Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (13 page)

People, who seconds ago had been heading obediently toward the sidewalk, stopped.

Winters sensed no hostility in this crowd. These people were his friends and neighbors; they had a legitimate concern and were here to make their point. But all it took was one hothead, one outside agitator, to turn a peaceful protest ugly. He kept one eye on the woman’s hands. The sign was mounted on a wooden stick about two feet long. It might have a blunt edge, but it could turn into a formidable weapon. Winters sensed, as much as saw, Al Peterson standing behind him.

“I’m John Winters, Trafalgar City Police. I don’t know you.”

“That’s right. You don’t.”

“I’ve told you my name. What’s yours?”

All around them people shifted. Some of the older ones were growing uncomfortable at the possibility of a confrontation. A few women lowered their own signs and slipped away.

The red-haired woman eyed the watching crowd. Most faces were not sympathetic. “Robyn Winfield, if it’s any of your damn business.”

“Which it might well be. New to town, Robyn?”

“Been here a couple of days. Nice place. Trying to keep it that way. Out of the hands of the money-grubbing developers.”

“You’re welcome to make your concerns known publicly, Robyn. As long as it’s also legally.”

“Legal.” Winfield spat in the road, missing the toe of Winters’ shoe by less than an inch. The shot had been well aimed. “The rich make laws to suit them and then tell you bunch of patsies to arrest us for breaking them.”

Winters turned back to Paula. “Where’s Beowulf?” he asked, referring to her young son.

Lashes thick with mascara blinked. “A playdate at my friend Colleen’s place.”

“That’s nice. I’m sure he wants you to pick him up on time. Which you’ll be able to do, Paula, if you stop blocking the road.”

“Sorry, Mr. Winters.” She lowered her head and pushed through the crowd.

“Anyone else not wanting to move?” Winters asked. He looked people he recognized directly in the eye. No one met his stare. One by one the crowd broke up. Most simply left, carrying their homemade signs. A young man tried to start up a chant, “Mountains for bears,” but his voice drifted off when no one joined in.

Soon, only Robyn Winfield was left standing in the street.

She looked at Winters with narrow hostile eyes. And then, with an exaggerated bow, moving slowly to make her point, she climbed onto the sidewalk. She leaned her sign against her leg, and there she stood, toes hanging over the edge of the curb, arms crossed over her chest.

Winters considered asking Winfield for some ID. Make sure that was the woman’s real name, and then run a records check. But, he decided, that would be unnecessarily provocative.

He had no doubt he’d have plenty of other opportunities to check up on Robyn Winfield.

The protest was over. A handful of people propped their signs against the doorway to the offices and in a few minutes no one remained but Dave Evans, ordered to stay for a while to ensure they didn’t return to start the demonstration up again. Even the silent, watching man had slipped away unobserved.

Winters headed back to the office. Tensions were running high in town now that the resort was once again under construction. Everyone needed to let off some steam. Nice of them to do it on a quiet Sunday in October. Nice of the counter-protesters, those anxious for the jobs the resort would bring to the area, to stay away.

John Winters had absolutely no doubt things wouldn’t be as easygoing next time.

Chapter Twenty-six

BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

Lucky arrived back at the hotel with little idea of what to do while waiting for Moonlight to arrive.

About all she could reasonably do was wait. Lucky didn’t like waiting. She wanted to be with Paul, but was well aware that Blechta was barely accommodating Paul Keller’s presence in his investigation as it was. When he interviewed Tracey at the Lighthouse Keeper, Blechta and Tracey had sat at a table in the kitchen, and Paul and Lucky had been ordered to wait in the dining room. An officer flipped the sign on the door to closed. The cook, who, Lucky learned, was also the owner, had not been pleased. But he had the wary eyes of a man who’d learned not to mess with the police, and said nothing. He and the older waitress had taken tables at the other side of the room clutching mugs of coffee. They sat in silence until Blechta came out and told them they could reopen the restaurant.

Lucky wanted to stay behind to offer Tracey what support she might need, but one look at the cook, whose scowl was increasing every minute his place of business was closed, had her slipping out in Paul’s wake. Blechta told one of his uniformed officers to, once again, escort Lucky back to her hotel.

Paul. Theirs was a strange relationship, a meeting of opposites in many ways. She’d found out only a few months ago that Paul had been in love with her for many years; she’d never had the slightest idea. Andy hadn’t liked Paul Keller, but Lucky put his animosity down to old-hippie verses old-cop. Only now, with the clarity of hindsight, could she see that Andy’s dislike had been much deeper, more personal than she’d realized. She remembered the time Moonlight had gone missing. It was after the girl had become a police officer and John Winters had taken her disappearance very seriously. How angry Andy had been, to come home and find Paul Keller sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee and eating Lucky’s homemade squares. Lucky had put Andy’s overreaction down to worry. Now, she realized, Andy had been jealous.

He’d never had the slightest reason to be: Lucky had loved Andy passionately and unreservedly all the years they’d been together. Still, it was nice to know he’d loved her equally in return.

Now, Andy was gone and Lucky was with Paul Keller, after all. She wondered, as she looked out the window of the patrol car at the outline of the mountains, barely discernible in the low-hanging cloud, what Andy would have to say about that.

He would, she was sure, be nothing but happy for her.

Funny that she could find love with two such different men. Paul had none of Andy`s spontaneity, his sense of fun and adventure. Not a bad thing, really, at her age. Spontaneity was well and good for the young. Andy would have surprised her with this trip to Banff the morning they were due to leave. Paul had involved her in every detail of the organization.

Andy’s death had devastated her, but it was fun to find a new partner in your old age.

For the sex, if nothing, else. She must have laughed out loud for the officer half-turned in his seat and said his first words since she’d gotten into his car. “Here on vacation?”

“Yes.”

“Weather’s supposed to clear tomorrow.” He turned off the road onto the long sweeping driveway to the hotel. Lucky felt a twinge of guilt, thinking about sex when poor Paul was out of his mind with worry.

The same doorman as earlier greeted her arrival. As he had done this morning, he held open the door of the police car for her, his face expressionless. Rumors would be swirling “downstairs” about her. She briefly wondered what they’d think she was. A not-very-efficient undercover cop? A visiting dignitary travelling incognito?

A rich old broad who couldn’t hold her liquor most likely.

She was thinking once again about Paul Keller and sex as she walked into the lobby. A woman stood up from a high-backed, ornately carved armchair, and the thought died as thoroughly as if Lucky’d been drenched in an icy shower.

The woman stood there, her body stiff, watching Lucky with cold, unwelcoming eyes, waiting for her to approach. Which she did. “Karen. It’s nice to see you.”

“I heard you’d taken up with my husband,” Karen Keller said. “I should have known.”

“Only after you didn’t want him anymore.” Lucky was sorry the minute the words were out of her mouth. No need to respond to rudeness with more rudeness.

Karen was a petite woman, almost as short as Lucky, but much slimmer. She looked good, her makeup expertly applied, her hair, highlighted in shades of caramel, cut in a neat chin-length bob. She wore a brown wool pantsuit accented by a red and gold scarf and gold jewelry. She looked, in short, as if the past year had been kind to her. Lucky suddenly felt old and dumpy in her calf-length, brightly colored skirt, hiking shoes with black socks, practical raincoat. She’d been woken at three and hadn’t so much as looked at herself in the mirror since. She could practically feel her hair frizzing in the damp air.

“You’re here because of Matt?”

“First the police called me, to ask if I’d heard from him, and then Paul. I’m living in Calgary, and was able to get away immediately.” Not even expensive makeup and jewelry accents could hide fresh lines of fatigue and worry.

“Why don’t we go for a cup of tea and I’ll fill you in on what I know.”

Karen hesitated.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lucky saw a man heading toward them. “We’re checked in,” he said to Karen. “I’ve sent the bags and coats on up.” He turned to Lucky. “You must be Lucky Smith. I’m Jonathan Burgess. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand, and Lucky took it, thinking Karen hadn’t done too badly for herself. She could hardly remain antagonistic to Lucky for being with Paul, when Karen had brought along a paramour of her own. Jonathan was a tall imposing man, probably in his early sixties, with thick gray hair lightly gelled, and pale blue eyes. He was dressed in gray slacks ironed to a knife edge and an oatmeal sweater over a collared blue shirt. His wide smile was full of capped teeth, his hands manicured. Lucky pegged him as a lawyer, an oil company executive perhaps. Or, God help them, a politician.

He put his arm lightly around Karen’s shoulder, marking his territory. “Fortunately Karen and I were brunching together when she got the call, so I was able to bring her. She’s wasn’t in any condition to drive, as you can imagine.”

They were brunching, were they? What was wrong with having brunch, or plain old breakfast?

Not Lucky’s problem. She returned the smile. “I suggested we go for tea. You’ll be wanting to know what’s happening.”

“I want to see Paul,” Karen said.

“He’s tied up with the police right now.”

“He can free himself to talk to me. Why am I not surprised Paul happened to be on the scene? That’s why Matt ran off. Paul was always after him, night and day, to…”

“Karen,” Jonathan said, his voice soft. Soft but strong. “Tea’s an excellent idea. We didn’t finish brunch. They do a nice afternoon tea here, I’ve heard.”

Lucky upped her opinion of Jonathan. Right now, he was exactly what Karen needed.

They made it into Rundles Lounge with minutes to spare before tea service ended for the day. Jonathan made a big show of thanking the staff for letting them in, and studying the menu in detail. Karen watched Lucky, her eyes narrow with hostility, and Lucky pretended to be admiring the view. Only a few tables were occupied, people still chatting although their teacups were empty and nothing lay on their plates but scatterings of crumbs.

Jonathan ordered a bottle of Champagne. Lucky didn’t think that at all appropriate—they were scarcely here for a celebration. Perhaps Jonathan was used to drinking Champagne. Karen didn’t seem to notice.

“Always liked this hotel,” Jonathan said, making neutral conversation while the waitress laid out the place settings and the people at the next table argued amongst themselves over who was going to pay the bill. “Although I prefer Lake Louise. I worked as a bellhop at the Chateau a couple of summers in the early seventies. It was only open three months of the year back then, in the summer months. Banff was a sleepy little town in those years. Nothing at all like it is now. Can’t fight progress.”

Lucky also remembered that sleepy little town. These days if you restricted yourself to the Banff townsite itself, as a lot of tourists did, you might not even know you were in a national park. The town wasn’t allowed to grow anymore, but still it stretched at its seams, pushing the animals further and further back. Occasionally, an animal wouldn’t be pushed, and there were regular sightings of elk or even the occasional black bear, in backyards or on the streets. Grizzlies, thoroughly dangerous, were rare, but even they ventured too close for comfort sometimes. People said they came here to see the animals, but most of them didn’t really. If a bear ventured into a residential street or onto hotel grounds, it would be tranquilized and removed or chased away. Never mind the highway. That one of Canada’s busiest highways, the Trans-Canada between Calgary and Vancouver, went right through a national park and a protected wilderness area, seemed to Lucky to be a travesty.

Whenever talk of developing the Grizzly Resort property outside of Trafalgar came up, the example of Banff was mentioned as a worst-case scenario. Still, as Jonathan said in such clichéd terms, you couldn’t fight progress. Although a good many people, including Lucky herself, tried to.

“What is it that you do, Jonathan?” Lucky asked sweetly.

“Real estate,” he replied, “and various other business interests.”