A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (21 page)

Tony smiled, his brown eyes dancing in the firelight. “I know where that is. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven.” She gathered her helmet and gloves.

“I don’t have your phone…” he said, as she ran for the door.

Chapter Twenty-four

A man walked into the Mountain in Winter Art Gallery and gave Eliza a tight smile. He didn’t seem interested in the art, more interested in peering around corners. He approached the counter where she sat with her book. “Hi.” He wore a black winter coat with blue wool mittens. He did not take the mitts off.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but are you alone here?”

“How else must I take that question?” she said, placing her hand on the telephone. She
was
alone. People had been in and out all day, but right now the gallery was empty. Outside a couple stopped to study her window display, and then moved on.

“Your assistant. The older lady. She’s not in today?”

“Margo has the day off. Why are you asking this?”

“Don’t go anywhere,” he replied.

He dashed out the door.

How odd
. She took her hand off the phone and turned her attention back to her book.

The bell tinkled a moment later and all was explained. He was back, this time accompanied by the man Margo believed was her son. Eliza struggled to remember his name.

“Good afternoon. I came by the other day looking at the Khan sketches. Do you remember? I’m William Westfield.”

She slid off her stool. “Of course, I remember. I’m pleased you came back. We have a few pieces left. They’ve proved to be very popular. I must apologize for my assistant’s behavior. I don’t know what came over her. She’s a good saleswoman. Really.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m here now. Let me have a…have a…a look.” He stammered, tongue struggling to form the words. She waited patiently until he was comfortable again. “Ah…uh…yes.” He crossed the room to stand in front of the grouping of sketches. His friend left without saying goodbye.

Eliza returned to the counter, taking herself out of Westfield’s way. Let him make up his mind, unpressured.

Eventually he turned to her. “The three across the bottom will make a nice grouping on the wall of my room.”

“A good choice. Will you be taking them with you today?”

“They’re small enough, no problem.”

“I’ll wrap them for you then.” One at a time, she took the pictures off the wall and laid them on the table at the back of the gallery. She was reaching for the third when the door opened. She glanced up and smiled.

John.

“Be with you in a few minutes,” she called.

“I can wait.” He came over to join them. “Those are good.”

“Amazing what a skilled hand can accomplish with no more than a couple of quick strokes,” Westfield said. “You’re Sergeant Winters. I’ve seen your picture in the paper.” He held out his hand and the two men shook. “I didn’t make the connection. You’re Eliza Winters so this must be your husband?”

“Yes,” she said, enveloping the art in sturdy brown paper.

“As long as I have you here,” Westfield said to John, “I have to ask the question on everyone’s mind. What’s happening about the killing?

“Our investigation is progressing.”

“I’m sure it is. Getting any help from IHIT?”

“Some.”

“You can’t talk about it, I understand. It’s not just idle curiosity on my part. I knew her.”

“You knew Cathy Lindsay?”

“Last term I took a course in creative writing at the college. She was the teacher.”

“Did someone call you? Officers have been going through the class list.”

Westfield shook his head. “Not yet, but I can usually be found at the bottom of any list. W.” He laughed. “I’m sure you’ve found the same.”

“What was your take on her?”

Eliza continued wrapping the art.

“I didn’t know her socially, she was just the teacher.”

“You must have had some impression of her.”

“She seemed to enjoy teaching the class. She did say at one point she found it refreshing to teach people who wanted to be there. I assumed she meant as opposed to high school students. Who’d rather be just about anywhere else. I’m writing a novel. A gritty, hard-boiled mystery novel. Perhaps you could give me some tips, Sergeant Winters.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“My story’s not very original, I’m afraid. Serial killer in a big American city. Hard-drinking, bitter, divorced cop. But I like it. It’s my first attempt, see, and I figured I could use some help with the mechanical things. Dialogue, when to use description.” His voice trailed off.

“Did Cathy Lindsay help with what you needed?”

“Oh, yes. She was very good at highlighting flaws.”

Eliza had no interest in the conversation, but from where she stood, behind the counter, ringing up the sale price, she could hear the men’s voices. She glanced up, startled at the bite William put in his last sentence.

John said, “Did she talk about her personal life at all? Mr. Westfield? Mr. Westfield?”

William seemed to be locked in place. His mouth was open, his jaw slack, his eyes did not blink. He looked as if, like Lot’s wife, he’d been turned to a pillar of salt. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Seconds passed. Eliza reached for the phone.

Then he said, as if nothing unusual had happened, “She told us she taught English at the high school.”

“Are you feeling all right?” John asked.

“Yes, thanks.”

John and Eliza exchanged a silent question. Then he said, “If you’re sure. Did Cathy seem to be close to anyone in the class? Any one in particular?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“What about her life outside your class. Did she mention problems at home, with her friends, her work?”

“I can’t really say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“It’s just an impression, you understand. I don’t know anything.”

“You can consider this a formal interview, Mr. Westfield. There’s no one to hear us other than my wife, and she doesn’t talk about police business.” Eliza pulled her book out, flipped it open, and pretended to read. “If you know something, no matter how insignificant, you need to tell me.”

“I was surprised to read in the paper that her husband owns a consulting business. I thought he taught at her school.”

“Why?” The question was asked calmly, a routine inquiry. But Eliza knew her husband well enough that he might as well have lifted his ears and howled, a hound catching the scent of a fox.

She also heard the shrug in William’s voice. “She talked about him sometimes. A math or science teacher. Can’t remember his name offhand, but she would say things like so-and-so teaches his students that even in the sciences good writing’s important. It’s how we express ideas, create understanding and enhance knowledge. Or words to that effect.”

“Did she get on well with the students in your class? Any problems you were aware of?”

“One incident, now that I’m remembering. Last day of class she handed out the final marks. This woman, Elaine, took offense at her result. She told Cathy she clearly didn’t understand experimental literature.”

“What did Cathy have to say about that?”

“She wasn’t too concerned. It didn’t come as a surprise to any of us that Cathy didn’t like Elaine’s writing. They’d clashed before.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westfield. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

“Sure.” William pulled out his wallet as he made his way to the counter. He tucked John’s card in, and took his credit card out. Eliza rang up the charges. “Unlike many people,” she said, “Alan Khan’s spending the winter in B.C. and going to New Mexico for the summer. He should have some interesting desert sketches next year.”

“Not for me, I’m afraid. Don’t care for the desert. Bad memories.” He picked up his parcel, said a cheerful goodbye and left.

When Eliza turned to face her husband, his look was dark and serious.

Chapter Twenty-five

Run. He had to run.

The streets were treacherous. Snow had fallen, melted under a steady pounding of car tires and pedestrian feet, frozen again, melted when the sun came out, and refroze when the temperature dipped in the afternoon.

Ice. Everywhere was ice.

First thing this morning, he’d gone to the grocery store to get in some supplies. On the way home, he’d seen a woman slip as he drove past. She’d stepped off the pavement to cross the road and hit the ground in a tumble of arms and legs, her mouth open in shock.

Mark pulled his car into a parking slot. He sat with his head down, breathing deeply, every nerve in his body quivering. Ashamed at not getting out to help her. Ashamed of being such a human wreck that the sight of a woman slipping on a patch of slushy ice made him think of explosions and gunfire. Men dropping in panic, screaming in pain and terror.

By the time he remembered that he was not in Afghanistan but in Trafalgar, British Columba, the woman had been helped to her feet by passers-by with better nerves than Mark Hamilton. She continued on her way without assistance, paying considerably more attention to the placement of her feet.

He needed to run, to escape the demons, to sweat them out. To pound the pavement, chew up miles and hours. If he ran hard enough he could escape time all together. Run so fast he would never have gone to Afghanistan.

But he couldn’t run. Not today. He probably wouldn’t get a block before slipping and falling. Some well-meaning passer-by would help him to his feet and tell him it wasn’t a good idea to be out today. And pretend not to notice Mark Hamilton was crying.

Cathy Lindsay was dead. Murdered, the cop had said.

It had to have been the husband. Wasn’t it usually?

So why was the cop checking out Mark? Peering into his background, opening his records? He’d done some things he wasn’t exactly proud of. He’d been young and thoughtless. Full of himself, full of pride and arrogance and sheer stupidity.

He’d paid for it. Over and over and over. He was still paying for it.

He couldn’t run, and it was too late to go skiing. The Alpine hills would be closed before he got there, and it would be too dark to head off cross-country.

He’d put in an hour on the treadmill. Not as good as breathing cold air and feeling the sharp wind on his face, but it would have to do.

He made his way downstairs. He’d created a fully equipped gym in his basement, with weights and benches, an expensive treadmill, a rowing machine.

He climbed onto the treadmill. Cranked up the speed, raised the incline, and ran.

He had tests to mark before Monday. Lessons to prepare for the new term. He’d get to that after the run. If he worked late into the night he might even be able to sleep.

As if that ever happened.

He’d burn out thoughts of the cop and what an investigation might reveal. Then he’d mark the tests. Most of the kids in his class didn’t see the point of it all. They had computers, didn’t they? Calculators. Machines to do their thinking for them.

Who, he tried to tell them, did they think created the machines in the first place?

They shrugged. Didn’t care.

But a few students did care. They wanted to build computers, write video games, get jobs at Apple or Microsoft or a hot new start up. They wanted to be the next Bill Gates or Steve Jobs.

They wanted to understand.

Those kids kept Mark Hamilton alive. As long as he could teach math, he’d be okay.

He loved numbers, loved mathematics.

Nothing was unpredictable about math. In math, one plus one always equals two. It never comes out to three or to ten. It is what it is. It never equals a hollow-cheeked, dirty-faced child wearing a suicide vest, or a gunman hiding underneath a burka.

He adjusted the treadmill to an incline of seven degrees. The sweat was pouring freely now.

The cops were nosing around, asking questions. They’d taken his boots. The killer was an expert shot.

He couldn’t go to jail.

He could run in prison. But he couldn’t teach math.

Outside his basement, where the lights were never switched off, darkness settled across the valley.

Mark Hamilton ran on.

***

John Winters slapped his forehead.

He’d forgotten.

He’d promised Eliza he’d pick up a couple of croissants for breakfast tomorrow.

Ten to three. The bakery closed at three. He might be able to make it. If he was lucky, they’d have a few of the pastries left. Hopefully not just the chocolate ones. Eliza considered chocolate in a croissant to be a monstrosity on the scale of a Hummer in a residential driveway.

“I’ll be back,” Winters shouted over his shoulder to the dispatcher as he headed out the front door.

He jogged down Monroe Street, trying to stick to the bare patches of sidewalk, and turned into Front. His destination was in sight. He reached the bakery as Alphonse flipped the sign over.

“Please tell me you have some croissants left, or my life won’t be worth living,” Winters said as he stumbled through the door.

“I suppose you can make it worth my while.” Molly Smith held up a paper bag. Winters glanced behind the serving counter. Three lonely loaves of bread on the shelf. The ovens were switched off, the staff gone home. The shop quiet and clean.

“Dare I ask what you have in there?” he asked Smith.

“Two fluffy, fresh-baked croissants. My supper. I’m on nights today. I
so
look forward to taking a break from the hard work of keeping our streets safe and tucking into some good French baking.” Her blue eyes danced with amusement.

“Twenty bucks?”

Alphonse laughed as he hung his long white apron on a hook behind the counter.

“On the house.” Smith handed Winters the smaller of her two bags. “I also got a baguette, so I won’t starve.”

“I’m in your debt.”

“Night, Alphonse,” Smith called as they left the bakery.

“My wife feels like having croissants for breakfast tomorrow. She doesn’t often indulge so I said I’d pick them up. She said she didn’t trust me, and she’d get them. I reminded her that my office is closer to the bakery than her store is, so I could manage. Imagine the egg on my face if I came home without them.”

Molly laughed.

“As long as I’m out,” he said, “I’m going to grab a coffee.”

She fell into step beside him as they turned east, heading toward Big Eddie’s. “Going back to the office?” she asked.

“I’m reading through the results of computer checks, interviews. Boring but necessary. Hoping something’ll pop up and smack me on the nose. I’ll do a couple more hours and then call it a day. You’re working?”

“Volunteered to fill in for Scott so he could get an early start on the weekend with his kids. Six till six.”

They turned into Elm and walked up the hill. “Can I buy you a coffee?” Winters said. “I owe you for the croissants. I hope they’re not chocolate.”

“Plain.”

“If they were chocolate, Eliza’d know I’d left it until the last minute.”

“A drink’d be good.”

Big Eddie’s was largely empty. One man waited while his sandwich was being prepared; a couple sat at a table near the door, heads close together, smiling, holding hands. Smith headed for a table in a far corner, and Winters placed their orders.

He sat on the bench beside her, both of them with backs to the wall.

“Can I ask,” she said, “how the case is going?”

“Unofficially, it’s going very badly. I’ve got next to nothing. I’ve been wanting to ask you about the son, Bradley. He was in trouble the other night and you were the officer responding. I hear he gets into trouble a lot. Tell me about him.”

“Not much to tell. Typical kid. Spoiled, middle-class brat angry at the world for no reason whatsoever. No reason until his mom was murdered. He doesn’t get on with his dad and is carrying a heavy load of guilt because he fought with his mom the night before she died. He seems fond of his little sister though, and his grandmothers. I hope he’ll think about them before he acts out too much. I tried to plant a seed there.”

He nodded and sipped his coffee. Jolene came out from the back and began stacking chairs onto tables.

“What’d you go to Victoria for?”

“Gord Lindsay has a girlfriend there.”

“Interesting.”

“Very.”

“Did Cathy know about her?”

“I don’t think so. If she did, she kept it pretty close to her chest. Gord says she didn’t know, but men can be blind about that sort of thing. More importantly, of those of her girlfriends we’ve been able to contact, none of them said anything about it.”

“You asked?”

“We asked in broad terms. Was there trouble in the marriage, was Cathy worried about anything.”

“Maybe Gord’s girlfriend didn’t want to continue being just a girlfriend. Maybe she wants to be a wife?”

“I’ve considered that. I can’t place the woman anywhere near Trafalgar. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t. But this doesn’t seem like a woman’s crime to me.”

“Women can do lots of things that might surprise you.”

“So my wife tells me.” He gave her a smile. Molly Smith was smart and quick. Too impulsive still, but that would change with a few more years under her belt. She was a good cop. She might make a good detective someday. She had a feel for people. He’d never asked her what her plans were. Never asked if she were aiming for the top, or content to remain a beat cop in Trafalgar. Winters didn’t know where she stood with Adam Tocek. These days marriage needn’t interfere with a female officer’s career ambitions, nor did becoming a mother. But staying here, in Trafalgar? That wouldn’t lead to a stellar career.

She sipped her hot chocolate. “You don’t have any suspects?”

Soft jazz played over the sound system. Jolene swept the floor.

“Your mom said rumors at the school say Cathy was involved with a teacher named Mark Hamilton.”

“She wanted to be involved with him,” Smith said. “That’s different. Did you find out anything more about him?”

“Hamilton’s a strange one. He’d been lifting weights when I arrived at his place. Built like the proverbial brick outhouse. Not my idea of what a math teacher should look like.”

“People tell me I don’t look like a police officer.”

He grinned. “Appearances can be deceiving. We forget that at our peril. He’s a good-looking guy, Hamilton. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of the women at the school find him attractive. When I spoke to him, he claimed not to have heard about the killing.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Not sure. He’s hiding something. Might be anything. Some people are afraid of the police for no reason. Some people for a lot of good reasons we don’t know about. He has a military background, which makes him a person of interest in this case. He has no alibi. Says he was at a cabin in the mountains by himself. I managed to get him to lend me his winter boots. Ron gave the treads one look and said they weren’t anywhere near a match, although the size was about right. Which only means if he was the killer he wasn’t wearing those particular boots. And considering how efficiently our guy covered his tracks, I wouldn’t expect to find evidence left lying around. He would have gotten rid of the boots along with the gun.”

“No sign of the weapon?”

“No. The killer was fully in control of himself. Not the sort to throw the shotgun aside, or drop it in the nearest garbage can. Which is what makes this case so darned frustrating. What on earth was there about Cathy Lindsay, high school teacher, wife, mother, that had a man…a person…like that intent on killing her?”

“Maybe he mistook her for someone else.”

“Entirely possible. My biggest fear is that there’s someone out there with a bull’s-eye painted on his back, and we can’t do anything about it because we don’t know who the hell it is.”

“It’s got the town spooked. People are, I don’t know, quieter, looking at each other differently. Some people like to come over all dramatic about any situation, but many are genuinely concerned, wondering how something like that can happen here. Worried it will happen again. I don’t like it.”