Winters flashed his badge. “Heard you had some trouble yesterday.”
“Wasn’t my shift, but yeah, a bunch of tree huggers showed up. They kept off the property, marched up and down, yelling and looking stupid. Mounties were here, looking bored.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way. Mind if I have a look around?”
“Should be okay. The boss is in.”
“I didn’t think he would be, with the holiday.”
“Boss don’t seem to care much about time off. Guess that’s why he’s the boss. I’ll tell him you’re coming. Office is around that bend, about a hundred yards.”
“I know where it is.”
The guard lifted his radio, pushed a button, and spoke over a burst of static.
Winters did know where the office was. He’d been here before, first escorting Eliza to a fancy al fresco party and later on a police action, back when Reg Montgomery and Frank Clemmins, and then Clemmins alone, had plans for a luxury fractional-ownership resort.
The signs had changed, new logo, new look to the depiction of the proposed buildings and grounds. The land along the highway was thickly forested, but as soon as Winters rounded the bend, all he could see was mud and holes in the ground. The door of a double-wide trailer opened, and a man came out to greet him—smile broad, arm outstretched. Winters climbed the steps.
“Sergeant Winters. Pleased to meet you at last. I’m Darren Fernhaugh. Chief Keller speaks highly of you.” Winters knew the chief was in contact with Fernhaugh. He didn’t need the blatant reminder. “What brings you out here today? Not that it isn’t a pleasure.” Fernhaugh stepped back, waved Winters into his domain.
The office hadn’t changed much. A receptionist’s desk, now unoccupied, inside the door, a large center room, two small rooms, one an office, the other a cramped meeting space. The walls were covered with site plans and blueprints. This was the headquarters of the construction site itself, the sales department and business offices were in Trafalgar.
“I’m meeting with the RCMP tomorrow,” Winters explained, “to talk about security.”
“Good. I fear we’re going to need it. Damn tree huggers. We don’t have much time left until we have to shut work down for the winter. I don’t want any more delays. Do you want a look around?”
“I’ve been here before, but I’d like to see what’s new. You bought the place from Frank Clemmins. Are you using his plans?”
“Take a seat. Can you I get you a coffee? I’ve nothing ready, but it won’t take a minute.”
“No thanks.”
Fernhaugh swept blueprints aside and Winters pulled a chair up to the table in the center of the room. Fernhaugh went to a filing cabinet and brought out a brochure. Multi-page, thick glossy paper, colored photographs. He handed it to Winters who flipped through it while Fernhaugh said, “Clemmins was building fractional-ownership properties. I’m putting in single-family vacation homes.” Obviously a sales tool, the pamphlet showed drawings of neat buildings with wide front porches nestled amongst giant trees. Other drawings were of swimming pools and golf courses, a few photographs of smiling silver-haired men and women drinking wine around a table scattered with glowing candles or enjoying a few beers on a spacious deck. There appeared to be five floor plans available. Winters whistled at the price.
“Two hundred thousand? For Southern B.C. wilderness property? Surely that’s only for the land?”
Fernhaugh beamed. “We’re aiming at the lower-middle of the market. Folks in Vancouver or Calgary who want, who deserve, a piece of our country’s vast riches. A place they can bring their children, and then their children’s children. Something to pass on, down through the generations. Memories most of all. Because at Fernhaugh Resorts we believe, truly believe, that everyone should have equal opportunity, we’ve done all we can to bring our vacation homes within the budget of the average consumer.”
“Isn’t that fractional ownership then, like Clemmins had planned? Where people don’t fully own their places themselves but share?”
“Fractional ownership. A nice idea, but it didn’t work out. No one wants to share their homes. They don’t want to plan their vacation time around people they don’t even know. A week here, a week there, scrambling for Christmas, summer long weekends, the best bits of time. Clean up every time you leave and take all your belongings with you. No, we offer full ownership. Of the cottages.”
Nice speech. Winters peered at one of the floor plans. It looked attractive: kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, even a loft space. He looked at the tiny scale at the bottom of the page, blinked and looked again. “How big are these homes?”
“Between seven and nine hundred square feet. Designed for maximum use of every inch of space.” Seven hundred square feet. Eliza’s condo in Vancouver, which Winters thought pokey, was eight hundred. Not a lot of room for all the children and grandchildren who were supposedly going to flock to vacation here. “How many of these cottages are you planning on building?”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
So much for anything resembling privacy. Or peace and quiet.
“All our residents will have full access to the common areas. Swimming pools, party rooms, children’s play area, shuttles to the ski hills in winter, the lake in summer. A restaurant and coffee shop. Spectacular mountain views, many overlooking the river.”
“For an extra cost.”
Fernhaugh grinned. “Five hundred thousand for the cliffside cottages. None of the worry or expense of maintenance. All that will be covered by a small monthly fee. Exactly like a condo building. Interested, Sergeant?”
Winters put down the brochure. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t mock it.” Fernhaugh’s voice deepened as he dropped the sales pitch. “Why shouldn’t the ordinary working folk, blue-collar workers with two jobs, three kids, be able to own a place in the mountains? If I told you I was building twenty multimillion-dollar chalets on the same property you wouldn’t turn your nose up.”
“Regardless of the size of the cottage, two-hundred and fifty families will take up more resources, have more of an environmental impact, than twenty who probably won’t even use their place all that much.”
“Because they have other places to go, other lands to despoil, if that’s the way you look at it.”
“I’m not looking at it any way, Mr. Fernhaugh, I assure you. I’m trying to estimate what sort of opposition you’re going to get.”
“Opposition. Aye, there’s the rub. Tree huggers to the left of me, corporate raiders to the right.”
“What do you mean?”
“To the right? This is prime land, Sergeant Winters. I got it at an exceptionally good price. Frank Clemmins wanted to be rid of it. We’re friends and he gave me first refusal. I worked darn hard to put a consortium together so I could buy it. You think my project is going to be environmentally unfriendly? Believe it or not, I do intend to make the least impact we can, and I intend to put my money where my mouth is. Others, maybe not so much. I’ve received some offers to buy. Not ones I’m interested in.” He got to his feet with a sigh. “We’ve cleared the ground for the first bunch of cottages, hope to get the foundations laid while the weather holds. Come on, I’ll show you the layout.”
Chapter Thirty-three
BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL. BANFF, ALBERTA. MONDAY MORNING.
Smith groaned and pounded the button on the alarm clock. If this was being a detective, she’d stay in uniform, thank you very much.
She wasn’t used to drinking so heavily. She might have a beer now and again when she and Adam went to a bar to hear live music, or a glass of wine at a rare nice dinner out. Sometimes she’d go with the boys and girls from work if they were celebrating a promotion or a retirement but now she wasn’t living in town, a stagger away from most bars, she had to keep herself sober if Adam wasn’t there to drive them home. Three glasses of wine with Tracey wasn’t so much, but then after…
She downed the remainder of the water she’d had the
foresight to leave on the bedside table and climbed out of the big, luxurious, welcoming, warm, comfortable bed.
She was due to meet her mom and the chief for breakfast when the grill opened at six-thirty to fill them in on what she’d learned last night. After dinner the chief had gone back to the RCMP detachment to find out what was happening. If Matt had been found, he’d have phoned to tell her, no matter what the time.
She shook a couple of aspirin into her palm, swallowed them with water, and headed for the shower. She let the steamy water caress her face and pound her back for a long time. The evening with Tracey had been a total waste of time. She’d learned nothing, other than a listing of Matt Keller’s virtues, numerous as they were.
Smith did feel somewhat sorry for Tracey. She seemed so needy, so desperate for approval, well aware that she didn’t belong where she wanted to be. She hadn’t said much about her family or where she was from, and Smith didn’t care. She’d heard it all before. Some people had bad childhoods and got over it; some had great childhoods and turned out to be miserable adults determined to make everyone around them equally miserable.
Still it was tough to be young sometimes, as Smith well remembered. Tracey was vulnerable, brittle, wanting approval of people like the charming, handsome, vacuous Andre. Tracey held on stubbornly to her pride, as in refusing to remove her jacket, and was fiercely loyal to Matt. Whether Matthew Keller deserved that loyalty was another matter entirely.
Andre had ordered them a cab and they’d left the wine bar, Smith leaving the miserly tip she figured he deserved. Tracey said she’d walk, but Smith didn’t think that was a good idea. The girl could barely stand upright. At least she didn’t have a drinking problem. Not if a few glasses of a really good wine could just about knock her out.
Besides, Smith wanted to check out where Tracey lived. The cab ride through the dark, wet streets was short, and it pulled up in front of a nondescript two-story apartment building. Smith instructed the cabbie to wait, and helped Tracey inside.
“I don’t feel too good,” Tracey said, fumbling in her pockets for her key.
She got the door open, and they walked up one flight of stairs. The building was nothing fancy, but it was clean and well lit. They went down the corridor to the apartment at the end. Tracey found another key and, after some difficulty, got the door open.
Typical transient female accommodations, moderately tidy with movie-star and cute animal posters on the walls, candle stubs in glass holders on the tables, colorful throws over the back of the sofa, cardboard boxes piled in the corners.
“Which is your room?” Smith said, helping Tracey take off the wet-again jacket. A hallway went past the kitchen with three doors leading off. One of which was probably the bathroom.
Tracey dropped onto the couch. “Here.”
“What?”
“This is my room. All I can afford. This sofa. Matt and me are going to get a place together once ski season starts.” She lay down and tucked a cushion under her head. “Thanks for the drinks, Molly. Let’s do it again sometime.” And, fully dressed and still in her damp running shoes, she fell asleep.
Smith let herself out of the apartment. The taxi was waiting.
“Do you know where the Mandrake Root is?” she asked the driver.
“Sure.”
“Let’s go then.”
The Mandrake Root, Tracey had told her, was the bar where Matt’s roommate Alistair played. The cab pulled onto a side street, and light and sound spilled from the building at the center of the block. Smith paid and got out of the taxi. A small crowd, under thirty-five mostly, milled around outside, trying to find some shelter from the rain in the awning above the front door. The usual crowd of smokers, out to get their fix.
Smith walked into the bar and stood in the entrance, looking around. It was like countless others: a collection of battered wooden tables, big-screen TVs mounted on the walls, a bar along one side, bottles on shelves behind, a man and a woman busy pouring drinks and taking money. A raised floor at the far end of the room served as the stage. Musical equipment was stacked on the stage, but no one was there now. Break time.
The place wasn’t overly crowded and Smith made her way to the bar. A young woman, dressed all in black with black makeup and nail polish, black jewelry, and short black hair, leaned over. “What can I get you?”
“I’m looking for Alistair Campbell.”
“You probably passed him. He’s outside taking a smoke break.”
“Thanks. How will I recognize him?”
The woman shrugged. “Short, thin.”
Smith made her way back outside. The description was so vague as to be almost useless, but not entirely, and there weren’t a lot of men to choose from.
“Alistair?”
“Yeah.” He turned to her with a smile, expecting an eager fan. He was cute, with a youthful face, a mass of curly black hair, long lashes above warm brown eyes, and good skin. He was very short, at about five feet five, and must weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Which he wasn’t now because he kept himself under the shelter of the awning.
Smith spoke in a low voice. “Can I buy you a beer? I’d like to ask a couple of questions about Matt Keller.”
His attractive eyes narrowed. “Why? I’ve told the cops all I’m going to.”
She repeated her line about being a friend of the family, while taking note of his words. All I’m going to say, not all I know.
“I doubt I can help, but it’s your dime. Break’s over in a minute, time to get back at it. Have a drink. I’ll join you at the end of this set.”
He ground his cigarette beneath his foot and went back into the bar. Most of the smokers followed, as did Smith.
She found a table in a far corner, and sat with her back to the wall. A waitress sauntered up and put a beer mat in front of her. “What can I getcha?”
“I’m waiting for Alistair to finish.”
The woman’s grin wasn’t friendly. “Cover charge if you don’t order a drink is thirty bucks.”
“Thirty?” Smith would bet good money the waitress made that up on the spot. “Okay, I’ll have a Kokanee.”
“Be right up.”
Smith drank her beer and listened to the music. It was better than she’d expected. The band consisted of four men: two guitar players, a drummer, and a singer. Alistair played guitar and sang backup vocals. They mostly played classic rock, the old stuff Lucky liked, but alternated that with some heavy metal and even a couple of what they said were their own compositions.
Smith finished her beer easily and ordered another. No one bothered her, and she was glad of it.
When the set broke, Alistair pulled up a chair at her table. “I’ll have a Kilkenny draft.” She ordered that, and then one more for herself to keep him company.
A couple of his bandmates had been approached by women, smiling, simpering, flirting, but Alistair had been left alone. Alistair was small man, not only short but with bones as substantial as those of a sparrow, and not a spare inch of either flesh or muscle. She thought of Adam, at six feet four and two hundred solid pounds, and of women who’d be happy to see him single again.
Life could be as tough, she suspected, for a small man as for an overweight woman.
Their drinks arrived. Alistair took a long pull at his beer, and came up with a foam mustache.
“Last time I saw Matt,” he wiped the foam off with the back of his hand, “was Saturday afternoon, at the apartment. He was getting ready for work. I didn’t go home Saturday night after we finished. Some of us went jamming, work off some steam, drink, maybe have a joint or two.”
Smith, the police officer, let that one slide.
“I got home around six to find my place crawling with cops.”
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“No.”
“What can you tell me about Matt? He ever been in any trouble you know of?”
“Nah. Look, Molly, we weren’t friends, we didn’t hang out. Didn’t hav
e much in common, other than where we lived.”
“How about Barry?”
“Barry. Now he was a nasty piece of work.”
“In what way?”
Alistair shrugged. He finished his beer. Eyed it pointedly. Smith got the hint, and lifted her hand to attract the waitress’ attention. She held up two fingers. She needed to keep drinking so this would look more like a chat than an interrogation, but this would be her fourth beer. On top of three glasses of wine.
Better slow down.
“He just was,” Alistair said. “Barry argued all the time. About his share of the rent money, about who ate the last of the three-day-old pizza, or who’d drunk his beer.”
Under Cold Stone: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Novels) Page 14
