Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (4 page)

Tom could see the size all right. That was kinda the point. “Sorry,” he said again.

The man continued to argue, a stream of broken English amongst the rapid Japanese. He could argue till he was blue in the face, didn’t matter. Tom had the credit card details, a signature taking responsibility for the vehicle.

Enough of this. Tom turned and headed back to the building that housed the Banff office of Global Car Rental. The Japanese man began to follow, but his wife grabbed his sleeve. She said something, sounded pleading. Telling him to drop it. He argued for a moment and then stomped away, the wife scurrying after.

“What was all that about?” Tracey asked as she put her purse under the counter. She was a nice girl, Tom thought, and young. Could even be pretty if she bothered to put on some makeup and wore clothes that didn’t look like they were bought at the secondhand shop. He might have considered screwing her, just to get one up on Matt, but he had a good thing going with Jody, and right now Tom didn’t feel like upsetting that particular apple cart.

“They got a stone in the window. Didn’t want to pay.”

“It won’t be much, right?” Tracey said. “Looks like a small chip.”

“Right,” Tom said. “Twenty or thirty bucks.” Leaving four hundred and seventy dollars pure profit for him and the boss to split with Barry the mechanic who’d provide a receipt for the cost of an entire windshield replacement.

Chapter Seven

BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL AND LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER RESTAURANT. BANFF, ALBERTA. SATURDAY MORNING.

“I,” Paul Keller announced to Lucky Smith, “am in the mood for a full greasy-spoon breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” she groaned. “After that dinner, how can you even think about breakfast?”

“Man’s gotta keep his strength up.” He pulled her close.

She tucked her head into the crook of his arm, and ran her fingers across his chest. “You’re a dirty old man.”

“Not unless I get some breakfast into me.” He threw off the covers.

“Neither one of us,” Lucky said, “needs the calories.”

Paul crossed the room to open the drapes, and then headed for the bathroom. “We’ll work it off on the trails.” His head popped back around the door. He gave her an exaggerated wink. “And in the bedroom.”

Lucky stretched across the king-sized bed, delighting in the lingering warmth from Paul’s body. Sunlight streamed through the windows. She ran her fingers across the crisp sheets, enjoying the feel of the rich, smooth fabric.

Yesterday, she’d had a perfectly delightful afternoon tea in the hotel’s Rundle Lounge, sipping Earl Grey, munching on light-as-air blueberry scones covered in jam and clotted cream, thin sandwiches, and delicate pastries. All while she tried to ignore the outrageous price of forty dollars, never mind the unnecessary calories. She’d paid with her credit card, too guilty to put it on the bill for Paul to take care of. She’d brought her book to read while she relaxed, but scarcely turned a page, so captivated was she by the stunning view of the Bow Valley outside the floor-to-ceiling windows as well as the parade of fashionable tea-drinkers, most of whom looked as if forty dollars for tea and sandwiches wasn’t at all out of the ordinary.

And then, not long after, a stroll through the hotel grounds having done little to work off the unnecessary meal, Paul had arrived back at the hotel, laden with new fishing equipment, and escorted her to dinner. She’d bought a dress for this trip, spending far more than was her norm, and felt young and pretty in a black calf-length wool dress topped with a sparkling gold jacket. She’d worn the gold and diamond earrings her son Samwise had given her a few Christmases ago. The outfit would have been stunning with sexy high-heeled gold sandals, but as she wasn’t really young and pretty and occasionally got a bad twinge in her right hip, she had to be content with plain black flats.

They dined in the Castello Restaurant, and Lucky felt she had to do the meal justice. She was quite virtuous passing on an appetizer but couldn’t resist ordering the lamb. She loved lamb and ate it at almost every opportunity. Paul had a Caesar salad followed by the rib eye. Lucky had never been much of a drinker, and Paul was more a beer guy, so they simply had one glass of wine each.

And now he wanted a full breakfast?

She reminded herself that they were on vacation. After breakfast they planned to drive to Lake Louise to have a look around another historic railroad hotel and see the famous glacier, and then head up to Lake Moraine—instantly recognizable to all Canadians for having been featured on the back of the twenty-dollar bill for many years—where they’d go hiking.

Tomorrow, Sunday, Paul wanted to try some fishing, and Lucky planned on joining a guided excursion to Johnston Canyon and the ink pots.

Paul came out of the bathroom and she slipped in to shower. Soon, dressed in sturdy hiking clothes and boots, armed with cameras and maps, they left the hotel. On his wanderings the day before, Paul told her as they drove into town, he’d seen a suitably cheap-looking restaurant that had hearty breakfasts on the menu.

It was, inappropriately for the mountain setting, called the Lighthouse Keeper and decorated to resemble an East Coast fishing village. The oars, fishing nets, and lobster trap decorations were tattered and cracked, the wood floors stained, the bottles behind the bar covered with a sheen of dust. The scent of stale grease and spilled beer hung over everything.

Paul rubbed his hands together in glee. “Perfect.” Lucky felt a rush of affection, and placed her hand lightly on his arm. He smiled down at her.

“Table for two?” the waitress asked, not bothering to show much interest in the new arrivals. With her long sad face, bored eyes, and lifeless hair she reminded Lucky of some of the young mothers who passed through her child nutrition classes at the women’s support center. The beginnings of a round belly spilled over the waistband of her faded black pants, the result of a diet consisting mostly of fast food burgers and pop. She grabbed menus and led the way to a table for six in the center of the room. Only one other table was occupied. They mustn’t get very busy at this time of day, not if Paul and Lucky could be casually shown to the biggest table.

Lucky scanned the menu. “I’m not very hungry, Paul. I only want tea. Why don’t you get an extra side of toast and I’ll have some of that?”

The waitress was soon back with Lucky’s tea and coffee for Paul. Paul placed his order: fried eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, extra toast. He got to his feet. “Be right back.”

Lucky poured tea and ripped open a package of milk. She was stirring her drink when she heard a voice behind her. “Well, well, if it isn’t the back-of-the-line lady.”

Startled, she looked up to see the two men she’d encountered the day before—the ones who’d tried to push their way ahead of her into the coffee shop. She’d told Paul about the incident as they dressed for dinner last night and he muttered something about jerks everywhere. She hadn’t thought about it since.

She certainly was thinking about it now. The men loomed over her table, smirking. “Surprised to see you slumming in a joint like this,” the taller one said.

“Looking for some rough fun?” The second one touched her green scarf, hand woven, pure wool, which she’d hung on the back of her chair.

“Don’t know about fun,” the tall one said. “Not for you anyway, lady.” His hand shot out, and he snatched up her tea cup.

She leapt to her feet, as hot liquid splashed against her sweater. Paul was nowhere to be seen. The patrons at the other table had stopped eating and were watching. The waitress stood frozen at the door to the kitchen, her eyes wide and her hands to her mouth.

“Call the police,” Lucky ordered in a good loud voice.

The shorter man laughed, a laugh without humor. “We don’t need any cops, Tracey. Chill, we’re just being friendly-like to a visitor to our nice town.” There was something familiar about him, Lucky thought. Something about the shape and color of his brown eyes and he way he held his head and shoulders.

The waitress plucked at the man’s sleeve. “Matt, please, I don’t want any trouble. Barry, get out of here.”

Barry, the taller one, took a step back. “No trouble. We came in for breakfast but don’t much like the company. Let’s go, man.”

Matt didn’t move. Lucky reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. “If you won’t call the police,” she said to the waitress, “I will.” The man’s eyes narrowed. His hand shot out and he grabbed Lucky’s arm. He gave it a twist. “We don’t need any goddamn interfering cops. Say you’re sorry for disrespecting Barry here, lady, and then we’ll let you go.” With his other hand he plucked the phone out of her hand. Lucky yelled.

The waitress screamed. Matt released Lucky’s arm and then he was out of her space and spinning around. Paul Keller, eyes narrowed, face red with anger, had him by the collar of his jacket. Spittle flying, Paul bellowed, “You filthy little punk.” He grabbed the man’s other shoulder and shook. “How dare you put your hands on her?”

Lucky’s phone had flown across the room. She scrambled after it. Paul might be a police officer and he had once been used to subduing drunks, but these days he was an out-of-shape, overweight man with a desk job who smoked too much and exercised too little. No match for a man young enough to be his son. She grabbed the phone, flipped it open, punched in 9-1…But before she could finish the sequence, she glanced back at the men. To her surprise the younger fellow’s shoulders were slumped and his hands lifted in surrender.

The man at the other table tossed bills down and, almost pushing his wife, slipped away. The waitress’ eyes were wide and frightened. The cook, dressed in a stained white jacket and striped gray pants, had come out of the back, alerted by the raised voices. He gripped a phone, Lucky was pleased to see. Barry, the taller one, had disappeared.

Paul released his grip and took a step back. He was breathing heavily and his red face dripped sweat. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Harassing women in a public place. Apologize, right now.”

“Or what? You gonna arrest me?”

“I have grounds to. Uttering threats, attempted theft, drunk and disorderly.”

“Chill, man. I’m not drunk and I didn’t steal anything. I wasn’t threatening, just having fun.”

“Some fun.”

Lucky’s head spun. This conversation was almost surreal. She looked, really looked, at the young man. Noticed his beefy frame, the way the ridge of his eyebrows hooded his brown eyes, his full lips. She looked at Paul Keller.

Oh, dear God, no.

“Nice to see you too, Dad,” Matt Keller said with a sneer that turned his handsome face ugly.

Chapter Eight

LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER RESTAURANT. BANFF, ALBERTA. SATURDAY MORNING.

Lucky knew Paul was estranged from his only son, Matthew. He had been for quite some time, long before the divorce from Karen. The boy, Paul had told her, had a wild streak and a quick temper he couldn’t control. He’d hoped that as Matt got older, out of the tempestuous teenage years, he’d calm down. But that never happened. Matt quit school at seventeen and wandered from one dead-end job to another. He seemed to stay out of trouble, mostly, and for that Paul was grateful. It was all too easy, as Paul Keller well knew, to start down the slippery slope of not having much money but a sense of entitlement that led to crime and eventually prison. The boy kept in touch with his mother and she passed his news on. Matt was pretty much a ski bum these days, drifting from one resort to another, picking up jobs as ski patrol or a ski instructor in the winter, waiting on tables or tending bar in the off-season.

It hadn’t helped, Paul had confided in Lucky, that he, Matt’s father, had been a police officer. In a small town like Trafalgar, the boy felt humiliated every time one of his friends had an encounter with the police or if his dad was the one to answer a call to a house party out of control. The family moved to Calgary when Matt was seventeen, and he refused to go with them. Father and son had argued, angrily, bitterly, said words that could never be unsaid. Karen blamed Paul for her son’s failure; Paul didn’t see it that way. The kid simply didn’t have the fortitude to make something of himself. Paul had only seen Matthew a few times over the years since: a Christmas at Karen’s sister’s, at Paul’s father’s funeral, at the wedding of his daughter Cheryl. The latter had been only a year ago, and Paul thought it was well past time to bury the hatchet. To reconcile. Matt had not agreed. If anything, he seemed angrier at his father than ever. He blamed Paul for the divorce, which seemed odd considering that the boy hadn’t lived with his parents for sixteen years now.

But when families fell out, sense and reason had little, if anything, to do with it.

“Sit down,” Paul ordered now, in a voice Lucky hadn’t heard since their younger days when Constable Keller and Mrs. Smith could often be found on opposite sides of the barricades. Figuratively, and occasionally, literally.

Matt dropped into what had been Lucky’s chair.

“I don’t want any trouble here.” The cook lifted his phone. “Matt, go home.”