She headed upstairs to get ready for work. She showered, washed her hair and tied it into a ponytail, put on her uniform, struggled into her equipment-laden belt, went to the gun safe and retrieved her Glock. Last of all she slipped off her engagement ring and tucked it into its box in the table on her side of the bed. She never wore the diamond to work.
Back downstairs, she drained the sink and added fresh cold water. She studied her efforts—the bald white turkey looked mighty unappealing. Then, feeling like a proper fifties-era housewife, she shifted her gun belt, settled the weight of the Glock into a better place on her hip, and left for work.
Chapter Three
BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL. BANFF, ALBERTA. FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
Lucky’s heart was no longer in Christmas shopping. The incident at the coffee shop had upset her, more than she might have expected. Not only the men’s shocking rudeness but the obliviousness of everyone else to what was going on. If the man had struck her, would anyone have torn their attention away from their iPods and phones long enough to notice?
She abandoned her shopping expedition and walked back to the hotel. She hadn’t even had that cup of chai, but left the café before she reached the counter and, taking care to go in the opposite direction from the two men, pushed her way through the crowds. It was a Friday, the start of Thanksgiving weekend, and the town was packed with tourists. The jagged snow-covered mountains—Norquay, Sulphur, Cascade, Rundle—stood stark and beautiful against the clear blue sky. These mountains were a good deal taller, sharper, and much younger than the ones surrounding Trafalgar and usually they took Lucky’s breath away. Now, she scarcely noticed them. She’d slipped into a toy shop, the windows bright and colorful with stuffed animals, but soon realized she was paying more attention to who might be coming through the doors after her than possible gifts for Ben and Rebecca, her grandchildren.
Confrontation wasn’t new to Lucky Smith. She was a passionate, strong-minded woman. She’d cut her teeth on radical politics back in the ’60s and hadn’t slowed down since. She’d been reluctant to enter into a relationship with Paul Keller, a police chief no less, fearing their divergent political opinions would be too divisive. Instead, she found that they both enjoyed a good, respectful argument. This incident, today, had upset her. Perhaps it was the senselessness of it, the naked hostility two men in their thirties had shown to an older woman who simply expected them to display a modicum of manners.
As she walked up the long sweeping hotel driveway, the view momentarily relieved her of her funk. Built in 1887, The Banff Springs was nicknamed “The Castle” and resembled something one might find perched on a wind-swept crag overlooking the North Sea. Nestled in the mountains, deep in the forest beside the fast-moving Bow River, the hotel had been built in memory of the Scotland for which the town had been named. Lucky stopped walking and simply stood for a few moments, admiring the grand old building. Gray stone, white trim, towering turrets, the surrounding forest and looming mountains. The Banff Springs Hotel had been built as a destination for railroad magnates, royalty, and silent movie stars in an era when travel was considered luxurious and people knew the meaning of grand. She imagined her tormenters of earlier getting short shrift if they tried butting in line here.
She laughed at herself. Funny how finding oneself on the right side of class and income barriers, if only for a few days, made even Lucky Smith want to pull up the drawbridge and keep the hoi polloi out. The handsome young doorman, dressed in the hotel’s smart green-and-brown livery, held the door open for her, giving her a smile full of straight white teeth. He had clear skin, shiny black hair, and was tall and fit. The staff name tags indicate where they are from. His said, Harry. Australia. Lucky reminded herself that the people who’d built this hotel, and worked in the kitchens and cleaned the bathrooms in the early days, were not attractive young people on a world-traveling adventure. No doubt it was a much different place “below stairs” in those days.
She returned Harry’s smile and walked into the lobby. Simply being here made Lucky feel special. Special and pampered. The lobby was huge, aged stone, highly polished wood, acres of white marble dotted with carpets in a red-tartan pattern, gleaming chandeliers. Smiling staff and prosperous happy guests. A waiting elevator took Lucky swiftly to the fourth floor.
By the time she got to their room she was feeling a good deal better. She felt better still when she saw that in her absence the bed had been made, towels fluffed and rehung, magazines stacked, the desk and dresser tidied, and everything wiped down. A silent army of staff made the hotel work so flawlessly.
Lucky hadn’t travelled much in her life—something she regretted. She and Andy had owned a store, and that didn’t lead to having a lot of spare time for vacations. Nor money, either, with the store to run, employees to pay, children to raise and to send to university. Most of the family’s vacations were to visit relatives in Washington State. Lucky had never been to Europe, never been outside North America. She went to the windows, tall and deep-set, and looked over the rooftops of the hotel and across the green forest to the river and the snow-covered mountains beyond.
She could, she thought, get used to living like this.
She had no idea what Paul must be paying for the room. It might be the shoulder season, same as at her store, but this was Thanksgiving weekend. When he’d proposed the holiday, she’d gulped and insisted on paying her share and been secretly relieved when he refused.
She kicked off her practical walking shoes and hung her sweater in the closet. She was back earlier than expected, and Paul would be a while yet. She’d treat herself to afternoon tea in the lounge. No doubt after that she’d be too full to enjoy dinner, but this was a vacation, after all.
Chapter Four
LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER RESTAURANT. BANFF, ALBERTA. FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
She absolutely hated this awful job. The only thing that made it bearable was the money, and that six-top had just stiffed her on the tip. Sensing big spenders, Tracey had largely ignored the two old folks who demanded milk—real milk not as served in the plastic container—for their tea, and then couldn’t decide if they wanted salad or soup and fussed over how well the bacon in the club sandwich was cooked. Instead she’d focused her attention on the six well-dressed, expensively groomed American tourists.
This place was, to put it mildly, a dump. It was called the Lighthouse Keeper, and happened to be in a good location just off Banff Avenue, so occasionally the better class of tourist didn’t realize they were slumming it until they were inside. This bunch had looked around, lifted their noses in the air, and turned as if to leave. But one of the men said he was starving and this place was as good as any. Besides, there wasn’t a wait for a table. He plunked his fat ass down and yelled at Tracey to bring him a menu. His friends reluctantly joined him. They ordered quickly with no questions. Exactly the sort of customers she liked. A couple of beers, glasses of wine, appetizers for the table, then burgers or steaks and fries for the men, and fish with salads for the women. She bustled about, pouring water, unasked, bringing drinks, taking the food order, smiling, smiling, smiling, while the old lady tried to get her attention to complain that the tea was cold.
And then, after all that, the old folks left twenty percent and thanked her and the snotty tourists left five. A five-percent tip. She felt like running into the street after them and throwing it at their feet. But money was money—even five percent—and pride was expensive.
Tracey McMillan carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen. At three o’clock in the afternoon the restaurant was empty. The back door was propped open and she knew Kevin, the cook, was outside grabbing a smoke in the alley. Her feet ached, and she pulled up a stool. She took off her shoe and rubbed at her toes.
She’d been working since seven. Less than an hour to go. Tracey hated breakfast and lunch shifts: cheap meals, not much liquor, people in a hurry, hung-over from the night before. A couple of times she’d been called in at the last minute to take a dinner shift wh
en one of the other staff had been sick. They were a lot busier, but the tips sure made up for it. She needed better and more hours, but Kevin, the owner as well as the cook, said she had to work her way up.
God, she hated this place. Hated this town. She’d been better off back in Smith’s Falls, Ontario. Prospects were no better there, but at least a person could afford to live in Smith’s Falls. Banff was lovely to look at but so overrun with wealthy tourists the rents were sky-high no matter what sort of dump you lived in. The town was located smack dab in a national park, so no one was building cheap apartment complexes for the workers.
If it weren’t for Matt, she’d be outta here. Back to Smith’s Falls, dragging her tail between her legs, asking her mom to take her in, just until she got back on her feet. Mom would roll her eyes, light up another fag, take a swig of rye, and say, “Come on in, honey.”
Matt. He was great guy if only he’d drop the chip on his shoulder. Angry at the world, most of the time. But not angry at Tracey, not often anyway. She loved him, she really did, but she wasn’t sure what his feelings were for her. She knew she wasn’t a babe. She was only nineteen to Matt’s thirty-three, which was good, but no matter how much she starved herself she could never be fashionably skinny. She had an overbite that she hated, although Matt said it was cute, and thin hair the color of dog shit. She’d dyed her hair blond once, but that made it look like it belonged to a dog with a stomach disorder. She’d had a roommate a while ago, who worked in a spa and allowed Tracey to use some of her expensive makeup and hair products. Those had put color on her face and bounce in her hair. But the roommate moved on, taking all her stuff with her, and Tracey had never been able to allow herself to pay more than she could afford for frivolities.
She wasn’t like so many girls here, with their shiny hair, glowing complexions, perfect teeth, and trim bodies. They came from all over the world to work in Banff. Not many of them, Tracey thought bitterly, needed the job. They were here for the experience and probably paid as much in rent, maybe more, than they earned in wages. Tracey had applied for jobs at some of the good hotels. She never even got a reply. No doubt they wanted girls named Tiffany from New York or Marie-France from Paris or Pippa from London. Not Tracey McMillan from Smith’s Falls, Ontario.
Still, that was the way it was, and no point getting mad over it. At least she had a boyfriend. Better than her mother could say. It would be nice, though, if she and Matt could live together. Like every other working-class schmuck in Banff, they stitched together a strange assortment of living arrangements. Matt bunked in with three guys in an apartment whose only advantage was that it wasn’t too far from the center of town. Talk was that the old apartment buildings on that street were going to be demolished for another luxury hotel. Where the hell the workers were supposed to live then, no one seemed to worry about. At least Matt had his own room, small as it was. Tracey was crashing with a couple of girls who were friends of friends of Matt. She slept in the living room on a pull-out couch that had seen far better days. Her roommates worked days, and usually went to bars or parties in the evening. They might come in at all hours, bringing guys home to continue the party. Tracey would crawl deeper under the covers and try not to hear the blare of the TV or noises from the girls’ bedrooms.
Matt promised that he and Tracey would get their own apartment soon. Once skiing at Sunshine opened in November he’d be able to supplement his bartending job and start bringing in better money. Tracey glanced at the calendar on the wall. Another month, at least, until the snow fell and the skiers arrived. She’d give Matt until then. And then a month to get some money together. Either they had an apartment, or at least a room in an apartment, by then, or it would be Christmas in Smith’s Falls for her.
She loved Matt. But she couldn’t continue living like this.
The kitchen door opened and Martina and Julianne bounced in, laughing. They didn’t bother to share the joke with Tracey. She struggled to get off her chair and put her shoe back on. Time to leave this dump. She had one hour to get home and change and be at her other job at Global Car Rental by five. Put in a four-hour shift there and be back at the restaurant in the morning at seven.
What a miserable life.
Chapter Five
TRAFALGAR CITY POLICE STATION. TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. FRIDAY LATE AFTERNOON.
Sergeant John Winters stretched back and wiggled his toes. He had his shoes off and his feet on the desk as he flipped the pages of a six-month-old edition of Blue Line magazine. Almost quitting time, but he had nothing to go home to. Eliza was in Saskatoon, visiting her mother and sister. Ray Lopez, the only other member of the Trafalgar Police Service’s General Investigative Section, had the Thanksgiving weekend off to spend with his family. Someone had to mind the store, so Winters had nobly offered to stay behind. Not that he didn’t like Eliza’s mother, he did, a great deal. But he didn’t have much to say to the old woman, and Eliza’s sister Jennifer could be a right bitch when she got into the dinner wine. Which she did before, during, and after dinner. The result, he’d always thought, of jealously over the younger, prettier, richer, far more successful sister. John Winters never thought of himself as much of a catch, particularly not for a woman like Eliza, so beautiful she’d been a top-ranked international model in her youth. Not only was she still beautiful in middle age but also a wizard on the stock market, with a head for business that matched that of Warren Buffett.
But even John Winters, small-town cop, was a pretty good catch compared to the series of men who passed through Jennifer’s life, sometimes leaving a baby behind for her to remember them by.
“Working hard?” Barb Kowalski came into the GIS office with a stack of reports to be read and signed.
Winters grinned at the chief constable’s assistant. “It seems as if every scumball and troublemaker in town has gone to Mom’s for Thanksgiving.”
“Think we’ll get lucky and they’ll decide not to come back?”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Winters said. “We’d all be out of a job.”
Barb laughed. She’d worked for the police for thirty years, longer than anyone else here, and she knew that was unlikely to happen. Trafalgar was a tourist town, but one that catered to young adventure vacationers. Too early for skiing, too late for kayaking, kids only back in school for a month so not too restless yet. The town could be quiet the second weekend in October, Thanksgiving weekend.
“I have enough paperwork to last me well into my retirement even if we never get another call,” Winters said. “It’s the calm before the storm, I fear. People are starting to make noise about the Grizzly Resort starting up again, and it’s rumored there’ll be protests next week.”
“That place. Never anything but trouble. As an employee of this department I won’t tell you what side I’m on, John, but in my spare time, I might be found wishing they would go away and leave us alone.”
“I have a meeting on Tuesday with the Mounties to go over what we might expect.”
There’d been trouble before around plans to turn a parcel of pristine wilderness into vacation homes. The development had been put on hold and for the past couple of years only a single security guard kept watch as the forest crept back to claim its territory. Now, new owners had bought the land, heavy equipment was moving back in, fences were being repaired, and security was increased. Trafalgar sits in the middle of the B.C. wilderness, eight hours or more in either direction to the nearest Canadian big city, four hours to a small city. If Trafalgar residents wanted to go to the mall, they need a passport: The nearest mall is across the border in Spokane, Washington, two hours away. Plenty of people moved here specifically to escape the city and unchecked development. They were not happy, to say the least, at the news. On the other hand, good jobs in Trafalgar were scarce and the development would bring plenty of those, plus business to the shops on Front Street.
Once again, fault lines were splitting the town. It would be up to them, the Trafalgar City Police, as well as t
he RCMP, to try to keep the peace.
“As you say,” Barb said, “keeps us employed. I’m taking advantage of the chief’s absence, and I’m off now. You won’t tell him I left early, I hope.”
Winters glanced at his watch. “You’ll be cheating the town out of ten minutes, Barb. Can you live with the guilt?”
She tossed the papers on his desk with a snort. “I’ll get over it. Particularly the next time I work straight through lunch because the chief forgot to tell me he needs the budget to show the mayor this afternoon. At first I thought our dear leader was getting senile. Instead, I’ve decided he has happier things on his mind.”
“Lucky guy.”
Barb laughed. “In more ways than one.” She lowered her voice and leaned slightly toward him. “Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I know you and Paul get together over beers now and again to talk about the department. Has he ever said anything to you about, well, maybe thinking of retirement?”
“No. Why do you ask? Do you think he’s considering it?”
Under Cold Stone: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Novels) Page 2
