Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (11 page)

The older elk was pushing the younger back now, and Lucky cheered him on.

Then, with one last clash of their antlers, the young one broke away, and was almost instantly swallowed up by the trees. The victor stood on the field of battle for a few moments, breathing deeply, and then he headed slowly toward his harem. They drifted away, making scarcely a sound as they, too, disappeared into the forest.

“Wow,” a little boy said, “that was great.”

“Do again tomorrow?” one of a pack of Japanese tourists asked Lucky. “Same time?”

People did sometimes think this was Disneyland.

Lucky continued her walk, feeling much better. Life, after all, went on.

When she got back to her room, her face tingling from the cold, her always-wild mop of hair curling in the damp, the first thing she noticed was the red light on the bedside phone. Mood shattered, she cursed herself as she grabbed for it.

She shouldn’t have gone out. She should have stayed in. Anything could have happened.

“I’m…uh…I’m looking for Mr. Keller? Is this the right room?” The voice was low, hesitant, every sentence ending in an upturn, a question. “We met yesterday, although you probably don’t remember me? It was in the Lighthouse Keeper, the restaurant in Banff? I’m…uh…I’m Tracey, Matt’s…girlfriend? I’m real sorry about what happened yesterday. Matt’s not like that, really. I’ve just been to Matt’s place, to his apartment.” A long pause, then, “He’s dead. No! I don’t mean Matt’s dead, but Barry is. Matt, he isn’t answering his phone. I don’t know what to do. I’m worried. I thought you’d want to know, that’s all. He told me you’re his dad. Maybe I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry to bother you. Bye. Oh, if you do know where Matt is, tell him to call me, please. He’s got my number, but in case he’s lost it, here it is again. I’m running out of battery power, though. If I don’t answer he can call me at…”

She rattled off a series of numbers and hung up, after another apology for bothering them.

Poor girl.

Lucky replayed the message, this time with a pen in her hand and hotel notepad on the table to jot down the number. Without thinking, she dialed.

“Lighthouse.”

“I’m looking for Tracey?”

“Hold on a sec.”

Several long moments passed, and then, “Hello?” said a very hesitant voice.

“Is that Tracey?”

“Yes.”

“This is Lucky Smith. I was with Paul Keller yesterday.”

“Oh, right. I remember.”

“You left a message for Paul at the hotel. He’s not here at the moment. Can I help you?”

“Have you heard from Matt? Do you know where he is? Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry, but no, not since…”

“Since what?”

Noise in the background. A man talking, dishes clattering.

“Why don’t we meet?” Lucky said. “I can come to you. Are you at work?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Lucky hung up without waiting for the girl to agree. Or not. She should call Paul. But then he might tell her to stay out of it.

She had to be doing something.

Chapter Twenty-two

TRAFALGAR CITY POLICE STATION. TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY NOON.

John Winters did not like what he was learning. Matthew Keller had been in and out of trouble for years. Most of it minor: one drinking and driving offense, bar fights, drunk and disorderly, possession of marijuana. He’d done a short stretch in jail for taking part in a bar brawl in Whistler in which a police officer was cut with a broken beer bottle. Fortunately, for Matt, the officer wasn’t sure which of the combatants had struck him, so Matt got off on the more serious charge of assault PO. He was released about a year ago, and didn’t seem to have been in any trouble since.

Not trouble the police were aware of at any rate.

Winters wondered how much Paul knew about this. He could have run the same checks as Winters did, easy enough. But a lot of cops, sensibly, didn’t want to be checking up on their kids. Winters had suspected Keller was estranged from his son. The only evidence the boss even had one was the photograph that used to be on his desk—taken about ten years ago of Karen and two teenagers. When Karen left the marriage, Keller had removed the picture and replaced it with one of his daughter, Cheryl, on her wedding day.

He wondered if a photo of Lucky Smith would one day take a place of pride on the chief’s desk. Molly would be mortified.

The latest address he could find for Matt Keller was the Banff one Paul had given him. Matt owned a car, a 2001 Honda Civic, which had no outstanding fines, but to dig much deeper, into bank accounts say, Winters would need a warrant. That, he wouldn’t be able to get just doing a favor for a friend. The most recent mention of employment showed that Matt worked at a bar in Banff called Reds. About a month ago there’d been a theft at the bar when a woman’s purse was taken. Matt wasn’t suspected, but he was named on the police report as a witness. Winters continued reading. No one had been apprehended; the purse itself was found in a back alley the following day, credit cards and U.K. passport in place, four hundred dollars in cash missing.

He brought up the RCMP database and began reading about the killing in Banff. Police and border guards throughout Alberta and B.C. had been requested to be on the lookout for Matthew Allen Keller. No warrant, yet, thank goodness.

Next, Winters looked into what he could find on Barry Caseman. And he found plenty. Small-time hoodlum. A couple of convictions for theft, one for sexual assault when he’d grabbed a woman’s breast in a bar, another sexual assault charge that was dropped when the woman left town and refused to come back to testify. A trail of fights and D&Ds. Caseman was an automobile mechanic, but he seemed to have trouble holding down a job and drifted from one party town to another. At the moment he was employed at a garage in Banff.

Make that used to be employed.

The death of Caseman probably wouldn’t turn out to be much of a mystery. No doubt he’d insulted someone’s girlfriend, gotten himself into a brawl with a guy who didn’t intend to forgive and forget, or invited a buddy back home for a beer and found himself on the losing side of an argument.

If not for the disappearance of Matt Keller, who had called for help, it would be a simple matter of finding some guy wiping down his knife blade or bragging around town that no one messed with him.

It was too soon for much forensic evidence to have been entered into the file. Nothing on blood types found at the scene, other than Caseman’s. No fingerprint reports yet, which probably wouldn’t mean anything significant in any event. Matt Keller lived there, along with Caseman and two others, according to interviews with the neighbors, and it sounded like the sort of place people dossed down when they’d been kicked out of their own apartments or were passing through town.

The knife used had been left beside the body. It appeared to be a standard kitchen knife, covered in plenty of prints, and forensics was running computer searches for matches. Winters checked, but the report didn’t say if the knife matched others in the apartment. The officer in charge of the investigation was a sergeant by the name of Edward Blechta. Winters had never run into him. He hoped the guy had enough empathy to cut Paul Keller some slack.

“Yeah?” Keller said, answering Winters’ call.

Winters outlined what he’d found. Keller grunted in acknowledgement.

“Caseman sounds like a piece of work,” Winters said. “Trouble looking for a place to happen.”

“I had the pleasure,” Keller said. “And it wasn’t.”

“Your son’s been staying out of trouble for the past year.”

“Smartening up, maybe.”

“Any sign of him?”

“No. And that isn’t good. His phone, the one he used to call me, was found in the apartment. Our hotel was the last number called. Two incoming calls since, messages left. The ringer was off, and the phone under a table, so we didn’t hear anything. When we returned the call, it went straight to voice mail. No name, a standard message. Blechta’s trying to track the caller down as well as get the phone company to let us into Matt’s voice mail box.”

“Might be significant if someone tried to get Matt and isn’t picking up now.”

“True. But cell phones can be unreliable in the mountains.”

“As well I know.”

The background chatter faded, and Winters guessed Keller had sought some privacy.

“You ever heard of this guy, Eddie Blechta?”

“No.”

“See what you can find, will you, John? I want to know what sort of cop I’m dealing with here.”

“Will do.” Winters looked up at a knock on his door. Jim Denton, the dispatcher. He mouthed,
a call
.

“It’ll have to wait, Paul. Looks like I’ve got work to do.”

“When you can get to it.”

“We’ve got your back here if you need anything.”

“Thanks, John.” The chief’s voice broke. “I appreciate it.”

“Trouble at the Grizzly Resort site,” Denton said. “A couple of carloads of protesters have arrived.”

“That’s not our call. The location’s out of town. Do the horsemen need help?”

“No, but another bunch
is
heading our way. There’s a matching demonstration forming in front of the offices on Front Street. Armed with protest signs and bullhorns.”

Winters swore under his breath as he reached for his jacket.

Chapter Twenty-three

LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER RESTAURANT. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY NOON.

The Lighthouse Keeper was almost full when Lucky Smith entered. A woman called out, “Be with you in a sec,” as she crossed the room carrying plates piled high with pancakes and sausages, eggs and potatoes and toast. The place was warm and redolent with damp wool drying, strong coffee, and hearty, greasy breakfasts.

“Table for one?” the waitress asked, reaching for a menu. She was about Lucky’s age with a worn face and wary eyes and an inch of gray roots in too-black hair twisted into a rough bun.

“I’m looking for Tracey. Is she around?”

“I’ll get her.”

The waitress went through to the kitchen and Tracey came out almost immediately, carrying a coffeepot. She headed for a table, poured refills, asked if everything was okay. Only when her duties were finished did she approach Lucky.

“Mrs. Smith? Thanks for coming.”

“Can you talk? You’re busy, and I don’t want to take you away from your work.”

“Kev said it’s okay if I take my break now.” By the look on the older waitress’ face, it was not okay with her but she said nothing. The door opened, and a group of four came in with a wave of cold, damp air. Lucky and Tracey slid past them onto the street.

“You’re going to freeze.” Lucky nodded to the girl’s t-shirt, black, long-sleeved, with a picture of a lighthouse on a rocky point facing an incoming storm printed on the front.

“I’m okay.” Tracey dug in the pocket of her baggy pants and came up with a pack of cigarettes and matches. Without asking permission, she lit up. She shifted from one foot to another, and glanced up and down the street while she sucked smoke into her lungs. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick.

“Why the lighthouse motif?” Lucky asked, trying to take some of the tension out of the air.

“Huh?”

“In the restaurant? It’s all about lighthouses and fishing villages. We’re a long way from the ocean. Everything else around here is about mountains.”

“Oh. Kev, the owner, he’s from Newfoundland. Hasn’t been back since he was a kid, says he has nothing to go back for. I think he misses the sea sometimes.” She was smoking rapidly, barely exhaling one puff before dragging in the next.

“How long have you worked here?” Lucky asked. She had no desire to engage in small talk, but this nervous girl seemed to need time to gather her courage to say what she needed to say.

“Two months. It’s okay, I guess. I’d like to get better hours, though. I work at a car rental place in the evenings.” The streets were busy with cars and the sidewalk with pedestrians. The women moved away from the restaurant doorway as two men came out and a couple went in.

“How long have you and Matt been together?”

“Two months. We met right after I got to Banff. I hate it here. I wish we could go someplace else, but Matt has a job at Sunshine lined up for when the season starts.” Nothing was left of her cigarette but the filter. Tracey threw it to the ground and crushed it under her foot. Her running shoes were heavily scuffed, the laces shredding at the edges.

“Matt?” Lucky said.

The girl’s wide brown eyes filled with tears. “Have you heard from him?”