Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (35 page)

He touched his lips lightly to Eliza’s sleeping face. She murmured softly and rolled over. He got out of bed. He pulled back the curtains and peered out into the night. Rain ran in torrents down the windows.

He would have preferred a good old-fashioned snowstorm, but this would do as well as if he’d ordered it himself. The rain should help reduce the number of people heading to the Grizzly Resort for today’s demonstration.

He made coffee and toast to eat in the car and was making his way slowly down the mountain before seven. Not a glimmer of moon or stars broke the cloud cover, and the forest was shrouded in deep darkness. His headlights caught the rump of an elk disappearing into the trees. As he joined the highway, traffic thickened, heading into town for the day, but moving slowly against the rain and wind. In places, the road clung to the side of the mountain, steep cliffs on one side, an intimidating drop into the river on the other. Makeshift waterfalls had formed in the night, spilling rainwater onto the highway.

He hadn’t heard again from Paul Keller or Molly Smith. No news was, hopefully, good news. They’d contact him when they could.

He dropped into the station to see if there had been any fresh developments overnight about the demonstration. He’d alerted the Mounties to Robyn’s impromptu protest, and they said they’d have officers on-site.

Not that he needed to inform anyone. As if by magic, by the time he left the office the previous evening, posters had popped up around town, nailed to telephone poles, in the windows of the environmental shops or activist-owned businesses. Posters with the now-familiar logo proclaiming “This is what a Grizzly looks like” with details about today’s protest hastily scrawled across. Ray Lopez told him Facebook had notified his daughters about the demonstration and they’d asked if they could take the morning off school.

Needless to say, Ray turned that request down flat.

At seven-thirty, John Winters arrived at the Grizzly Resort site. So far, there were more police vehicles than others—RCMP and a TCP car with Dawn Solway behind the wheel. Adam Tocek was there, sipping a coffee. Norman waited in the truck, where he would stay. He would not be used for crowd-control, that wasn’t his job.

“Heard from Molly?” Winters asked Adam.

“A quick call last night, to say Matt had been found and was going with his dad to the police station. She had a report to make, needed some sleep, should be home later today.”

“I’m glad that’s over then.”

“Tell me about it. I have twenty pounds of defrosted turkey in the fridge and don’t want to have to eat it all myself. She started to make a pecan pie before she left. I finished it off. Keep this to yourself, Sarge, but I’m glad I didn’t have to eat it with her watching.”

Winters laughed. Dawn Solway wandered over to say hi.

The security barrier was down across the construction road, and four uniformed Mounties stood in front of it, intending to keep protesters off the property. The rain had turned the unpaved road into a morass. Behind the barrier, Darren Fernhaugh paced a rut in the muddy track. His workers drank coffee and leaned against trees, watching.

Everyone waited.

Promptly at eight o’clock, a beige Corolla slowed, pulled off the highway, and turned onto the construction road. Robyn Winfield was behind the wheel. She drove as far as she could, moving slowly through the mud, bringing the car to a halt with its bumper inches from the security barrier. The car was packed with young women. They spilled out, opened the trunk, began collecting signs. To Winters’ considerable dismay, Paula was with them. At least she’d had the sense not to bring Beowulf.

“Show time,” Adam said.

As they watched, a handful more cars arrived and parked along the edge of the highway. A few women Winters recognized from around town, a vanload of modern-day hippies. A couple of Vietnam-era hippies, probably wanting to relive their lost youth. Uniformed Mounties shifted in front of the security barrier; hard-faced men in overalls tossed aside coffee cups. Darren Fernhaugh continued to pace. A rain-proof poncho was thrown over his shoulders, and the hood dripped water onto his nose.

He saw John Winters watching him and approached. “Can’t you get rid of these people?”

“We will if they block the highway or attempt to come onto your property.”

“That one,” Fernhaugh pointed to Robyn, moving from group to group, slapping backs, talking loud, “is the ringleader. She’s been talking about physically stopping work here. Can you take away that backpack she’s carrying?”

“I’ll check it out,” Adam said.

Fernhaugh groaned. “I can’t afford this, I just can’t afford it. More delays, more protests. What’s going to happen when prospective buyers see these signs all over town saying they aren’t welcome? If this gets national exposure, John, it’ll finish me.”

So far the only media Winters could see was one sodden young man from the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
interviewing Robyn Winfield. Adam Tocek stood beside her, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. Clearly he didn’t want to ask to search her bag in front of a reporter. Dawn Solway adjusted the weight of her equipment belt.

The crowd lifted their signs and began to march in a circle. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people in all. Much less than Robyn would have been hoping for.

Steve McNally was noticeably absent. Smart enough to know when to stay out of the rain.

His phone rang. “John Winters.”

“It’s Molly. I’ve broken my cell so I’ve borrowed the boss’. Figured you’d want an update on what’s happening here, but first there’s something that’s been bothering me all night.”

“Can we talk about this later? I’m at a demonstration in front of the Grizzly Resort.”

“Mom told me one was forming. I think you might want to hear this. It’s about the resort.”

“Go ahead.”

“We believe Barry Caseman was killed on the orders of a Calgary businessman by the name of Jonathan Burgess. The killer, the alleged killer, has been identified, but cannot be located at this time. Burgess is in Calgary, surrounded by lawyers, so whether or not anything can be proved, remains to be seen. I found out that this Burgess has an interest in the Grizzly Resort. I don’t mean interest in the business sense as owning part of it, but interested as in wanting it. I didn’t think much of it, at first, doesn’t matter to me one way or the other who develops the property. Then I remembered Mom telling me the Grizzly people are worried about keeping their heads above water until they can get the units sold and cash coming in.”

Winters glanced around. Darren Fernhaugh’s secretary was arguing with a stern-faced woman in her late sixties. Much waving of arms and shouting. The construction workers were still behind the police line, but hurling abuse about tree huggers and job-killers. Robyn Winfield was being interviewed, while Adam Tocek eyed her backpack. Fernhaugh marched over to her car and began pounding on the hood, ordering her to get it out of the way, he was expecting deliveries this morning.

Rain continued to fall.

“I don’t have anything but a bad feeling that kept me awake when I finally got to bed,” Smith said. “Burgess owns a car rental company, Global, that’s definitely into criminal activity, including moving drugs. I was told last night about a vehicle of his that might be involved in a major deal, thought it might be going to Trafalgar. No one would be bringing marijuana
into
the Kootenays so it could be full of the white stuff. Trying to finance a takeover of the Grizzly site, maybe? It’s a stretch, probably nothing. Sorry to bother you.”

“Not a bother. I’ll check into it. You have a description, plate number?”

“I’ll try and get the tags for you. The car description isn’t worth much. A beige Corolla is the most common car in the world.”

“A what?”

“Corollas are the world’s most common car, or so I’ve heard, and beige is the most common color.”

The interviewer had moved on to talk to someone else, and Adam Tocek was asking Robyn to let him check her backpack. She had her hands on her hips, her legs parted, and a determined set to her chin as she looked up him. A uniform was trying to get Morris Jennings, the bulldozer operator, to stay behind the security barrier, but by the look of it, Jennings was rapidly running out of patience. He’d told Winters what he’d do if he ever found the person who’d set the trap he almost put his foot into.

Darren Fernhaugh continued to pound on Robyn’s car, yelling for someone to move it.

Robyn’s car. A beige Corolla.

When he’d run a check on her, he’d found no record of her owning a vehicle. In one of her blog posts, she’d called the fossil-fueled automobile modern transportation for the horsemen of the apocalypse.

Steve McNally had not shown up.

“Molly, tell me something about this Burgess. Is he a property developer?”

“Yeah, I think so. Also in oil and gas exploration. High risk, high return.”

“I’ve got to go.” He cut the call. Punched the single button that brought up the TCP dispatcher. “Jim, give me a check on this plate. It’s from Alberta.” He read off the numbers. “Fast.”

The seconds ticked by.

Paula and some of the women were chanting, “Forests for bears,” waving their placards, and forming into a line, putting the Mounties between them and the workers. Paula was about two feet from the front bumper of the Corolla, lifting her protest sign up and down. She was small and wet, but determined.

“It’s a rental vehicle owned by Global Car Rental.”

“I need a bomb squad at the Grizzly Resort. ASAP.”

Denton was good at his job. He didn’t even ask why. “I’m on it.”

Winters stuffed his phone into his pocket. He waved to the Mountie in charge, walked over to join him. “I have reason to believe there might be an explosive device in that car.” He kept his voice low.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“We need to get this area cleared. Immediately. I’ve called for the bomb guys, but they’ll be a long time getting here.”’

The Mountie studied the chanting protesters, stern-faced police, angry workers. “No one’s going to move because we ask them to.”

“We’re done with asking. We tell them. I want everyone, including cops, out of this area in five minutes. If they have to go onto the property, so be it.”

He ran toward the mass of people. “Clear this area. Now!”

They stared at him. One old guy, gray beard halfway down his chest shouted, “Hell, no. We won’t go!”

The others took up the chant. “Hell, no. We won’t go.”

“Get back. Everyone, get back.”

Robyn saw him coming. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a length of chain. She darted around Adam Tocek and headed into the woods, intending to circle around the men and barriers.

“Adam,” Winters shouted, “let her go. Everyone, get away from that car. Darren, get your men back. Move these people.”

A woman stepped in front of him. She bristled with indignation, the effect ruined by the steady drip drip of water from the brim of her hat. “You have no right…”

“I have every right. Constable, move this person. I want every one of you as far away as you can get. Now! Now! Now!”

Tocek swept the woman up. She squealed as he wrapped his arms around her from behind and simply carried her into the woods, her legs kicking at air.

The chanting began to die down. People glanced at each other in confusion.

Solway called to him, “What’s up?”

“There might be a bomb in that car.”

Bomb.

The word spread. Protesters dropped their signs and ran. Some into the woods, some down the construction road. Some moved quickly but calmly, a few were screaming or crying. The Mounties had stopped trying to hold them back, and were guiding people through the line. The workers disappeared in a rush.

“Are you sure?” Solway asked Winters.

“Not in the least. I’m not prepared to stand around and find out, though.”

She went to help an elderly woman pick her way across the muddy truck depressions.

Paula stood beside the Corolla. Still clutching her sign. She watched him, her eyes wide. Winters waved his arms. “Get away from there. Run.”

She didn’t move.

He sprinted toward her. He grabbed her and lifted her off her feet. He wrenched the sign out of her hands, and threw it down. Without breaking stride he rounded the security barrier. She was a small woman, but still a weight, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His feet sank into the mud, the wet earth clawed at him, slowing him down.

They reached the bend in the road. He could see the construction equipment up ahead, and the trailer that housed the offices. Rain fell onto discarded protest signs. Robyn Winfield had used the chain to fasten herself to the undercarriage of a bulldozer. The look on her face, when she realized no one was the least bit interested in her, would have been funny in other circumstances. People milled about, some were running, disappearing into the woods. A Mountie had slipped in the mud and another officer was helping him to his feet.