“Nine.”
“Why don’t we meet for a drink? I’m new to town. Do you know a nice place?”
“I don’t…”
“My treat.”
“Reds Wine Bar. I can be there by nine-fifteen.”
“Sounds good. I’ll grab us a table.”
“I like to sit at the bar.”
“I guess that’s okay. I’m wearing black jeans, a turquoise sweater, and a pale blue scarf. Thanks Tracey. See you soon.”
Tracey put her phone away, wondering why she’d agreed to meet the unknown caller. If the woman had been a cop she would have said so, wouldn’t she? She didn’t have to go. Easy enough to phone back and say she’d changed her mind. And why on earth had she suggested Reds, where every corner would be full of the memory of Matt?
Stupid. Stupid. She wasn’t dressed for Reds, and didn’t have time to go home and change. Better to just not show up. Let the woman drink on her own.
“Who was that?” Tom asked.
“No one.”
“Right. You’re going to Reds with no one? Matt’s not been gone a day and you’re already meeting some other guy? Naughty, naughty, Tracey.”
“It’s a girl, if you must know. I like Reds, so there. Oh, and Tom. Do me a favor, will you, and fuck off.”
Chapter Thirty-one
REDS WINE BAR. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY NIGHT.
Molly Smith arrived at Reds Wine Bar shortly before nine. The place wasn’t full, and a table for two beside the roaring gas fireplace looked highly appealing, but Tracey had said she wanted to sit at the bar, so the bar it would be.
She didn’t have to look at the menu to know this place was going to be expensive. The lines were sleek and modern, the furniture black with red accents, the walls covered in smoky glass. The staff, both male and female, wore black pants and matching shirts with buttons and collars, accented by bright red bow ties, and the women sported red glass earrings. A small candle flickered at each table.
Smith pulled herself onto a bar stool, told the handsome waiter with a South African accent she was meeting someone and would have a glass of water while she waited. He brought her drink, full of ice and a slice of lemon, and gave her a wide smile that stopped a fraction short of being flirtatious. Charming and professional.
She considered asking him about Matt, but remembered that she wasn’t here as a police officer. She might, later, but would hear what Tracey had to say first.
She’d been surprised Tracey suggested this place for their meeting. Lucky had said the girl was highly upset about Matt’s disappearance, so you wouldn’t have thought she’d want to come to the bar where he worked. Then again, maybe she wasn’t as concerned as she pretended. Or maybe she just liked it here, and wanted to be in familiar surroundings.
The waiter brought her a menu. Small, wrapped in black leather. “Thought you might want to have a look while you’re waiting. Where you from?”
“B.C.”
“On holiday?”
“Sorta.”
He had a deep, permanent tan, a shock of blond hair artificially highlighted, and blue eyes in a strong-featured face. “Let me know when you want to order.” He gave her a smile full of teeth, and went to serve customers at the far end of the bar.
Smith flipped through the drinks menu. Boy, this little jaunt was going to cost her. Maybe she’d be lucky and Tracey would be a teetotaler.
The door opened, bringing in a gust of wet wind and a well-groomed couple in their thirties, looking very much as if they belonged in this sort of place. She shouldn’t have trouble recognizing Tracey. Reds Wine Bar probably didn’t get a lot of women on their own, and it wasn’t busy tonight.
She glanced at her watch. Ten past nine. She’d give Tracey until ten o’clock to show. She’d sounded hesitant on the phone, might well change her mind.
If she did, Smith would then have to track her down.
At nine-twenty the bartender slid up to her. “Friend late? Why not have something in the meantime?” His blue eyes twinkled as they studied her face. Nice. He was flirting with her. “I can make some suggestions.”
“South Africa?” she said.
“Yaw! You recognized the accent? Not many Canadians do.”
She’d arrested a South African woman for drunk driving over the summer. She’d been over the limit by a substantial margin, and the Trafalgar police learned several new words that night. “I’ve met a few. I live in a tourist town, too.”
Another gust of wind announced the opening of the door. The bartender’s lips compressed into a tight line. The sparkle disappeared from his eyes, and the smile from his lips. Smith turned.
The girl was wrapped in a black nylon jacket, with a missing button, a tear in the right sleeve, and splotches of mud, new and dried, around the hem. Her cheeks were pudgy, her face pale, her lips cracked, and an acne spot was healing on the side of her nose. Her hair was plastered to her head and rainwater dripped onto the black tiled floor around her running shoes.
“Tracey,” the bartender said, not a touch of warmth in his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“She’s meeting me,” Smith said.
He gave her a look, one that indicated she’d dropped a considerable amount in his opinion. Then he shrugged and said, “Call me when you’re ready to order.”
Smith gestured to the empty stool beside her. Tracey hopped up. She didn’t take off her jacket. Smith held out her hand. The girl hesitated, and then accepted it. Her shake was wet and limp.
“Thanks for meeting me. Do you want to go to the washroom and dry off?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re really wet.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Okay. Would you like a drink?”
The wine list was on the counter in front of her, but Tracey didn’t pick it up. “I’ll have a glass of the Okanagan Chardonnay.”
Smith bravely refrained from swallowing audibly. “Okay.” She waved to the bartender and placed the order for two glasses. She’d come in a cab—more expense—expecting she might have to have a drink along with her “guest.”
Tracey glanced around the room. She shifted uncomfortably on the stool. Water dripped from her hair and her jacket. “Why don’t we take a table?” Smith said.
“No. I like sitting here.”
“Okay.”
Their drinks arrived, a splash of golden liquid in long-stemmed glasses. The bartender rolled his eyes at Smith and gave Tracey a barely concealed sneer.
“Prick,” Tracey said to his retreating back.
“You know him?”
“I know everyone here. I come in sometimes when Matt’s working. So we can be together. I buy my drinks, don’t cause any trouble. He,” she nodded down the bar, “his name’s Andre, says he’s having a gap year, whatever the hell that is. I suspect Andre’s been having a gap year for the last ten years.”
A gap year is a British term for a year off between high school and university. Andre had to be pushing thirty, if not past it. “Never mind him. My mom’s Paul Keller’s friend. She called to tell me what happened, so I came to see if I could help.”
Tracey swallowed a good-sized mouthful of her wine. She didn’t ask why this woman would think she could help with a police matter, and Smith didn’t enlighten her. She took a sip of her own wine, and almost groaned with pleasure as the wealth of flavors released themselves in her mouth. She feared she was being ruined for any drink she might actually be able to afford. “This is good.”
“It should be for what it costs,” Tracey said. “Look, I don’t know much of anything. If I did…if I did I’d do something. I called Alistair earlier. He said the cops are asking about Matt’s camping stuff. He thinks it’s gone. That means Matt’s gone into the woods.”
“You’re friends with the guys he shares the apartment with?”
Tracey shook her head. About a teaspoonful of liquid remained in the bottom of her glass. Smith waved Andre over. Two more. It would have been c
heaper to have bought a bottle.
“Not friends, no. Alistair’s okay, I guess. Just looking for his big break. Aren’t we all?” She glanced, probably unwittingly, down the bar. “All of us who don’t have a rich daddy keeping us on a permanent gap year. Tom works at the car rental place where I do. He’s a prick, but Barry was the worst of the lot. I know you’re not supposed to speak badly about the dead, but I don’t care. He was a mean bastard, and he made Matt mean. Matt followed him around, did what Barry told him to. Things’ll be a lot better, now Barry’s gone.”
For a moment, Smith considered asking Tracey what she was doing in the wee hours of this morning. She looked at the wet eyes, the quivering chin. Tracey might have killed Barry in a moment of anger, but she wouldn’t leave Matt twisting in the wind. And it was highly unlikely she was that good an actress. Besides, Smith reminded herself, she wasn’t here to solve the murder of Barry Caseman. She just wanted to find Matt Keller. To make her mom happy again. And then go home.
The bar began filling up with the after-dinner crowd. The air was full of the scent of expensive perfume and good food; the fireplaces glowed with light and warmth, and Smith was hot in her sweater and scarf. Tracey’s face was flushed with the wine, the heat, and the strength of her emotions, but she didn’t so much as unbutton her jacket. Smith was about to point Tracey toward the coat rack in the corner and then thought better of it. The girl’s pants were black, faded from too many washes, spattered with mud, her running-shoes’ laces torn. She was probably still wearing her uniform shirt. All the other patrons were well-dressed, well-groomed, fresh from dining in expensive hotels. Even Smith herself, never exactly a fashion plate, had combed her hair into a sleek ponytail, dressed in crisp dark jeans, a pure-wool sweater and silk scarf, and put gold hoops into her ears. She picked up her glass, and light from the candles on the bar sparkled off the diamond on her finger. Tracey eyed it, then looked away, and finished her drink.
“Have you had dinner, Tracey?” Smith asked. She certainly wasn’t hungry, not after that huge burger and mountain of fries, but she didn’t want Tracey having any more to drink on an empty stomach. Smith was not a detective; she didn’t know much about conducting an interview. Not that this was an interview, but she figured she’d have to stay as long as Tracey did. Maybe the girl had something to say, something she didn’t even know she knew, which had to be worked out of her slowly and carefully.
Then again, maybe Smith was just wasting a heck of a lot of money. Tracey shook her head, and Smith asked for a plate of spring rolls and another of bruschetta.
Tracey ate all the food, and threw back four drinks. Smith had three, more than she should but they were so good, increasingly regretting not only the waste of money but of time. Tracey’s conversation was mostly a litany of complaints, about where she lived, where she worked, the people—other than Matt—she knew. She had nothing to say tonight she hadn’t told Lucky earlier. She hadn’t heard from Matt; she didn’t know where he might have gone; she had no idea why he’d run. She was adamant, although Smith hadn’t asked, that Matt would never have killed Barry. When asked to speculate as to why Matt hadn’t phoned the police, or waited until his father arrived, Tracey shrugged and said Matt hated anything to do with the cops.
Smith asked if Tracey had ever met Matt’s family.
“His mom came to visit about a month ago. His parents are divorced, I guess you know that, and his mom lives in Calgary. She’s got a new boyfriend, some old rich dude.” Tracey sighed, a trace of envy in her voice. “They stayed at the Banff Springs, and Matt and I went for lunch one day. It’s so nice there. Matt… well, I don’t think Matt had told his mom I was coming. She looked surprised to see me with him. Her boyfriend said we could have anything we wanted for lunch, even drinks. I thought he was nice. Matt didn’t like him. I guess a guy wouldn’t, eh?”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Like the new man who’s screwing your mom. Makes you think about things you’d rather not think about. Easy to pretend your parents don’t sleep together, isn’t it? But not when she’s with a guy and they hold hands and smile at each other and kiss each other and stuff.”
Smith squirmed in her seat. Her parents had held hands and smiled at each other and kissed up until the day Andy died. But she understood what Tracey meant. She wondered about Tracey’s family, if her parents didn’t even kiss each other.
She wasn’t here to learn about Tracey’s home life.
They’d been in the bar about an hour and a half when Tracey slipped off her stool, saying, “Be right back.” Smith watched her walk, somewhat unsteadily, toward the back. Andre gestured to Smith’s empty glass. “Another?”
“Just the bill, thanks.”
“Get what you came for?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not friends with that slet. All you’ve done is get her liquored up and ask questions about Matt.”
Smith didn’t know what a slet was, but she figured she didn’t want to know. She shrugged.
“You don’t look like a copper, but I’ve been wrong before.”
I’m sure you have. “Why don’t you like her? She seems harmless enough.”
He shrugged. “She’s a right whinger. Follows Matt around with her tongue practically hanging out. He’s happy enough to go along with it, so she must be giving him something he likes, ’cause it sure can’t be her fashion sense.”
“Maybe she’s just a nice person. Ever thought of that?”
“That must be it… ’cause Matt’s such a nice guy.”
“What do you know about him?”
“You a cop?”
“My mother’s good friends with Matt’s dad. We’re trying to find him.”
Andre glanced down the length of the bar. No one needed his attention. A table of six was getting to their feet, shrugging into coats, searching for umbrellas. “I don’t have much to do with him. He does his job, I do mine. Rarely at the same time.”
“Have you heard from him since last night?”
“No, and I wouldn’t expect him to come to me asking for anything.”
“Would you tell the police if you did hear?”
He gave her a look. “I wouldn’t keep any secrets for him, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m here on a work visa, and I must keep my nose clean. Get it?”
Smith got it. “I’ll have the bill now.”
“Hey, watch it!” Tracey had tripped and fallen into a chair. The woman seated in it did not look pleased and her companion was getting to his feet. A waitress hurried over.
“Can you call me a cab?” Smith asked Andre.
Chapter Thirty-two
GRIZZLY RESORT, OUTSIDE OF TRAFALGAR,
BRITISH COLUMBIA. MONDAY MORNING.
First thing Monday morning, John Winters drove out of town toward the location of the proposed Grizzly Resort. He hadn’t been there for a couple of years, and wanted to see how far the new development had progressed before tomorrow’s meeting with the RCMP to discuss strategy should opposition to the resort continue.
Which everyone knew it would.
It was Thanksgiving Day, a holiday for most people. Winters didn’t expect anyone to be at work, just wanted to have a quick look around. Almost everything in town was closed, including Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium, and thus Winters was forced to do with a mug of Jim Denton’s execrable coffee.
Trafalgar was situated in a bowl, a valley surrounded by mountains on all sides. As soon as he drove past the car dealership and the kennels, the road began to climb and all signs of habitation dropped away. Five minutes from the office and he might as well be in the middle of the wilderness. The trees, pine, spruce, fir mostly, were tall and dark. On the few aspens and cottonwoods only a handful of yellow leaves remained. Ten minutes further and he was at the top of the first pass, where the road branched off to the Blue Sky ski hills and fresh snow was sprinkled on the branches. But the sun was rising and the snow would soon be gone. For now. Winter was on its way.
Then he was descending again, so fast his ears popped, and in twenty minutes he’d met up with another highway and the entrance to the resort.
No one was around, but signs with pictures of grizzly bears and environmental slogans were propped up against trees. A barrier that wouldn’t stop an elderly lady in a walker guarded the access road. Winters parked his car and climbed out. He had scarcely reached the No Admittance sign before a man came out of the woods.
Not as casually undefended as it appeared.
The man wore the uniform of a private security company. He held a radio in one hand and lifted the other in the universal halt gesture. “Private property.”
Under Cold Stone: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Novels) Page 13
