A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (4 page)

“Adam.”

“Here.”

“The bullet must have come from that direction.” Winters pointed at the mountain. “I’m interested to know what’s on the other side of that line of trees. Molly, you’ve been there?”

“There’s a small clearing. The mountain face levels out a bit, but it’s very rocky so not much grows. People stop there for a rest or a picnic in the summer sometimes.”

“Adam, check it out. You and Norman see what you can find. You’d better hurry, this snow will start covering tracks soon.” He glanced up. Snow spilled from thick gray clouds. “I thought we were supposed to get less than a centimeter today.”

“Whatever the forecast says,” Townshend replied, “I believe the opposite.”

“Molly,” Winters ordered, “you’re with Adam.”

Chapter Six

Molly Smith followed Adam and Norman, man and dog fully intent on the job at hand. Norman’s head was down, his ears up, his nose moving, casting about for a scent. Adam held the leash balanced in his right hand, waiting to feel as much as see a signal from the dog. All of the dog handler’s attention would be focused on his animal. Another officer always accompanied the pair, watching their backs.

Smith kept her own head up, her eyes moving through the trees surrounding them. A shooter had been here. Highly unlikely he’d hung around, but you never knew. He might be watching the police, the dog, the curiosity-seekers on the road. A shiver ran down her back.
Was he watching her, now?
Her Kevlar vest protected her to some degree, but was a high-powered scope trained on her face?

A gray squirrel broke cover and dashed up the trunk of a scraggly cedar. Smith almost leapt out of her boots.

Get a grip.

They slipped into the line of trees. Second growth forest, the area had been logged many times. Trees were tall but thin and close together, the undergrowth thick.

Hard to get a clean shot on a moving person.

In a few steps they emerged into a small clearing with a foundation of solid rock where only a handful of tough saplings and scraggy bushes grew. The undisturbed snow lay deep, higher than the top of Smith’s boots. They waded through drifts, feet breaking the crust, while Norman picked up his pace. Adam let him have his head.

Beneath a single pine, drooping with the weight of snow, the ground had been churned up. From there a line of boot prints, coming and going, led west across the clearing to disappear into the woods.

Smith turned. Through the gap in the trees she could see John Winters examining the body, Alison Townshend crouched beside him. Corporal Ron Gavin, Townshend’s partner, had arrived and was photographing the scene. The coroner approached as Smith watched, wrapped in a white scarf. Winters got to his feet to greet him. Falling snow swirled around them.

“Bang,” Adam said. “A clear shot.”

“You think it came from here?”

“Almost certainly. The shooter didn’t worry about covering his tracks.” Adam pointed to a bright red splotch lying on the ground near their feet. “He didn’t seem to worry about it at all.” Falling snow was beginning to cover the shell casing, but it was still highly visible. Tocek touched the radio at his shoulder. “You were right, Sarge. Someone was here. The snow’s trampled as if he stood around for a while, and he left a casing behind. His tracks head west, probably back to the path. Want us to follow? Ten-Four.” He turned to Smith. “Let’s see where Norman takes us.”

Norman had the scent now and he set off at a strong loping pace following two sets of boot prints close together, one coming into the clearing, one leaving. Smith glanced at them as she passed, careful to keep her own feet out of the treads. Large boots by the look of it. A man’s boots.

Not that that was much of a surprise.

Women could kill, but they rarely used firearms and even more rarely would stand in wait, like a sniper.

Walking was difficult. Occasionally her feet broke through the icy crust beneath the fresh snow and she sank almost to her knees. Norman led them back into the line of trees. Naked branches raked at their faces and arms, hidden twigs and rocks tried to trip their feet, snow fell into their collars. Instead of getting brighter, the day progressively darkened as clouds thickened. Falling snow had turned from light fluffy flakes to small, icy pellets.

They broke through the bush and found themselves back on the trail, west of Martin Street. Along this section, the path meandered behind the last row of houses. Many of the homes had gates in fences, allowing ready access to the trail. A German shepherd, even bigger than Norman, leapt against the fence around his property, snarling and barking. Norman ignored him.

They jogged down the path. The prints continued, not far apart indicating that the man had not been running. After about a quarter of a kilometer, Norman swerved, left the trail, and headed down the street. The boot prints disappeared into tire tracks and other footprints, but the dog kept moving.

A family, wrapped in colorful scarves and mittens, children dressed in puffy snowsuits, were erecting a snowman on their front lawn. The bottom pieces were in place, and the two kids were pushing a snowball downhill. They stopped what they were doing to watch the police jog past. Smith lifted a hand in greeting. Faces peered through windows, and a woman came out onto her front porch to watch.

A church occupied the corner of the second intersection. Smith and Tocek arrived to see the last few cars pulling out of the parking lot. The minister stood on the steps, a red shawl tossed over her cassock.

“Oh, no. I hope…,” Adam said as Norman veered into the parking lot. The dog ran across the empty space and came to an abrupt halt. He looked baffled for a moment, and then he began casting around trying to regain the scent in the mass of tire treads and foot prints, crossing back and forth over each other. Falling snow gathered in the depressions.

“Can I help you, Officers?” The minister approached, holding her shawl to her throat. She was in her sixties with a helmet of gray hair and twinkling hazel eyes.

“Ma’am,” Adam said. “My dog followed a scent here. A man on foot. I don’t suppose, uh, you noticed anyone around.”

“I noticed a great many people this morning. Makes a change from the rest of the year. I conducted a funeral service.” She gestured to a sleek black limo parked at the bottom of the church steps. “I have to get to the graveside. They’ll be waiting for me.”

“A couple of quick questions first, please,” Smith said. “What time did the service start?”

“Nine-thirty.”

Smith checked her watch. Ten forty-five. “What time did you arrive? Were there cars here before you?”

“The youth group had a sleepover in the church basement to celebrate the start of March Break. Their parents were told to pick them up by eight-thirty, to give me time to prepare for the funeral, so yes, cars were coming and going all morning. As for the parking lot…The big room in the basement faces out the back. I’m sorry,”

Norman and Adam walked in circles. The shoulders of both man and dog were slumped.

“Can you tell me what’s happened?” the minister asked.

“Forensics officers will be here later,” Smith said. “But I think they’ll only be interested in the parking area.”

***

Sylvester bounded through snow drifts, and Lucky Smith smiled. The old dog really did enjoy the snow. He loved to climb on the high mounds piled beside the driveway and stand there, proudly surveying his domain. There had been a warm spell earlier in the month and a lot of the snow had melted, but enough had fallen since to return the woods to a vestige of a winter wonderland.

“Seems to have been an incident in town,” the man beside her said. “A killing, looks like.”

“Oh, dear. A local? Anyone I know?”

“I don’t have any details yet. I’ll head over in a while, see what’s happening. Not that they need me poking around. No one seems to need me much these days.”

She gave him a sharp look, wondering if that were a hint, but his eyes were on the dog running ahead. Paul Keller’s wife had left him in the fall; their grown children had moved out long ago. Their house sold quickly, and Paul moved to a new condo complex down by the lake.

He’d wanted to move in with Lucky, to the house she’d shared with Andy, to the property at the edge of the woods beside a meandering branch of the Upper Kootenay River where the Smiths had raised their two children.

It was all too much, too soon, and she’d told him she couldn’t see him anymore.

But Trafalgar was a small town. Paul Keller was the Chief Constable, and Lucky Smith was passionately involved in most of the controversies that swept through their community.

They’d run into each other at a fundraising party for Friends of the Library. They’d held drinks awkwardly, chatted about nothing important while canapés were passed and the town’s movers and shakers swirled around them. Lucky had bid on a quilt being auctioned. She didn’t need another quilt, but it had been made by a friend of hers and she wanted to push the bidding price up. Paul cheered her on. And then he commiserated with her when she won. She’d expected the bidding to go a good deal higher than it had.

The evening reminded her how much she enjoyed his company, so when he asked if she’d like to go to a movie one night soon, she’d accepted.

They hadn’t slept together again. She hadn’t invited him to her house for dinner, not wanting the opportunity for intimacy to present itself.

He’d known her birthday was coming up. That didn’t surprise her: Lucky Smith was not unknown to the police, no doubt her details were easy to come by. When he’d offered to take her out to celebrate, she’d suggested he come to her house for pizza and cake. Somehow last night, as they’d been saying goodnight, Lucky found herself inviting him to drop by in the morning for coffee and maybe a walk if it was nice.

And here they were.

Walking.

Two good friends, walking the dog in the snowy woods.

She reached out and touched his arm. He turned and faced her. He smiled.

She took his gloved hand in hers and they walked on.

***

By eleven, Gord Lindsay was getting seriously worried. He’d put the pancake ingredients away and taken out eggs and bread. He fried the bacon and a couple of eggs and made toast for himself and his daughter. Bradley was still asleep. Sometimes the boy’d sleep until sundown.

“Isn’t Mom coming skiing?” Jocelyn asked, apparently not minding that her eggs were overcooked and her toast burned black around the edges. “She said last night she wants to try out her new goggles.”

He stirred eggs around on his plate. He was on the third pot of coffee and his head was beginning to buzz.

He and Cathy had their problems, no doubt about that. But no worse than any other couple. She’d threatened divorce about a year ago, but they’d gotten over it. He
thought
they’d gotten over it.

What the hell was he thinking
? If she were going to leave him, it wouldn’t be after putting bacon out to thaw on the counter.

She wouldn’t leave without her purse and a suitcase and her phone. In fact, she wouldn’t leave at all. If she’d decided to end the marriage, she’d tell him to get out.

Something had to have happened. She liked walking the old railroad trail behind the house. Perhaps she’d fallen and couldn’t get help.

He pushed his plate aside and rose to his feet. “I’m going out for a bit, hon. You wait here.”

“I don’t want to wait here. I want to go skiing. The day’s going to be over before we even get there. Do you think Mom went without us, because we were still in bed? She’s always saying she’s going to leave us behind one day.”

“The cars are in the garage. I checked.”

“Maybe she went with Mrs. Mannstein.”

“That’s an idea. Call the Mannsteins will you, honeybunch. Ask if they’ve seen your mom. And…uh…once you’ve done that, call some of her other friends, okay? Her phone’s on the counter.”

He saw a shadow of fear creep into Jocelyn’s wide eyes. “You don’t know where Mom is, do you, Dad?”

“That’s why I’m going looking for her. After you’ve made the calls, tell Bradley to get the hell out of bed.”

Gord dressed quickly in outdoor clothes. He opened the back door and peeked out. Footsteps of Cathy and Spot, rapidly filling with snow, crossed the yard and went through the gate.

An image flashed in his mind. Christmas morning at her parents’ when Cathy was pregnant with Bradley. They’d had almost two feet of snow the day before, and the stuff was piled to the first floor windows. Her dad kept the property well ploughed, and banks along the walkways and driveway were almost as tall as a grown man. Cathy had burst out of the house and thrown herself into the new snow. “To boldly go,” she cried, “where no one has gone before.”

Then she threw a snowball at Gord, to where he stood in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. The ball hit his shoulder, exploding in a puff of powder, she laughed, and he hadn’t known it was possible to love someone so much.

He dropped onto the bench and put his head into his hands. Where had it all gone wrong?

Back then, he’d tried to enjoy the winter with her, in the same way that she’d gone sailing with him. The boat had been sold when they moved to the mountains, and these days he didn’t even own a good pair of winter boots.