A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (8 page)

“Is your son at home?”

He grimaced. “It’s daylight, so Bradley’s at home. Sleeping probably, or pretending he’s leading a counterattack on an invading alien army. If Cathy and I did have our differences, it was over that boy. She thought he was going through a stage, and we have to be patient. I thought, I think, he needs to have his head slapped and his allowance cut off.”

“I’d like to speak with him.”

Lindsay got to his feet. “I’ll see if he’s receiving visitors.”

The front door opened, and voices poured into the house. A smile lit up Gord Lindsay’s face. “My daughter, Jocelyn. Home from the movies with her grandparents.”

“While you’re getting Bradley, I’d like to speak to Jocelyn.”

“Checking my alibi?”

“Checking everything. How old is she?”

“Ten.”

“You or one of her grandparents can be in the room while we’re talking.”

“Count on it.” Lindsay opened the door. “Ralph!”

“Saw the cop car out there. Don’t know why you’re bothering Gord when there’s a killer on the loose.”

“My father-in-law, Ralph Podwarsky,” Lindsay made the introductions.

Podwarsky was a big man, solid and weather-beaten with a permanent tan and folds in the skin of his face as deep as trenches. His gray beard was unkempt, his eyebrows long and bushy. His fingernails were ragged and broken, the hands scratched and scarred. Cold gray eyes studied Winters and did not look away.

“Routine questions,” Winters said.

If he hadn’t been inside, standing on a soft beige carpet, Winters thought the man would have spat.

A girl came to stand behind her grandfather. He put a rough hand protectively on her thin shoulder.

“Tell Bradley the police want to talk to him, Ralph. Please,” Lindsay said.

Podwarsky grunted and walked away. The girl slipped into the room. Keeping her eyes fixed on Molly Smith, she went to her father and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

“Good movie?” Lindsay asked.

“Okay.” Huge brown eyes in a frightened face.

“You’re Jocelyn, right?” Winters asked.

She nodded.

“Why don’t we sit down? Constable Smith has a couple of questions for you. Is that okay, Jocelyn?”

Smith kept her surprise to herself. She might be in uniform, her belt jangling with weapons and equipment, heavy boots dirtying the carpet, but her blond hair was tied back in a stubby ponytail, her face soft and pretty, her cheeks pink with the heat from the fireplace. Winters knew nothing about children and hoped Jocelyn would relate better to a young woman than a grumpy old man.

“I know this is really tough on you, Jocelyn,” Smith began. Her voice hit a high note, and she coughed once to clear it. Her face flushed. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, is that okay?”

“Can my dad stay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

“Did you see your mom yesterday morning?”

The girl shook her head. Her long brown hair was tied into a neat braid.

“Did you notice what time it was when you got up?”

“No.”

“Was it still dark outside?”

The girl shook her head. “The sun was up, and it was snowing. Mom was going to make a special breakfast ’cause it was the first day of March Break and we were going skiing after.”

“Was your dad in the house?” Smith didn’t look at Gord Lindsay.

Another nod. “I was hungry, but Dad said we had to wait until Mom got home. We waited a long time. Then Dad cooked breakfast.”

“Was your dad in the house all morning?”

“After we ate he went out to look for Mom.”

“Which is when I ran into you, Officer,” Lindsay said.

“Was your brother in the house?” Winters asked.

“I don’t know. Bradley sleeps a lot.”

“I looked in on him,” Lindsay said. “He was in bed, asleep.”

“Fuckin’ right, I was.”

They all turned. A boy sauntered into the room. His brown eyes were pin pricks of hostility, his swagger lazy and arrogant. He wore track pants slung low on bony hips and a torn black T-shirt advertising a heavy metal band, all grinning skeletons and splotches of what passed for blood. He threw himself into a chair and tossed one leg over the arm. He began chewing at a fingernail.

“Come on, sweetie,” Ralph Podwarsky said, “Grandma Renee’s got a snack ready.”

Jocelyn glanced first at her dad and then at Molly Smith.

“Thank you,” Winters said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Jocelyn dashed out of the room, braid streaming behind.

“Your dad says you were in bed yesterday morning,” Winters said to Bradley.

“What my dad says is always right. He’s the boss.” Bradley looked at the woman in uniform. “Smith, eh? I never forget a pig. Not a female pig anyway.”

“Watch your mouth,” Lindsay snapped.

“Or what?”

Winters studied Bradley’s face. The boy’s eyes were red, he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. He’d been crying, alone in his room, probably muffling his sobs beneath his pillow. But he refused to let the grief or the pain show, couldn’t drop the attitude long enough to take comfort from his father or his grandparents. To give comfort in return.

“Where were you yesterday morning?” Winters rephrased the question.

“In bed.” Bradley looked at Smith. “Alone, more’s the pity.”

Winters could have laughed. Molly kept her face impassive as she tried very hard not to wince.

Sixteen years old, and the kid figured
he knew
it all. “When did you last see your mother?”

“Around eight, I think. The night before. Friday night. She wanted me to play games or something stupid. As if.”

Gord Lindsay visibly flinched, and Winters wanted to smash his fist into the kid’s sneering face. “What happened at eight?”

“I went out.”

“Where?”

“Just out.”

“When did you get home?”

“Around two. I went straight to my room. All the lights were off and everyone was asleep. I didn’t see…” his voice broke. He sniffed, trying to cover the emotion, “…my mom.”

The boy looked out the window for a long time. They heard the dog bark and Ralph Podwarsky’s deep voice calling to it. Bradley said, “I woke up when Dad phoned from the police station, telling me he’d be a while and I was to mind Jocelyn.”

Winters got to his feet. Smith moved away from the wall.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Lindsay. Bradley.”

The boy grunted.

“I’d like to take your wife’s cell phone,” Winters said.

Lindsay didn’t bother to ask why. “It’s in the kitchen where…where Cathy left it.”

“You were going to prepare a list of her friends.” Winters handed Lindsay his card. “Why don’t you send me an email? Addresses and phone numbers if you have them, just names if not. Try and think of anyone at work she might have been close to, or any social groups she belonged to.” Two IHIT officers were arriving on the afternoon plane from Vancouver. He’d get them making phone calls and knocking on doors. If they found anyone worth interviewing, Winters or Ray Lopez would pay them a visit.

Winters reminded Ralph and Renee Podwarsky and Ann Lindsay to get in touch if they could think of anything further, and he and Smith left the house. The door closed silently behind them.

They walked down the neatly shoveled sidewalk. Smith let out a long breath once they reached the road. “That was perfectly dreadful. What a nightmare.”

“For the family, yes. For us too, I fear. You know the kid, Bradley. Any thoughts?”

“He’s a two-bit troublemaker. Runs with a crowd of middle-class kids who think they’re tough. They wouldn’t recognize tough until it’s too late. Nothing more.”

“Gord Lindsay?”

“Seems to be grieving. Wouldn’t be the first husband to off the wife and then be sorry about it.”

“Head back up to the trail, will you? Check no one’s been where they shouldn’t while you were gone. Then go back to town. No point in guarding the scene any longer.”

***

Gord Lindsay wasn’t much of a drinker, but right now he sure could use a stiff one.

The house was stifling. Renee had jacked the furnace up and switched on the fireplace. His mother and mother-in-law constantly popped in and out of the family room asking if they could get him anything. A cheese sandwich he didn’t want appeared at his elbow, and he was encouraged to eat up as if he were a ten year old. Renee had found a roast of beef thawing in the fridge, and she and Ann were competing to see who could put together the most elaborate side dishes. They’d already had an argument over the virtues of mashed potatoes verses roast potatoes. He’d end up being forced to choke down both.

He wanted to throw the goddamned roast in the garbage. At the very least there must be someone in town who’d love to—like Bob Cratchet at the conclusion of
A Christmas Carol
—have a feast appear on their doorstep.

Cathy had planned on putting the roast in the oven yesterday after breakfast, switch the timer on, and finish preparing the meal when they got home from skiing. She’d even made a pie for dessert. From scratch.

Something seemed to have taken control of Cathy lately. She wasn’t usually so dedicated to creating the perfect family setting. In fact, she’d always had a rather laissez-faire attitude to the household. He’d put her change of behavior down to middle-age. Even to “the change,” not that there seemed to be any other signs of approaching menopause. Perhaps she’d realized how fast the kids were growing up; they wouldn’t be children forever.

Look at Bradley for god’s sake. The cute little boy with a nose covered in freckles and an unruly mop of curls, who wanted to go everywhere, do everything, with his dad, had turned almost overnight into a juvenile delinquent stereotype. Whenever Gord saw Bradley, he shuddered to think what Jocelyn might get up to in a couple more years.

Was Cathy trying to hold back time? Gord hadn’t thought much about her behavior. He sure was thinking about it now. He was thinking of little else.

She’d started dressing better too. Nicer clothes to wear to work. Tailored suits and silk blouses rather than the pants and T-shirts she’d long favored. She’d gone for a shopping weekend in Vancouver with her friend Carolyn a couple of months ago. Came home with high-heeled shoes rather than practical pumps and beautiful jewelry he hadn’t dared ask the price of.

He’d put it all down to changing tastes, to getting older, to seeing the passage of time written on her children’s faces. Written on Gord’s face.

Was it possible he’d been wrong?

Was she having an affair?

She wouldn’t have gone all out planning a nice dinner for the family to impress a lover. Could that have been to assuage her guilt?

He’d told the cop he and Cathy had a good, solid marriage.

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. They went their separate ways. Lived separate lives, mostly. Most of the long-time married people Gord knew lived together in mild contempt. Look at Ralph and Renee. Renee never shut the hell up, and Ralph rolled his eyes when her back was turned and spent his time looking for things to do to get out of the house. Gord’s driveway had never been so well shoveled. Tomorrow, Ralph said, he’d organize the mess in the garage.

When did Gord and Cathy last have sex?

He couldn’t remember.

Was she looking for something her husband wasn’t giving her anymore?

Gord headed for the mud room. He had to get out of here.

If they weren’t having sex it was hardly his fault. She’d turned as cold as a block of ice the last few years. They still slept together in the king-sized bed, each facing a different wall, the sheets between them as empty as the Arctic Sea.

He tried, now and again, to get something going. She pushed him away and said not with Bradley in the house, sneaking around, listening at doors.

If Bradley was out, there would be another excuse.