A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Tuesday dawned dark and gloomy, threatening more snow or a nasty icy rain, the mountains hidden by thick banks of gray cloud. Not much chance of catching a flight out today.

John Winters wasn’t too disappointed. He’d decided to talk to Gord Lindsay first. No point rushing off to Victoria, possibly wasting an entire day, without ensuring Elizabeth Moorehouse was at home. If he called to set up an interview he’d have to identify the police department he was with, and she’d be on the phone to Gord the minute Winters hung up.

He’d brought his laptop to the breakfast table and read the
Globe and Mail
online while munching toast and jam and sipping coffee. Eliza had her usual yogurt and berries with a sprinkling of granola as she checked stock market figures on her iPad. She kept a pad of paper at her elbow and alternately chewed the end of her pencil and her yogurt. She made a note, jotting down a string of numbers, chewed her pencil some more.

“Are you going into the gallery today?” he asked.

“Later. I have some work to do on our portfolio this morning. Oil’s up again.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“No, John. Not always. You’re thinking of gasoline.”

Molly Smith had phoned him moments after he’d arrived home the previous evening to report what she’d learned about Cathy Lindsay and Mark Hamilton. He’d gone to his computer to jot down some notes and ideas, and Eliza had been curled up on the couch reading when he finished.

“You were going to tell me about something that happened at the store the other day,” he said now. He tossed the last bit of toast into his mouth and shut the computer lid. “I got preoccupied and forgot to ask.”

“Nothing important, really, but it was a bit worrying. A man came into the store, wanting to look at some sketches I have in. Judging by the look on Margo’s face, you would have thought it was the Second Coming. She stared at the man so long and so hard, he pretty much fled in terror. When I asked her about it, she said he was her son.”

“Her son?”

“Odd, eh? She’s married, has a grown child and a grandchild.”

“Perhaps she had a son who died.”

“That would be sad, but why would she think he was in my gallery wanting to buy a picture?”

“Some people never can accept a sudden death. For years, they continue to think a mistake must have been made. Particularly if the body wasn’t found or it wasn’t in good enough condition for them to be able to see their loved one one last time. I was thinking about that yesterday. Gord Lindsay says he keeps expecting to see Cathy popping around every corner.”

“That’s understandable, isn’t it? In his case. Her things would be everywhere, her scent in the air, a magazine where she’d left it, a corner turned down to mark her place. My grandmother lived with us for a few years when I was young. She broke her hip in a fall and for days after she’d been taken to the hospital, I kept hearing her footstep in the hallway or seeing her out of the corner of my eye. She went into a nursing home after that, where she lived for a good many more years, I’m happy to say. It was different with Margo. This was no glimpse of a shadow. She stared right at him. It was dreadfully awkward.”

“Perhaps she needs some grief counseling.”

“I scarcely know the woman. I can’t suggest something as personal as that.”

“If she didn’t see a body, she might never have accepted the death. You could ask her.”

“No, I’ll leave it. She’s my employee, not my friend. She doesn’t need me interfering in her life. As long as she doesn’t make a habit of chasing away interested shoppers.”

He drained the last of his coffee and pushed back his chair. “I’m off.”

“Meet for lunch?”

“Better not. It’ll be another long, long day.”

“The policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

He gave her a kiss and went to work.

First stop: Gord Lindsay, philanderer.

***

Work never seemed like work. From the day Gord switched on his first computer, listened to the hum of the fan warming up, the whirl of the hard drive coming to life, saw letters and words appear on the screen, he’d loved computers. He was fortunate,
he knew
, that he was able to make a living, a good living, doing work he loved.

He’d been lucky to hitch up with a guy who had a solid head for business. Over the years, Gord had seen many people with good tech skills, the drive to work hard, the ambition to succeed, falter and lose their way, and eventually their dream, because although they were great at computers, they didn’t know the first thing about how to run a business. How to make money. And, most importantly, keep it.

Computer people did not make good accountants or office managers.

Gord had recognized that he was lacking in that department almost as soon as he hung up his proverbial shingle. He’d invited a housemate from university, Ahmad Kashani, a business major, to partner in the company.

They’d never looked back.

Ahmad still lived in Victoria, had his fingers in other pies these days, but he kept his eye on the accounts and on the sales and marketing efforts, and he and Gord talked no less than once a week.

Yes, Gord had been lucky. In life, in business. In love.

Now he was getting over the shock of Cathy’s death, he was beginning to consider that he might be lucky in this also. The marriage hadn’t been going well no matter how much they both pretended, and he lay awake some nights worrying Cathy would ask for a divorce. For God’s sake, she couldn’t stop chattering on about some jerk at work. Mark had run a marathon. Mark spent the weekend hiking. Mark had done this and Mark had done that.

Mark, as far as Gord was concerned, was welcome to her.

But Mark was not welcome to a share of Gord’s business. Or to his children.

Unlikely anything was going on between Cathy and this Mark creep. If she were playing games after school, she wouldn’t talk so damn much about him.

Gord had checked her panties a couple of times, looking for traces of drying semen, after she’d come home following a night out with her friends and popped into the shower before bed. He’d pretended to kiss her as she came in the door while sniffing for the scent of sex or stray hairs on her shoulders.

Nothing.

She might have restricted her dalliances to times when Gord was in Victoria, but Gord didn’t give Cathy credit for that much self-control. What Cathy wanted, she wanted now.

No, she wasn’t screwing Mark-the-math-teacher. But if her eye was beginning to wander, who knows where it might have ended up.

If she ever found out about Elizabeth, and the house Gord kept in Victoria, Cathy’d be on the warpath.

This way, Cathy was out of his life. He kept not only all his money, but a life insurance payout would be coming in soon. And he had full custody of his kids. None of this joint-custody nonsense, seeing his daughter every second weekend. Custody of Jocelyn was what mattered. Bradley could hit the streets as far as Gord was concerned.

Elizabeth had heard the news about murder in Trafalgar. She’d phoned his cell, breathless, full of condolences.
She knew
he was married, knew where he lived.
She knew
, or thought
she knew
, that Cathy’s family was very wealthy and she’d threatened to take her children to California, where her parents lived, if Gord ever left her.

That nothing in that story was true, didn’t bother Gord. It kept Elizabeth docile. Kept her content to live in the house he helped pay for. Content to give him a much needed screw whenever he was in town.

Maybe it was all for the best.

He settled behind his desk with a travel mug of coffee his mom had made for him and a couple of his mother-in-law’s muffins, fat with blueberries.

He’d come into work gratefully; he couldn’t stand another minute in that house. Renee and Ann alternately wept and told each other they had to be strong and present a good front for “poor Gord and his poor motherless children.” His father-in-law wandered around looking for loose screws or crooked picture frames and eyed Gord as if wondering if he’d murdered his daughter. Jocelyn was enjoying her grandparents’ attention, but then she’d remember the reason for their visit, and burst into tears.

Bradley either slept or sulked, angry at the world.

The only good thing was all the cooking and baking that was going on.

Gord left the funeral arrangements to Renee and Ann. He trusted them, he said, tear in his eye, to do the best for Cathy.

The door flew open, and Justin, tech support, came in.

“Hey man, surprised to see you here. Sorry about your wife, eh? What do the cops think happened?”

Gord ignored the question. Work, all he wanted was to work. “Any calls yesterday?”

“Nothing important. Big Eddie’s site went down, but I got it back up pretty fast.”

“Morning.” Adrienne, a web designer, sailed into the office. “Gord, I am so sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”

“You can carry on as normal, Adrienne. We’ve promised Granger’s Insurance to have their new web site fully operational by April first. I trust it’s on track.”

“Of course it’s on track,” she said, offended.

“Glad to hear it.”

He pretended not to see the look she exchanged with Justin. Gord turned back to his computer screen. Words and images swam before his eyes.

Who the hell was he trying to kid?

Cathy. He’d loved her so much once. They’d had great times together. It didn’t need to have all gone wrong. If he could have her back, if only he could have another chance, he’d do anything…anything to make her forget Mark-the-math-teacher. He’d gladly give up Elizabeth, if only his phone would ring, and Cathy would be on the line to remind him she and Jocelyn were going skiing. And did he know where Bradley spent last night because he wasn’t in his bed.

He sensed a movement of air at his shoulder. He blinked through tears to see a box of tissues on his desk, Adrienne scurrying back to her own corner.

Gord snatched a tissue and blew his nose.

Work. Time to get to work. What was he doing when he left on Friday afternoon, anyway?

Friday. Cathy had less than twenty-four hours to live. Did she know, did she have any inkling that her time on this earth was almost over? Any regrets for things not done and words never said?

He gave his head a shake. Right, he’d been working on a proposal for a web presence for a vacation condo development. It was going to be a big job and Gord wanted it.

The door opened once again. Instead of one of his employees, it was, Gord was not happy to see, the cops.

“I dropped by your house,” Sergeant Winters said. “Your father-in-law told me you’d come into the office.”

“Work needs to be done.”

“I understand.” Winters had come alone this time. Just as well. Gord didn’t care for the steady, watchful eye of that young constable.

“What can I help you with? Has there been a development? Have you arrested someone?”

“Not at this time. I’d like a word in private. Is there some place we can talk?”

Gord glanced around the open-plan office. A 19th century warehouse, down by the river, converted into an office block. High ceilings with thick wooden cross beams, exposed red-brick walls, wide-planked, scarred floors, large windows. Justin and Adrienne were at their desks doing a poor job of pretending they weren’t listening.

Gord got to his feet, feeling slow and heavy. “We can talk in the conference room.”

***

The conference room of Lindsay Internet Consulting had a spectacular view across the park and over the river. When the clouds weren’t so low they obscured anything further than the far side of the street. A long wooden table, gleaming with polish, and twelve accompanying chairs filled most of the space. A credenza held an empty coffee maker and stacks of mugs. No pictures hung on the walls, no flowers or plants on the surfaces. A place in which to conduct business. And only business.

“Tell me,” Winters said, once he settled into the comfortable swivel chair. “About Elizabeth Moorehouse.”

Gord simply shrugged. “You work fast.”

Winters said nothing.

“I figured you’d find out about that. My marriage to Cathy is…was…a good one. Solid. But it happens that people, men anyway, over the years, start to need a bit of variety. You know what I mean? Spice up a middle-aged life.”