A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (28 page)

“I’ll see myself out,” Elizabeth said.

Gord stood at the living room window, watching Elizabeth walk down the path. She’d parked her car, a rusty old banger, in the driveway. She opened the door, and then turned and gave him a cheerful wave.

Where the hell was he going to get twenty thousand dollars in little more than a week? Cathy’s life was insured through her job benefits, but as he’d told Elizabeth, he needed that money to help him raise his kids by himself. To make up for Cathy’s lost income. This house had a hefty mortgage—they’d taken out an extra loan to renovate the kitchen last year. He’d have a lot of additional expenses without Cathy home with Jocelyn over the school holidays. He wouldn’t be able to spend time away in Victoria; he’d have to hire someone to manage that part of the business or give it up altogether.

Then again, he would no longer be helping to support Elizabeth in Victoria. Having two homes and two families wasn’t cheap.

Perhaps Elizabeth would agree to getting the money in installments.

No, that wasn’t a good idea. Then she’d have a hold over him until she got all she wanted.

He could simply not pay her. What would she do? He’d done nothing illegal. He’d never signed any papers promising her anything. She couldn’t sue, had no grounds to take him to court.

She could talk to Ralph and Renee. To Gord’s mother, Ann. Did Elizabeth really have pictures of them together? He’d never posed with her. But hell, every phone these days had a camera. All it would take would be a couple of shots taken while Gord slept. He never wore pajamas to bed in Elizabeth’s house the way he did at home with Cathy.

How pathetic was that? As if sleeping naked made him some sort of stud.
A
hunk of a man
. He slapped his ample stomach. Flesh jiggled and a hollow sound echoed.

Pathetic.

He could live with Ralph and Renee’s disapproval—heck they’d never much liked him in the first place. But he couldn’t bear to imagine what his mom would think if she found out about Elizabeth. If she saw, god help him, pictures of her son sleeping in another woman’s bed. His tiny shriveled prick, his belly a match to the color and constancy of the Beluga whales at the aquarium.

He’d pay. He could get a loan, explain to the bank he needed to cover some expenses while waiting for the insurance money to come in.

Hell, twenty thousand wasn’t all that much anyway. Not in the grand picture. That old house Elizabeth was so proud of positively drank money. She’d go through it fast enough.

And then what? Would she be back? Wanting more?

He’d worry about that when the time came.

He headed for the kitchen. His mom had made a casserole out of last night’s leftovers and prepared a serving for his dinner. Ignoring the foil-covered dish, he reached into the cupboard and pulled out an oversized bag of chips.

Cathy never allowed junk food in the house.

Screw that. He was a grown man and he could have whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He ripped open the bag, stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth.

They scratched at the inside of his cheeks, clung to the walls of his throat. Chemical spices burned his lips. He gagged on the salt. His stomach churned, his throat closed, and he choked. Gord Lindsay ran for the sink and spat out the mouthful of barely chewed food. He threw the bag onto the floor and brought his foot down on it hard, again and again. Broken chips flew everywhere.

Gord burst into tears. He sank to his knees and sobbed, surrounded by the dust of crushed salt and vinegar potato chips and the fading memory of love.

Chapter Thirty-five

It was a wonderful stroke of luck. Perhaps more than luck.

Margo had never doubted she was destined to find Jackson.

Fate, that fickle creature, was itself giving her a hand.

She’d watched him leave the funeral. He climbed into a beige Corolla and drove away from the church. Margo was pleased to see that he stopped to allow people to cross the street and kept to the speed limit. She made a note of his license plate.

She worked in the gallery on Tuesday, the day following the funeral and her talk with Jackson. After closing, they took down the current display and began getting ready for the new one. It would be a one-woman show and the artist fussed and fussed all evening. Absolutely nothing was to her liking.

Even Eliza, as cool and composed as ever, could barely contain her impatience with the woman.

They finished about ten. The artist puffed and declared that
this
was not what she had expected, and departed with her head high followed by an entourage that consisted of a man with a scraggly beard, bad breath, and nicotine-stained fingers. Eliza locked up. The women left through the back door, heading for their cars.

“If she dares make one word of complaint at the reception on Thursday,” Eliza said, “I will ban her from the gallery. I can’t believe how difficult she turned out to be.
She knew the size of my space. You’d think she’d been expecting the National Gallery.”

“Nerves, I suspect,” Margo said. “It is her first show.”

Eliza sniffed. She could sniff in a way that indicated sophisticated disapproval. When Margo sniffed people handed her a tissue. “No excuse. If she thinks she’s got something to be nervous about, she should try walking the catwalk in Milan in six inch heels a week after twisting her ankle. One can be a flighty amateur, oh so important and dramatic. Or one can be a professional and get on with the job at hand. I fear our Ms. Reingold has chosen the former and if so, this will be her first and last show. That boyfriend doesn’t help. Sycophant more likely. I predict he’ll slide up to me at the reception and inform me in a low voice that he makes art I absolutely
have
to see.
”

They reached their cars. “Thanks for staying late,” Eliza said.

“I’m happy to.”

“Is everything, um, okay, Margo?”

“Couldn’t be better. I’ve spoken to Jackson. He’s confused about what I told him, but that’s natural. He’ll want to be cautious. He’s going to look into opening his adoption papers. I’m so excited.”

“He’s adopted?”

“He was very close to his adoptive parents and didn’t want to hurt them by seeking his birth mother. But now that I’ve approached him, he’s keen on the idea.”

Eliza chewed her lip. “Have you told Steve about this?”

“I’m saving it to be a surprise. Don’t worry, Eliza. It’s all going to turn out perfectly well. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Eliza got into her car. Margo watched the rear lights drive down the alley and disappear as they turned into the street.

She called home. Told Steve they’d run into a problem and it would be closer to midnight before she finished. He told her to take care, and she said she would.

She then drove slowly through the streets of Trafalgar, up and down, back and forth. Looking for a beige Corolla, checking license plates. March Break was over and family groups had left, but lots of tourists were still in town, getting in the last bit of skiing before the snow melted and the season ended for another year. Vehicles were parked outside restaurants or returning to hotels. Margo had trouble identifying the color of cars in the dark, and she wasn’t all that familiar with vehicle designs. She checked the main street, the parking lots beside the better hotels, before deciding she’d have better luck on the residential streets. No doubt Jackson would be at home this time of night, maybe he’d park his car outside, not in a garage.

Once she found his car, she’d know where he lived and she could call on him in the morning. He’d been abrupt at the church, but as she told Eliza that was only to be expected. He was a man after all, and although an indescribable something would be telling him Margo was his mother, he’d have doubts. Men liked to be presented with facts. They didn’t trust their intuition the way women did.

Once she had a chance to tell him the details of his birth, and he could compare that to what he knew
, then he’d realize she was on to something important.

She drove slowly up Cottonwood Street, foot hovering over the brake pedal, her head moving back and forth as she scanned the sides of the road and driveways.

Jackson might not live in town. If he had a place in the mountains it would be hard to locate him, but he had to come into town for shopping and such. All she had to do was keep searching.

A sharp blast broke through Margo’s happy thoughts. She started and then peeked at her rearview mirror. Red-and-blue flashing lights.

Oh, dear, the police must be after a speeder.

She dutifully put on her turn indicator and pulled slightly off to the side of the road to let them pass.

To Margo’s extreme surprise, the police car came to a stop behind her. The door opened and a uniformed figure approached. Margo rolled down her window.

A woman. She stood beside Margo’s door, slightly toward the back. She shone a flashlight around the back seat, then into the front.

“Can I see your license, insurance, and registration, please,” she said in a calm and efficient voice.

“Of course.” Margo fumbled first in her purse and then in the glove compartment. So many papers, she had trouble locating the insurance. She found it at last and handed everything over. “Is there a problem, Officer?” Margo peered up at the face. Young, fair, and pretty. The policewoman did not smile.

“Wait one moment, please.”

Margo watched in her mirror as the policewoman returned to her car, and then she looked around. Snow fell lightly, flakes caught in the beams of her headlights. This was a street of neat houses; most of the lights were off. The flickering blue glow of a TV shone in a couple of windows. A man walking a dog passed by on the other side of the street, giving Margo a long look. Cars slowed as they approached, curious drivers glancing at her.

She felt her face burning. How embarrassing. She hoped no one
she knew would recognize her, stopped at the side of the street like a common criminal.

What on earth was taking that woman so long?

Margo fidgeted in her seat.

Finally the door to the police car opened. The officer stood at Margo’s window, but didn’t pass the papers back. “Thank you, Mrs. Franklin. Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Doing?” Margo’s voice broke. “I mean, what am I doing? Why I’m going home. I worked late tonight.”

“Do you not know where you live?”

“Of course I know where I live. What sort of question is that?”

“We received a call from the Hudson House Hotel saying a car was going through the parking lot, checking out the vehicles. I’ve followed you for several minutes. You’re driving very slowly, apparently aimlessly up and down the streets. Why?”

Margo swallowed. Oh dear. She’d never so much as had a speeding ticket in all her life. She didn’t know what she’d say to Steve if she were arrested. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Looking? On the streets? At night? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd, Mrs. Franklin?”

“My friend’s in town, but I don’t know where she’s staying. So I’m trying to find her car.”

“Why don’t you phone this friend and ask?”

“I’ve lost his…I mean her…number.”

“Mrs. Franklin, you can’t possibly drive around all night checking out every car. Suppose your friend has parked in a garage?”

Margo said nothing.

“I’m advising you to go home. If your friend wants to contact you, he will. If I find you behaving like this again, I have grounds to detain you. You look very much like you’re checking out unlocked cars.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Glad to hear it. Is there some reason you cannot go home? Is it unsafe for you there?”

“I can go home.”

“Good. Would you like me to escort you? Or call someone to come and collect you?

“No.”

The policewoman passed Margo’s papers through the window. “Good night,” she said.

Margo tucked her license into her wallet and her registration and insurance into the glove compartment. She switched on the engine. Easing back onto the road, she was highly conscious of the policewoman behind her.

The flashing lights of the police car switched off, and the vehicle did a U turn, heading back to town.

Margo let out a long puff of air. How dreadfully embarrassing. But not nearly as embarrassing as if Steve had been called to come down to the police station and bail her out.

She’d go home, as she’d promised. Try again tomorrow. It would be easier to see the make of the cars and their license plates in daylight anyway.

She pulled to a stop at the corner of Ninth Street, intending to turn right and head home. A beige Corolla drove through the intersection.

Margo turned left and followed.