Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (15 page)

“Probably better not. It’ll be all blame and insinuations. Nothing at all helpful.”

“Call me when you’re done. I need something to eat. Maybe we can go out to dinner and talk over what we’re going to do next.”

“Oh, dear. Dinner.”

“What about it?”

“I forgot to cancel our reservation.”

“Talk to you later, Mom.”

She hung up the hotel phone, and pulled her own out of her pocket. “I’ve arrived,” she said to Adam. “I’m staying at the Banff Springs.”

“Nice.”

“Very nice. Wish I could enjoy it. Did you learn anything?”

“Sergeant in charge is named Ed Blechta. Twenty-five-year career, mostly in rural or small-town Alberta. Nothing stands out.”

“He ever have an internal complaint against him, say from a woman?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Nothing on his record that I can see. I can look into it. Call some friends on the QT.”

“If it’s not too much trouble. I don’t think that has the slightest thing to do with this case, but I like to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Any sign of Keller’s son?”

“No. I haven’t been filled in yet. Mom and the chief are meeting with Matt’s mom right now. I’m going to have a bath, and then meet them for dinner.”

“Molly?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you hope to accomplish there? You won’t be allowed into the investigation and you’re not a detective in any case, you know that.”

“I’m not sure, Adam. I want to be here for my mom and if I can be of some help to the chief, then I will.”

“Wouldn’t you be more help to Lucky by bringing her home?”

“Probably, but she won’t see it that way. Worst-case scenario, this drags on and on. Matt Keller has taken a runner. He might have hitched a ride with a passing truck and could be just about anywhere right now.”

“Running usually means guilt, Molly.”

“Yeah. I know. The chief’s gotta know that, too. I’ll call in the morning, let you know if we’re coming back. Sorry about the turkey dinner thing.”

He laughed. “Kitchen looks like the turkey tried to escape and had to be wrestled into submission. I’ll cook it myself. We can eat turkey sandwiches for the rest of the week.”

“I don’t know if the pecan pie filling is salvageable. The pastry’s in the fridge. Uncooked.”

“Take care, Molly.”

“I will.”

She ran hot water into the large, luxurious tub and her body tingled with the joy of being loved.

Chapter Twenty-nine

WALDHAUS PUB. BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY EVENING.

Molly Smith didn’t have to be a detective to know that the meeting with Karen Keller had not gone well. Lucky’s face was pinched in disapproval and the chief’s scowl was a sight to frighten small children.

They met in the pub. No one wanted to go to the restaurant for a fancy Thanksgiving dinner. The pub was crowded and noisy and they wouldn’t have to worry about being overheard.

Lucky, Smith thought, looked strained. New lines had appeared overnight on the delicate skin under her eyes and around her mouth. When Lucky greeted her daughter with an enthusiastic hug, Smith felt the soft, comfortable, familiar body tremble with tears being held under control.

The chief, frankly, looked like hell. Bags the color of fresh bruises lay under his eyes and the eyes themselves were flat and empty of light. Dressed in black slacks and a brown sweater rather than his neat tailored uniform, he appeared smaller than she remembered, insignificant almost. The scent of fresh tobacco smoke hung around him like an aura. Everyone at the station knew he was trying to quit. He’d obviously fallen off the wagon.

She didn’t bother to try to be cheerful, just let Lucky know that Sylvester was safely snoozing in the car and Adam was cooking their turkey. Other than that, they didn’t have much to say while the waitress—Maura, Scotland—greeted them in a deep Highland burr and brought drinks. A German beer for the chief, the local Kokanee brew for Smith, water for Lucky.

They placed their food orders and then Smith turned to Keller. “What have you learned?”

“Not a lot. Matt’s description has been circulated to the park wardens and a BOLO put out on him all over the West and down to the U.S. border. No sign of him. I don’t have to tell you that a heck of a lot of transport trucks pass by on the highway, heading to points all across North America. He might have hitched a ride, could be on his way to practically anywhere by now.”

“Did he take his wallet with him?”

“Probably, as it isn’t in the apartment or in his car. Meaning cash, if any, and credit cards. Driver’s license. If he tries to use his cards, he’ll be spotted.”

“Was he likely to have much money on him?”

The chief took a long swallow of his beer. “Don’t know. His roommate said he paid cash mostly, but they have no idea if he had any last night. His job said he was paid about a week ago, but he makes good tips and apparently the bar was busy last night.”

“Last night,” Smith said. “You want to tell me what happened?”

She listened while Keller told her about the phone call and what they found at Matt’s apartment. Lucky didn’t interrupt, but her face was pale and grim.

“How’d Matt know you were here?”

Lucky and Keller exchanged glances. Then the chief sighed and told her the story. Smith winced. At first telling, she’d pretty much assumed that the chief’s son, a guy she’d known in her own youth, had happened upon a killing and, frightened, had run for his life. The story of the bullying of Lucky, first at the coffee shop, which didn’t matter all that much, but then the deliberate escalation at the restaurant, put a new sheen on things. If Matt Keller was the sort to threaten a middle-aged woman like Lucky Smith, who the hell knew what else he could be capable of? Or what sort of crowd he ran with?

“We,” Lucky said, “left that part out when we spoke to Karen.”

“She wouldn’t believe it in any case,” Keller said. “Nothing Matt ever did was his fault. Not in Karen’s eyes.”

“Bratwurst?” The waitress arrived, bearing plates piled high. Keller leaned back. Smith accepted her burger, and Lucky had the Caesar salad. At the next table two couples were digging into a pot bubbling with cheese fondue.

Lucky lifted her water glass. “I suppose I should say happy Thanksgiving.”

They clinked glasses.

“Maybe it will be, Mom. Thanksgiving Day isn’t until tomorrow.”

Lucky gave her daughter a world-weary smile.

“What’s forensics come up with?” Smith asked as she wrestled her burger, two-handed, trying to keep the juices from dripping down her chin.

“Going through that apartment’s like searching for fingerprints on the Walmart sale counter at the end of Black Friday. At least ten individual patterns have been found. So far. Four men lived there. They had friends, girlfriends, and let’s say dusting wasn’t one of their main priorities. The neighbors reported parties, musical jam sessions, fairly constant changeover of residents. The place probably hasn’t been properly cleaned for years.” Keller lowered his voice, although the noise level in the crowded pub was high enough to ensure their privacy. “The only blood in the living room was Caseman’s, the dead guy. He showed no defensive wounds. The knife, an ordinary kitchen knife with a four-inch blade, quite sharp, found at the scene, got him first in the lower back. A strong enough blow to drop him, and then they finished the job with a slice across the throat. The body was not moved after the attack. It was about two feet into the apartment. Possibly he’d opened the door, admitted his attacker, then turned and was knifed in the back as he walked away.” Keller’s voice had turned firm, no-nonsense. He was talking like a cop, relating facts without emotion or speculation. Molly Smith’s chief was back.

“A friend or acquaintance, then.”

“Looks that way. Someone he was expecting, at any rate.”

“You think he answered the door? Means it wouldn’t likely have been someone who lived there. They’d have a key.”

“Good point. But easy enough to argue that the roommate had lost his key, or had his hands full. Plenty of reasons Caseman would open the door. This is a low crime town. People don’t have multiple locks on their doors. Plenty of people, young men anyway, aren’t likely to bother to check who’s there before opening up. It’s also possible he was walking the other way, showing his guest out the door, then forgot something, turned his back for a moment, maybe.”

“Did the knife come from the kitchen?”

“Hard to tell. Everything in that place is a mishmash of cheap stuff left behind over the years. The guys who live there seem to have no idea what implements belonged in the kitchen or if anything was missing. Unlikely the kitchen’s ever been used to cook anything more substantial than the odd piece of toast or reheat pizza in the microwave. They couldn’t say if they recognized the knife or not.”

“Prints on the knife?”

“Several, all still unidentified. Not Matt’s.”

“That’s one good thing.” Smith did not say that he could have been wearing gloves. “The prints might not be significant. That sort of place, girlfriends come and go. At first they want to clean up, cook their new guy a nice dinner. Then they give up, and usually move on. Has the autopsy been done yet?”

“It found a moderately high level of alcohol consumption, not enough to incapacitate him, but sufficient to make his reactions slow and instincts stupid. Caseman was a healthy, well-fed individual with no substantial health problems, other than a prodigious consumption of both alcohol and all sorts of drugs over many years. His teeth were in poor condition, probably had some niggling pain from a broken filling, indicating either no money for a dentist or content to self-medicate. He’d smoked a joint within an hour or so of his death, but had not engaged in sexual intercourse recently.” Keller stopped talking abruptly. He turned to Lucky, and concern crossed his face. “Are you okay with this, Lucky? Molly and I can talk about it after dinner, if you’d prefer. For a while there I forgot where we are.”

She held up her fork, speared with a chunk of dressing-covered romaine. “You’re not ruining my appetite, if that’s what you’re thinking. I saw that man. I have that image in my head, and nothing you can say can be harder than that.”

Molly put down her burger and touched her mom’s empty hand. Lucky gave her a sad smile.

“Okay,” Keller said. “The end of his most recent joint was found in an ashtray in the apartment. It was the only end there. Quantities of marijuana, enough to indicate regular consumption, although not dealing, were found in Caseman’s room. And, I must add, in Matt’s.”

“One joint only, means he didn’t entertain his guest.”

“Or the guest didn’t indulge. There were so many used beer bottles in that apartment it’s hard to tell how much was drunk last night. But forensics think they have three that had probably been consumed within the previous couple of hours. Caseman’s prints on them all.”

“Three beers isn’t much, not for a regular drinker.”

“Right. So far we can’t trace his movements since he left work at around six the evening previous.”

“Where’s he work?”

“He’s a licensed mechanic. Works at a garage not far from town.”

“Regular employment?”

“He’s only been there a couple of months. Blechta tells me that that’s the way it is here, lots of transients, seasonal jobs, young people drifting through.”

“Sounds like Trafalgar.”

“Yes, except that they have a much higher percentage of foreign students coming to work for a season or two. Makes it hard to conduct an investigation when your witness might have gone back to Australia or Austria.”

“Cry me a river.”

Keller laughed and Smith was pleased to hear it.

“John dug up some info on Caseman. Small-time troublemaker by the sounds of it. Certainly the sort to have enemies.”

Otherwise, Keller had little of significance to report. No one knew, or was saying, what Barry Caseman had done between leaving the garage shortly after six and being found by Matt Keller just before three in the morning. Matt had worked at Reds Wine Bar until it closed at two, helped clean up, and left around two-thirty. He phoned his father from the apartment at quarter to three. He had not been seen since. The two men who shared the apartment with Matt and Caseman had not been home since the previous morning until the police escorted them in. When asked if anything was missing from Matt’s room, they said they thought he kept camping equipment but couldn’t remember when they’d seen it last. They knew nothing about Matt or Caseman’s movements or activities. “We weren’t, like, buddies, man, we just shared this shit-hole,” was how the musician Alistair put it.

Matt’s phone had been left behind in the apartment and it showed that all his recent calls were to and from his girlfriend, Tracey McMillan, his roommates, Reds Wine Bar, and the offices at Sunshine where he was scheduled to begin work as a ski instructor as soon as the hills opened for the season.