Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (2 page)

BOOK: Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery
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A second man, shorter but beefier, stood slightly behind the first. “What’s your problem?” he asked, his voice low, deliberately pitched not to carry. “I’d guess time of the month, but you’re too old for that.”
“Never too old,” the tall one said.
Lucky was no longer worried about being cold. Sweat ran between her shoulder blades and she could feel dampness on her forehead. She almost stepped back. Let the bullies pass. Not worth fighting over.
But that wasn’t Lucky Smith’s way. If he’d even bothered to say excuse me before pushing through, she would have let it go. “There’s a line up,” she repeated. “You’ll be served in your turn, like everyone else.”
“Hey.” The texting man snapped his phone shut and returned to the real world. “Let’s move it. Haven’t got all day here.” He was also young, and large, and looked as though he spent a good part of his day in the gym.
The two men hesitated. Then, with another whisper of “bitch,” the taller one broke away. His friend looked at Lucky for a long time. She returned the stare.
“I’ll see you around sometime.” He leaned over, and she could smell stale beer, unwashed clothes, and far too much testosterone. He licked his fleshy lips. “Maybe there won’t be so many people around then.”
He caught up to his friend, slapped him on the back, and they disappeared into the throng wandering the street.
Lucky exhaled. Her legs wobbled. She reached out a hand and leaned against the door.
“You okay?” the young female lover asked.
“Yes. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, in that case,” her boyfriend said, “will you keep moving?”

Chapter Two

 

TOCEK-SMITH HOME. OUTSIDE Trafalgar, British Columba. Friday afternoon.
Molly Smith eyed the turkey. It did not eye her back.
It was frozen solid and had no head.
Now, what was she supposed to do with it? The Internet said the safest way to defrost a turkey was to leave it in the fridge. Unfortunately, it also said that this twenty-pound beast would take five to six days to fully defrost. She didn’t have five to six days. She had forty-eight hours.
Her mom had left her with instructions for cooking the turkey as well as recipes for her favorite side dishes and desserts. She’d said to go to the butcher to order a fresh, organic, free-range turkey. Her mom hadn’t told her to put the order in a month ahead of time, and when Smith showed up this morning—Friday—to buy one, expecting to pick it up on Saturday, she was told she was too late. All those birds who had only days ago been happily pecking in the weeds of their spacious enclosures surrounded by green fields overflowing with organic produce ripening in the sun were accounted for.
She wasn’t too disappointed. A free-range turkey was always nice, but plenty of people bought a factory-farm-raised bird from the supermarket, and they seemed good enough. Unfortunately, the supermarket in Trafalgar didn’t stock fresh turkeys, only frozen ones.
She wondered if Adam would mind having his Thanksgiving dinner on Tuesday.
He wouldn’t. He’d told her he didn’t see the point in preparing a big feast for just the two of them. But she was determined to do it right.
She’d propped her iPad on the kitchen table. Back to the Internet to search for plan B. Okay, apparently you could defrost the turkey in cold water. That method seemed to suit a cook who had nothing at all to do for an entire day as the water should be kept cold and constantly refreshed. Smith was scheduled to begin a twelve-hour shift in two hours. It might have been doable if she still had her apartment above Alphonse’s bakery on Trafalgar’s main street, to which she could slip every few hours to replace the water. But now that she was living a good half-hour outside of town, it was unlikely her shift supervisor would approve of her driving back and forth all night.
She twisted the square-cut diamond ring on her left hand. She could tell Adam that as they were going to her mom’s sister’s place in Seattle for American Thanksgiving at the end of November, she’d decided one huge turkey dinner a year was enough. Two, if you counted Christmas, and Molly’s mother, Lucy Smith, whom everyone called Lucky, always did a turkey at Christmas. A fresh, free-range, organically fed turkey.
But then what would she do with this monstrous slab of frozen beast?
Ah, what the heck. They were young and healthy. A bit of improperly defrosted turkey wouldn’t kill them. She wiped out the sink, dropped the heavy bird into it, and ran cold water.
It would be just the two of them for dinner on Sunday. Adam Tocek and Molly Smith. Their first Thanksgiving together and she wanted to cook a traditional turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Lucky had given her the family’s favorite recipes—stuffing (not
dressing
!), butternut squash casserole (sweet with a hint of maple syrup), mashed potatoes, gravy, roasted Brussels sprouts, and pecan pie. She eyed the pile of grocery bags spread out across the counter. Even if she did have time to defrost the turkey in the fridge, she’d have trouble finding room.
She put away the groceries and thought about her mom. Lucky and Paul Keller had gone to Banff to spend the holiday weekend at the Banff Springs Hotel. Lucky had balked at first, not wanting to be away at Thanksgiving. But it was the shoulder season in town—between the departure of summer hikers and kayakers and the arrival of skiers—so things were slow at the store, Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. Besides, Lucky and Paul had never been away together, and he was anxious to treat her to a luxurious, although short, vacation.
At the beginning, Smith had been unhappy about her mom’s new relationship. Paul Keller was Chief Constable of Trafalgar. Smith’s dad, Andy, had died two years earlier and the chief was divorced, so that wasn’t the problem. It was just that her mom was, well, her mom, and Keller was her boss. But they seemed good for each other—the office staff gossiped about how nice it was now that the chief wasn’t so cranky all the time—and Lucky was happy. All of which was good enough for her daughter.
She checked the recipes one more time to make sure she hadn’t forgotten to buy something important. She was on afternoons this week, would get home at three on Sunday morning, nap for a few hours, and then get up and start cooking. Fortunately, Sunday was the start of four days off, so she didn’t have to squeeze the preparation and then the meal into between-shift time.
Adam wasn’t a bad cook—heck, he was a lot better cook than she was—but he was working all weekend and as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police dog-handler for the district, he could be called out at any time, with no notice, so she’d volunteered to do it all.
She headed upstairs to get ready for work. She showered, washed her hair and tied it into a ponytail, put on her uniform, struggled into her equipment-laden belt, went to the gun safe and retrieved her Glock. Last of all she slipped off her engagement ring and tucked it into its box in the table on her side of the bed. She never wore the diamond to work.
Back downstairs, she drained the sink and added fresh cold water. She studied her efforts—the bald white turkey looked mighty unappealing. Then, feeling like a proper fifties-era housewife, she shifted her gun belt, settled the weight of the Glock into a better place on her hip, and left for work.

Chapter Three

 

BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL. BANFF, ALBERTA. FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
Lucky’s heart was no longer in Christmas shopping. The incident at the coffee shop had upset her, more than she might have expected. Not only the men’s shocking rudeness but the obliviousness of everyone else to what was going on. If the man had struck her, would anyone have torn their attention away from their iPods and phones long enough to notice?
She abandoned her shopping expedition and walked back to the hotel. She hadn’t even had that cup of chai, but left the café before she reached the counter and, taking care to go in the opposite direction from the two men, pushed her way through the crowds. It was a Friday, the start of Thanksgiving weekend, and the town was packed with tourists. The jagged snow-covered mountains—Norquay, Sulphur, Cascade, Rundle—stood stark and beautiful against the clear blue sky. These mountains were a good deal taller, sharper, and much younger than the ones surrounding Trafalgar and usually they took Lucky’s breath away. Now, she scarcely noticed them. She’d slipped into a toy shop, the windows bright and colorful with stuffed animals, but soon realized she was paying more attention to who might be coming through the doors after her than possible gifts for Ben and Rebecca, her grandchildren.
Confrontation wasn’t new to Lucky Smith. She was a passionate, strong-minded woman. She’d cut her teeth on radical politics back in the ’60s and hadn’t slowed down since. She’d been reluctant to enter into a relationship with Paul Keller, a police chief no less, fearing their divergent political opinions would be too divisive. Instead, she found that they both enjoyed a good, respectful argument. This incident, today, had upset her. Perhaps it was the senselessness of it, the naked hostility two men in their thirties had shown to an older woman who simply expected them to display a modicum of manners.
As she walked up the long sweeping hotel driveway, the view momentarily relieved her of her funk. Built in 1887, The Banff Springs was nicknamed “The Castle” and resembled something one might find perched on a wind-swept crag overlooking the North Sea. Nestled in the mountains, deep in the forest beside the fast-moving Bow River, the hotel had been built in memory of the Scotland for which the town had been named. Lucky stopped walking and simply stood for a few moments, admiring the grand old building. Gray stone, white trim, towering turrets, the surrounding forest and looming mountains. The Banff Springs Hotel had been built as a destination for railroad magnates, royalty, and silent movie stars in an era when travel was considered luxurious and people knew the meaning of grand. She imagined her tormenters of earlier getting short shrift if they tried butting in line here.
She laughed at herself. Funny how finding oneself on the
right
side of class and income barriers, if only for a few days, made even Lucky Smith want to pull up the drawbridge and keep the hoi polloi out. The handsome young doorman, dressed in the hotel’s smart green-and-brown livery, held the door open for her, giving her a smile full of straight white teeth. He had clear skin, shiny black hair, and was tall and fit. The staff name tags indicate where they are from. His said, Harry. Australia. Lucky reminded herself that the people who’d built this hotel, and worked in the kitchens and cleaned the bathrooms in the early days, were not attractive young people on a world-traveling adventure. No doubt it was a much different place “below stairs” in those days.
She returned Harry’s smile and walked into the lobby. Simply being here made Lucky feel special. Special and pampered. The lobby was huge, aged stone, highly polished wood, acres of white marble dotted with carpets in a red-tartan pattern, gleaming chandeliers. Smiling staff and prosperous happy guests. A waiting elevator took Lucky swiftly to the fourth floor.
By the time she got to their room she was feeling a good deal better. She felt better still when she saw that in her absence the bed had been made, towels fluffed and rehung, magazines stacked, the desk and dresser tidied, and everything wiped down. A silent army of staff made the hotel work so flawlessly.
Lucky hadn’t travelled much in her life—something she regretted. She and Andy had owned a store, and that didn’t lead to having a lot of spare time for vacations. Nor money, either, with the store to run, employees to pay, children to raise and to send to university. Most of the family’s vacations were to visit relatives in Washington State. Lucky had never been to Europe, never been outside North America. She went to the windows, tall and deep-set, and looked over the rooftops of the hotel and across the green forest to the river and the snow-covered mountains beyond.
She could, she thought, get used to living like this.
She had no idea what Paul must be paying for the room. It might be the shoulder season, same as at her store, but this was Thanksgiving weekend. When he’d proposed the holiday, she’d gulped and insisted on paying her share and been secretly relieved when he refused.
She kicked off her practical walking shoes and hung her sweater in the closet. She was back earlier than expected, and Paul would be a while yet. She’d treat herself to afternoon tea in the lounge. No doubt after that she’d be too full to enjoy dinner, but this was a vacation, after all.

Chapter Four

 

LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER RESTAURANT. BANFF, ALBERTA. FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
She absolutely hated this awful job. The only thing that made it bearable was the money, and that six-top had just stiffed her on the tip. Sensing big spenders, Tracey had largely ignored the two old folks who demanded milk—real milk not as served in the plastic container—for their tea, and then couldn’t decide if they wanted salad or soup and fussed over how well the bacon in the club sandwich was cooked. Instead she’d focused her attention on the six well-dressed, expensively groomed American tourists.
This place was, to put it mildly, a dump. It was called the Lighthouse Keeper, and happened to be in a good location just off Banff Avenue, so occasionally the better class of tourist didn’t realize they were slumming it until they were inside. This bunch had looked around, lifted their noses in the air, and turned as if to leave. But one of the men said he was starving and this place was as good as any. Besides, there wasn’t a wait for a table. He plunked his fat ass down and yelled at Tracey to bring him a menu. His friends reluctantly joined him. They ordered quickly with no questions. Exactly the sort of customers she liked. A couple of beers, glasses of wine, appetizers for the table, then burgers or steaks and fries for the men, and fish with salads for the women. She bustled about, pouring water, unasked, bringing drinks, taking the food order, smiling, smiling, smiling, while the old lady tried to get her attention to complain that the tea was cold.
BOOK: Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery
3.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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