A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (15 page)

Lindsay paused, no doubt waiting for Winters to say he understood. Between us guys, nudge nudge, wink wink. He did not. Silence stretched between them. The building was quiet. These old warehouse walls had been built strong and thick.

“Half of my business is in Victoria, where it began. My business partner lives in Victoria. I spend a lot of time there.”

“What’s your partner’s name?”

“Ahmad Kashani. He’s been with me since the beginning. He’s not a full partner any more, but still supervises the accounts, the legal aspect of the business, that sort of thing.” Gord hadn’t even thought to contact Ahmad about Cathy’s death. The man might not have heard. He rarely read anything other than the financial papers and international news.

“Tell me about Ms. Moorehouse. How long have you been seeing her?”

“Three years, give or take a few months. I go to Victoria regularly, as I said. I was getting tired of hotels, so suggested I help her out with the expenses on a house not far from the office.”

“In exchange for?”

“You know full well in exchange for what. Sex of course. Elizabeth is what once might have been called my mistress. She owns a nice house in a respectable area. I pay a substantial portion of her bills. I sleep in her bed. I assume you got her name from that damned police report. I didn’t want her to call the cops. I didn’t want it on record that I’d been there, but when I was upstairs checking to see what else they’d taken, the bastards, she called 911.”

“Did Cathy know about this arrangement?”

“She did not. Look, Sergeant Winters, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. That I have a girlfriend in Victoria has nothing to do with Cathy’s death. Instead of prying into my sex life, you’d be better spending your time checking into who was up there, on that path, that day.”

“Rest assured, we’re exploring all possible avenues, Mr. Lindsay.”

Winters didn’t think Gord Lindsay had killed his wife. He’d been in the house with his daughter when Cathy died. Sure, the girl couldn’t account for all of her father’s whereabouts, but he certainly didn’t have time to get his shotgun, head off to the woods, wait for Cathy and her dog to come by, fire off a shot, pack up the weapon, walk down the hill to the church, collect his car, and drive back home.

He could have hired someone to do it. The killing had all the marks of an expensive hired hit.

But why? There seemed to be no big money in the family, on either side. Divorce and custody of children could get vicious—Winters had seen the fallout of that many times—but people tended to go into a divorce expecting it would all go well. Only when the lawyers got involved, the fees got expensive, and accusations and threats got flying, did the parties get angry enough to kill.

Winters studied the man sitting across the table from him. Gord Lindsay was overweight, balding and not trying to hide it. He chewed his fingernails when nervous (as he was now). His clothes were bought off the rack and didn’t fit his expanding girth all that well. He had five employees in Trafalgar, four in Victoria. A moderately profitable business by all accounts, adequate to provide for a family in which the wife worked as a high school teacher. Not a company that generated the sort of excess funds that could pay for the hire of a professional killer. Unless money was coming in from somewhere else.

Did Lindsay have other business in Victoria, which was after all a major Pacific port, which the computer company might be a front for?

Had Cathy discovered something about that business? Had she found out about Elizabeth Moorehouse and threatened Gord if he didn’t give the woman up?

Winters doubted it. He was pretty sure Gord Lindsay was exactly the middle-class family man, fooling around on his wife, which he appeared to be. But it was worth following up. Another reason for a quick trip to Victoria.

He glanced outside. The clouds might have lifted, just a tiny bit.

“I know you have to look into everything.” Gord stood and walked to the window. He spoke to the glass. “Everyone and everything. I know that. But I didn’t kill Cathy, Sergeant Winters. And I genuinely do not have the slightest idea why anyone would.”

And that, Winters thought, was precisely the problem.

Chapter Eighteen

Eliza spent her morning on the computer, studying the business news, manipulating her portfolio. Sell a bit of this, buy some of that. Move money around. This was her happy place, the place where she’d sought refuge through the stifling, boring years she’d worked as a model.

That she made buckets of money from her investments was icing on the cake. And why she could afford to own two art galleries which were not simply failing to make a profit but bleeding money.

She ate a quick lunch of vegetable soup at her desk and then shut down the computer and got ready for work. She showered quickly, dried her hair and applied a light coat of makeup and a touch of pale-pink lipstick. She chose casual cream wool pants and a crisp white silk blouse accented with a scarlet scarf and earrings of dangling squares of red glass.

She studied herself in the mirror. Understated but fashionable. Well-heeled but not bragging about it.

She’d been modeling since she was sixteen years old, both on the catwalk and for magazines. She’d acted in TV commercials. She’d learned long ago how to play the part. How to pretend. Today she would play the businesswoman of excellent taste and independent means. The only role Eliza never played was cop’s wife. She suspected some of the other wives didn’t like her much. They thought she was stuck up and cold. She thought they were narrow-minded and provincial. She avoided police functions whenever she could.

The move to Trafalgar had been good for John. In the city, he’d been burning out, fast. Drinking heavily, hanging out in bars with cops after work. He was haunted,
she knew
, by some of his past cases. Some of the things he’d seen. Then the Blakely case, the worst of them all, a twelve-year-old girl, raped and murdered, by her own father as it turned out. The family prominent, rich; press attention relentless. She didn’t know the details, but she knew John had almost made a mistake, almost arrested the wrong man. She heard him in the night, either pacing or wrestling with nightmares in his sleep.

So they’d moved to quiet, peaceful Trafalgar. He’d stopped drinking too much, didn’t go out with the guys much, slept through the night, warm and safe beside her.

Eliza smiled at herself in the mirror and went to work.

She stood on the street and studied the window display of the Mountain in Winter Art Gallery. One of Alan Khan’s sketches was gone, leaving a rather prominent gap in the display.

Next week it would all come down, and they’d set up for a fresh one-woman show. Which reminded her that she needed to check with the artist about the guest list for the opening reception.

“I see you sold a Khan in the window,” she said to Margo as she took off her coat. “To Mr. Westfield?”

“No,” Margo said with a small frown. “He hasn’t been back. I wish he’d come in again. I saw him yesterday at Adventure Vacations, but he hurried away before I got a chance to speak to him. I was thinking…your husband’s a police officer.”

Eliza didn’t care for that turn in the conversation. “We never discuss police matters.” Not entirely true, but none of Margo’s business. She hurried into the small washroom in the back to check her hair and face. Margo pounced when Eliza came out. “How do you go about finding someone’s address or phone number?”

“The phone book? Canada411.com?”

“I tried those things. He’s not listed.”

“That would be because he doesn’t want anyone to know where he lives, Margo.”

“Maybe you could ask your husband.”

“Certainly not. Even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t be ethical for him to provide that information.”

“Do you think he’ll come in again?”

Eliza pretended not to understand. “John drops by sometimes to take me to lunch if he has time.”

“I mean William Westfield. He’s good-looking, isn’t he? Although dreadfully thin. I wonder if he’s married. I can’t wait to meet his wife and children.”

At that moment the door flew open and a smiling couple brought in a gust of cold air. Eliza gratefully retreated to her desk to work on the invitations for the opening.

Business was brisk throughout the afternoon, although a good many more browsers than buyers.

At five o’clock, Margo flipped the sign on the door to closed, and Eliza shut down the office computer.

“I was hoping he’d come in,” Margo said.

“Who?” Eliza asked, fearing
she knew
the answer.

“William Westfield. He was interested in the Khan sketches. Perhaps he doesn’t know we’ll be taking them down next week. If you had his phone number, I could call and let him know.”

Eliza Winters was not entirely an uncaring person, but she was a private one, and as she never shared confidences with anyone other than her husband (save the occasional weep on her agent and closest friend Barney’s shoulder after a couple of martinis), she did not expect nor want people to confide in her.

She did not know what Margo’s problem with William Westfield was. She did not want to find out.

“Oh, Eliza. I told Steve I’d seen Jackson. He said I was imagining things. I know I’m not. This time I’m sure.”

This time?

Eliza fled for the closet. She fumbled to put on her coat. Couldn’t find the sleeve. Margo held the back of the coat, so Eliza could get her arm in the right place.

When Eliza faced her, Margo’s eyes were swimming with tears. “I know I’m right. I have to be right.”

And Eliza found herself saying, “Tell me about your son.”

***

Molly Smith rolled out of bed at noon. She’d worked until six, and was lying in bed, wide-awake, at six thirty. After night shift, she liked to read for a while, try to unwind before falling asleep. Knowing she had to get up to go skiing, today she hadn’t. Instead she spent what passed for her night tossing and turning and punching her pillow, and it seemed as if she’d only fallen asleep as the alarm began to blast.

Grumbling, she made her way to the bathroom and then the closet.

She reminded herself that she didn’t have to go. But, as usual, as she began to wake up she started looking forward to hitting the slopes. Even if only for a few hours.

She’d arranged to meet Tony at one. She glanced at the clock on the microwave as she headed out the door. Adam had called last night, as she was going to the Bishop and Nun to check out the crowd. He’d told her he missed her, muttered words of endearment, and asked what she was doing the next day.

“Skiing, of course.”

He laughed. “Foolish question. Going with anyone?”

“No.”

“I know you like getting out there on your own.”

She’d made noncommittal sounds, said something was happening up ahead and she had to go. She didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. She wasn’t being
unfaithful
to Adam. She was merely enjoying a few hours skiing with a man who was as good a skier as she. Nothing wrong with that.

So why hadn’t she told Adam she was meeting Tony?

Simply, she assured herself, because Adam wouldn’t understand. Men, even the best of them, could be possessive sometimes.

The clouds were low and thick, and it wasn’t until she got almost to the top of the lift that figures emerged from the swirling snow and mist, and she could try to spot Tony. She was late. She never came here in the middle of the day and had forgotten to allow enough time to park at the rear of the lot. So far back, she had to wait for the bus that made the rounds of the grounds, dropping up tired skiers and picking up new ones.

She expected him to have given up and gone off by himself, but Tony was waiting at the top of the mountain, his hands resting on his poles, not fidgeting, patiently watching skiers jumping off the lift chairs.

She knew
the minute he spotted her. His goggles were pushed up onto his helmet, and she was close enough to see his eyes light up and his face break into a wide smile. She felt herself smiling in return, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Sorry I’m late. I forgot how far away I had to park at this time of day.”

“Not a problem. I’m glad you came.”

“It was nice of you to wait for me.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He studied her face, and she did not look away. She felt color rising in her cheeks. “It’s cold up here.”

“Let’s warm up. Ready?”

“Ready.”

This lift sat at the conjunction of several blue runs and two black diamonds. Most people headed for the easier slopes. Smith followed Tony as he settled his goggles over his face and led the way to the lip of the mountain. She took a breath to feel the cold crisp air between her teeth and in her chest, settled her own goggles in place, and checked the path of the wind. She placed the tips of her skis in the direction she intended to go. A scattering of people were ahead of them, zipping in and out of the swirling mist, soon disappearing into the cloud cover. On a clear day, you could see a long way from up here: the line of mountains marching into the distance, toy cars moving along the strip of road twisting and turning through the dark forest, tiny figures mingling and separating, the lodge with smoke curling from the chimneys.

Without a word or checking to see if she was ready, Tony launched himself over the edge. She came hot on his heels, and they raced down the steep mountain. Visibility was almost nil with the cloud cover and falling snow. Only the crunch of snow beneath her skis, the whistle of the wind in her helmet, broke the silence. Tony found a section of fresh powder and he disappeared into it. She followed, moving blindly, trusting only to the feel of her skis and the reach of her poles, soaring on clouds, the cold air, full of the scent of pine trees and ice, fresh on her face.

She felt the ground level off and knew she was near the bottom. Lights from the lodge broke through the mist. She moved her feet into a hockey stop, driving the sides of her skis into the packed snow. Snow flew in a spray of white powder, and she punched her fist into the air with a cheer. She pushed her goggles up. Tony had reached the bottom no more than a second ahead of her. He watched her, grinning. Flakes of snow stuck to the stubble of his beard and his cheeks burned with cold and exhilaration.

“Good,” he said, simply.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Ready for another?”

“Let’s try Blond Ambition next. Beat you to the lift.”

She didn’t beat him, but only because a girl, flailing wildly to control her feet and arms, slid into Smith’s path.

They made several more runs. Smith was pumped, exhilarated. When she skied with Adam or Christa she slowed down, matching their pace. When she skied alone, she raced only against herself with no one to notice if she made a personal best or fell face first into a mound of snow.

This, racing with Tony, reminded her of when she’d competed. Pushing herself, testing the limits of her mind and body. She’d quit competition when she realized she was never going to be good enough to make the Olympics or even a national or provincial team. Maybe, she thought now, gasping to recover her breath, laughing at the snow on Tony’s face, she shouldn’t have been so quick to give it up.

“We should be able to get in one more run,” Tony said.

She’d been having so much fun, she’d scarcely noticed the passage of time. A long line of cars, yellow headlights bouncing off falling snow, were pulling out of the parking lot and making their way in a single line down the mountain. Smith pulled her glove down and her sleeve up to glance at her watch. Almost five o’clock.

“Better not. I have to be going.”

“You’re not in a hurry, are you? Let’s have a drink. We need something to warm us up, don’t we? Something to eat? I didn’t have lunch and I’m starving.”

“Sorry. I’d like to, but I can’t. I have to go.”

“Why?”

She hesitated. She’d told him she worked for the city. She’d left it to him to assume she was a low-level clerk. Hard to say she had to go to work without him asking what sort of job started at six at night.

She headed for the bus pickup in front of the lodge. Lights were on in the building and along the deck. Warm, inviting. Inside, the fire would be blazing, the bar hopping, the kitchen serving for a while yet. Everyone talking about the conditions, about their runs, hoping for more snow tonight.

Tony was thinking the same thing. “You don’t have time for one drink? What’s the rush, Molly?”

She bent to snap her skis off. “I’d love to stay, but I’m due at my mom’s for dinner. I have to get home and change first.”