A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (7 page)

“There’s one possibility that’s worse,” Townshend said.

“What’s that?”

“Random. No motive. He popped the first person to walk into his sights. Because he could.”

***

“Excuse me, can I speak to you for a moment?” Molly Smith asked the young couple strolling along the hiking trail above town. They stopped and gave her nervous smiles.

She’d been standing here since six a.m. when it was still dark. Told to talk to anyone who walked by. Find out if they came here regularly, and if they did, get their names and numbers so the detectives could ask them about people who were in the habit of hiking here at this time of day.

So far,
there hadn’t been many to ask.

Today was Sunday. Not too cold, the air crisp and fresh, new snow underfoot. The trail should be as busy as it ever got.

But this couple was the first to come by in a long time.

Word, obviously, had spread. People were keeping away from the path, in case someone was still out there. With a rifle scope trained on their backs. Gavin and Townshend had pronounced themselves finished, the body had been removed, the tent dismantled. The clearing where Norman led them remained closed off.

Kids had been sneaking through the woods earlier, teenage boys, searching for blood spatter in the snow. Smith had ordered them to get lost.

“It’s about that shooting yesterday, right?” the woman tittered. “We heard about it at the hotel. They said it’s safe to come up. Is it?”

“You don’t live around here?”

“We’re from Toronto. Here to ski for a week. Great conditions, fabulous snow. Do you ski, Officer?”

“Oh yeah. If you’re looking for…” She snapped herself back to the job at hand. Nothing Molly Smith would rather talk about than skiing. She cleared her throat. “I mean, were you here yesterday?”

“The bus picked us up outside the hotel at eight. We got back after dark. Sorry. This morning we decided to have a bit of a lie-in, room-service breakfast, a hike, and go shopping later.”

“Thanks,” Smith said. “Hope you enjoy Trafalgar. Oh, and the best view on the mountain is at the top of the run called Blond Ambition.”

They thanked her, linked gloved hands, and strolled on. The man said something and the woman laughed. As they rounded the bend, a single woman passed them, warmly dressed with a woolen cap pulled over her forehead and a scarf wrapped around her mouth.

In this weather, you couldn’t tell a hiker from a bank robber.

“Excuse me,” Smith said, “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“You can speak to me all you want, Molly.” Constable Dawn Solway pushed her hat back.

“Oh, it’s you. What are you doing up here? I thought Francesca was visiting. Did you have a fight or something?”

“No, we did not have a fight. But we might well if our plans for this evening get screwed up. I got called in. I’m
undercover
.”

“What?”

“I suppose one could get more onerous duties on a pleasant day. I’m walking the trail. Looking for anything or anyone suspicious.”

“Suspicious in what way?”

“Maybe the shooter will come back to admire his handiwork. They do sometimes, you know.”

An icy finger ran up Smith’s spine. She felt very vulnerable, standing at the crest of the hill, exposed.

Solway laughed. “You should see the look on your face.” Her own face turned serious. “Hell of a thing, out for a walk and out of nowhere someone blows you away. I’m not surprised no one much is up here today.”

“Did you know the woman? Lindsay?”

“Not her, but I’ve met her husband. Their son’s a right tearaway. Always has been. Regular little prick. Been picked up a few times. Daddy hurries down to the station to settle it. You must have run into him at some time or another, Bradley Lindsay?”

“Oh, yeah. Now I remember. He was drunk in the park one night, singing at the moon or some such juvenile stupidity. I drove him home and got his mom out of bed. She was not pleased. I knew I’d seen her somewhere. You think he…”

“Na. He’s a kid with no conscience and no impulse control. He might trip his mom at the top of the stairs and cause her to break her neck, think it’s a great joke, but he wouldn’t go to the time and effort to take anyone out. I’d better be on my way, try to blend in. I’m going to take a break in a few minutes and go to Eddie’s. Want anything?”

“A hot mocha’d be good. Heavy on the whipped cream.”

“You got it.” Solway pulled her hat back down and sauntered off.

Smith stamped her feet to restore circulation. She held her gloved hands to her face in an attempt to create some warmth. Snow had fallen all through the night but stopped not long ago and the clouds had cleared. The sun, cold and white, shone in a brilliant blue sky, and on the ground snow sparked as if diamonds were scattered across it. The glare was so strong she wore sunglasses.

A dog barked and she smiled to see him coming out of the trees. Norman, Adam Tocek following. He gave her a grin. “Looking for a hot time, babe?”

“Where’d you come from?” She greeted Norman with a scratch behind the ears.

“Some detective you are. We came in from the other direction. Sniffing around, so to speak. Wondering if anyone returned to the clearing overnight, slipped under the tape. The snow’s deep, all traces of yesterday gone. To my eyes, that is. Norman can still figure out what went on. Sometimes, I know he’s trying to tell me, but I’m too darn stupid to understand.” He gave the dog an affectionate slap on his solid rump.

“Did anyone? Come back, I mean.”

“Don’t think so. Trail’s pretty quiet today.”

“People are spooked. Naturally. Word travels fast, and I’ll bet the story’s growing in the telling.”

“Terrorists in our midst. Serial killers. Slaughter us all in our beds.” He glanced back through the trees. “Still tough, though. Whatever happened. You know Doug O’Malley?”

Smith nodded. O’Malley was a Mountie. An older guy, about to retire.

“He took a creative writing class at the college last year. Cathy Lindsay was the teacher. A killing like this. A local, someone a lot of people knew. They’re going to take it personally.”

They turned at the sound of a car pulling off to the side of the road. Two young women got out, accompanied by two dogs. The dogs ran in circles, churning fresh snow, peeing on everything in sight.

“Back to work,” Smith said.

“Catch you later.” Norman and Adam slipped back into the woods. One of the new arrivals leapt forward as if to follow only to be brought up short by his leash.

***

John Winters leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stiff neck. Ray Lopez had gone to interview one of Cathy’s friends. Try and find out if the Lindsays were having trouble in their marriage, if they had money problems, if Cathy mentioned that she’d been worried about anything. Winters had arranged to call on Gord Lindsay at two. He had time to grab a coffee before facing the difficult task of asking a man if he’d killed his wife.

Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium was quiet for midafternoon. A handful of skiers were back early, seated around a long table, gripping mugs, nibbling on warm pastries and muffins. They illustrated runs and jumps with swirling arms and swooshing noises and loud laughter. Wet gloves, scarves, and hats were piled on another table, steaming as they dried.

Jolene came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of cookies, straight from the oven judging by the smell. John Winters’ detective powers were at their height when it came to baking.

Without being asked, Eddie poured a large coffee, black no sugar, and passed it to Winters.

“Thanks. I’ll have a hot chocolate too, plenty of whipped cream. And two, no make it four, of those cookies, please.”

“Bad business,” Eddie grumbled.

The colored beads in Jolene’s hair clinked as she shook her head. “Bad
for
business. I overheard a couple discussing whether they should pack up early and go back to Winnipeg.”

“Because of the shooting?” Winters asked.

“People are saying there’s a killer out there.” Eddie pitched his deep voice so as not to carry.

“One person has been killed. Unfortunately. We’re investigating and expect to make an arrest shortly. I don’t think it’s a whole lot safer in Winnipeg.”

“People want to be part of the drama,” Jolene said. “Even if only to clutch their pearls and throw frightened glances over their shoulders. Makes them feel important.”

Eddie snorted as he sprayed a mountain of whipped cream onto an extralarge cup of hot chocolate. Jolene selected four of the plumpest cookies and slipped them into a paper bag. Winters pulled out his wallet.

People would be spooked. Rumors were running amok, panic spreading along with misinformation. The dispatchers reported a steady stream of calls, few, if any, of which were of help. A man was seen getting onto a snowmobile with a machine gun poking out of his bag; a swarthy stranger had approached a woman in the street asking for directions; a dog had howled in the night. Jenny Jones, who lived in seclusion deep in the woods and loved nothing more than to “assist” the police, called twice. Once to report snowshoe tracks through her property, and then to say she’d seen an image of the killing in the sparks from her fireplace and could identify the killer. Denton scratched off the regular kooks and sent an officer around to speak to the others.

Winters passed over his money and accepted change which he dropped into the tip jar.

The door opened, bringing a gust of cold and a scattering of snow as a family stumbled in. Mom and Dad in ski clothes, a pack of laughing children in an arrangement of outlandish headgear. John Winters was pleased to see that not everyone stayed at home-cowering under the blankets.

He drove to the top of Martin Street. A cruiser was parked there, and Molly Smith stood on the path, stamping her feet, rubbing her hands together, looking mighty bored. No other cars were around.

Smith walked over as the GIS van pulled up, happy at the break in the monotony.

“Get in,” he said, “I figured you’d be ready for a snack.”

“Am I ever.” She clambered into the passenger seat, and he passed her the cup of hot chocolate and the cookie bag. He kept the engine on, the heat cranked high.

She closed her eyes and took a long sip. When her head came up, the tip of her nose was covered in cream. She wiped it away and said, “Heaven.”

“Many people come by?”

“Next to no one. More of us are up here than civilians. I chased off a bunch of local kids who wanted to see where she’d died. Ghouls.”

“Anyone showing any particular interest?” For once popular belief was true. Plenty of killers did return to the scene of the crime. They enjoyed watching the fuss they’d caused.

“No one who came this way. Adam stopped by earlier. Norman wasn’t picking up anything fresh.” She munched on a cookie, catching crumbs in her palm.

“Not much point in keeping you here any longer. I’ve an appointment to interview Gord Lindsay in a few minutes. Finish your drink and you can come with me.”

She grinned.

Chapter Eleven

“What do you mean, he’s your son? He didn’t recognize you.”

“You don’t have children yourself, do you, Eliza?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“There’s a bond, you see. A bond between a mother and her child. A bond so strong it can never be broken.”

Margo stared over Eliza’s shoulder, a soft smile on her face, a warmth in her heart. The door chimes were slowing to a halt following William Westfield’s departure.

He was gone but the air was full of him. His scent, his aura. The totality of his being.

Her son.

How could she not know him?

“It’s been a long time,” she said to Eliza. “A very long time. But I knew. He recognized me, I could tell. After all those years, the bond is still there.”

“Margo, what are you talking about?”

She didn’t expect Eliza to understand. Most people, parents or not, wouldn’t understand. Only when the bond between mother and infant had been shattered so sharply, so abruptly, so deliberately, did a mother and child know it existed. Like an amputee feeling pain in a limb no longer attached.

She’d tried to explain that analogy to the therapist her husband Steve had insisted she see. The therapist had been a stuffy woman, all power suit and glasses dangling from a jeweled chain. Pictures of children and grandchildren prominently displayed on her desk. What could she know about Margo’s loss?

Margo had refused to make another appointment, and Steve let it go.

Eliza was studying her, a question on her face. She reached out one hand, and touched Margo on the arm with fingers as light as air.

“I had a baby, you see. When I was just a girl. I…gave him up. I didn’t want to, but I had to.” Margo felt tears behind her eyes. She always did, when she thought about what had happened. She tried not to show her ever-present pain to Steve. He was a good man, a good husband. He didn’t deserve to know how much she pined for what she had lost.

“You think this man, William, is that boy? When did you see him last?” Eliza’s voice was kind. Soft. Her lovely face was crinkled in concern. Margo decided to trust her.

“The day he was born. They didn’t even let me hold him in my arms. They didn’t let me say goodbye. One of the nurses was kind. She took me to the nursery window and pointed him out. In my heart I named him Jackson, after his father.”

“Oh.” Some of the sympathy melted from Eliza’s face. Margo didn’t care.
She knew
.
She knew
Jackson had been here. In this gallery. She took a deep breath, pulled the essence of him into her body, the very body that had nourished him over all those months of her shame and her misery.

“If you’d like to go home I can manage for the rest of the day.”

“No, I’ll be fine. It’s wonderful, Eliza. So wonderful. You’re wondering why I didn’t say something to him. I want to take it slowly, tread carefully. He wouldn’t recognize me, of course, not on a physical level, but I could tell he sensed something about me. Deep down inside
he knew
. Oh, Eliza. This is so exciting.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of sheer joy. Margo practically danced around the gallery. She dusted and swept with cheerful abandon, she greeted customers with an enormous smile, she swung her arms and moved her body to the music playing on the sound system. Eliza watched her, clearly thinking that Margo had lost her marbles, but she could hardly complain when Margo sold several pieces of art.

She wouldn’t say anything to Steve. Not yet. Steve would remind her, in that patient so-understanding voice that drove her crazy, of the other times when she’d mistakenly thought a man was her son. Of course, those hadn’t been the same. She’d simply suspected the man in the hardware store, or that guy who came to work on the roof, had been Jackson. It soon turned out they weren’t. They were too young.

This time…this time…
she knew
.

***

From the street, the Lindsay home looked like any other. The driveway was freshly shoveled, the snow on the front lawn chewed up by crisscrossing boots, paws, and tracks of rolling snowballs used to create a childish snowman. The snow sculpture occupied pride of place in the center of the yard, with carrot nose, black-button eyes, and a red licorice mouth; a layer of fresh power draped over it like a cloak.

Winters and Smith parked in the street. They met on the sidewalk. Smith shifted the weight of her gun belt, clearly uncomfortable at what they had come to do. A battered Ford pickup sat in the driveway. The garage doors were closed.

He hadn’t needed to bring a uniform, but Molly was observant and insightful and it never hurt to have a second opinion on a delicate interview.

They walked together up the neatly shoveled path. The door opened as their feet touched the bottom step. The woman was in her late sixties, face heavily lined, hair stuffed haphazardly into a gray bun. She wore faded jeans, a blue blouse under a fleece pullover that was a souvenir of Turks and Caicos. The blouse had become untucked on her right side. Almost certainly this was Gord Lindsay’s mother.

She watched the police climb the steps, her face red and puffy with weeping. She twisted a damp, torn tissue in her hands.

“Mrs. Lindsay?” Winters asked, stomping loose snow off his boots.

“No. I’m Renee Podwarsky.”

The mother. Not the mother-in-law. Much worse.

“Mrs. Podwarsky, I’m Sergeant John Winters and this is Constable Smith. We’d like to speak to Gord Lindsay, if he’s available.”

She stepped wordlessly aside and they entered the house.

Winters could smell something delicious roasting in the oven. Behind a door, a dog barked.

“My husband and Ann, Gord’s mother, have taken Jocelyn to a movie. Gord’s through here.” She led the way into the house without looking to ensure the police followed.

Gord Lindsay sat on a reclining chair in the family room. TV remote in hand, a hockey game playing on the flat-screen TV that occupied most of the opposite wall. A mug of coffee rested on the table beside him.

“Mr. Lindsay.”

The man turned his head. His eyes were blank, empty, unfocused. He blinked several times. “Oh. Yes. Sergeant, come in. We had an appointment, right.” His finger moved and the TV went black.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Mrs. Podwarsky said. “If you need me.” She shut the door softly behind her.

“Please,” Lindsay said. “Have a seat.” He pushed his recliner upright.

Winters perched on the edge of a comfortable leather chair. Smith leaned against the wall.

A fire burned in a gas fireplace. The room was far too hot but Winters did not take off his jacket. This was not a social call.

“Mr. Lindsay,” he began. “My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you.” A voice drained of emotion. A stock answer to a stock expression of sentiment.

“I know how difficult this must be for you, but questions have to be asked.”

“I understand.”

“Did your wife have enemies? Anyone who might want her dead?”

A table beside the TV held a cluster of framed photographs. Formal school portraits of a boy and a girl at various ages; the family dressed as though attending a wedding; a beaming Cathy Lindsay with a baby in her arms, and a young child leaning against her leg. Young, attractive, happy.

Gord Lindsay remained silent for a long time, watching the light of the flames play against the wall. Watching, but not seeing. Winters knew to let the man have all the time he wanted. Wait him out.

Smith shifted her feet, but wisely said nothing.

“Enemies?” Gord said at last. He talked to the police, but kept his eyes on the photographs. “You mean like the parent whose spoiled brat of a kid got a lousy mark and wants to have her fired? Or the student in the creative writing class who got mad when Cathy suggested her crap piece of writing wasn’t ready for publication? If so, yes,
some
people don’t…didn’t like her. I bet there are people who don’t like you, Sergeant. But they don’t hide in the woods and shoot you down like a dog.”

Smith had her notebook in hand. Out of the corner of his eyes Winters saw her jot down the information. Highly unlikely a disgruntled student or parent had killed the woman. But stranger things had happened.

“Your wife walked that route most days?”

Lindsay glanced at the window. The drapes were open and the sun sparked on the white expanse of a good-sized back yard. A child’s swing set covered in snow, a wire fence surrounding the property, a small gate giving access to the walking trail. Forest and mountain filled the sky.

“I keep thinking this is some sort of joke, you know. Like she’s going to pop up from behind the couch and yell, “Gotcha.” And then roll around on the floor laughing.”

“Was Cathy a joker?”

“Not anymore.”

When a death had been so sudden, so unexpected, it could take a long time for the reality to set in. Years sometimes. Years in which the grieving parent or spouse would see their loved one in the turn of a head or the swing of a hip. On the street, in the background of a grainy amateur video on YouTube. Convinced, despite everything, that there had been some terrible mistake. That the deceased was only joking. John Winters kept his personal life separate from his job, but this once, as he studied Gord Lindsay’s ravaged, shocked face, he imagined Eliza heading out the door one morning. And never coming back. How could a man live with that?

He didn’t look at Molly Smith. It had happened to her,
he knew
. Before she joined the police. Something about her fiancé being knifed in an alley in the Downtown Eastside, dead before she made it to the hospital.

He wondered if she were remembering her own pain. He wondered if she saw the man in her dreams, in the shadow of a stranger rounding a corner.

He repeated his question. “Did Cathy walk on the trail every day?”

“Pretty much. First thing in the morning, winter or summer, rain or snow or shine, before the rest of us were out of bed. She might miss a day if we’d been up late the night before or if she wasn’t feeling well, but that didn’t happen often. If the weather was bad, she might cut the walk short, but she tried to get out.”

“Did she always take the dog?”

“Yes.”

“Did your wife have a lover?”

Something approaching a smile touched the edges of the man’s mouth. “You’re asking if my wife was having an affair.”

“Yes, I am. Was she?”

“No.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Sure as I can be. She taught at the high school during the day, came home after school, went out Monday nights to teach creating writing to adults at the college. Otherwise, she mostly stayed home. She believed in having dinner together as a family, every night. In the evenings she prepared for her classes, marked essays, that sort of thing.”

“Girlfriends?”

“She has…had…a couple of friends, yeah. Went to a movie or a play once a month or so, talked on the phone a lot. Nothing much more than that.”

“I’ll need the names of these friends.”

Lindsay waved his hand in the air.

Winters heard Smith shift her feet. She coughed lightly. He hid a smile. Not long ago she would have barged in with her question or comment. She was learning. He gave her a discreet nod.

“You spend a lot of time in Victoria, sir.”

Lindsay looked at her for the first time. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Molly Smith. I’ve been to this house before. Concerning your son, Bradley. I remember talking to your wife. She said you had a business in Victoria and spent a lot of time there.”

“Ah, yes. Bradley. Sadly, my son is, as the expression goes, known to the police. I still keep the original office on the Island. With staff. I spend about one week a month in Victoria.”

Winters said nothing. If Lindsay was away from home on a regular basis, his wife could be up to just about anything in his absence.

“Did you kill your wife, Mr. Lindsay?” Winters asked.

Lindsay didn’t react. No doubt he’d been expecting the question. “No, Sergeant, I did not. We had a good marriage, a solid marriage, and I loved her very much.” The muscles in his face twisted, but the tears did not fall.