“What did you do, Mark, when she wouldn’t go away?” Once again Winters laid his hand on Hamilton’s arm. The man was solid muscle. With his other hand Winters reached for the handcuffs on his belt. He felt as much as saw Lopez take a step forward.
“Do? What did I do? Nothing. I should have told her I don’t like women. Sorry, but I’m gay, don’t you know.”
“Is that true?”
“No. These days I’m nothing. Not gay, not straight. Nothing.” The twitch began to slow. His mouth settled back into a straight line.
He jerked his arm out of Winters’ grip and dashed down the rest of the stairs. He ran flat out, across the parking lot, down the hill, his coat streaming behind him.
“Want to have him intercepted?” Lopez asked.
“No. We know where he lives. I want a full check on Mark Hamilton from the army and as fast as possible. I’d say that man’s suffering a full-on case of PTSD. I want to know if it began when he was in the army. Or when he killed Cathy Lindsay.
“Because she was a nuisance.”
***
Shouldn’t be much longer. Molly Smith had been standing at this corner for two hours, directing traffic. She’d stepped in a slushy puddle, soaking her boots, and her feet were freezing. She stamped them to keep circulation going. Earlier, a steady stream of cars had gone up the hill; none had come back down yet.
The funeral was being held at the same church where Norman had gone in pursuit of the shooter. An inadequate parking lot, near the top of a steep hill. The overflow of cars blocked the neighboring streets. The roads were narrow enough in summertime, never mind with five-foot-high snow banks on either side, and people who were less than efficient at parallel parking but still wanted to get as close to the church as they could.
A man came down the hill, heading her way. His clothes, suit and tie, dress coat, indicated he’d been at the funeral, but he was running. Fast. As he approached, she could see wide anxious eyes, blinking rapidly, a face wet with tears mixed with sweat.
Had something happened in the church?
For a moment she thought of a shooting, a bombing, the roof collapsing under the weight of wet snow. No, there wouldn’t be one lone man running away. She could still hear the distant sound of music. An organ playing and out-of-tune voices singing.
“Sir,” she called. “What’s wrong?”
He saw her. His frightened eyes took in her dark blue uniform, the blue hat with lighter blue band, the jacket with shoulder patches, the fully laden equipment belt. If anything, the terror in his face only increased.
“No,” he said, a strangled cry. “No. I shouldn’t have come.”
He changed direction, and darted away from her, running hard. She stood in the middle of the road watching. He slipped on a patch of ice; his arms windmilled and he cried out, but he managed to keep his footing. Then he rounded a corner and disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-two
Now was her chance. Margo was almost giddy with excitement and possibilities.
Eliza had told Margo that William Westfield had been a student in Cathy Lindsay’s night school class. In that case, he’d probably be going to her funeral. Margo didn’t know Cathy, but that shouldn’t matter. In a small town like this everyone either knew someone or knew someone who knew them. She’d go to the funeral to pay her respects. And if she ran into William, how nice. They could have a friendly chat over excessively-stewed tea and crustless tuna sandwiches at the reception after.
Margo had decided not to mention anything about the funeral to her husband until the last minute. She dressed in a subdued-gray suit suitable for the occasion and studied herself in the mirror. Perfectly respectable. Taking a deep breath, she went into the living room.
Steve was comfortably ensconced in his favorite leather chair deep in one of the political biographies he loved. He looked up as she came in, and a question crossed his face when he saw what she was wearing.
Margo told him she’d known Cathy from the art gallery. “She had a great interest in local artists. Liked to keep abreast of what we were showing.”
“I thought you said you’d never met her.” He lowered his book.
“I didn’t know her name, but I recognized her picture in the paper. I’d like to go to the funeral and pay my respects.”
He glanced at his watch. “You should have given me some notice. I scarcely have time to change.”
“No! I mean, no, dear. I don’t mind going alone.”
“Margo, is there something you aren’t telling me?”
She bent down, kissed him on the forehead. “I won’t be long.”
She was among the first to arrive at the church. She sat in her car, fidgeting with her necklace. Wouldn’t do to go in too early.
Cars began arriving; a steady stream of people walked up the steps to the church. What if she didn’t see him? So many people, bundled up in winter coats and hats. He might not even come.
She’d decided it would be better to approach Jackson—William—in public. She’d be more comfortable speaking to him, telling him the wonderful news, with people around. He’d be overjoyed, of course, to discover that she was his mother. His real mother. His birth mother.
Still, in case he wasn’t initially as delighted as he should be, better to speak to him where he couldn’t shut the door in her face.
Too bad he’d bought the Khan pictures when she wasn’t working. The art gallery, with its soft music, good lighting, neutral walls, would have been the perfect place. Now that he had the three sketches, who knew when he might come again. Perhaps never.
She didn’t know where he lived. He wasn’t in the phone book, and he hadn’t given an address to Eliza. Margo didn’t know if he had a job, and the night-school creative-writing class might not be offered again now that the teacher was dead.
This was a bad idea. She should go home.
Then she spotted him.
He’d parked on the street and was coming up the neatly-shoveled church walk at a sedate pace, head down, shoulders hunched. He wore a fine wool coat and brown leather gloves.
So distinguished. So handsome.
Margo got out of her car. She hurried across the parking lot, taking care of her footing. She fell into step behind him. She’d wait until the service ended before approaching, anything else would be inappropriate.
The church was almost full when they entered. Soft organ music played, and people greeted each other in low voices. The flower-draped coffin was at the front, closed thank heavens.
William took a seat in the middle off to the left. Margo found a place two rows behind. A couple slid in beside her. They nodded polite greetings.
She studied the back of William’s head. It was almost square, hair and skin stretched over solid bone. So much like Jack, his father.
She’d written to Jack when the boy had been born. Born and stolen from her. She asked his help in getting the baby back. He never replied. She’d believed at the time his wife must have intercepted her letters.
Years later, once she was married and a mother and knew something about the ways of the world, she finally understood that Jack Sorensen, small town drugstore owner, had been nothing but a lying cheat. A man prepared to seduce an innocent young girl from a cold, unloving family. No doubt Margo had only been latest in a long line.
She wondered if she’d been the only girl stupid enough, naïve enough, desperate enough, to fall for his oily charm.
No, she had no sentiment for Jack.
But she would not let her feelings about Jack reflect on his son.
Her son.
She became aware that the people around her were getting to their feet. She scrambled to follow.
The family was coming down the aisle. So sad. The husband looking like he hadn’t slept for a week. The little girl, neat and pretty, her nose and eyes red and swollen. A teenaged son and Cathy’s parents or in-laws. The family reached the front of the church and everyone sat down.
Only the minister re
mained standing. She and John Winters. The police officer walked down the side aisle, heading for the back. His handsome face was set into serious lines, his eyes moving across the congregation. She gave him a smile of greeting, but he did not acknowledge her.
He had not come with Eliza so he must be working. Everyone said the police came to funerals, hoping the killer would be there and let something slip by their words or actions.
William shifted in his seat. He glanced behind him. He saw Margo, watching him. She threw him a smile.
He turned, focusing his attention on the minister, announcing a hymn. Once again people began to rise.
Later Margo couldn’t remember anything about Cathy Lindsay’s funeral. She popped up and down along with everyone else, mumbled a long-forgotten prayer, tried to look serious and somber. She’d been raised Catholic, hadn’t been to church since the day her mother had locked her in her room in disgrace. The few funerals she’d been to over the years, including those for Steve’s parents, had been held in the funeral home. This Protestant church seemed very plain to her. She rather liked it.
William Westfield kept glancing over his shoulder, checking to see if she was still there. She tried waving once, just a wiggle of her fingers. He glared at her, and she dropped her hand. Perhaps he was a religious man, and thought she wasn’t being respectful.
She folded her hands in her lap and tried to pay attention.
At last the funeral service ended. Six men rose and approached the casket. They lifted it and carried it out of the church to the accompaniment of slow, solemn music, and much weeping. The family followed. After they’d passed, the rest of the mourners stood and made their way down the aisle.
Margo watched William. He was seated close to the side aisle and turned in that direction. She did also. She stood at the end of her pew, conscious of the people behind her trying to get past. She didn’t care. She waited until William reached her and fell into step beside him.
“Lovely service,” she said.
He grunted.
“Are you going to the reception? It’s downstairs, in the church basement.”
“Are you?”
“I might.”
“Then I’m not.”
They reached the narthex. A dimly-lit corner contained a table with a few items for sale, a book on the history of the church, a calendar, a donation box. Notices were pinned to a corkboard on the wall. Bridge group. Pot-luck supper.
People pushed past them, crowding the confined space. Margo found herself standing almost nose to nose with William.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” she said.
“Lady, I haven’t got a clue.”
“Let yourself believe. I saw your face the day you came into the art gallery. I know you recognized me. Deep down, you knew it was me.”
William glanced from side to side. They were hemmed in, pushed up against the wall. The area was narrow, creating a considerable bottleneck as everyone exited the church at the same time.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t particularly want to know.”
“Your mother. For heaven’s sake, son. I’m your mother.”
His eyes opened in surprise. He sucked in a breath. Then he laughed. “Sorry to tell you this, lady, my mother’s dead and buried. But last time I saw her, she didn’t look one little bit like you.”
“She’s your adoptive mother.” His eyes moved, and Margo knew she was right. “I’m your birth mother. I recognized you the moment I laid eyes on you. I knew. How could I not?”
He leaned forward. She breathed in the manly scent of him. His spicy aftershave, an underlying layer of sweat. For a moment she almost expected him to kiss her.
He spoke in a low, deep voice. “You’re a lunatic, that’s what you are. Stay away from me.”
“Jackson…”
He pressed the tip of his index finger to her chest. It burned through her jacket, blouse, layers of skin and fat and bone. It touched her heart. “I said, stay the hell away from me.” He pressed the finger deeper. “You’re a nut case.”
Then he was gone, mixing with the crowd, disappearing through the doors.
She laid her palm flat against the center of her chest, between her breasts. She felt her own heart beating. She could feel the power of their bond, the very essence of love. He was a man, pretending always to be strong and powerful. Like most men, unable to confess his yearning for her, his weakness, his need for her. For Mom.
He’d go home and think about what she said. Then he’d come looking for her. Ready to apologize, wanting to hear more.
Her entire body shuddered with excitement.
Chapter Thirty-three
“We’ve got a match.”
“Go ahead.”
“The lab found traces of DNA on that cigarette butt,” Ron Gavin said. “I ran it and, ta da, a match.”
“That is good news.”
“Garfield Leonard O’Reilly. Done time for trafficking, living off the avails, break and enter. Now resident in Trafalgar, British Columbia.”
“I know the character. A fixture of our fine town. Thanks, Ron.”
Winters snapped his phone shut with a groan, not pleased at the news. Gar O, as he was known to everyone in town, spent his days walking from one end of Front Street to another. Gar had a long record, but he’d been reasonably clean since moving to Trafalgar about five years ago. Brain addled by drugs, right leg crippled by a knife wound he waited too long to have treated. Winters wouldn’t have put him high on the list of suspects.
Still, you never knew what people were capable of.
He’d taken the call in the basement of the church following Cathy Lindsay’s funeral. The tea had been drunk, the sandwiches and squares consumed, most of the mourners dispersed.
The interment was private. Gord Lindsay and his family had left long ago.
Time for John Winters to take his leave also.
He called Jim Denton at dispatch.
“I’d like to talk to Gar O. Have the patrol officers keep an eye out for him, and let me know when they have a sighting.”
“Want him brought in?”
“No. He gets twitchy under pressure. I just want a chat.”
“Will do.”
His phone rang as he was pulling out of the church parking lot. Gar O had been sighted at the bus stop by the rec center. Winters arrived a couple of minutes later to find Dawn Solway chatting to the man, her posture comfortable and relaxed. Gar leaned back against the bench, good leg crossed over one knee.
As Winters walked up, Gar reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“Hey, Gar.”
“Sarge.”
Winters studied the man. His stringy gray hair hung over his face and down his back almost to his belt, and his beard wasn’t much shorter. He was around five foot four, and substantially overweight, looking like a hairy snowman with legs. He lit his cigarette and threw the match onto the sidewalk.
“What’d you do weekend before last, Gar?” Winters asked. “Stay in town?”
“Didn’t kill no lady, if’n that’s what you’re askin’.”
Gar might be short of brain power these days, but his survival instincts were as sharp as ever. He shrugged. “One day’s same as the rest. I was in town, yeah. Don’t travel much anymore. I might have had dinner at Maddy’s place on Saturday, bunch of the guys were there. Or that might have been Sunday.”
“Did you go for a walk?”
“Walked from my place to Maddy’s. Streets were busy. Yeah, it was Saturday. Lots of cars with skis on the roof pulling in. School holidays startin’.” He sucked on his cigarette. Blew smoke out of his nostrils.
“What about Saturday morning?”
“Sarge, you’re askin’ about a week ago. I don’t know. Went to Eddie’s for coffee probably, usually do.” He broke into a smile, showing a mouthful of stained, broken, and missing teeth. “Hey, now I remember. I phoned my daughter. Asked what she and th
e kids were gonna do for the vacation.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Good. Real good. Got three kids now. Smart kids, good kids.”
“Did you know a woman named Cathy Lindsay?”
“She the one killed, I hear.”
“Did you ever meet Mrs. Lindsay?”
“Don’t think so.” Gar smoked. He was relaxed, his arm thrown out along the back of the bench, his legs crossed. He was dressed in white socks and running shoes, not boots. About six inches of bare leg was visible below his coat. Gar wore shorts all year long, never mind the weather. The hand holding his cigarette was still, not shaking. His clothes smelled of smoke, and not just cigarettes either. He’d clearly had a joint not long ago. Marijuana always made him agreeable and friendly.
A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) Page 24