Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (12 page)

“No.” Lucky assumed Paul would not want her telling Tracey that Matt had called his father, asking for help. The police, he’d once told her, exchanged information in one direction only. Lucky wasn’t with the police, and she was free to say whatever she liked, but she decided to wait and see what she could learn. “What do you know about what happened, Tracey?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. And now my damn battery’s died. He knows I’m working this morning. He can call me at the restaurant if he wants. I hope…I don’t know what I hope.”

“Do you have any idea where Matt might have gone?”

Tracey shook her head.

“A friend’s place?”

“Maybe, but I can’t think who. Matt doesn’t have many friends other than Barry and Tom and Alistair, the guys he lives with.” Tracey chewed at a hangnail on her thumb. It came away with a spurt of blood. “He might…”

Lucky waited. The girl sucked at the beads of blood. “Might…”

Her voice was low. She watched cars driving past. “Might have gone to a hotel with a girl, when he got off work last night. Girls on holiday, with money to spend, they hang around the wine bar some nights.” She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Does he go with them often?”

Tracey shook her head. She lit the fresh cigarette with trembling hands. “No. I don’t know! I don’t know what he does. They’re so much prettier than me. They’ve got loads of money, are looking for a good time. Why wouldn’t he?” She started to cry. “Look, I’m sorry I called you. That’s probably what happened. He’s shacked up with some rich bitch and doesn’t even know Barry’s dead.”

Lucky looked at the tear-streaked face, and debated what to say. Matt had not gone with a woman last night. He’d come home, probably as soon as he got off work, found his roommate dead, phoned his father. And then he disappeared. She reached out and touched the girl’s arm. Startled, Tracey turned and looked at her through eyes red and wet, full of disappointment and sorrow. Lucky gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Matt phoned his father last night before three. From the apartment.”

“He did?”

“Yes. That’s all I can tell you. When we arrived he was gone.”

Tracey wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“He didn’t pick up a woman at the bar, and he did go straight home. So where might he be now? Think Tracey.”

“Hey, Trace!” The older waitress stood in the open restaurant door. Warm air and the scent of frying bacon and plenty of grease swirled around her. “You gonna be all day? I need help in here.”

“Back in a minute.” The second cigarette joined the first on the wet sidewalk.

“One minute. Or I’m complaining to Kev. I can’t work this whole place by myself.”

“I have to go,” Tracey said. “Kev’s okay, but he doesn’t like slacking off.”

“You’re hardly slacking off.”

“Whatever. I missed the start of shift going around to Matt’s place.”

Lucky pulled a pen and notebook out of her purse. She ripped a piece of paper out of the book and scribbled on it. “Here’s my cell number. Call me if you think of anything. Please. Even if you only want to talk.”

Tracey took the offering, and turned it over in her hands. “Matt does a lot of hiking and camping. He likes to go into the backcountry by himself, sometimes for days at a time. If he needed to get away for a while, he might have done that.”

“If you hear anything from him, please let me know. Tell him his father is very worried.”

“I will. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Smith.”

Lucky watched as Tracey slipped back into the restaurant. A cold drizzle had started to fall as they stood on the sidewalk talking. Lucky was wrapped in her raincoat, but the girl wore nothing but her restaurant uniform. She seemed to love Matt Keller, perhaps a good deal more than he loved her. Poor thing.

But Lucky wasn’t here to interfere with anyone’s romantic relationships. She flipped her phone open and called Paul. He answered immediately.

“Anything?” she asked.

“No. Hold on a sec.”

She waited. The mountains surrounding the town had been swallowed by low-hanging clouds. The rain was picking up and pedestrians scurried for cover.

“Okay,” Paul said. “I wanted to go some place private. I’m now in the men’s room. They’ve put a BOLO out on Matt. I told them he called me precisely because he didn’t kill that man, but they’re, shall we say, keeping their options open.”

“Any other suspects?”

“No one in particular, but this Caseman guy was a real lowlife. I doubt finding suspects will be a problem.”

Lucky laughed without mirth. “Good thing I was with you last night. I might have considered doing some damage to him myself. Have you tried phoning Matt?” Stupid thing to say. As if that wouldn’t have occurred to the police. But Paul answered her question anyway.

“His phone was left in the apartment. His car’s parked outside on the street.”

“I might be able to help. I’ve had a chat with Tracey.”

“Who the hell’s Tracey?”

“Matt’s girlfriend, apparently. At least she thinks she is, although I got the impression she’s not very secure in the relationship.”

“Lucky…”

“Sorry. She’s a waitress at the restaurant. The one where we ran into Matt yesterday. She called me earlier, called you, actually, at the hotel, looking for Matt. She’s been calling him, but he doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know where he is, but she says he’s a keen backcountry camper. Goes into the wilderness by himself when he needs some down time. I thought…I thought that might be a possibility.”

“I swear, Lucky, you can get more out of people in a casual conversation than any officer in the interrogation room. They’ve been trying to get ahold of someone who phoned Matt this morning, but they’re not answering, and the phone company hasn’t come back yet with a name or address.”

“Her phone battery died. I get the feeling she’s not too well organized at the best of times.”

Paul chuckled. “Trust Lucky. Where’s this girl now?”

“At the Lighthouse Keeper.”

“Okay. Officers will be there shortly. It might be nice if you happen to be hanging around, if you think this Tracey trusts you.”

“Is it important, do you think, about the camping?”

“It might well be, my love. It might well be.”

Chapter Twenty-four

HIGHWAY OUTSIDE INVERMERE, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

Smith pulled over at a rest stop to let Sylvester have a break. The dog ran about, head down, nose twitching, searching for exactly the right spot, while she made a call. So far the drive had been easy. The road on the mountain pass between Salmo and Creston had been recently groomed and cleared of snow, visibility was good, traffic light. The weather was supposed to stay dry for the remainder of the day until she crossed the Yoho Pass into Alberta.

“I’m outside Invermere, Mom, and thought I’d check in. I should be there in another two hours or so, all going well. Any updates?”

“A few, although no sign of Matt. Acting on a tip that Matt’s a keen wilderness hiker, the police had one of his roommates check his things. He says some of Matt’s camping and hiking equipment might be gone.”

“They think he’s gone into the wilderness, then?”

“Looks like that’s a possibility. The roommate couldn’t be sure. He said he hadn’t been in Matt’s room for weeks, and it’s possible Matt sold some of his stuff. He was always short of money. They all are while waiting for ski season to begin. Paul was relieved to hear it. If Matt had time to get his things…”

“Then he wasn’t coerced into leaving. What did this roommate have to say about the death? Was he there?”

“His name’s Alistair and he’s a musician of some sort. He played at a bar last night and the band members went to someone’s place after closing for a few drinks and to hang out. He came home to find the police crawling all over his apartment. The other roommate says he spent his night at a girlfriend’s.”

“All possible, Mom. How’s the chief doing?”

“The Mounties are letting him tag along, although they’re not telling him much. As long as Paul’s kept in the loop, and kept busy, he’ll be okay.”

“And you, Mom? How are you?”

“I’m fine, Moonlight. I’m dreadfully worried about Paul, but I don’t have a personal involvement in this. I’ve only met Matt once since he was a child and it wasn’t a very promising encounter. I’m glad you’re coming, dear. If I have to support Paul…”

“You need someone to support you. See you in a couple of hours. I’ll call as I’m coming into town and you can tell me where to meet you. Oh, I’ll need someplace to stay. Is town very busy, are there likely to be any motel rooms free?”

“I’ll check you into the Banff Springs.”

Smith sputtered. “I can’t afford to stay there.”

“My treat. I’m heading back to the hotel now. There doesn’t seem to be much more I can do.” Lucky let out a long sigh. “I just want this to be over.”

“I know, Mom. I know.”

“Bye, dear.”

Smith put her phone away. Sylvester was sniffing at the base of an overflowing garbage bin. An eighteen-wheeler sped past, kicking up mud and slush, heading north. Sylvester. For a moment she’d forgotten she’d brought the dog. He could hardly stay in her room if she was at the Banff Springs. He was too big to be smuggled into the elevator, and not well enough behaved to keep quiet, in any event.

She’d worry about what to do with the dog when she got there.

Chapter Twenty-five

FRONT STREET. TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

Tensions were building, along with the size of the crowd, by the time John Winters arrived at the Grizzly Resort offices on Front Street. Protesters carrying homemade signs in support of the area’s bears were spilling off the sidewalk into the street and Dave Evans was trying, unsuccessfully, to order them back.

A patrol car came down the hill and pulled to a stop in the center of the nearest intersection, forcing traffic to find its way through the backstreets.

Winters estimated about twenty people were part of the protest. Almost as many had simply gathered to see what was going on. He recognized a good number of them. The environmentalists were there, as could be expected, plus those who took part in just about any protest that happened to be going on—also as expected. This was not a spontaneous demonstration, not if a second bunch had driven up to the construction site itself.

He thought it strange, however, that it was being held on a Sunday afternoon, and Thanksgiving Sunday at that, when the town was about as quiet as it ever got and people were gathered around their holiday dinner table. Good thing Lucky Smith had gone away for the weekend. Now that Lucky was dating the chief of police, things could get a bit hairy if they had to detain her. Which had been known to happen. Lucky was a passionate activist and these days the environment was one of her main concerns. Paul Keller would tell his officers to make no exceptions for Lucky, but they’d have to try to guess whether he meant it. Would Lucky tone down some of her more public activities, Winters wondered, to save the chief embarrassment? They could only hope so.

He wasn’t too concerned about the locals. The usual mixture of young idealists, long-haired, long-bearded, and older folk, well-groomed, neat in good outdoor gear, who cared about maintaining the place they had chosen to call home.

But there were a couple he didn’t recognize. One of them, a man, was standing off to one side, watching. He was in his thirties, short black hair, thick beard, well-muscled under a leather jacket. A Toronto Blue Jays ball cap was pulled low over his forehead. He saw Winters studying him, and stared back, through eyes cold and unfriendly.

“You don’t have a permit to block the street.” Al Peterson, in charge of the uniform shift, addressed the crowd. “Get back on the sidewalk immediately.”

The older women obediently moved. They urged some of the younger protesters to follow. A few glanced around, seeking someone to tell them what do to. John Winters obliged. He wasn’t in uniform, but everyone in town knew who he was. “Come on, Paula,” he said to a young woman, clad all in black with hair dyed the color of midnight, black nail polish, and an assortment of strangely placed piercings. “You have to get off the street.”

“We’ve the right to protest, Mr. Winters. We have to stop that development. It’s prime…”

“Yes, I know. I also know that you are allowed to protest, provided you do it peacefully and at no inconvenience to others. But you need a permit to block the street and your group doesn’t have one. It would be within the law for us to remove you. You don’t want that, do you, Paula?”

A woman approached. Winters had never seen her before. Lean and fit, moderately attractive with short, spiky red hair, dressed in jeans and an over-large sweater. “These streets belong to everyone, at least until they’re sold to the highest bidder along with everything else in this country. You don’t have to move,” she said to Paula. She carried a hand-painted sign with a rather good drawing of a rearing grizzly bear and the words This is What a Grizzly Looks Like.