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

by Delany, Vicki

  She did not know what Margo’s problem with William Westfield was. She did not want to find out.

  “Oh, Eliza. I told Steve I’d seen Jackson. He said I was imagining things. I know I’m not. This time I’m sure.”

  This time?

  Eliza fled for the closet. She fumbled to put on her coat. Couldn’t find the sleeve. Margo held the back of the coat, so Eliza could get her arm in the right place.

  When Eliza faced her, Margo’s eyes were swimming with tears. “I know I’m right. I have to be right.”

  And Eliza found herself saying, “Tell me about your son.”

  ***

  Molly Smith rolled out of bed at noon. She’d worked until six, and was lying in bed, wide-awake, at six thirty. After night shift, she liked to read for a while, try to unwind before falling asleep. Knowing she had to get up to go skiing, today she hadn’t. Instead she spent what passed for her night tossing and turning and punching her pillow, and it seemed as if she’d only fallen asleep as the alarm began to blast.

  Grumbling, she made her way to the bathroom and then the closet.

  She reminded herself that she didn’t have to go. But, as usual, as she began to wake up she started looking forward to hitting the slopes. Even if only for a few hours.

  She’d arranged to meet Tony at one. She glanced at the clock on the microwave as she headed out the door. Adam had called last night, as she was going to the Bishop and Nun to check out the crowd. He’d told her he missed her, muttered words of endearment, and asked what she was doing the next day.

  “Skiing, of course.”

  He laughed. “Foolish question. Going with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “I know you like getting out there on your own.”

  She’d made noncommittal sounds, said something was happening up ahead and she had to go. She didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. She wasn’t being unfaithful to Adam. She was merely enjoying a few hours skiing with a man who was as good a skier as she. Nothing wrong with that.

  So why hadn’t she told Adam she was meeting Tony?

  Simply, she assured herself, because Adam wouldn’t understand. Men, even the best of them, could be possessive sometimes.

  The clouds were low and thick, and it wasn’t until she got almost to the top of the lift that figures emerged from the swirling snow and mist, and she could try to spot Tony. She was late. She never came here in the middle of the day and had forgotten to allow enough time to park at the rear of the lot. So far back, she had to wait for the bus that made the rounds of the grounds, dropping up tired skiers and picking up new ones.

  She expected him to have given up and gone off by himself, but Tony was waiting at the top of the mountain, his hands resting on his poles, not fidgeting, patiently watching skiers jumping off the lift chairs.

  She knew the minute he spotted her. His goggles were pushed up onto his helmet, and she was close enough to see his eyes light up and his face break into a wide smile. She felt herself smiling in return, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Sorry I’m late. I forgot how far away I had to park at this time of day.”

  “Not a problem. I’m glad you came.”

  “It was nice of you to wait for me.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He studied her face, and she did not look away. She felt color rising in her cheeks. “It’s cold up here.”

  “Let’s warm up. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  This lift sat at the conjunction of several blue runs and two black diamonds. Most people headed for the easier slopes. Smith followed Tony as he settled his goggles over his face and led the way to the lip of the mountain. She took a breath to feel the cold crisp air between her teeth and in her chest, settled her own goggles in place, and checked the path of the wind. She placed the tips of her skis in the direction she intended to go. A scattering of people were ahead of them, zipping in and out of the swirling mist, soon disappearing into the cloud cover. On a clear day, you could see a long way from up here: the line of mountains marching into the distance, toy cars moving along the strip of road twisting and turning through the dark forest, tiny figures mingling and separating, the lodge with smoke curling from the chimneys.

  Without a word or checking to see if she was ready, Tony launched himself over the edge. She came hot on his heels, and they raced down the steep mountain. Visibility was almost nil with the cloud cover and falling snow. Only the crunch of snow beneath her skis, the whistle of the wind in her helmet, broke the silence. Tony found a section of fresh powder and he disappeared into it. She followed, moving blindly, trusting only to the feel of her skis and the reach of her poles, soaring on clouds, the cold air, full of the scent of pine trees and ice, fresh on her face.

  She felt the ground level off and knew she was near the bottom. Lights from the lodge broke through the mist. She moved her feet into a hockey stop, driving the sides of her skis into the packed snow. Snow flew in a spray of white powder, and she punched her fist into the air with a cheer. She pushed her goggles up. Tony had reached the bottom no more than a second ahead of her. He watched her, grinning. Flakes of snow stuck to the stubble of his beard and his cheeks burned with cold and exhilaration.

  “Good,” he said, simply.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Ready for another?”

  “Let’s try Blond Ambition next. Beat you to the lift.”

  She didn’t beat him, but only because a girl, flailing wildly to control her feet and arms, slid into Smith’s path.

  They made several more runs. Smith was pumped, exhilarated. When she skied with Adam or Christa she slowed down, matching their pace. When she skied alone, she raced only against herself with no one to notice if she made a personal best or fell face first into a mound of snow.

  This, racing with Tony, reminded her of when she’d competed. Pushing herself, testing the limits of her mind and body. She’d quit competition when she realized she was never going to be good enough to make the Olympics or even a national or provincial team. Maybe, she thought now, gasping to recover her breath, laughing at the snow on Tony’s face, she shouldn’t have been so quick to give it up.

  “We should be able to get in one more run,” Tony said.

  She’d been having so much fun, she’d scarcely noticed the passage of time. A long line of cars, yellow headlights bouncing off falling snow, were pulling out of the parking lot and making their way in a single line down the mountain. Smith pulled her glove down and her sleeve up to glance at her watch. Almost five o’clock.

  “Better not. I have to be going.”

  “You’re not in a hurry, are you? Let’s have a drink. We need something to warm us up, don’t we? Something to eat? I didn’t have lunch and I’m starving.”

  “Sorry. I’d like to, but I can’t. I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated. She’d told him she worked for the city. She’d left it to him to assume she was a low-level clerk. Hard to say she had to go to work without him asking what sort of job started at six at night.

  She headed for the bus pickup in front of the lodge. Lights were on in the building and along the deck. Warm, inviting. Inside, the fire would be blazing, the bar hopping, the kitchen serving for a while yet. Everyone talking about the conditions, about their runs, hoping for more snow tonight.

  Tony was thinking the same thing. “You don’t have time for one drink? What’s the rush, Molly?”

  She bent to snap her skis off. “I’d love to stay, but I’m due at my mom’s for dinner. I have to get home and change first.”

  “Okay,” he said, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the lie.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No can do. Sorry.” The bus approached. The line-up was long and everyone shuffled a few inches forward.

  “I want to see you again, Molly. Soon. You name a time.”

  “Thursday. One o’clock?”

  “Why don’t I pick you up? No point in bringing two cars. Where do you
live?”

  The bus pulled to a halt. No one got off, and people climbed aboard, weighed down with skis and boots, backpacks, and overstimulated children.

  “I’ll meet you here. Lift at one.”

  “Can I have your phone number?”

  But it was her turn to clamber onto the bus, and she left Tony with only a wave.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Her son. Her baby boy. Jackson.

  Not a day had passed in the last forty-five years that Margo Franklin hadn’t thought about Jackson. On her wedding day, she looked over the smiling congregation and imagined Jackson sitting in the front row, proud of his role as ring bearer. As she lay in the hospital bed cradling her newborn children in her arms, she wondered if Jackson had any adoptive brothers or sisters. When she went to the children’s school to meet with their teachers or to soccer games to stand on the sidelines and cheer she hoped Jackson was getting a good education.

  She rarely, if ever, talked about him. About her boy, stolen from her. Steve didn’t want to hear it, and she’d soon come to realize that few people had any understanding. She’d been told more than once to “get over it.”

  She’d tried finding him using official channels. Everything had failed.

  Jackson had disappeared from her life.

  Until now. Now, he was back.

  Margo enjoyed working at the art gallery. She’d trained as a typist and stenographer, started out at the bottom of the ladder in the typing pool at an insurance company. She’d taken a few years off to have the kids, but had been hired back when Ellen, her youngest, started school. She’d gradually climbed the ladder to personal assistant for a series of vice-presidents. She and Steve had retired with good pensions last year, when they both reached sixty. Looking to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city, they’d moved to Trafalgar a few months ago. Margo soon decided retirement wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Long boring days, particularly in the winter when she couldn’t get into the garden; Steve underfoot all day.

  This job was perfect. It was easy and the hours were relaxed. She enjoyed meeting the customers, and although she knew little about art she did think she had good taste and loved talking about it.

  The job didn’t pay well, and truth be told Margo spent all of her earnings (probably far more than she earned) on clothes and jewelry. She’d always thought she dressed well, but since working alongside Eliza Winters, Margo found her own long-suffering secretary and retired-housewife clothes drab and, dare she say it, dowdy.

  Eliza was an easy boss; Margo got the impression she didn’t take the art gallery all that seriously. She could be a mite aloof, even cold sometimes, but Margo was sure she’d break down Eliza’s defenses soon enough. She’d been a famous supermodel once, no doubt she was used to not trusting people until she got to know them.

  Today, for the first time Eliza suggested they do something outside a formal boss-to-employee relationship. Margo was delighted, and she leapt at the chance to talk about Jackson. “Let’s go for a drink, why don’t we? Do you have time? I’ll call Steve, tell him I’m going to be late. He worries you know. After that horrible murder, I guess everyone’s looking over their shoulder these days.”

  She made her call and they set off. The Hudson House Hotel was but a half a block downhill from the shop. Eliza led the way to the comfortable lounge. The bar was filling up with skiers, but the women found a two-person table tucked into a small alcove where they could speak in some degree of privacy.

  The waitress arrived promptly and asked if they wanted menus. “No, thank you,” Eliza said. “We won’t be long. I’ll have a Pinot Grigio, please. Margo?”

  “Pinot Grigio? What’s that? Is it nice?”

  “It’s a light white wine. Italian.”

  “I’ll have that too.” It sounded so sophisticated.

  Young people were pouring in, laughing and slapping backs, shedding snow, pulling off gloves, cheeks ruddy with cold, faces exhilarated with the pure pleasure of being young and healthy.

  Margo wondered if Jackson skied. He must, she’d seen him in Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations checking out the equipment on sale.

  She hesitated, momentarily afraid to tell her story. Afraid Eliza would judge her. Judge her and condemn her. She saw Eliza glancing around the room, as if she were trying to find someone more interesting to talk to.

  “I had a baby when I was sixteen,” Margo blurted. She’d meant to start slowly, build up her story gradually, like stepping into lake water at the beginning of the summer. Instead, she found herself leaping straight off the dock.

  “I named him Jackson. His father’s name was Jack. I loved Jack, and he loved me, despite the age difference. But we couldn’t be together. He was married you see, a good Catholic family man. Jack owned the drug store in our town, and I worked there part time.”

  Coasters and two glasses of wine appeared on the table. Margo picked up her glass. She remembered.

  When she told Jack she was pregnant, he said no one must know. He swore her to secrecy.

  Margo’s family didn’t have much money. Her dad worked at the sawmill and her mom stayed home. Margo was the oldest of six kids. She’d been so frightened, terrified to tell them she was pregnant.

  With good reason.

  Her mother found her throwing up in the toilet one morning. She looked at Margo as if she were a breeding cow, studying the enlarged breasts visible underneath the thin nightgown. “My worst fears have come to pass,” she declared.

  From then on, Margo wasn’t permitted to sit at the dinner table with the family anymore. She had to take her meals in her room. Her dad said she disgusted him so much he couldn’t keep his food down.

  He told the other children she was a bad person, and they weren’t to have anything to do with her. Margo’s sister, Joanie, came to her room to show Margo her new doll. Their father snatched it up. Threw it into the stove, stuffed it into the flames with the poker. He said the doll was going to hell and Margo was going there too.

  For many nights after Margo could hear her sister screaming in her sleep, having nightmares. But she couldn’t go to Joanie’s room. She couldn’t comfort her. They wouldn’t let her.

  “Of course, I had to stop going to school as soon as my parents found out about the pregnancy,” she said to Eliza. “Soon after that I left home. I remember that day, so well. Almost as well as I remember Jackson’s birth. It was a Saturday, and Dad had taken all the kids into town to see a movie. A movie was a big treat in our family.” By this time Margo had known not to even hope she’d be allowed to go with them. She wasn’t good enough to get any favors. She was a disgrace to the family. She sat in her room, by herself, all day long. She was allowed out only to go to the bathroom and she was forbidden from speaking to her brothers and sisters. She shared a bed with Mary, the next sister down, and Dad told Mary not to talk to Margo. They gave Mary Margo’s nicest clothes, not that she had much, said she didn’t need them anymore. Mom brought in her meals on a tray. Burned potatoes and fatty bits of meat, what the others didn’t want. She said the only reason they were feeding Margo at all was because the precious baby didn’t deserve to starve because of Margo’s evil.

  Evil. Her own mother had believed she was evil.

  Many years passed before Margo, with the love of Steve and their kids, began to finally understand that she was as valuable, and as flawed, as any other person on earth.

  “They asked me who’d gotten me pregnant. My dad hit me, kicked me so hard my mom yelled at him to stop, when I wouldn’t tell. I never did tell.”

  “A girl in my class went to stay with an aunt,” Eliza said. She laid her hands on the table, twisting the stem of her wine glass between her long fingers, and focused her green eyes on Margo’s face. “Everyone knew what that meant. When she came back she’d changed. She’d been a fun-loving girl before, now she was quiet, withdrawn. Sad. She never spoke of what had happened to her when she’d been away. We knew she’d had a baby, but we couldn’t ask and
she couldn’t tell. We stayed away from her, even those who’d been her friends. It was as though she’d had the plague, and we were all in danger if we got too close.”

  “Yes,” Margo said. “A disease so powerful it made parents hate their daughters. Turn from them and never want to see them again.”

  Lately two new words had begun to creep into Canadian consciousness. Honor killing. Murdering a daughter who’d been raped or gotten pregnant for the sake of the family’s supposed honor.

  Margo’s parents hadn’t killed her.