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

by Delany, Vicki

  She said she was only trying to help, sniffing in that annoying way of hers.

  The next day she made the bed and cleaned the room again.

  Gord didn’t bother to protest any more.

  Cathy had been a slob. He’d thought it one of her best features, largely because he was no neat freak himself. Cathy did the laundry when she got down to her last clean outfit; she ran the dishwasher when it was full and washed the pots when it was time to use them again. She made their bed once a week when she changed the sheets. Why bother in the interim? It just got mussed again.

  She expected Gord to pick up after himself, and if he didn’t his things remained where they’d been tossed. The kids threw their sports bags and school supplies into their rooms and shut the door.

  If they were having company, Cathy could turn into a version of her mother, cleaning up a storm. Gord would be handed the vacuum and a can of Pledge and told to have at it. The house usually managed to look presentable when guests arrived, the doors to the nonpublic areas of the house firmly closed.

  Cathy had grown up in a house run like a military barracks awaiting inspection. Neatness was the order of the day, and Renee and Ralph considered any mess to be a personal affront.

  She’d never gotten over her youthful rebellion.

  Now, she never would.

  Jocelyn was the neat one in the family. Funny how habits skip generations. Jocelyn made her bed before school, lining up her stuffed animals and dolls on the pillow to patiently await her return. She hung her clothes in the closet, most of the time, and knew where her school things were when she needed them. But she was just a kid and didn’t take the neatness thing too far.

  Gord feared Renee was rubbing her hands together in glee at the chance to turn her granddaughter into her version of herself.

  As for Bradley…

  He’d worry about Bradley later.

  A family walked up to an SUV parked beside Gord’s. Mom, Dad, two kids, a black Lab. The perfect family. They loaded toboggans into the trunk, and children and dog piled into the back. The father eyed Gord suspiciously. A man sitting there, alone in his car, observing a park where kids played? Then he seemed to recognize Gord. His face flushed and he looked aside, embarrassed.

  Gord Lindsay watched the SUV drive away, and then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He ran his fingers over it.

  Elizabeth had called several times. She’d left a message telling him Sergeant Winters had visited her.

  She left a second message demanding to know why he wasn’t answering.

  This morning, she’d called the house. Spoke to Renee, pretended to be a friend, concerned about Gord.

  But Renee wasn’t stupid, and she’d given Gord the message with an arch to her eyebrow and a question in her voice.

  “Business contact,” he said, hoping his guilt wasn’t written all over his face.

  He’d have to deal with Elizabeth sometime. Might as well get it over with. He flipped the lid, tapped buttons. Heard the ring.

  “My god, Gord. I’ve been so worried. I’ve been calling and calling. Did you lose your phone? Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “I told you on Sunday not to call me. I’ve got a lot on my plate, you know. I got your messages, Elizabeth. As did my mother-in-law. Please don’t phone the house again. How’d you get the number anyway?”

  “Duh, it’s in the phone book, Gord. I’ll thank you not to take that tone of voice with me. I don’t like having the police sitting in my living room, interrogating me, you know.”

  Elizabeth, unlike Cathy, was neat and tidy. One of the things he liked about visiting Elizabeth, aside from the obvious, was a calm, clean environment. He himself wasn’t any neater than at the house in Trafalgar, but Elizabeth cleaned around him. She washed his clothes, cooked his meals, picked up his socks.

  All very 1960s. Like an episode of Mad Men or something.

  Would it be so bad living with Elizabeth permanently? She would never be a mother to Jocelyn, but she could be a wife to Gord.

  Did he want a new wife?

  What a goddamned stupid thing to be thinking. Cathy wasn’t even in her grave and here Gord was making plans to fill her side of the bed.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Elizabeth. Really I am. I had no idea that cop would go all the way to Victoria.”

  “He had lots of questions. Questions about you. About you and me. Did you kill your wife, Gord?”

  “What the hell? Are you crazy? You think I could do something like that?”

  “I have no idea what you could do or not do,” she said in that deep, damaged voice he found so incredibly sexy.

  To his shame, he felt himself getting stiff.

  He bit down on his thumb. Hard.

  “The cops seem to think so,” she said.

  “It’s routine. They always suspect the husband. I have an alibi, my daughter.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I’m thinking of coming. Pay my respects.”

  “No, Elizabeth. I don’t want you here.”

  “I’m not going to stand up in front of the church and tell everyone what I mean to you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I guess I should say what I meant to you. This changes things. We need to talk.”

  “Give me some time. Everything’s happened so fast.”

  “Monday.”

  “What?”

  “The funeral’s Monday. Three o’clock. I’m looking it up right now. I have property taxes due. If I don’t pay, they’ll start slapping on interest charges.”

  “You can’t be asking me for money. Not now, not today.”

  “We have an arrangement, Gord. I bought a load of supplies for the basement renovations from the store and put it all on my credit card. I need to pay it off.”

  “Elizabeth…”

  “I’ll need a new dress for Monday. Something black and solemn. Shoes and a coat to match. Jewelry. I’m looking forward to meeting your kids, Gord. See you Monday.”

  A soft click, and he realized she’d hung up.

  Teeth marks, deep, were pressed into the soft pad of his thumb, turning the skin deadly white.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Did you and Francesca do something special before she left?” Smith asked.

  “We had a private farewell,” Dawn Solway said, unable to hide a grin.

  Behind Solway’s back Dave Evans rolled his eyes. Wisely he said nothing. One day he would. He’d say something so sexist or homophobic that Smith would have to lay a complaint.

  That, she did not want to do. Those things never ended well. The entire office, civilians and officers, would come down on one side or another. Bad blood, recriminations, accusations. She wished Evans would transfer out of Trafalgar. She suspected he’d applied at some other police services. She suspected he’d been turned down.

  Still, if Dave left they might get someone worse. Usually it was the older guys who caused trouble, the ones who fondly remembered the good old days when being a police officer was a man’s job. And a real man, a manly man, at that.

  Unfortunately some of the younger ones, like Dave, weren’t all that much better.

  Smith knew where she stood with Dave Evans. He’d have her back, as long as it wasn’t too dangerous a place for him to be.

  “What about you, Dave,” Solway said sweetly. “Anything special for the weekend?”

  He grunted. Evans was good-looking, tall and fit. He could do macho swagger along with the best of them, and some women liked that. He didn’t have trouble attracting women and went through girlfriends at an alarming rate. At the moment he was girlfriendless. Station gossip said Sally, a waitress at the Hudson House Hotel, had thrown him over in favor of the new bartender. Dave Evans liked to be the one doing the throwing over.

  Whatever had happened, Dave wasn’t in the best of moods these days. Smith shuddered to think that might be because he wasn’t getting any.<
br />
  Friday evening. March Break. The last big weekend of skiing. They had a full complement of officers working tonight.

  “When’s Adam get back?” Solway asked.

  They were reading the previous shift reports, waiting for Staff Sergeant Peterson to arrive and bark out tonight’s assignments.

  “Monday.”

  “Bet you’re looking forward to seeing him,” Solway said.

  Smith glanced up. Solway’s eyes were on the computer screen, her fingers moving the mouse to scroll through the text.

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” Evans grumbled.

  “Then don’t listen,” Solway said.

  “I work here, you know. They pay me to sit on this chair.”

  “Is that all they pay you to do?”

  “Enough of that,” Peterson said from the doorway. “I want everyone bright and alert tonight. Most of the bars are expecting a capacity crowd. The Bishop has a popular band playing. The Potato Famine’s advertising a wings and pitchers special, so they’ll be busy.”

  “Ug,” Solway said. “You wouldn’t catch me eating anything cooked at the PF.”

  “Not everyone has your refined tastes,” Evans said.

  Solway ignored him. “I wonder if they reuse their grease.”

  “Is that allowed?” Smith asked.

  “Pardon me, ladies and gentleman,” Peterson said. “I’m talking here.”

  “Sorry, Sarge.”

  “The Mounties are running a Ride check on the highway, so they’ll be close if you need backup. Brad’s out in a truck already. Dawn, you take a car. Molly and Dave, I want you on foot. I’ll be available if you need help. Any questions?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Then let’s go to work.”

  The three constables shut down computers, shrugged into outdoor jackets and gloves, and hit the streets.

  ***

  Dinner and a movie. Like being back in high school.

  Without, Lucky Smith thought, the insecurity and the acne.

  She and Paul had eaten spicy noodles at Trafalgar Thai and were now in line for tickets at Trafalgar’s single movie theatre. It showed one film, once a day during the week, twice on weekends. If you wanted to catch a movie, and didn’t want a long drive to Nelson or Castlegar, you had to take what they offered. Tonight, it was a sophisticated British comedy that had received generally good reviews. Something they should both be able to enjoy.

  Everyone in town was talking about little other than the Lindsay killing. At the restaurant, Lucky and Paul had deliberately asked for a table in a back corner, near the bustle of the busy kitchen, and Paul sat with his back to the room, unlike police officers’ preferred position. He’d muttered something unfavourable about small-town gossip. Lucky hid a private grin—

  nothing she liked better than engaging in small town gossip. Before Moonlight had joined the police force, before Lucky herself had become—friends?—with Paul Keller she would have been one of the first to corral the Chief Constable and demand to know how the investigation was proceeding and why hadn’t they made an arrest yet.

  “Chief Keller, Lucky, good evening.” They turned at the sound of their names. A couple had joined the line. The man smiled broadly, the woman nodded.

  Darren Fernhaugh, the property developer.

  Lucky scowled. “When you were in my store the other day, you neglected to tell me you’ve bought the Grizzly Resort property.”

  “I wasn’t in the store to discuss business, Lucky. Just to do a bit of shopping. Still, I’m confident everyone will be more than happy with the plans we’ve come up with.”

  “The make-up of the city council’s changed since Reg Montgomery’s original plan for the resort, you know. You might not find them as development friendly.”

  “The land isn’t in Trafalgar. I don’t need the city’s permission to develop it.”

  “True. But you will need the goodwill of the nearest town, which happens to be this one, if your so-called development proceeds and people start inquiring about buying.”

  “I don’t expect that’ll be a problem,” Fernhaugh said with a smile. “We haven’t even advertised yet and job applications are flooding in. Many with Trafalgar addresses, I might add.”

  Lucky ground her teeth. Jobs, always about jobs. Mr. Fernhaugh and his partners wouldn’t give one fig about jobs if they could outsource the work to China or Bangladesh. But, as construction jobs first, and then waiting on tables and cleaning tasks couldn’t be sent offshore, they’d loudly proclaim to anyone and everyone—politicians most of all—what a great service they were doing, bringing jobs to this remote community.

  That jobs which now catered to people seeking a true wilderness experience would be redundant if the land was scattered with development projects, would be overlooked. Never mind the animals. They didn’t need jobs. They just needed to be left alone.

  Fernhaugh smirked. Then he turned to Paul. “I’m aware the resort area is outside your jurisdiction, Chief Keller. I’m working closely with the RCMP on security issues, but as we will have important facilities in Trafalgar, including our local sales office, I’d like to have regular meetings to discuss what we can do to help each other.”

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” Lucky said. Paul gripped her arm. He gave it a squeeze. She snatched it away.

  “Informal to begin with, perhaps,” Fernhaugh said. He spoke to Paul, but he watched Lucky out of the corner of his eyes. “I’ve joined the local branch of Rotary. I understand you’re a member, Chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Lucky sputtered. Andy had been a Rotarian. He liked the group and considered it important for business contacts. After his death she considered joining. She never quite got around to it. Perhaps it was time.

  “The line’s moving, Lucky,” a voice called. She glanced over her shoulder. No one stood between them and the ticket window. Paul Keller let out a grateful sigh and went to pay.

  Lucky waited until they’d taken their seats before saying, “Odious prick.”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” Paul said.

  “I don’t like him. Or his awful resort. I thought that had been settled when Reg’s partner pulled out of the project. What do you think he wants with you, anyway? Not special favors, I hope.”

  “You know full well I wouldn’t give them even if he did. He’s aware there’s opposition to his plan. The tree huggers’ll be descending on us from all sides. That means work for the police.”

  “Tree huggers!”

  “Yes, the tree huggers. Never saw a tree they didn’t think more important than giving a man a job and putting food on his table.”

  “Tree-huggers! How dare you use that term to refer to me? I’ve never hugged a tree in my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the environment. You know, the environment, the air we breathe, the water we drink. All that important stuff.”

  Paul glanced around. “Lucky, calm down.”

  “That’s how they shut us up. Calm down. Don’t create a scene. Be a good little woman. Really Paul, giving a man a job! What kind of job? A construction job that lasts a few months, a minimum-wage tourist job? These are the same sort of people who’ve destroyed manufacturing and industry in this county. Jobs that paid good wages, permanent jobs, jobs for…”

  She snapped her mouth shut, aware that the lights had gone down, music had started up, and people were hissing at her to be quiet.

  Paul put his hand on her arm. She pulled it away. All of the fun had gone out of her. She felt old and sad. She sometimes wondered if she were the only one in the world who still cared.

  “I’m sorry if you’re upset, Lucky,” Paul whispered. “You know I care for you, but I’m the Chief Constable of Trafalgar and if anyone attempts to stop the resort development through illegal means, I will order my officers to prevent them, and if that fails, we will arrest them. Now, can we watch the movie before they throw us out?”

  That
Paul would uphold the law, she had no doubt. That was his job, and she wouldn’t expect him to do anything else.

  Tree huggers.

  The way he’d said it had been an insult. Mocking. Pure and simple.

  She couldn’t expect, didn’t expect, Paul to agree with all of her politics.

  But she did expect some degree of respect for her heartfelt beliefs.