Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (16 page)

“Why would he leave his phone?” Smith asked. “Most people these days, it’s like an extension of their arm.”

“It was found under a dresser next to the door. We can only speculate he had it in his hand. He dropped it, and it bounced. Shock, perhaps, on seeing the body.” Keller looked away. He cleared his throat. “Or dropped it when he went for the knife.”

“Tell me about the girlfriend,” Smith asked, running her last sweet potato fry through a smear of garlic aioli. The burger had been fabulous, the fries even better. “What’s her name?”

“Tracey. She says she last saw Matt when she popped into the wine bar that evening. She didn’t stay long and he was working when she left. She heard about the killing when she got to her own work at seven, tried phoning Matt but he didn’t answer.”

“What sort of a relationship do they have? Close, casual, romantic, or simply for sex?”

Keller looked confused. “I’ve no idea. Why?”

“If they were close, in love, say, he’d be more likely to confide in her than if she were a casual lay.”

“My impression,” Lucky said, “is that she’s in love with him, or at least thinks she is, but is highly insecure in the relationship. That could be because he doesn’t return the feelings, or because she’s simply an insecure person. Which I suspect she is.”

“Insecure in what way?”

“She’s young and could be pretty, but her makeup’s cheap and her hair’s limp and badly cut. I suspect she trims her bangs herself. She’s of normal weight, as far as I’m concerned, with a bit of a round tummy, but not skinny or fashionably fit and toned. Not much money, I’d guess, and probably not educated. She told me she’s jealous of the women Matt meets at the wine bar. What are you thinking, dear?”

“I’m thinking I’d like to talk to her. With your permission, chief. She might confide better in me than in Sergeant Blechta. I assume he interviewed her?”

“He did. He didn’t learn anything. If you think you can help, go ahead. As long as you remember you’re here as a friend, not as a police officer.”

“No worries. Sergeant Blechta made sure I know exactly where I stand on that point.” Smith glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eight. I’ll give her a call, ask if she wants to go out for a drink or something.”

“She works at a car rental company in the evening,” Lucky said. “Don’t they usually close around nine or so?”

“Good timing then. What’s her number, Mom?”

Lucky pushed her empty plate aside and scrambled in her bag for the scrap of paper. She handed it to her daughter.

“Can I get you anything else?” Maura, Scotland, asked.

Smith would have loved another beer. She reluctantly passed, thinking she’d better not if she had to take this Tracey out drinking.

Chapter Thirty

GLOBAL CAR RENTAL. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY EVENING.

The print on the computer screen shifted and wavered as Tracey blinked away tears. She wiped her eyes with a tissue, torn and damp from overuse. She’d managed to get through most of the day without thinking about Matt too much. She had to do her job, first at the restaurant, and later here at the car rental agency. Sure, Kevin had told her she could go home early if she needed to, but he didn’t mean he’d
pay
her if she took time off. The boss of the car place was a right prick at the best of times so she wasn’t about to ask him for any breaks.

The bell over the door tinkled to announce new arrivals. Tracey gave her eyes another wipe with the back of her hand, and tried to force her face into a smile. The couple leaned against the counter. “We’re here to turn the car in. Glad we made it before you closed. There’s a bear sitting at the side of the road up by Lake Louise and the traffic’s stopped for miles as everyone tries to get a look.”

“Did you see it?” Tracey asked.

“Yup. A big black bear. Just beautiful.”

“Nice.” Tracey completed their paperwork. She could see Tom outside, checking over the car, before getting into it and driving it to the back of the lot. This car was booked out again tomorrow.

The couple left and Tom sauntered in. He went into the cramped back office and came out with a mug of coffee. He hadn’t offered to get her one. Not that he ever did.

“Heard anything more?” he said, sipping his drink.

She didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. She shook her head and felt the tears gathering once again. “I’m so worried.”

Tom shrugged. “You think Matt did it? Whacked old Barry?”

“Of course not. How can you say that?”

“I didn’t say it, just asked what you think.”

Tom had been edgy all evening, edgier than usual. He tried to hide it, but Tracey could tell he was spooked. Whether by the death of one of his roommates and the disappearance of another, or by the police attention, she didn’t know. When she asked, he’d told her the cops had been around earlier, asking questions about Matt and Barry. He tried to play it casual, as if he’d brushed them off, but she recognized the bluster for what it was. A good deal of her childhood had been spent around men who got edgy at police attention.

Sometimes they had no reason to be, but often they did.

Tracey hadn’t worked here for long before she started to wonder if Tom was up to something. Something not quite aboveboard. That business yesterday with the Japanese couple and the chip in the windshield and the way Tom occasionally hustled a car to a space at the back of the lot, against the fence, even when there were plenty of spots closer. When she was alone in the office and things were slow, she spent her time poking around on the computer. She was pretty sure the boss was involved; he wasn’t a total fool. At best he turned a blind eye to Tom’s activities, skimmed some off the top. Not that she intended to do anything with what she learned. She wasn’t going to jeopardize her job by letting anyone know her suspicions.

“What you lookin’ at?” Tom snapped.

“Nothing.”

“Make sure you aren’t. Fuck, but I need a drink.”

Her phone rang, and she had it instantly in her hand. She checked the display—number withheld—and punched the button to answer, her heart racing. “Matt!”

“Uh, no. Sorry,” a woman said. “This isn’t Matt. Are you Tracey?”

Her heart dropped back into place. “Yeah.”

“My name’s Molly Smith. I know Matt’s dad, Paul Keller, and I was hoping you and I could meet for a chat.”

“Why?” Tom was listening, his face curious. He’d never paid any attention to Tracey before, except to sneer if he thought she was watching him. She turned her back.

“I’d like to help with the search for Matt. You met my mom earlier.”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you at work?”

“Yes.”

“It’s eight now. When do you get off?”

“Nine.”

“Why don’t we meet for a drink? I’m new to town. Do you know a nice place?”

“I don’t…”

“My treat.”

“Reds Wine Bar. I can be there by nine-fifteen.”

“Sounds good. I’ll grab us a table.”

“I like to sit at the bar.”

“I guess that’s okay. I’m wearing black jeans, a turquoise sweater, and a pale blue scarf. Thanks Tracey. See you soon.”

Tracey put her phone away, wondering why she’d agreed to meet the unknown caller. If the woman had been a cop she would have said so, wouldn’t she? She didn’t have to go. Easy enough to phone back and say she’d changed her mind. And why on earth had she suggested Reds, where every corner would be full of the memory of Matt?

Stupid. Stupid. She wasn’t dressed for Reds, and didn’t have time to go home and change. Better to just not show up. Let the woman drink on her own.

“Who was that?” Tom asked.

“No one.”

“Right. You’re going to Reds with no one? Matt’s not been gone a day and you’re already meeting some other guy? Naughty, naughty, Tracey.”

“It’s a girl, if you must know. I like Reds, so there. Oh, and Tom. Do me a favor, will you, and fuck off.”

Chapter Thirty-one

REDS WINE BAR. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY NIGHT.

Molly Smith arrived at Reds Wine Bar shortly before nine. The place wasn’t full, and a table for two beside the roaring gas fireplace looked highly appealing, but Tracey had said she wanted to sit at the bar, so the bar it would be.

She didn’t have to look at the menu to know this place was going to be expensive. The lines were sleek and modern, the furniture black with red accents, the walls covered in smoky glass. The staff, both male and female, wore black pants and matching shirts with buttons and collars, accented by bright red bow ties, and the women sported red glass earrings. A small candle flickered at each table.

Smith pulled herself onto a bar stool, told the handsome waiter with a South African accent she was meeting someone and would have a glass of water while she waited. He brought her drink, full of ice and a slice of lemon, and gave her a wide smile that stopped a fraction short of being flirtatious. Charming and professional.

She considered asking him about Matt, but remembered that she wasn’t here as a police officer. She might, later, but would hear what Tracey had to say first.

She’d been surprised Tracey suggested this place for their meeting. Lucky had said the girl was highly upset about Matt’s disappearance, so you wouldn’t have thought she’d want to come to the bar where he worked. Then again, maybe she wasn’t as concerned as she pretended. Or maybe she just liked it here, and wanted to be in familiar surroundings.

The waiter brought her a menu. Small, wrapped in black leather. “Thought you might want to have a look while you’re waiting. Where you from?”

“B.C.”

“On holiday?”

“Sorta.”

He had a deep, permanent tan, a shock of blond hair artificially highlighted, and blue eyes in a strong-featured face. “Let me know when you want to order.” He gave her a smile full of teeth, and went to serve customers at the far end of the bar.

Smith flipped through the drinks menu. Boy, this little jaunt was going to cost her. Maybe she’d be lucky and Tracey would be a teetotaler.

The door opened, bringing in a gust of wet wind and a well-groomed couple in their thirties, looking very much as if they belonged in this sort of place. She shouldn’t have trouble recognizing Tracey. Reds Wine Bar probably didn’t get a lot of women on their own, and it wasn’t busy tonight.

She glanced at her watch. Ten past nine. She’d give Tracey until ten o’clock to show. She’d sounded hesitant on the phone, might well change her mind.

If she did, Smith would then have to track her down.

At nine-twenty the bartender slid up to her. “Friend late? Why not have something in the meantime?” His blue eyes twinkled as they studied her face. Nice. He was flirting with her. “I can make some suggestions.”

“South Africa?” she said.

“Yaw! You recognized the accent? Not many Canadians do.”

She’d arrested a South African woman for drunk driving over the summer. She’d been over the limit by a substantial margin, and the Trafalgar police learned several new words that night. “I’ve met a few. I live in a tourist town, too.”

Another gust of wind announced the opening of the door. The bartender’s lips compressed into a tight line. The sparkle disappeared from his eyes, and the smile from his lips. Smith turned.

The girl was wrapped in a black nylon jacket, with a missing button, a tear in the right sleeve, and splotches of mud, new and dried, around the hem. Her cheeks were pudgy, her face pale, her lips cracked, and an acne spot was healing on the side of her nose. Her hair was plastered to her head and rainwater dripped onto the black tiled floor around her running shoes.

“Tracey,” the bartender said, not a touch of warmth in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“She’s meeting me,” Smith said.

He gave her a look, one that indicated she’d dropped a considerable amount in his opinion. Then he shrugged and said, “Call me when you’re ready to order.”

Smith gestured to the empty stool beside her. Tracey hopped up. She didn’t take off her jacket. Smith held out her hand. The girl hesitated, and then accepted it. Her shake was wet and limp.

“Thanks for meeting me. Do you want to go to the washroom and dry off?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re really wet.”

“I
said
I’m fine.”

“Okay. Would you like a drink?”

The wine list was on the counter in front of her, but Tracey didn’t pick it up. “I’ll have a glass of the Okanagan Chardonnay.”

Smith bravely refrained from swallowing audibly. “Okay.” She waved to the bartender and placed the order for two glasses. She’d come in a cab—more expense—expecting she might have to have a drink along with her “guest.”