Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (17 page)

Tracey glanced around the room. She shifted uncomfortably on the stool. Water dripped from her hair and her jacket. “Why don’t we take a table?” Smith said.

“No. I like sitting here.”

“Okay.”

Their drinks arrived, a splash of golden liquid in long-stemmed glasses. The bartender rolled his eyes at Smith and gave Tracey a barely concealed sneer.

“Prick,” Tracey said to his retreating back.

“You know him?”

“I know everyone here. I come in sometimes when Matt’s working. So we can be together. I buy my drinks, don’t cause any trouble. He,” she nodded down the bar, “his name’s Andre, says he’s having a gap year, whatever the hell that is. I suspect Andre’s been having a gap year for the last ten years.”

A gap year is a British term for a year off between high school and university. Andre had to be pushing thirty, if not past it. “Never mind him. My mom’s Paul Keller’s friend. She called to tell me what happened, so I came to see if I could help.”

Tracey swallowed a good-sized mouthful of her wine. She didn’t ask why this woman would think she could help with a police matter, and Smith didn’t enlighten her. She took a sip of her own wine, and almost groaned with pleasure as the wealth of flavors released themselves in her mouth. She feared she was being ruined for any drink she might actually be able to afford. “This is good.”

“It should be for what it costs,” Tracey said. “Look, I don’t know much of anything. If I did…if I did I’d do something. I called Alistair earlier. He said the cops are asking about Matt’s camping stuff. He thinks it’s gone. That means Matt’s gone into the woods.”

“You’re friends with the guys he shares the apartment with?”

Tracey shook her head. About a teaspoonful of liquid remained in the bottom of her glass. Smith waved Andre over. Two more. It would have been cheaper to have bought a bottle.

“Not friends, no. Alistair’s okay, I guess. Just looking for his big break. Aren’t we all?” She glanced, probably unwittingly, down the bar. “All of us who don’t have a rich daddy keeping us on a permanent
gap year
. Tom works at the car rental place where I do. He’s a prick, but Barry was the worst of the lot. I know you’re not supposed to speak badly about the dead, but I don’t care. He was a mean bastard, and he made Matt mean. Matt followed him around, did what Barry told him to. Things’ll be a lot better, now Barry’s gone.”

For a moment, Smith considered asking Tracey what
she
was doing in the wee hours of this morning. She looked at the wet eyes, the quivering chin. Tracey might have killed Barry in a moment of anger, but she wouldn’t leave Matt twisting in the wind. And it was highly unlikely she was that good an actress. Besides, Smith reminded herself, she wasn’t here to solve the murder of Barry Caseman. She just wanted to find Matt Keller. To make her mom happy again. And then go home.

The bar began filling up with the after-dinner crowd. The air was full of the scent of expensive perfume and good food; the fireplaces glowed with light and warmth, and Smith was hot in her sweater and scarf. Tracey’s face was flushed with the wine, the heat, and the strength of her emotions, but she didn’t so much as unbutton her jacket. Smith was about to point Tracey toward the coat rack in the corner and then thought better of it. The girl’s pants were black, faded from too many washes, spattered with mud, her running-shoes’ laces torn. She was probably still wearing her uniform shirt. All the other patrons were well-dressed, well-groomed, fresh from dining in expensive hotels. Even Smith herself, never exactly a fashion plate, had combed her hair into a sleek ponytail, dressed in crisp dark jeans, a pure-wool sweater and silk scarf, and put gold hoops into her ears. She picked up her glass, and light from the candles on the bar sparkled off the diamond on her finger. Tracey eyed it, then looked away, and finished her drink.

“Have you had dinner, Tracey?” Smith asked. She certainly wasn’t hungry, not after that huge burger and mountain of fries, but she didn’t want Tracey having any more to drink on an empty stomach. Smith was not a detective; she didn’t know much about conducting an interview. Not that this was an interview, but she figured she’d have to stay as long as Tracey did. Maybe the girl had something to say, something she didn’t even know she knew, which had to be worked out of her slowly and carefully.

Then again, maybe Smith was just wasting a heck of a lot of money. Tracey shook her head, and Smith asked for a plate of spring rolls and another of bruschetta.

Tracey ate all the food, and threw back four drinks. Smith had three, more than she should but they were so good, increasingly regretting not only the waste of money but of time. Tracey’s conversation was mostly a litany of complaints, about where she lived, where she worked, the people—other than Matt—she knew. She had nothing to say tonight she hadn’t told Lucky earlier. She hadn’t heard from Matt; she didn’t know where he might have gone; she had no idea why he’d run. She was adamant, although Smith hadn’t asked, that Matt would never have killed Barry. When asked to speculate as to why Matt hadn’t phoned the police, or waited until his father arrived, Tracey shrugged and said Matt hated anything to do with the cops.

Smith asked if Tracey had ever met Matt’s family.

“His mom came to visit about a month ago. His parents are divorced, I guess you know that, and his mom lives in Calgary. She’s got a new boyfriend, some old rich dude.” Tracey sighed, a trace of envy in her voice. “They stayed at the Banff Springs, and Matt and I went for lunch one day. It’s so nice there. Matt… well, I don’t think Matt had told his mom I was coming. She looked surprised to see me with him. Her boyfriend said we could have anything we wanted for lunch, even drinks. I thought he was nice. Matt didn’t like him. I guess a guy wouldn’t, eh?”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Like the new man who’s screwing your mom. Makes you think about things you’d rather not think about. Easy to pretend your parents don’t sleep together, isn’t it? But not when she’s with a guy and they hold hands and smile at each other and kiss each other and stuff.”

Smith squirmed in her seat. Her parents had held hands and smiled at each other and kissed up until the day Andy died. But she understood what Tracey meant. She wondered about Tracey’s family, if her parents didn’t even kiss each other.

She wasn’t here to learn about Tracey’s home life.

They’d been in the bar about an hour and a half when Tracey slipped off her stool, saying, “Be right back.” Smith watched her walk, somewhat unsteadily, toward the back. Andre gestured to Smith’s empty glass. “Another?”

“Just the bill, thanks.”

“Get what you came for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not friends with that
slet
. All you’ve done is get her liquored up and ask questions about Matt.”

Smith didn’t know what a
slet
was, but she figured she didn’t want to know. She shrugged.

“You don’t look like a copper, but I’ve been wrong before.”

I’m sure you have.
“Why don’t you like her? She seems harmless enough.”

He shrugged. “She’s a right whinger. Follows Matt around with her tongue practically hanging out. He’s happy enough to go along with it, so she must be giving him something he likes, ’cause it sure can’t be her fashion sense.”

“Maybe she’s just a nice person. Ever thought of that?”

“That must be it… ’cause Matt’s such a nice guy.”

“What do you know about him?”

“You a cop?”

“My mother’s good friends with Matt’s dad. We’re trying to find him.”

Andre glanced down the length of the bar. No one needed his attention. A table of six was getting to their feet, shrugging into coats, searching for umbrellas. “I don’t have much to do with him. He does his job, I do mine. Rarely at the same time.”

“Have you heard from him since last night?”

“No, and I wouldn’t expect him to come to me asking for anything.”

“Would you tell the police if you did hear?”

He gave her a look. “I wouldn’t keep any secrets for him, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m here on a work visa, and I must keep my nose clean. Get it?”

Smith got it. “I’ll have the bill now.”

“Hey, watch it!” Tracey had tripped and fallen into a chair. The woman seated in it did not look pleased and her companion was getting to his feet. A waitress hurried over.

“Can you call me a cab?” Smith asked Andre.

Chapter Thirty-two

GRIZZLY RESORT, OUTSIDE OF TRAFALGAR,
BRITISH COLUMBIA. MONDAY MORNING.

First thing Monday morning, John Winters drove out of town toward the location of the proposed Grizzly Resort. He hadn’t been there for a couple of years, and wanted to see how far the new development had progressed before tomorrow’s meeting with the RCMP to discuss strategy should opposition to the resort continue.

Which everyone knew it would.

It was Thanksgiving Day, a holiday for most people. Winters didn’t expect anyone to be at work, just wanted to have a quick look around. Almost everything in town was closed, including Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium, and thus Winters was forced to do with a mug of Jim Denton’s execrable coffee.

Trafalgar was situated in a bowl, a valley surrounded by mountains on all sides. As soon as he drove past the car dealership and the kennels, the road began to climb and all signs of habitation dropped away. Five minutes from the office and he might as well be in the middle of the wilderness. The trees, pine, spruce, fir mostly, were tall and dark. On the few aspens and cottonwoods only a handful of yellow leaves remained. Ten minutes further and he was at the top of the first pass, where the road branched off to the Blue Sky ski hills and fresh snow was sprinkled on the branches. But the sun was rising and the snow would soon be gone. For now. Winter was on its way.

Then he was descending again, so fast his ears popped, and in twenty minutes he’d met up with another highway and the entrance to the resort.

No one was around, but signs with pictures of grizzly bears and environmental slogans were propped up against trees. A barrier that wouldn’t stop an elderly lady in a walker guarded the access road. Winters parked his car and climbed out. He had scarcely reached the No Admittance sign before a man came out of the woods.

Not as casually undefended as it appeared.

The man wore the uniform of a private security company. He held a radio in one hand and lifted the other in the universal halt gesture. “Private property.”

Winters flashed his badge. “Heard you had some trouble yesterday.”

“Wasn’t my shift, but yeah, a bunch of tree huggers showed up. They kept off the property, marched up and down, yelling and looking stupid. Mounties were here, looking bored.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. Mind if I have a look around?”

“Should be okay. The boss is in.”

“I didn’t think he would be, with the holiday.”

“Boss don’t seem to care much about time off. Guess that’s why he’s the boss. I’ll tell him you’re coming. Office is around that bend, about a hundred yards.”

“I know where it is.”

The guard lifted his radio, pushed a button, and spoke over a burst of static.

Winters did know where the office was. He’d been here before, first escorting Eliza to a fancy al fresco party and later on a police action, back when Reg Montgomery and Frank Clemmins, and then Clemmins alone, had plans for a luxury fractional-ownership resort.

The signs had changed, new logo, new look to the depiction of the proposed buildings and grounds. The land along the highway was thickly forested, but as soon as Winters rounded the bend, all he could see was mud and holes in the ground. The door of a double-wide trailer opened, and a man came out to greet him—smile broad, arm outstretched. Winters climbed the steps.

“Sergeant Winters. Pleased to meet you at last. I’m Darren Fernhaugh. Chief Keller speaks highly of you.” Winters knew the chief was in contact with Fernhaugh. He didn’t need the blatant reminder. “What brings you out here today? Not that it isn’t a pleasure.” Fernhaugh stepped back, waved Winters into his domain.

The office hadn’t changed much. A receptionist’s desk, now unoccupied, inside the door, a large center room, two small rooms, one an office, the other a cramped meeting space. The walls were covered with site plans and blueprints. This was the headquarters of the construction site itself, the sales department and business offices were in Trafalgar.

“I’m meeting with the RCMP tomorrow,” Winters explained, “to talk about security.”

“Good. I fear we’re going to need it. Damn tree huggers. We don’t have much time left until we have to shut work down for the winter. I don’t want any more delays. Do you want a look around?”

“I’ve been here before, but I’d like to see what’s new. You bought the place from Frank Clemmins. Are you using his plans?”

“Take a seat. Can you I get you a coffee? I’ve nothing ready, but it won’t take a minute.”