Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (9 page)

“What?”

“They were at Matt’s apartment.”

Kevin’s face had settled into kind lines of the sort she’d never seen before, and that, more than his words, made fear rise into her throat. Her heart pounded.

“Matt? You mean Matt…”

“It’s Barry.”

“Thank God.” Her laugh came out as more of a snort. “Then definitely no loss to anyone. We weren’t exactly
friends
, Kev.”

“You still don’t understand, Tracey. The cops can’t find Matt. They say he’s done a runner after killing Barry.”

Before she knew what she was doing, Tracey was out the door and down the street. It was about one kilometer to Matt’s apartment. This early on a Sunday morning, the town wasn’t busy, a handful of eager tourists looking for breakfast before going out for the day, some locals having a morning run. The sky was dark, threatening rain.

She called Matt’s number. It went to voice mail. She left a message, trying to sound cheery and only a bit concerned. He hated it when she whined or complained.

By the time she arrived at Beartrack Trail her heart was about to give out. She skidded to a halt as she rounded the corner. The street was full of police cars, both marked and unmarked. Officers patrolled the grounds and yellow tape had been strung from the trees in front of number 214—Matt’s place. A small crowd had gathered on the opposite sidewalk to watch. Tracey walked slowly toward them, her legs numb and her heart frantic.

“You can’t go in there,” a Mountie said.

“My friend…lives there.”

“You’ll have to see your friend later.”

“Is…is someone hurt? Dead?”

“I can’t say anything at this time.” The Mountie turned at sounds coming from inside the building. The door opened. Officers came out. People pushing a stretcher.

“Get out of the way.” The Mountie jerked his head at Tracey, who stood in the center of the path. The bored politeness had left his voice.

She stepped aside. An ambulance was not waiting, no one hurried, the body on the stretcher had a cloth pulled up over its face. The only sound Tracey could hear was the roaring of blood in her own ears. The crowd stopped talking and stood respectfully, watching as the stretcher was maneuvered down the sidewalk to an unmarked black van. An older man took off his hat.

Tracey took a step forward. Then another. She reached out her hand. Someone grabbed her arm and she was pulled roughly back. A man dressed in jeans and a blue jacket, gray hair cut short.

“Out of the way,” he said to her. His voice was not friendly and his eyes were narrow with suspicion. “What’s your name?”

“Tracey.”

“Tracey what?”

“McMillian.”

“Do you have reason to believe you might know this person, Tracey? Or have any knowledge of what went on here?”

“No.” Kevin had said it was Barry dead. Not Matt. And Kevin had good sources; he made it his business to know what was going on in town. Besides, Tracey assured herself, this…body…was tall. Taller than Matt.

“Sorry.” She turned and fled back the way she’d come.

When she was around the corner and out of sight of the police, she tried Matt again. Again it went to voice mail. She left another message, saying she’d been to the apartment and was worried.

What had Kevin said? The police were looking for Matt.

They couldn’t possibly suspect Matt had
killed
Barry? They were friends and Matt didn’t have a mean bone in his body. It was a mistake, obviously. Just a mistake.

Matt might not even know Barry was dead, not if he hadn’t been home last night or this morning. The reason why Matt might not have come home after work, she tried not to contemplate.

She had to find him. Where could he be? Not at Reds. It was only open in the evening. The ski hills weren’t operating yet. He liked to go hiking, into the wilderness. He camped out sometimes, went by himself for a few days into the mountains when he had time off work. Once you got out of town and off the highway, cell phones didn’t work.

Hadn’t he told her he picked up a few extra shifts this week when one of the other bartenders had sprained his ankle?

He wouldn’t skip work to go camping.

Unless the fight with his father had upset him so much he needed to get away.

He hadn’t seemed upset last night. He seemed to have forgotten all about his dad being in town.

Matt’s dad.

He was a cop.

Tracey pulled her phone out of her pocket once again. Matt wouldn’t thank her for interfering, but if he was in trouble, in bad trouble, serious trouble, how could she simply go back to Kevin’s and wait on tables as if everything was okay?

She punched in 411. Asked for the Banff Springs Hotel.

Chapter Eighteen

TRAFALGAR CITY POLICE STATION. TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY MORNING.

John Winters finished his magazine. He took his feet off the desk. Dave Evans and Dawn Solway came in the back door and walked past his office, heading to the lunch room. Winters started to rise. He could use a coffee himself.

His phone rang and he checked the display. The boss.

“Aren’t you in Banff?” Winters said.

“Yes. And that’s the problem. Look, John, I have something I need you to do for me.”

“Shoot.”

To John Winters’ increasing surprise and dismay Keller explained that his son, Matthew Allen Keller, was a suspect in a homicide. Matt had called his father to say he’d discovered a body, and then fled the scene. The Mounties were hunting for him now. The Banff RCMP were being polite to their visiting colleague, but not letting him in on much that was going on.

“I want a record-check on Matthew. I want to know if he has a vehicle, any other known place of residence. Everything you can find.”

“Do you think that’s wise, Paul? Let the locals handle it.”

“He’s my son. It might not be wise to get involved, but it’s what I have to do. I guess I also have to call Karen. Not looking forward to that.”

“Okay,” Winters said. It wasn’t as if he could tell his boss he was too busy with his own cases. “I’ll see what I can find out. What’s the name of the victim? I’ll dig up what I can on him, too.”

“Barry Caseman. I don’t have his DOB, but I do know where he lived.” Keller rattled off an address.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Paul, good luck.”

Winters hung up, and turned to his computer.

Chapter Nineteen

TOCEK-SMITH HOME. OUTSIDE TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY MORNING.

This wasn’t supposed to be so hard.

Molly Smith struggled to lift the pastry into the pie plate in one piece. It kept coming away from the countertop in sticky clumps. She tossed another handful of flour into the bowl, and rolled it all up into a ball again.

Now it was so dry it wouldn’t hold together.

She glanced at the magazine article she’d cut out and stuck to the fridge with a souvenir magnet from their summer trip to Las Vegas to see “Love,” the Cirque De Soleil Beatles show. The well-manicured hands in the photo held a marble rolling pin with one smooth round of pasty wrapped around it. In the next picture the pastry was folding perfectly into the bottom of the glass dish.

Smith’s mom made pie all the time. She tried to remember how Lucky did it. Come to think of it, didn’t Lucky use store-bought pastry these days?

Enough of this. She grabbed the lump of dough, threw it into the pie plate, where it landed with an uninspiring thud, and began stretching it and smoothing it out with her fingers. Pecan filling bubbled on the stove and Adele was singing on the iPad.

Sylvester wandered in from the family room, where he’d been enjoying a morning nap. He eyed her meaningfully and she obediently opened the back door. Sylvester was Lucky’s dog and usually went to one of Lucky’s many friends on the odd occasion she went away. No one could be found to take him this time, and so he’d come to Molly and Adam’s place. She’d been nervous as to how Norman would react to this invasion of his territory, but the police dog didn’t seem to mind as long as Sylvester kept away from his food bowl.

The fat white turkey squatted in the sink, ready to be stuffed. It seemed to have thawed okay. She’d been able to wrestle the giblets and neck out. Good thing the Internet instructions said to do that. Why on earth would anyone put a plastic bag
inside
a turkey, anyway? She eyed the bird as she pounded pastry. Nothing more unappetizing than a naked uncooked turkey.

There. The recipe said to put the prepared pastry into the fridge for half an hour before adding the filling and baking it.

Why was all this taking so darned long, anyway?

Flour was sprinkled on the floor at her feet as though a snowstorm had blown through. Her fingers were coated in it along with sticky pieces of dough. She rubbed her hands together under the tap, leaving traces of flour all over the faucets, and put the prepared pastry into the fridge.

As she dried her hands on a dish towel, she checked her stack of recipes. Apparently you weren’t supposed to stuff the turkey until just before it went into the oven, but it was fine to make it ahead of time. First, she should start peeling and chopping squash. The squash casserole had to go into the oven before the turkey; not enough room for them both in there. It should be okay to cook the squash and the pie at the same time.

Forgot the pie filling. It was boiling rapidly, spitting sticky goo all over the stove top like lava from an erupting volcano. She thrust the wooden spoon into the pot and began to stir. Some of the guck had stuck to the bottom. She dug the spoon harder and scraped the pot. She switched off the heat and wiped her forehead with a sigh as she surveyed the disaster of a kitchen.

It was a wonderful kitchen. Adam had bought the house from an older couple looking to downsize and move closer to town. They’d been known far and wide for their parties, and the house had been built to accommodate that. The cupboards and island were painted fresh white and the cabinets inlaid with sparkling glass windows. The floors were pale hardwood, the countertops granite, the faucets pewter. The sink was square and deep. Wide French doors opened onto a spacious wooden deck and a view of sweeping lawn leading to the forest enclosing the property and tree-covered mountains beyond.

Right now, every pot and pan they owned was either on the stove or in the sink. Flour and pasty crumbs littered the countertops as well as the floor; the kitchen composter overflowed.

And she’d only just started.

Smith dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. It was ten o’clock. She’d finished work at three a.m., been curled up in bed with Adam by four. He’d risen an hour later and headed out the door with Norman for his day shift, trying to be quiet. She’d slept a bit more, and answered her alarm at eight. Somehow in the two hours since, she’d turned the kitchen upside down yet had only managed to slice onions, celery, and apples for the stuffing, make the pastry for the pie, and overcook the filling. Adam was due to get off work at six this evening. She’d told him dinner would be at eight. She planned to get everything ready, put the turkey in the oven, set the table with flowers and candles, and then nap for a couple of hours.

She eyed a bag of bright red cranberries on the table. She should have bought canned cranberry sauce, but her mom always used the fresh ones. Was she supposed to peel them or something? She found the recipe. It didn’t say anything about that.

This cooking business was harder than it looked in the glossy magazines.

For a moment she considered calling her mom. No, she wouldn’t phone for help. Her mom was on vacation—a romantic vacation. Smith hated to think she might interrupt something, uh, romantic.

Her phone rang and she leapt to answer it. Maybe it would be someone inviting them to dinner. She checked the display.

“Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Oh. Same to you, dear.”

“Are you having fun? Is the hotel putting on a special dinner tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Mom, are you okay? Is something the matter?”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, dear. I know you were working last night, but I was hoping you’d be up.”

“I am up. I’m making pie. It’s going really well. Is something the matter?”

Lucky let out a long breath. Smith’s hand tightened on the phone. Her mom was easy to read and something was definitely wrong. Had she had a fight with Keller? As bad as it was, her mom dating her boss, it would be worse if they had a nasty breakup.

“Paul’s son, Matt. Do you remember him, Moonlight? He remembers you.”

“Vaguely. He skied, I think. Mom, what’s happening?”