Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery

Under Cold Stone

A Constable Molly Smith Mystery

Vicki Delany

www.VickiDelany.com

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright

Copyright © 2014 by Vicki Delany

First E-book Edition 2014

ISBN: 9781615954773 ebook

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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Contents

Under Cold Stone

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

More from this Author

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Dedication

To Cheryl Freedman, friend

Acknowledgments

Banff is a real town, located in Banff National Park, Alberta, Canada. The Banff Springs Hotel and Chateau Lake Louise are real places, as fabulous as described, but all the events that take place in those hotels are nothing but products of my imagination. All other locations, people, and events are strictly fictional.

I’d like to thank my cousin, Pamela Manning, for providing valuable insights into the challenges of living in Canada’s oldest national park, and Cheryl Freedman for editorial advice. Some I accepted, some I rejected, so all mistakes are mine alone. Thanks also to Rick Blechta and Rose Benoit for use of their names, and to Barbara Peters for the elk battle.

And, as always, to the many police officers who gave of their time and expertise to help me get the Canadian policing as right as I could. Again, all errors are strictly mine.

Epigraph

Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

—William Shakespeare
Macbeth
, Act 4, Scene1

Chapter One

A CAFÉ. BANFF, ALBERTA. FRIDAY MORNING.

The scent of warm baking and fresh coffee was enticing enough to have Lucky Smith willing to endure the café’s long line. She rubbed her hands against the chill and shuffled forward. Another couple of paces and she’d be through the doors at last.

Paul Keller had taken one look at the orderly crowd of tourists and locals in search of caffeine and cookies and said he’d meet up with Lucky later. He wanted to check out the sports store a few doors down the street. Lucky’s interest in fishing equipment was about the same as Paul’s interest in five-dollar, custom-made chai, so they arranged to go their own ways for the afternoon and meet back at the hotel in time to dress for dinner.

Dress for dinner. Such a quaint concept. But it did suit this vacation, their first as a couple, and the historic Banff Springs Hotel in which they were staying. Lucky was a firm believer in not spending time in your partner’s pocket. Paul took his coffee black and liked Tim Horton’s just fine—although in this town the Tim’s could have quite the line-up for coffee and donuts—and his passion was fishing. Lucky thought a chai latte one of the finest benefits of civilization, and she couldn’t imagine anything more boring than fishing—unless it was discussing the merits of various types of fishing equipment with the store clerk.

She was almost inside. She should have worn a coat, but as she’d planned to spend her day getting a start on her Christmas shopping and exploring the town, she’d thought a thick hand-woven sweater would have been sufficient.

The Rocky Mountains in October. As a mountain resident herself, Lucky should have remembered how changeable the weather could be.

The person in front of her, a fashionably dressed woman pushing a chair containing a dozing toddler, made it to the doors. The chair holding the child was, Lucky thought, almost large enough to house a third-world family. When did children’s chairs become homes on wheels, anyway? When she was a young mother, more years ago than she cared to remember, Lucky had a push chair for her children that folded up into the size of an umbrella. A seat on wheels with a handle. That was all. This one had plush seating, padded sides, a folding canopy, two cup holders (for the parents, not the child). Wide enough to fit toys, drinks and snacks, and shopping bags, as well as a toddler. With an extra bag slung on the back in case of an emergency purchase.

The woman wrestled her child’s mobile home over the ledge and into the shop. Lucky held the door. The young mother didn’t bother to thank her. Lucky considered saying something but bit her tongue. She was on vacation, after all.

Deep in thought about the lack of manners these days, she was almost knocked off her feet as a man shoved against her. She stumbled and fell into the door. The man attempted to force his way past Lucky, but she thrust her arm out, blocking the entrance. “There’s a line.”

He was in his thirties, tall but scrawny, with scraggy blond hair and hostile blue eyes that bored into her. Thin lips, a scab in the right bottom corner, formed the words:
Fuck off, lady
.

She blinked in surprise. “There’s a line up here,” she repeated, “please wait your turn.”

“Where are you from?” he snarled.

“I doubt that’s relevant.” Her heart started beating faster. She studied his eyes for any sign of current drug use. His pupils were normal sized, the whites slightly red but more perhaps from a late night than overindulgence. His eyes would be an attractive dark blue if they didn’t overflow with aggression and a sense of entitlement.

The young mother glanced over her shoulder to see what was going on, and then she dipped her head and shoved her child further into the café. Lucky couldn’t blame her. She had a child to care for.

Lucky stepped forward to stand on the threshold, blocking the entrance. The man lifted his chin and thrust his chest out. He was considerably taller than she—at five foot nothing, most people were—and loomed over her.

Bitch
, he mouthed.

She broke eye contact to glance around, seeking some support. The young couple immediately behind her had their arms wrapped around each other, heads close, eyes for nothing but the objects of their affection. The head of the man behind them was bent, thumbs moving rapidly as he tapped out a message on his smartphone. The line snaked down the sidewalk: Couples chatted and people listened to their iPods or sent vitally urgent messages on their own phones. The space in front of Lucky was now clear. She did not move. No point in standing her ground and risking confrontation if the rude man would then slip in behind her.