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

by Delany, Vicki

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow. To celebrate good skiing.” He lifted his bottle, his eyes fixed on her. “And new relationships.”

  She shifted in her seat and glanced to one side. The security guard was standing at the door, checking out the drinkers. He saw her and lifted a hand in greeting. She waved back, and Tony half turned.

  “Just someone I know,” she said quickly.

  “You guys okay?” a waiter appeared at their table.

  “I’ll have another one of these. Molly?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Where’d you learn to ski like that?” Tony said. “Did you ever race? Compete, I mean?”

  “I grew up here, in Trafalgar. My mom says I could ski almost as soon as I could walk.”

  A fresh bottle appeared on the table. Tony chugged half of it in one long swallow. “I bet this was a nice place to live as a kid.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  Smith sipped her beer and told Tony about growing up in the mountains. Kayaking, hiking, skiing. She told him about her dad, Andy, encouraging her to be bold, to be unafraid. About her mom, telling her she could be all she wanted to be.

  Tony listened, his head cocked to one side, his intense dark eyes focused on her face. She described growing up in the house at the edge of the bush, her first memories of coming to work with her mom, playing with ski equipment and hiking gear as other children played with toy trucks or Lego. Her dad teaching her and her brother to be guides, exploring the remote mountains and hidden valleys at his side.

  The logs in the fireplace popped and flames leapt. All around them people laughed and chatted as they clutched bottles of beer or glasses of wine. Table tops were piled high with chicken wings, nachos, and discarded outerwear.

  It felt strange to be talking about herself. She didn’t meet many new people. In this small town almost everyone knew her. Many had known her since she’d been born. No one ever had to ask about her history or the history of her family.

  At one point she laid her hand on the table. Tony put his on top of it. His index finger stroked her soft skin. She pulled away with a jerk, face burning. He reached for his bottle and took another drink.

  She did not talk about Graham. Nor of Adam.

  Or about her job.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have rather gone on, haven’t I?”

  “I enjoyed listening to you. You sound as if you’ve had a great life.”

  “It hasn’t all been good.”

  “Never is. Look, let’s have dinner tomorrow. Most places’ll be full on a Friday, but I’m sure we can get a reservation somewhere nice. You’re the local, where would you suggest?”

  “I can’t. Sorry. I have to go to my mom’s.” The lie came easily to her lips this time.

  “Again? You spend a lot of time with her.”

  “My dad died…recently. She likes having me around.”

  “Sorry to hear that. She can’t cling to you, Molly. She has to let go sometime.”

  The waiter brought the group beside them their bill and exchanged a joke. By the time he turned, Tony had his arm in the air. “Get me another will you?”

  “You’re driving,” Smith said.

  “So?”

  “Three beers in less than an hour? Not a good idea.”

  Something moved behind his eyes. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come, and she told herself it had been the shift in the light as people at the next table pushed chairs back and got to their feet.

  The waiter slipped away. He knew Molly Smith. He knew she was a cop. If she said no beer, he wouldn’t bring it.

  “Whatever,” Tony said with a shrug.

  “Don’t you have to work or something? Didn’t you say you’re a ski instructor?” No resort would let staff take vacation over one of the busiest weeks of the year.

  “I quit Whistler a couple of weeks ago.” He tilted his bottle to get the last drops of beer and began to turn looking for the waiter.

  “Why?”

  “Why? I didn’t get on with the boss too well. Figured I’d look elsewhere. I have some money saved up, no rush to find something else. Decided to check out the Kootenays. I heard Red Mountain’s hiring.” He grinned at her. “But then I met this wicked skier and decided to hang around for a bit.”

  While he talked, his fingernails tore at the label on the bottle. She hid a grin. She made him nervous.

  “This wicked skier has to be getting off home.”

  “It’s not even six o’clock. Let’s meet up in town, go for another drink.”

  She hesitated. She was bushed. She’d worked nights, and then slept fitfully for less than four hours over the past two days. Not to mention skiing full out all afternoon. She felt okay now, but knew that by the time she drove down the mountain, pulled up in the alley behind Alphonse’s Bakery, and climbed the stairs, she’d be ready to drop. “I’m sorry. Not tonight.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I want to spend time with you, Molly. I want to get to know you better. I love skiing with you, but there’s more to life than skiing.”

  She started to get to her feet. “I can do dinner on Saturday. How about…” She thought. Some place they didn’t know her. Didn’t know Adam. “Feuilles de Menthe,” she blurted out. The restaurant in the block where she lived. Nothing wrong with having dinner with a friend. No need to sneak around as if she were going behind Adam’s back.

  Tony smiled, his brown eyes dancing in the firelight. “I know where that is. Seven o’clock?”

  “Seven.” She gathered her helmet and gloves.

  “I don’t have your phone…” he said, as she ran for the door.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A man walked into the Mountain in Winter Art Gallery and gave Eliza a tight smile. He didn’t seem interested in the art, more interested in peering around corners. He approached the counter where she sat with her book. “Hi.” He wore a black winter coat with blue wool mittens. He did not take the mitts off.

  “Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but are you alone here?”

  “How else must I take that question?” she said, placing her hand on the telephone. She was alone. People had been in and out all day, but right now the gallery was empty. Outside a couple stopped to study her window display, and then moved on.

  “Your assistant. The older lady. She’s not in today?”

  “Margo has the day off. Why are you asking this?”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he replied.

  He dashed out the door.

  How odd. She took her hand off the phone and turned her attention back to her book.

  The bell tinkled a moment later and all was explained. He was back, this time accompanied by the man Margo believed was her son. Eliza struggled to remember his name.

  “Good afternoon. I came by the other day looking at the Khan sketches. Do you remember? I’m William Westfield.”

  She slid off her stool. “Of course, I remember. I’m pleased you came back. We have a few pieces left. They’ve proved to be very popular. I must apologize for my assistant’s behavior. I don’t know what came over her. She’s a good saleswoman. Really.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m here now. Let me have a…have a…a look.” He stammered, tongue struggling to form the words. She waited patiently until he was comfortable again. “Ah…uh…yes.” He crossed the room to stand in front of the grouping of sketches. His friend left without saying goodbye.

  Eliza returned to the counter, taking herself out of Westfield’s way. Let him make up his mind, unpressured.

  Eventually he turned to her. “The three across the bottom will make a nice grouping on the wall of my room.”

  “A good choice. Will you be taking them with you today?”

  “They’re small enough, no problem.”

  “I’ll wrap them for you then.” One at a time, she took the pictures off the wall and laid them on the table at the back of the
gallery. She was reaching for the third when the door opened. She glanced up and smiled.

  John.

  “Be with you in a few minutes,” she called.

  “I can wait.” He came over to join them. “Those are good.”

  “Amazing what a skilled hand can accomplish with no more than a couple of quick strokes,” Westfield said. “You’re Sergeant Winters. I’ve seen your picture in the paper.” He held out his hand and the two men shook. “I didn’t make the connection. You’re Eliza Winters so this must be your husband?”

  “Yes,” she said, enveloping the art in sturdy brown paper.

  “As long as I have you here,” Westfield said to John, “I have to ask the question on everyone’s mind. What’s happening about the killing?

  “Our investigation is progressing.”

  “I’m sure it is. Getting any help from IHIT?”

  “Some.”

  “You can’t talk about it, I understand. It’s not just idle curiosity on my part. I knew her.”

  “You knew Cathy Lindsay?”

  “Last term I took a course in creative writing at the college. She was the teacher.”

  “Did someone call you? Officers have been going through the class list.”

  Westfield shook his head. “Not yet, but I can usually be found at the bottom of any list. W.” He laughed. “I’m sure you’ve found the same.”

  “What was your take on her?”

  Eliza continued wrapping the art.

  “I didn’t know her socially, she was just the teacher.”

  “You must have had some impression of her.”

  “She seemed to enjoy teaching the class. She did say at one point she found it refreshing to teach people who wanted to be there. I assumed she meant as opposed to high school students. Who’d rather be just about anywhere else. I’m writing a novel. A gritty, hard-boiled mystery novel. Perhaps you could give me some tips, Sergeant Winters.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “My story’s not very original, I’m afraid. Serial killer in a big American city. Hard-drinking, bitter, divorced cop. But I like it. It’s my first attempt, see, and I figured I could use some help with the mechanical things. Dialogue, when to use description.” His voice trailed off.

  “Did Cathy Lindsay help with what you needed?”

  “Oh, yes. She was very good at highlighting flaws.”

  Eliza had no interest in the conversation, but from where she stood, behind the counter, ringing up the sale price, she could hear the men’s voices. She glanced up, startled at the bite William put in his last sentence.

  John said, “Did she talk about her personal life at all? Mr. Westfield? Mr. Westfield?”

  William seemed to be locked in place. His mouth was open, his jaw slack, his eyes did not blink. He looked as if, like Lot’s wife, he’d been turned to a pillar of salt. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Seconds passed. Eliza reached for the phone.

  Then he said, as if nothing unusual had happened, “She told us she taught English at the high school.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” John asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  John and Eliza exchanged a silent question. Then he said, “If you’re sure. Did Cathy seem to be close to anyone in the class? Any one in particular?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “What about her life outside your class. Did she mention problems at home, with her friends, her work?”

  “I can’t really say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “It’s just an impression, you understand. I don’t know anything.”

  “You can consider this a formal interview, Mr. Westfield. There’s no one to hear us other than my wife, and she doesn’t talk about police business.” Eliza pulled her book out, flipped it open, and pretended to read. “If you know something, no matter how insignificant, you need to tell me.”

  “I was surprised to read in the paper that her husband owns a consulting business. I thought he taught at her school.”

  “Why?” The question was asked calmly, a routine inquiry. But Eliza knew her husband well enough that he might as well have lifted his ears and howled, a hound catching the scent of a fox.

  She also heard the shrug in William’s voice. “She talked about him sometimes. A math or science teacher. Can’t remember his name offhand, but she would say things like so-and-so teaches his students that even in the sciences good writing’s important. It’s how we express ideas, create understanding and enhance knowledge. Or words to that effect.”

  “Did she get on well with the students in your class? Any problems you were aware of?”

  “One incident, now that I’m remembering. Last day of class she handed out the final marks. This woman, Elaine, took offense at her result. She told Cathy she clearly didn’t understand experimental literature.”

  “What did Cathy have to say about that?”

  “She wasn’t too concerned. It didn’t come as a surprise to any of us that Cathy didn’t like Elaine’s writing. They’d clashed before.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Westfield. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

  “Sure.” William pulled out his wallet as he made his way to the counter. He tucked John’s card in, and took his credit card out. Eliza rang up the charges. “Unlike many people,” she said, “Alan Khan’s spending the winter in B.C. and going to New Mexico for the summer. He should have some interesting desert sketches next year.”

  “Not for me, I’m afraid. Don’t care for the desert. Bad memories.” He picked up his parcel, said a cheerful goodbye and left.

  When Eliza turned to face her husband, his look was dark and serious.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Run. He had to run.

  The streets were treacherous. Snow had fallen, melted under a steady pounding of car tires and pedestrian feet, frozen again, melted when the sun came out, and refroze when the temperature dipped in the afternoon.

  Ice. Everywhere was ice.

  First thing this morning, he’d gone to the grocery store to get in some supplies. On the way home, he’d seen a woman slip as he drove past. She’d stepped off the pavement to cross the road and hit the ground in a tumble of arms and legs, her mouth open in shock.

  Mark pulled his car into a parking slot. He sat with his head down, breathing deeply, every nerve in his body quivering. Ashamed at not getting out to help her. Ashamed of being such a human wreck that the sight of a woman slipping on a patch of slushy ice made him think of explosions and gunfire. Men dropping in panic, screaming in pain and terror.

  By the time he remembered that he was not in Afghanistan but in Trafalgar, British Columba, the woman had been helped to her feet by passers-by with better nerves than Mark Hamilton. She continued on her way without assistance, paying considerably more attention to the placement of her feet.

  He needed to run, to escape the demons, to sweat them out. To pound the pavement, chew up miles and hours. If he ran hard enough he could escape time all together. Run so fast he would never have gone to Afghanistan.

  But he couldn’t run. Not today. He probably wouldn’t get a block before slipping and falling. Some well-meaning passer-by would help him to his feet and tell him it wasn’t a good idea to be out today. And pretend not to notice Mark Hamilton was crying.

  Cathy Lindsay was dead. Murdered, the cop had said.

  It had to have been the husband. Wasn’t it usually?

  So why was the cop checking out Mark? Peering into his background, opening his records? He’d done some things he wasn’t exactly proud of. He’d been young and thoughtless. Full of himself, full of pride and arrogance and sheer stupidity.

  He’d paid for it. Over and over and over. He was still paying for it.

  He couldn’t run, and it was too late to go skiing. The Alpine hills would be closed before he got there, and it would be too dark to head off cross-country.

  He’d put in an hour on the treadmill
. Not as good as breathing cold air and feeling the sharp wind on his face, but it would have to do.

  He made his way downstairs. He’d created a fully equipped gym in his basement, with weights and benches, an expensive treadmill, a rowing machine.

  He climbed onto the treadmill. Cranked up the speed, raised the incline, and ran.

  He had tests to mark before Monday. Lessons to prepare for the new term. He’d get to that after the run. If he worked late into the night he might even be able to sleep.