Read A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) Online
Authors: Vicki Delany
Eliza Winters peeked out from behind a huge bouquet of peach roses, her smile radiant. “We’re absolutely delighted to see you looking so well, aren’t we, John?”
Margo Franklin lay in her hospital bed, hooked up to beeping machines. Truth be told, John Winters thought, she didn’t look well at all.
She looked like a woman who’d been shot and had almost bled to death in the street.
Her husband, Steve, stood beside her, beaming.
Eliza put the flowers on the windowsill, joining other bouquets, cards, even a teddy bear with a red ribbon around its neck. “We’ve been told we can’t stay, but we did want to pop in and say hi. I’ve cancelled tonight’s reception. Ms. Reingold wasn’t too impressed, but I hardly wanted to put on a celebration. I’ll reschedule for when you’re back on your feet.”
“We’ll look forward to that,” Steve said. “Won’t we, dear?”
“You got him?” Margo croaked. “The one who did this to me?” Her daughter, Ellen, lifted a glass of water to her lips.
“We did,” Winters said.
“Why?”
“Mistaken identity,” Steve said quickly. “Isn’t that right? He mistook Margo for someone else.”
Winters didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Margo’s eyes had drifted shut and she slept.
“I’ll walk you out,” Steve said.
“Thanks for coming,” Ellen said.
Steve had phoned that morning, to let Eliza know Margo was out of danger. She’d lost a lot of blood, but blood can be replaced. The shell had entered her side and exited without hitting any vital organs. The doctor was confident she’d suffer no lasting effects.
“Is he her son? The boy she called Jackson?” Steve asked once they were in the hallway.
Winters studied the man’s face. “It’s possible. I don’t know if she needs to hear it though.”
Steve nodded. “What a nightmare. All these years, searching for the guy, and then he shoots her.”
“I’ll tell you what I know. You can decide what to say.”
“Suppose she asks for a DNA test?”
“He’d have to agree to that. We have his DNA on record now, but it can’t be used for a private matter without his consent, even after death, simply because Margo asks for it.
“Eliza told me the date and place Margo said her baby was born. It seems to be the same as records show for Westfield. He was adopted immediately after his birth. There’s a shade of resemblance, particularly in the eyes, between the two of them, but I might see that only because I was looking for it. What you want to tell her is up to you, Steve, although I can’t imagine it will do Margo any good to believe her son tried to kill her.”
“The doctors here said they’d recommend a good therapist. Margo needs to get over this obsession. God, it almost killed her. Regardless of who Westfield might, or might not, be she has to realize she can’t go around telling strange men they’re her son.” Steve laughed without humor. “What a choice. If I tell Margo her son tried to kill her, she’ll know she found him and can stop seeing him everywhere she turns. On the other hand, what will that do to her head?”
“You’ll do the right thing.” Eliza placed her hand lightly on his arm. “I know you will.”
“Ellen was on a plane the minute I called. It’ll do them both good to spend some time together. Thanks for coming. And, John, thanks for everything.”
Gord Lindsay flipped pancakes. Bacon sizzled in the cast iron frying pan. Maple syrup and butter were on the table.
The kids were in their rooms, supposedly getting ready for school. He didn’t plan on fixing a substantial cooked breakfast every morning, but today he’d make the effort. Renee and Ralph had left yesterday morning, and Gord had put his mom on the afternoon plane. He hadn’t been sorry to see them go. He needed to have his house back, spend some time with Jocelyn, just the two of them. Spend some time with Bradley too, if the boy’d let him.
He heard the news on the radio last night, a shooting in Trafalgar. He’d almost flown across the room to turn it off, not wanting Jocelyn to hear. Not wanting to hear any more himself. Another shooting. Gord couldn’t imagine another family going through the pain he and his children were.
If the killer was the same person, then it couldn’t possibly be Elizabeth. He’d called her at the house in Victoria, and she’d answered. He heard a man’s voice in the background.
Gord muttered something about putting the money together and hung up.
He’d pay Elizabeth her twenty thousand. And hope to hell he never heard from her again.
Sergeant Winters had stopped by. It was late, Jocelyn asleep, Bradley watching TV, Gord sucking on a beer, mindlessly munching potato chips, and wondering how he was going to live the rest of his life without Cathy. When Gord opened the door to see the man standing there, for a moment he thought Winters had heard he was going to pay Elizabeth the blackmail money and had come to warn him against it.
Instead Winters said, “Have you heard the news?”
“Yeah. Another shooting. God, man, what’s happening here?”
“I knew you’d want to hear it from me. We got him, and he’s confessed to killing Cathy.”
Gord’s legs buckled. Winters grabbed his arm. “Steady there.”
“Who? Why?”
“A stupid, stupid thing. He was a student in Cathy’s night school class and took exception to the mark she gave him.”
“What?”
“He killed my mom over a grade!” Bradley stood in the hallway, dressed in jeans, sloppy but not too oversized, and a Vancouver Canucks T-shirt. His feet were bare and his hair tousled.
“Your dad needs to sit down,” Winters said.
Gord was aware of his son’s arm around his shoulders, a strong hand under his elbow. They went into the living room and Gord dropped into a chair. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not going to get off, is he? Not on some stupid technicality.”
Winters rubbed his chin. “The biggest technicality of them all.”
And he told Gord and Bradley that Cathy Lindsay’s killer would be dead before this time next month.
In a way Gord was glad the bastard would never come to trial. He, Gord, wouldn’t have to face him, day after day. See his ugly mug in the paper, listen to everyone in town talking about the case.
Spend the next forty years fearing the guy would get out on parole and come back to Trafalgar.
Gord lifted bacon out of the frying pan and placed it on paper towels to soak up the grease. “Breakfast,” he called, tossing pancakes onto plates.
“Yeah, pancakes.” Jocelyn bounced into the kitchen, hair trailing behind her, Spot at her heels. Yesterday, she’d clung to her grandmothers and begged them not to leave. Ann and Renee wept, but Ralph had said, in his gruff voice, that they all had lives to lead and he’d be at the other end of a phone anytime Jocelyn needed him.
This morning the girl’s eyes were clear as she pulled a stool up to the breakfast bar. The dog’s nose twitched at the scent of bacon.
“Go and get your brother,” Gord said.
“I’m here,” Bradley said. “That smells great, Dad.”
“Maybe we can go skiing on Saturday,” Gord said to Jocelyn. “Would you like that honeybunch?”
“Yeah. Can I ask Leslie to come with us?”
“If you’d like to.”
Bradley grabbed a slice of bacon off the tray. He broke it in half, tossed one half into his mouth, the other to the dog. “My old equipment should be good for another run. I’ll have a look after school, Dad.”
“That’d be good, son,” Gord replied.
Lucky Smith delayed going into the store this morning. She lingered at the breakfast table while coffee cooled at her elbow, reading the online newspapers. Another shooting in Trafalgar. It scarcely bore thinking about. Lucky lived here, alone, out in the woods. She owned twenty acres of mostly trees and rocks; the nearest neighbor wasn’t within shouting distance. It had never occurred to her to be the least bit worried, either when the kids were young and Andy might be away, or since he’d died. She didn’t lock the doors most of the time. Her friends knew they could pop in and out whenever they wanted. She’d often arrive home to find a magazine with an article marked or a gift of vegetables from someone’s garden on the table.
Once Moonlight became a police officer she began nagging her mother to lock the doors and take more care. She even suggested motion detector lights and a security system. Lucky put that down to police paranoia, and said she’d think about it.
Last night, she’d put her book to one side and gotten up from her comfortable chair by the fireplace in the living room after she received a phone call telling her about the shooting in town.
She locked the doors and instructed Sylvester to be on guard. Sylvester yawned.
Moonlight phoned later, a quick call from the police station, to let her know they’d caught the guy, and were sure he was the one who’d killed Cathy Lindsay.
Lucky breathed a sigh of relief but did not unlock the doors.
This morning’s news reported that William Westfield, resident of Trafalgar, had been arrested and charged with both shootings. Lucky thought she might have met Westfield at one time. Didn’t he come into the store now and again? She wasn’t really sure.
The story was vague about what happened last night. Westfield was apparently under guard at the hospital. Strange, if he’d been shot during the arrest you’d think it would have been mentioned.
Lucky tried not to think too much of what her daughter’s job involved. She hoped Moonlight had been well out of it last night.
The sound of tires on gravel had Lucky shutting her computer and getting to her feet. Paul Keller’s SUV was pulling up in front of the house. He stayed in his seat for a moment before climbing out of the car and walking up the path between piles of dirty, melting snow thick with ice crystals. Sylvester provided an enthusiastic escort.
Lucky opened the door. She’d not locked it after letting the dog out earlier. “Paul, good morning. What brings you here? Is everything all right? I’ve been reading the news. Thank goodness you’ve arrested him. Come in. Come in. Would you like a coffee? Breakfast?”
He stood in the doorway. “I’m not going to stay, Lucky. You have to get to the store, and I’ll have a pile of paperwork to do this morning. I’ve been up most of the night, thinking about this business. It’s a terrible case, but I’ll leave you to read about it in the papers and hear the gossip on the streets. Can’t help make me think sometimes we don’t know how short a time we have left.”
“Paul.”
He lifted his hand. He hadn’t taken off his gloves. “Hear me out. Do you care for me, Lucky, even just a little bit?”
“I do. More than a little bit. But we’re so different. Your job. My activities. Someday perhaps…”
“Someday might never come, Lucky. Life’s too unpredictable. I want to be with you. I’m not asking for us to move in together. I have a feeling that would be too sudden for the both of us. I want to spend time in each other’s company. I want to see you, to talk to you. To love you, Lucky.”
She looked at him. He didn’t make a move toward her. He stood there, dripping snow on her floor, holding his hat in his hands, a middle-aged, overweight man who smoked far too much and exercised too little. Sylvester sniffed at his boots.
Lucky Smith felt a great joy rise up into her chest. She laughed, and held out her arms.
That had been the anticlimax to beat them all.
They’d had dinner at Flavours, the best, most expensive restaurant in Trafalgar, the previous night, the day following the Franklin shooting. Adam had worn a suit, strikingly handsome in a crisp white shirt and perfectly knotted blue tie. She’d worn a sexy dress with a plunging neckline and a swirling skirt, and sky-high heels. She’d ordered a green salad, followed by the salmon. He’d had sweet potato soup and a steak, rare. They talked about work, about how the town was still in shock over the revelations about William Westfield, about Adam’s family back east and Molly’s family here in Trafalgar. They talked about the possibility of a summer vacation to Europe, where neither of them had been.
The waiter cleared their plates and asked if they wanted dessert. Adam chose his favorite, pecan pie, but Molly demurred. “Coffee, please.”
When her coffee arrived, it was just a cup of coffee. Adam dug into his pie with gusto.
She’d been expecting a bottle of Champagne, carried high by a grinning waiter. Maybe a little blue box on her saucer.
She’d thought he was going to propose.
He hadn’t.
After dinner they walked through the quiet streets to her apartment, where Norman waited. Adam took the dog for a quick walk while Molly put on her sexiest nightgown.
Adam came back. They went to bed. They made love—and it was good—and then they slept.
She awoke when he got up, still dark outside. He had to go to the town of Nelson for a meeting this morning.
He kissed her. He left.
She lay in bed looking up at the celling, feeling a total fool.
She didn’t have to wait for Adam to pop the question. She was a modern woman, she was her mother’s daughter, she could propose to Adam herself.
Somehow that didn’t seem right, though.
She thought about Graham. His proposal had been not the least bit formal. They were in university, didn’t have any money. He’d propped himself up on one elbow in bed and said, “Why don’t we get married when you finish your degree?”
She’d said yes.
She glanced at the clock. Six-thirty, the welcome start of a four day break from work. She planned to spend the day running errands, doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, meeting Christa for lunch at George’s.
Adam was off tomorrow and they were going to Blue Sky for the day.
She hoped they didn’t run into Tony.
She rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom, and then into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She lifted the lid off the tea container.
A piece of paper lay there. A small blue box beneath.
She opened the note, hands trembling slightly. Adam’s writing. “I intended to do this in person, but got so nervous I’ve lost my voice. Marry me, Molly. I love you so much.” She lifted the lid off the box. A square-cut diamond mounted on a golden circle flashed in the harsh kitchen lights. She took the ring out and slipped it on her finger. A perfect fit.
Her heart grew in her chest. She threw back her head and laughed and then she reached for her phone.
She typed a quick text message. Ten-Four.
Molly Smith pressed send.