

  “Can you tell me what’s happened?” the minister asked.

  “Forensics officers will be here later,” Smith said. “But I think they’ll only be interested in the parking area.”

  ***

  Sylvester bounded through snow drifts, and Lucky Smith smiled. The old dog really did enjoy the snow. He loved to climb on the high mounds piled beside the driveway and stand there, proudly surveying his domain. There had been a warm spell earlier in the month and a lot of the snow had melted, but enough had fallen since to return the woods to a vestige of a winter wonderland.

&nb
sp; “Seems to have been an incident in town,” the man beside her said. “A killing, looks like.”

  “Oh, dear. A local? Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t have any details yet. I’ll head over in a while, see what’s happening. Not that they need me poking around. No one seems to need me much these days.”

  She gave him a sharp look, wondering if that were a hint, but his eyes were on the dog running ahead. Paul Keller’s wife had left him in the fall; their grown children had moved out long ago. Their house sold quickly, and Paul moved to a new condo complex down by the lake.