He’d wanted to move in with Lucky, to the house she’d shared with Andy, to the property at the edge of the woods beside a meandering branch of the Upper Kootenay River where the Smiths had raised their two children.
It was all too much, too soon, and she’d told him she couldn’t see him anymore.
But Trafalgar was a small town. Paul Keller was the Chief Constable, and Lucky Smith was passionately involved in most of the controversies that swept through their community.
They’d run into each other at a fundraising party for Friends of the Library. They’d held drinks awkwardly, chatted about nothing important while canapés were passed and the town’s movers and shakers swirled around them. Lucky had bid on a quilt being auctioned. She didn’t need another quilt, but it had been made by a friend of hers and she wanted to push the bidding price up. Paul cheered her on. And then he commiserated with her when she won. She’d expected the bidding to go a good deal higher than it had.
The evening reminded her how much she enjoyed his company, so when he asked if she’d like to go to a movie one night soon, she’d accepted.
They hadn’t slept together again. She hadn’t invited him to her house for dinner, not wanting the opportunity for intimacy to present itself.
He’d known her birthday was coming up. That didn’t surprise her: Lucky Smith was not unknown to the police, no doubt her details were easy to come by. When he’d offered to take her out to celebrate, she’d suggested he come to her house for pizza and cake. Somehow last night, as they’d been saying goodnight, Lucky found herself inviting him to drop by in the morning for coffee and maybe a walk if it was nice.
And here they were.
Walking.
Two good friends, walking the dog in the snowy woods.
She reached out and touched his arm. He turned and faced her. He smiled.
She took his gloved hand in hers and they walked on.
***
By eleven, Gord Lindsay was getting seriously worried. He’d put the pancake ingredients away and taken out eggs and bread. He fried the bacon and a couple of eggs and made toast for himself and his daughter. Bradley was still asleep. Sometimes the boy’d sleep until sundown.
“Isn’t Mom coming skiing?” Jocelyn asked, apparently not minding that her eggs were overcooked and her toast burned black around the edges. “She said last night she wants to try out her new goggles.”
He stirred eggs around on his plate. He was on the third pot of coffee and his head was beginning to buzz.
He and Cathy had their problems, no doubt about that. But no worse than any other couple. She’d threatened divorce about a year ago, but they’d gotten over it. He thought they’d gotten over it.
What the hell was he thinking? If she were going to leave him, it wouldn’t be after putting bacon out to thaw on the counter.
She wouldn’t leave without her purse and a suitcase and her phone. In fact, she wouldn’t leave at all. If she’d decided to end the marriage, she’d tell him to get out.
Something had to have happened. She liked walking the old railroad trail behind the house. Perhaps she’d fallen and couldn’t get help.
He pushed his plate aside and rose to his feet. “I’m going out for a bit, hon. You wait here.”
“I don’t want to wait here. I want to go skiing. The day’s going to be over before we even get there. Do you think Mom went without us, because we were still in bed? She’s always saying she’s going to leave us behind one day.”
“The cars are in the garage. I checked.”
“Maybe she went with Mrs. Mannstein.”
“That’s an idea. Call the Mannsteins will you, honeybunch. Ask if they’ve seen your mom. And…uh…once you’ve done that, call some of her other friends, okay? Her phone’s on the counter.”
He saw a shadow of fear creep into Jocelyn’s wide eyes. “You don’t know where Mom is, do you, Dad?”
“That’s why I’m going looking for her. After you’ve made the calls, tell Bradley to get the hell out of bed.”
Gord dressed quickly in outdoor clothes. He opened the back door and peeked out. Footsteps of Cathy and Spot, rapidly filling with snow, crossed the yard and went through the gate.
An image flashed in his mind. Christmas morning at her parents’ when Cathy was pregnant with Bradley. They’d had almost two feet of snow the day before, and the stuff was piled to the first floor windows. Her dad kept the property well ploughed, and banks along the walkways and driveway were almost as tall as a grown man. Cathy had burst out of the house and thrown herself into the new snow. “To boldly go,” she cried, “where no one has gone before.”
Then she threw a snowball at Gord, to where he stood in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. The ball hit his shoulder, exploding in a puff of powder, she laughed, and he hadn’t known it was possible to love someone so much.
He dropped onto the bench and put his head into his hands. Where had it all gone wrong?
Back then, he’d tried to enjoy the winter with her, in the same way that she’d gone sailing with him. The boat had been sold when they moved to the mountains, and these days he didn’t even own a good pair of winter boots.
They didn’t do much together any more. Nothing you could call fun at any rate.
Tonight, he’d take Cathy out for dinner. Some place expensive and flashy. Maybe he’d go shopping later, surprise her with a no-occasion present. She liked that jewelry store in town, perhaps they’d have something in her taste on sale.
Gord’s hiking shoes were scarcely adequate for the deep snow outside. He pulled on Bradley’s boots. They were too large, but they’d have to do.
Gord Lindsay left his house and crossed his back yard. As he opened the gate, he glanced over his shoulder. Jocelyn stood at the window of the family room, her face white, her eyes round, the red phone clutched in her small hand.
Chapter Seven
The light snowfall that had been predicted was turning into a near blizzard. Snow whipped around their faces and piled at their feet. Smith, Tocek, and Norman made their way back up the hill after leaving the church. Yellow police tape had been strung between trees and telephone poles at the top of roads ending at the hiking trail. Most of the gawkers had disappeared as the temperature began to fall as fast as the snow.
“Impossible to follow,” Adam Tocek said, breath visible in the cold air, to the group of police assembled to hear what he had to report. “The scent goes into a parking lot and then it disappears. Poof. Almost certainly, the perp simply got into his car and drove away. Probably mixed with people leaving church.”
“I asked Reverend Watkins to tell the guy who plows the lot not to come until she hears from us,” Smith said.
“I doubt we’ll be able to single out any particular tire treads even if we knew what to look for,” Tocek said.
“Still…”
“Still,” John Winters said. “We have to try.”
“A lucky break on his part,” Ron Gavin said. “A funeral service on a Saturday morning.”
“Lucky? Good timing, more likely. He walks down from the mountain casual as can be…”
“Not bothering to hide his tracks,” Smith said.
“Having parked his car in the lot so that his trail would be lost, first among parents picking up their kids and then when the funeral ends and the street’s jammed full of people and cars jostling for the exits.”
“He knew when the service was.”
“That doesn’t help us much. A funeral notice would have been placed in the papers. Probably an invitation to kids to come to the sleepover also.”
“He walked through a residential area after shooting a woman,” Ron Gavin said. “That tells me something.”
“What?” Smith asked.
“You didn’t come across a gun lying discarded under a tree, so he kept it with him. He planned far enough ahead to be able to conceal his route of exit. I doubt he tossed his weapon casually over his shoulder as he made his way through the churc
h parking lot. Any number of people would have seen him, and probably called it in. The weapon had to be able to be broken down, small enough to fit into a backpack or sports bag.”
“You have any ideas on that yet, Ron?” Winters asked.
“We have the shell and the casing found in the clearing. They’re on the way to ballistics, but they’ll be a couple of days getting back to us. Pretty clearly a 12ga.”
“Which means?” Smith asked.
“A 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. Affordable, not difficult to get hold of, legally or illegally. It has a folding stock that would fit into a sports bag.”
Townshend and Gavin had erected a small tent over the body to keep it protected from the weather. The coroner had arrived, seconded the paramedic’s declaration of death, and headed back home to his family, ready to come out again when it was time to take the body away.
Winters shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this. A shot out of nowhere, a quick escape. Almost a sniper attack. Judging by the signs, the killer hadn’t tried to approach the woman after he shot her, so any sexual motivation was unlikely. Couldn’t have been a robbery. No one would expect a woman out walking a dog on a snowy morning to have her purse on her or more money in her pocket than would buy a cup of coffee.
Appearances, no one knew better than John Winters, could be deceiving. This woman looked middle-class, respectable. Ordinary.
That didn’t mean she was.
Could this have been a hit? A contract killing?
A warning to someone else? Her husband, her father?
If organized crime had any presence in Trafalgar, John Winters would know about it. The sort of criminals he dealt with were by and large small-time. Drug pushers. Marijuana gro-ops. Purse snatching and break-and-enters. Men who left the bars on a Saturday night and took out a lifetime of frustration and disappointment on their families. That type didn’t keep a distance. If they intended to kill someone, it would be up close and personal. On the spur of a drunken moment, not meticulously planned.
It was possible that this woman didn’t live here. Smith wasn’t positive she recognized her.
Had she come to Trafalgar for a visit?
And brought her enemies with her.
“The parking lot makes me think of someone well organized. Thoughtful. A planner,” Winters said.
“Which doesn’t tie with leaving a cigarette butt and a shell casing behind for us to find. He might have simply been lucky about the funeral.”
“True.”
Winters and Gavin had examined the spot where Adam, and Norman, believed the killer had stood waiting to take his shot. The snow was trampled, the boot prints clear. As well as the highly visible red shell casing Adam had spotted, they found a used cigarette end covered by a light layer of snow. Townshend was up there now, under a hastily erected tarpaulin, sifting through snow and forest debris, looking to see what else might have been left.
“The cigarette could be from someone else,” Smith said. “Could have been someone up here earlier who dropped it.”
“Perhaps, but you saw only one set of prints.” Winters turned at a call. His boss, Paul Keller, suitably dressed for a walk in the woods in high boots, warm coat, thick gloves.
“This snow’s going to be a real problem,” Ron Gavin said. “We can’t cover the entire trail.”
“I heard the weather report at uh…Mrs. Smith’s house,” Keller said. Winters glanced at Molly and saw color flushing her cheeks. “They’re expecting ten to twelve centimeters in the next twenty-four hours, more at higher elevations.”
Gavin swore.
“Do we know who this is?” Keller pointed at the tent.
“No ID on her,” Winters said. “No cell phone. No license tag on the dog. Not even keys.”
“Think that’s important?”
“The lack of keys likely means she didn’t drive up, but plenty of houses are within walking distance. If she were out for a casual outing, she’d have no reason to bring her purse or driver’s license. Molly, you were here first. Did you think the guy who found her might have taken her things?”
“He seemed shook up, as did his wife.” Smith’s face scrunched up in thought. Flakes settled on the brim of her uniform hat. “He didn’t have a pack or anything. Lots of pockets in his coat. No, I don’t think so, and no one else approached her. From what I saw, there only seemed to be one set of prints near the body. Which would be his. He said he touched her to see if she was alive. The dog had jumped around a lot and mussed the snow though.” She turned to Adam. “Can Norman retrace her steps? Maybe he can lead us to where she started from.”
Tocek shook his head. “He can’t follow two tracks of two different people. Far too confusing. He’d try to take us back to the spot where we picked up the shooter.”
“Molly, any more thoughts on where you might have seen her?” Winters asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing specific enough to say.”
“I’ve told Jim to let me know if anyone calls about a missing person. Speculation can wait. Let’s see what else we can find before that snow gets any deeper.
“I’d like whatever help you can get for us, Paul. I need interviews with every house between here and the church. Also, people who attended the funeral service and parents who picked up their kids this morning. Ask if anyone noticed a car parked particularly early or someone walking down the hill carrying a large bag.”
“I’ll call IHIT,” Keller said. “It’ll be tough getting extra bodies with the school holidays.”
“Don’t I know it. Anything they can do will be of help.” The RCMP Integrated Homicide Investigative Team helped out with murder investigations in British Columbia. “Adam, we don’t need you and Norman anymore. Molly, Dave Evans is guarding the top of Martin Street, keeping the log. Go and replace him.”
***
Mark Hamilton opened a can of beans to serve as an early dinner. He dumped the contents into a saucepan and eyed them. Not very much.
He found a second can, added those to the first, and put the pan onto the stove. When he got back from skiing he’d built up the fire. Red and yellow flames roared within, throwing heat around the kitchen alcove. The kitchen, like the rest of the cabin, was small, plain but comfortable and comforting. Open shelves were neatly lined with cans and glass jars. Pots, frying pans, and drying bunches of herbs hung from hooks in the rafters. The cookstove burned wood, the table was hand-carved, the colorful rag rugs on the floor had been hooked by Jürgen’s wife, Helga.
While the beans simmered, Mark sliced a baguette he’d bought at the bakery in Trafalgar to go with some good smelly, runny cheese.
In a couple of minutes the beans were piping hot. He tipped them into a bowl, pulled out a chair at the scarred old pine table and sat down. His mother had taught him never to eat standing up. He’d forgotten a lot of things his mom had taught him, but not that. Funny how some things stuck in a man’s head.
Unbidden and unwelcome he remembered meals in Afghanistan. He’d first arrived in that miserable country a few days before Christmas. The staff at the embassy in Kabul had gone all out to mark the occasion. A roast turkey the size of a small child and a decorated, although rather odd of appearance, tree. Everyone trying to be festive in the absence of home and family.
He’d phoned his mom in the morning, and she wept plenty of tears. Not having a wife or children to miss, he’d had a good time at the dinner. Plenty of booze was on hand, enough to make everyone stupid. And that pretty aid worker, the one from some well-meaning, well-funded NGO or another, sneaking into his room when the party ended and everyone staggered off to bed.
He slathered butter onto a heel of the baguette, the best part, and tried to remember her face. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her name.
She wanted to keep in touch when he left the city. He didn’t want complications, so he’d lied and said he had a fiancée back in Canada.
Just as well. She was a nice girl. She didn’t need a trainwreck of an em
otional eunuch like Mark Hamilton complicating her life.
He glanced outside. Heavy cloud cover, snow falling hard. It would be full dark soon. Dark out here truly meant dark. No houses so no lamps, no roads so no headlights. Not even the orange glow of a city looming over the horizon to break the night. There wouldn’t be moonlight or stars tonight either.
He’d lit a couple of lamps against the encroaching gloom. They threw long shadows into the corners. Flames danced in the stove. He listened to the deep silence.
Mark finished his meal. Better get outside, clear off the car, and shovel the road while a bit of daylight remained.
A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) Page 4