Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (23 page)

Tracey treated herself to a taxi to get her stuff to her new home. It would have been nice if the cab driver had offered to help her carry it all in, but he just dumped everything on the curb and stuck out his hand for his money. She paid and lugged suitcases and boxes up the stairs and through the front door. The apartment, she had to admit, wasn’t exactly welcoming. If she could fix it up a bit, maybe they could keep it after Matt got back. Get new people to share with, young couples like themselves, or single women, not the usual bunch of layabouts. She’d be more than happy to see the back of Tom.

She made room in the small cupboard and hung up her clothes. The closet was tiny, but it didn’t matter. Matt didn’t have much and Tracey had less. She hung up her work clothes, jeans and sweaters, and the single nice dress she rarely got the chance to wear. She made space in the bottom drawer for her underwear and her few scraps of jewelry.

That done, hands on hips she studied the room. The double bed filled most of the space, and it was unmade. Towels, dirty socks and underwear were tossed haphazardly on the floor, dresser drawers open, t-shirts and clean underwear spilling out. She began gathering up the stray items, placing them in a pile on the floor of the closet. Tomorrow she’d take the sheets and towels to the Laundromat. She made the bed, tucking the sheets in at the corners, straightening the duvet, puffing the pillows before placing them carefully against the headboard.

As a finishing touch, she laid out the one precious, unnecessary thing she’d brought with her from Ontario. A pink and purple My Little Pony. Somewhat tattered now, the ribbons fading, the mane ragged. She’d had it since she was very small. It probably hadn’t even been new when she found it under the Christmas tree one morning, but she’d loved it all these years.

Time to tackle the kitchen.

Under the sink she found a couple of dirty rags, an almost empty bottle of bleach, and an empty container of dishwashing liquid. She made a mental note to shop for cleaning cloths, furniture polish, glass cleaner, and all the other things she’d need to turn this transient dump into a pleasant home.

The kitchen looked to be more of a storage room for empty beer bottles than a place to cook, or even eat. The small table against one wall was buried under beer cases and empty pizza cartons. What dishes there were, as well as pots and pans, were piled in the sink, encrusted with days’ old food. Probably the guys just wiped off a frying pan and plate when they wanted to use it again, and ate in front of the TV with their food balanced on their laps.

She cleared empty pizza cartons off the counter, and took everything out of the sink. Then she ran hot water and by taking the top off the dishwashing liquid container was able to get enough soap to make a cheerful mountain of suds. Leaving the dishes to soak, she stacked the beer cases into a reasonably orderly pile on the floor so she could sweep around them. She used the one available rag and the soapy dishwater to wipe up what she could of lumps of dried food, beer spills, mud, and who knows what else off the floor. A good cleaning would have to wait until she could get the necessary supplies.

All that, she realized, was going to cost a heck of a lot. She’d ask Tom to pay. He just might, if she was the one doing the grunt work.

She plunged her hands into the hot water, soon realizing that steel wool would have to be added to her shopping list. Still, she did what she could and with a lot of elbow grease and good intentions she soon had a pile of clean dishes stacked beside the sink. It wasn’t hard to find a place to put the plates and glasses and cutlery, once she’d dried them with one of Matt’s face cloths, as nothing was in the cupboards aside from the odd unused bowl, a couple of jars of jam, sticky around the lid, a nearly empty jar of peanut butter, a few boxes of Kraft Dinner, and one enormous box of corn flakes.

She peeked into the fridge. Bottles of beer, a tub of margarine, an opened packet of bacon, turning gray around the edges. Something red and viscous coated the bottom of the meat compartment. At one time someone must have intended to eat something healthy as a pile of rotting, nearly liquid lettuce leaves were in the vegetable cooler. She lifted a carton of milk to her nose and sniffed. She recoiled in disgust. The whole fridge smelled so bad something might have died in there.

And then, it all came rushing back. Two chairs, with torn vinyl padding, were pulled up to the Formica table, which might be older than Tracey herself. She dropped into a seat. Someone
had
died in here. Not in the fridge, of course, but in this apartment. She’d been so happy cleaning, making a home for Matt to return to, she’d almost forgotten
why
he wasn’t home.
Why
there was space for her to move in.

She hadn’t liked Barry but he didn’t deserve to die, and then to be forgotten. She’d barely given Barry a thought, all of her fears and worries were concentrated on Matt. Tracey’s mother believed in the power of positive thinking. She believed if you wanted something, wanted it hard enough, and for all the right reasons, it would come to you.

She’d learned that on Oprah or some other afternoon TV show.

Tracey had thought it was a pile of bunk. If it worked, why couldn’t her mom conjure up a lottery win, or make her right knee better? Or even find herself a decent job. About the only thing positive thinking had done was give Mom a win at bingo one night. She collected a thousand dollars and as far as she was concerned, that was proof enough that Oprah’s guest was right. Tracey hadn’t bothered to mention that after spending several thousand bucks over the years at the Bingo Palace, she was due for a win.

The thousand hadn’t lasted long. Most of it went to lottery tickets, which Mom concentrated so intently on thinking positively about she might have been praying to the little scraps of paper. What she didn’t spend on the lottery went toward fixing the brakes in the car before they failed totally and killed someone, and a new outfit to wear to bingo. Not entirely a selfish woman, she bought Tracey some glittering earrings and a sexy top that fell apart after the first wash.

Tracey’s mom still believed, despite all the proof to the contrary, and if she were here she’d tell Tracey to think positive thoughts about Matt.

She tried, she really tried. But at the back of her mind, a tiny voice kept saying, what if… What if Matt had murdered Barry? What if he hadn’t, but the killer had killed Matt and dumped his body? What if he decided he was better off without Tracey and never came back?

Nothing she could do about that now, except be ready for Matt if…when…he came home.

She pushed herself to her feet, threw the rotting food into the trash and dumped the lumpy milk down the sink. She took the garbage to the chute in the hallway, and then wandered through the quiet apartment back to Matt’s room. Their room now. The police had taken Matt’s iPhone and his MacBook Pro that used to sit on a small table with a wobbly leg, wedged in a corner under the window. His car was still parked on the street. The top shelf in the closet had been disturbed. That, Tracey knew, was where he kept his camping equipment. His tent and sleeping bag, good to minus-forty degrees. Camp stove, propane lamp, small axe, sharp knife, a handful of freeze-dried food packages.

All of that was gone, and she was pleased to know that if he was in the wilderness, waiting until he was cleared and could come back, he’d at least be warm and dry and fed.

Almost five o’clock. Time to get ready for work. She’d finish cleaning tomorrow.

Positive thinking might not help Matt, but right now it was the only thing that could help Tracey.

She pulled on her work clothes and went to the bathroom to tidy her hair and wash her hands. The bathroom was, as could be expected for something shared by four men, disgusting. Toilet bowl cleaner and new brush, more cloths, shower spray and squeegee, not to mention fresh bars of soap, went onto her mental shopping list.

She left the apartment, locking the door behind her.

Tom would think he’d walked into the wrong unit.

Chapter Forty-one

TRAFALGAR CITY POLICE STATION. TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. MONDAY AFTERNOON.

John Winters checked the display on his phone.

Rose Benoit.

He should have known she’d be checking e-mail, holiday or not.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said in greeting. “Why are you working?”

“Claude’s going to Paris tomorrow. Something about a sculptor he’s been wanting to meet for a long time. He’ll spend all of today rushing about and panicking that he’ll have forgotten something. I prefer to stay out of the way. You’re one to talk, as usual.”

They chatted for a few minutes, catching up on each other’s news, and then Rose said, “Grizzly Resort and Darren Fernhaugh. They look totally aboveboard to me. Never a whiff of scandal around Fernhaugh. He bought that land near Trafalgar for a ridiculously low price because Clemmins was desperate to sell. He and Darren Fernhaugh go way back. I think they’re cousins-in-law or something. So he let Fernhaugh have it with no competition.”

“Clemmins could have gotten a better price?”

“Almost certainly. The place was tainted somewhat after the Reg Montgomery killing, and then that other case. But business is business and prime mountain territory doesn’t come up every day.”

“Thanks, Rose. This whole thing is about to blow up in our faces again, and I wanted to have all my facts lined up.”

“I’ll keep my ears open, but right now I’d say the company’s legit. Makes a nice change in my line of work to be able to say that.”

He laughed. “Take care, eh?”

“Will do. Speaking of blowing things up, the Grizzly might be the least of your problems environmentally wise.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s talk of good shale deposits around your lovely town.”

“Meaning?”

“Fracking, my friend. Some exploratory stuff’s going on, all on the QT for now. But word is that the Mid-Kootenays might be the next big place for fracking.”

Winters groaned. Of all the controversial things, fracking—extracting natural gas from shale by a complicated process of forcing water and chemicals into the ground—ran a close second only to the tar sands.

“No need to panic yet,” Benoit said. “Nothing may come of it. Much is explored, but few are developed. Or something like that. You and I might be comfortably retired long before it becomes an issue.”

“Retirement. I don’t know if I’m looking forward to it or dreading it.”

“Love to Eliza.”

“Will do.”

Chapter Forty-two

GRAPES WINE BAR. BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL, BANFF, ALBERTA. MONDAY EVENING.

The red light on the hotel phone was blinking when Smith got back to her room. She grabbed it, thinking it might be her mom, someone, anyone with news.

Instead it was the deep voice of Jonathan Burgess, inviting her to have a drink with him in the hotel bar.

She went into the bathroom, stripping off her soaked running clothes as she walked. A shower first.

A long, exhilarating run had worked the cobwebs out of her head, but hadn’t helped her to reach any clarity as to what was going on. The area around the town and hotel was a maze of hiking paths and mountain biking trails. Smith had found a promising route on a map the concierge gave her, and set off at a trot. As soon as she passed into the trees and the hotel fell behind her, the crowds of camera-toting tourists dropped away and she had the forest largely to herself. Not wanting to get lost, she simply ran in one direction for half an hour, then turned and ran back, leaping over fallen logs, rounding animal hideaways, splashing through streams fed by yesterday’s rain, occasionally running along the banks of the swift-moving river. She emerged from the trail onto the manicured lawns where she spent ten minutes stretching and cooling down. The hotel loomed over her, gabled windows and turrets imposing in the sun.

The run and time in the wilderness had made her feel a good deal better, but all too soon the euphoria began to wear off. What was she doing here? She was accomplishing precisely nothing. It was all so damned frustrating. At least the chief was allowed to follow the detectives around. Not that he was accomplishing much either. She’d phoned him earlier for an update and all he said was that Blechta had re-interviewed Matt’s roommates and his co-workers at Reds but learned nothing new. Officers had called everyone on his phone’s contact list, but no one had heard from Matt lately. Or, if they had, they weren’t admitting it. Forensic reports were starting to come in, and the results of tests run by the pathologist, all of which were telling them nothing they didn’t already know. Plenty of sightings of Matt were being logged at the detachment. The obvious cranks were ruled out, and the possible genuine ones followed up. Again, nothing.

Even over the spotty cell connection, Smith could hear the strain in the chief’s voice.

“What about the dead guy, Caseman?” she’d asked. “Any idea what he was up to that night?”

“Blechta tracked him down to a bar in town where he was well-known. He drank a fair amount, the waiter says, which was normal for him for a Saturday night. He talked to a few of the regulars, also normal behavior. He left alone, at one, early for him. He was not seen by anyone after that. According to his fellow drinkers, he’d been unusually quiet, had said nothing of any significance.”