A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Cathy Lindsay had been a teacher. Schools were close-knit places, a community tucked inside the larger community. Winters needed to talk to her co-workers, but most of them were very likely out of town. Spending the school break with distant family, skiing in Whistler, sunning themselves on a Caribbean beach. They might even be at home, ignoring the ringing phone in case it was some parent or student calling with a complaint.

If Cathy Lindsay had not been the intended target of the shooter this investigation would be a nightmare.

But, for now, Winters had to assume someone wanted the woman dead. That she had an enemy. A bad one.

Or her husband had enemies so vengeful they killed his wife to make their point.

Detective Ray Lopez was working on a search warrant to get into the couple’s bank records. Enemies usually meant money. Large amounts of money coming into (or going out of) accounts. He’d have to try to get access to the husband’s business account as well. That might not be so easy. The man owned an Internet development firm. He had an office and employees in Trafalgar and more employees in Victoria. Winters only knew that because a friend of Lopez’s wife had used Lindsay’s company to set up a web page to promote her home jewelry business.

Winters had been living in Trafalgar for three years now. He still didn’t have his finger in a fraction of the complex web of relatives, friends, acquaintances, and simple gossip that Molly Smith and Ray Lopez did. It could be damn frustrating sometimes.

He needed boots on the ground. He needed officers walking the hiking path, knocking on doors of houses that backed onto the ridge or lined the road to the church. He needed people talking to the Lindsay neighbors, Cathy’s co-workers. They were a small police service, one of the few municipal forces remaining in the B.C. Interior, dependent on the RCMP to give them what officers could be spared. Not much, but it would have to be enough.

The autopsy was scheduled for Monday. He scarcely needed a pathologist to tell him the woman had died after being shot in the back with a single hit from a shotgun. But, it had to be done. Not everything important was immediately apparent. The body had to be forced to give up its secrets.

***

Molly Smith was relieved not to see the Chief Constable’s car parked in her mother’s driveway. He was coming around altogether too much for her liking.

Not, of course, that Molly thought her mom should spend the rest of her life alone after the death of Molly’s dad, Andy. Lucky was nothing if not gregarious. She had the widest circle of friends of anyone in the Mid-Kootenays. She was involved in just about any environmental or political issue Molly could name.

And sometimes ones she couldn’t.

It wasn’t as if Lucky had to worry about being alone in life.

Sure, she probably enjoyed the attentions of a man. Someone to cook for, someone to dress up for, to go out for a quiet evening with.

To, shudder, have sex with.

But did it have to be the Chief Constable of Trafalgar? Molly Smith’s boss.

Paul Keller, overweight, out of shape, who smoked constantly and drank can after can of Coke when he couldn’t get his nicotine fix. He was well-groomed, always neatly dressed, but he smelled like he’d just stepped back from the line at a forest fire.

Molly wondered how her mother could stand it.

She’d said something to that effect to Adam one night. While they were lying entwined in front of the fireplace in his house in the woods and Norman snored in his sleep and all his legs moved as if dreaming he were chasing a bank robber.

“You know, Molly,” Adam said, his finger drawing circles on her flat stomach. “Lucky doesn’t want to think you’re having sex either. I’ll bet she pretends you and I are just good friends.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She taught me all about birth control and sexually-transmitted diseases when I was in grade seven. She knows.”

“You think she and the Chief are any different than us?”

“It’s just that…they’re old.”

“They’re still human, Molly.”

“Not my mom.”

He’d laughed and gotten up to throw another log on the fire and that was the end of that painful conversation.

“I heard the news,” Lucky said, giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek.

“What news might that be?”

“Would you like a drink? There’s some wine left over from last night.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Smith shrugged off her coat. She hung it on the hook by the door beside her dad’s cap. No one had had the strength to throw away Andy’s favorite hat.

She’d spent her shift up at the hiking trail, guarding the scene and logging visitors. Whenever anything seemed to be happening—forensic vans coming or leaving, the coroner, more officers—a crowd could gather out of nowhere.

They kept the body where it fell for most of the day as the forensics people did their thing both under the tent and in the clearing. Forensics might be an interesting career direction, Smith thought sometimes. She’d have to put in a good five to ten years as a patrol officer before being considered for the course and the job.

Not a lot of openings for forensic guys around here. Ron Gavin would probably be retiring in the next few years, longer for Alison Townshend. Competition for their positions would be fierce; jobs in the beautiful B.C. Interior were in high demand.

She’d spent a good part of the boring day considering, once again, her future.

To stay in Trafalgar, which she loved. Near her mother, whom she loved. With Adam, whom she also loved, but wasn’t convinced she wanted to spend her life with. Trafalgar, where she didn’t have much of a chance to make detective or even sergeant, never mind go into forensics.

Or to move to a city, to a larger force, to get big city policing experience.

The body of Cathy Lindsay had been removed shortly before six o’clock, as the sun dipped behind the western mountains. A good sized crowd had shown up for that. They stood respectfully watching the covered stretcher being loaded into the coroner’s van. A couple of men had doffed their hats.

“Cathy Lindsay, I hear,” Lucky said now, pouring the wine.

“Yeah. Did you know her, Mom?”

“No. She didn’t teach at the school when you and Samwise went there. Your father got a quote from her husband to set up the web page for the store a couple of years ago. It was quite expensive so we went with someone else. They have young children, I hear. It’s going to be hard on them.”

“Hard on everyone.”

A small town, a well-known family. Yes, it would be hard. “Have you arrested anyone?” Lucky asked.

“No, and don’t ask any more questions, Mom. I don’t know anything, and I couldn’t tell you if I did. Is that beef stew I smell?”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, Moonlight. I will find out what’s happening in town.”

“I have absolutely no doubt about that.” Moonlight Legolas Smith was the name on Molly’s birth certificate and passport. What a name for a cop. Her only brother had been christened Samwise. Definitely not a good fit for an oil company lawyer.

Lucky and Andy had been hippies when they met. Passionate idealists when they settled in the Kootenays, opened a wilderness adventure business, started a family.

Lucky wasn’t an idealist any more. But she was still mighty passionate.

Sylvester gave Molly’s arm a shove with his nose, and she obligingly leaned over to give him a hearty scratch behind his ears.

Chapter Ten

The chimes over the door tinkled, and a woman entered the art gallery in a flurry of snow and stamping feet, coffee cup gripped in mittened hands. “Morning,” Margo shouted. “Did you have a nice day off, Eliza?”

“Quiet,” Eliza replied. Deadly quiet in fact. John arrived home late the previous night. He’d touched her face with freezing cold hands and kissed her with icy lips before heading upstairs for long hot shower.

He came back, hair damp, face shaven, dressed in jeans and a fleece Eliza’s mother had given him last year, a souvenir of Venice, Florida.

“Bad one?” she asked him.

“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. Is there anything for dinner? I didn’t have time for lunch.”

Eliza didn’t mind that John had been called out. That the quiet day together she’d planned had turned into just a quiet day. She’d spent it working on gallery business and managing her portfolio before going for a long walk by herself and then eating a light supper in front of the computer. That was the way it was and the way it had always been. Things might have been different if they’d had children. But they hadn’t and thus their careers had remained important to each of them and they’d learned to accommodate the other.

Eliza had recently opened two art galleries, which she’d named The Mountain in Winter. One in the fashionable Kitsilano district of Vancouver, and this one in Trafalgar. The Kitsilano store specialized in serious art selling for serious prices, and she had an experienced gallery manager in charge. The Trafalgar store primarily featured paintings by a variety of local artists. The sort of work Eliza hoped would appeal as gifts to residents and visitors. Snowy mountain scenes, impressionist-style watercolors of the ski hills. Everything soft and pleasing. She displayed jewelry as well, delicate handmade pieces of intricately carved and twisted metal. It had proved to be a good decision, and the stock had sold well over the winter season when the town filled with skiers. Not good enough to turn a profit, mind, but that wasn’t her concern. Not yet. Give the business another year or two.

The ski hills would be closing in a couple of weeks, and Eliza would feature more traditional art gallery shows until campers and kayakers arrived in the summer.

She managed this store herself. Retail was a new experience for her, and she found she liked running the gallery. She had one employee, Margo Franklin who had no background in the arts but was looking for something not too onerous to do with her retirement.

“I guess your husband’s involved in that murder, eh?” Margo mumbled from the depths of the closet.

Eliza refrained from saying, he’s not
involved
, he’s the investigating officer. “He was called out yesterday, yes.”

“Can you imagine? A murder like that, here in Trafalgar. Steve says it must be a gangbanger thing. They mistook her for some drug dealer who’d done them wrong. Or her husband maybe. It was intended as a warning to him. Maybe they got the wrong person. I met her once, I think. Cathy Lindsay. She teaches…taught…at the high school.”

Eliza liked Margo. She was a reliable employee, good with the customers, enthusiastic about the art and jewelry they sold.

Although sometimes the woman’s constant chatter was almost enough to send Eliza screaming into the street.

Margo leaned over the counter. Instinctively Eliza leaned closer as well. “They say it was a military-style sniper’s rifle. Very hard to get hold of, for anyone who doesn’t have the
right
connections.”

Eliza blinked and jerked back. “I wouldn’t pay much attention to what
they
say.”

Margo winked. “Right. You’re in the know. My lips are sealed.”

Eliza groaned.

Chimes tinkled and the door swung open, saving her from having to make further conversation. Margo hurried to serve customers.

Eliza intended to spend the morning in the gallery, working on the accounts, planning a substantial one-man show scheduled for late spring. If the store got busy she’d stay, help Margo. Otherwise go home.

They were busy. Not many buyers, browsers mostly, people who didn’t ski but had come on vacation with those who did.

Margo sold one of the largest and most expensive paintings. Seven thousand dollars for an intricately detailed oil of Trafalgar’s Front Street bathed in moonlight on a snowy night. Margo chatted happily with the buyers, an older female couple from Spokane, and made arrangements for shipping the painting.

As Margo was occupied, Eliza rose to greet a new customer. A man, neat and casually dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. “Good morning. Welcome. If there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know.”

“I noticed that sketch in the window when I was passing the other day. I didn’t come in, but it’s been on my mind ever since.” He was referring to a charcoal drawing of skis piled on racks outside the lodge at Blue Sky. “The simplicity appeals to me. Do you have anything else by that artist?”

“We do. Over here. His name’s Alan Khan and he lives in Crescent Valley.”

“A skier, I bet.”

“Most likely.”

She showed him the display of Khan’s drawings. Simplicity was his trademark. With a few quick strokes of pencil, pen, or charcoal he could bring an entire vista to life.

They stood together for a few moments, admiring the work. The couple from Spokane left. Mozart played on the sound system.

“Nice. I’m William, by the way. William Westfield.” He held out his hand. He was no taller than she, excessively thin. Sunken cheeks in a pale face, deep shadows outlining sharp bones. His piercing blue eyes, the color of lake ice, were dragged down by folds of skin, but his smile was friendly.

She shook. “Eliza Winters. Welcome.”

“I was pleased to see the gallery opening. It’s a nice addition to the main street. I’m going to be moving soon, to a much smaller place, and I’d like something simple for the room.”

“Let me know if I can help you with anything.” Eliza left him to admire the sketches. Turning, she almost collided with Margo. Margo’s own lovely blue eyes were wide and her mouth half open. She lifted one hand to her throat.

Sensing her behind him, Westfield half turned. “Hello.”

Margo said nothing. She just stared.

Eliza touched her arm. “Show me the paperwork for that last sale, will you?”

“What?”

“I said, I want to see the paperwork. Did you remember to fill out the customs forms?”

She didn’t have to ask. Margo knew her job perfectly well. But the way she was looking at Westfield was obviously making the man highly uncomfortable. He shifted from one foot to another. He glanced back at the art, and then at Margo who continued to stare.

“Margo!” Eliza snapped.

The woman almost shook herself. When she looked at Eliza her eyes were out of focus, swimming with tears. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I want to review the paperwork.”

“Right.” She bustled across the floor to the counter.

“I’ll give it some thought. Maybe come back later.” William Westfield sprinted out of the gallery.

Margo watched him go. A smile lit up her face and a single tear dropped from her right eye.

“Do you know that man?” Eliza asked.

“Oh, yes. I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s my son, Jackson.”

***

They gathered around the table in the conference room early Sunday morning, coffee and bagels resting by elbows and notebooks. “Let’s review what we found at the scene yesterday,” John Winters said.

“Fuck all, if I may be so blunt,” Alison Townshend said.

“Remarkably little,” Ron Gavin added. “Boot prints in the snow, indicating the shooter stood in place for some time. A shell casing, a cigarette butt. A clear trail leading away and getting lost in a busy parking lot. A dead woman. The remains of two shotgun shells. One that went through the body, one that missed and buried itself in a tree, almost certainly because the first one dropped her. I’ve sent them to ballistics along with the casing.”

“Two shots, but only one casing?” Townshend asked.

“That type of shotgun keeps the last casing in the bore. It can be removed by hand, or is ejected when the next shot’s fired.”

“What did you learn about the dead woman’s history?” Winters turned to Detective Lopez, who’d worked long into the night on the computer. Fortunately Lopez, father of school-aged children, hadn’t planned on taking any vacation time. “Catherine Marie Lindsay, nee Podwarsky. Age forty-one. No record of any sort. Not even a speeding ticket. Born and raised in Fernie. Got a B.A. from University of Victoria. Taught high school at a couple of public schools on the Island. Moved to Trafalgar with her family ten years ago. Teaches English at Trafalgar District High. Married, two children, Bradley, sixteeen, and Jocelyn, ten.”

“The husband?” Townshend asked.

“Gordon Roger Lindsay, age forty-one. Born Victoria. BSc in Computer Science from UVic. Worked for various computer companies in Victoria before starting his own business, Lindsay Internet Consulting.”

“How’s the business doing?”

“On the surface it’s doing fine. Nothing big time, but steady income, enough to support a middle-class family comfortably. Beneath the surface? Too early to tell.”

“Any chance he was the shooter?”

“He says he was home with his children all morning,” Winters said. “The son was sleeping but the daughter was up. We haven’t spoken to the children yet.”

“Has he been in the military?” Townshend asked.

“Good question,” Lopez answered. “But the answer’s no. And as far as I can see at this early date there are no significant gaps in his life where he might have been out of the country for anything longer than a vacation.”

“My gut,” Winters said, “tells me it wasn’t him. I was there, with him, when he saw her. Shock first, disbelief, then he broke down. But I’ve been wrong before.”

“Are the kids okay?” Townshend asked.

“He phoned his mom in Victoria and Cathy’s family in Fernie. They’re coming today, and a friend spent the night at the Lindsay house,” Lopez said.

No,
Winters thought
, the kids were surely not okay
. How could they be?

“What do you think, John?” Lopez asked.

“I think this is about as bad a case as we can get. With the holidays we’re going to have trouble locating her co-workers and a lot of her friends. Right now, I’m leaning to mistaken identity.”

“You think the shooter was after someone else?”

“Possible. He stood in one place for a while, might have been waiting for the intended target to come in range. Did he make a mistake? Get the wrong person? People all bundled up in their winter gear—it can be hard to distinguish one from another sometimes. I’ve got officers on the trail this morning, talking to people who go there regularly. Maybe someone who walks that path every morning didn’t show up yesterday. Or was later than expected.”

“We know the son,” Lopez said.

“Go ahead.”

“Bradley Lindsay. Low grade troublemaker. He’s been caught more than once drinking beer in the street, at least once sharing a joint with his friends. He’s been drunk and disorderly in the park late at night and driven home by an officer. Remember that arson at the equipment shed at the golf club last month? I’m pretty sure it was him and his pals. Couldn’t prove anything.”

“Minor stuff,” Townshend said.

“That’s the things I know about.”

“Mighty big leap from a juvenile d&d to killing Mom.”

“Just putting it out there.”

“Do any of his friends have the resources or contacts to obtain a weapon of the sort was used?”

“Not that I’m aware of. But who knows what people have hidden in their basements.”

“A shot like that one,” Gavin said, “wouldn’t have been exceptionally difficult, but the shooter had to have some skill with firearms. Two shots. The first a direct hit.”

“When do you expect to hear from ballistics?” Winters asked, rubbing his thumb across the face of his watch.

“It’ll be a week at least. Ten days maybe. Same with getting DNA off the cigarette butt, if there is any.”

“If it was a hit by mistake, it’ll be a tough one,” Winters said. “What do we do on any investigation? We start with the victim. Does she have enemies? Why would someone, anyone, want her dead? Family usually. A friend sometimes. A lover, a person with a grudge. If it was a mistake, if it had nothing to do with Cathy Lindsay? All our normal line of questioning will be a waste.”