Free A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) by Vicki Delany Page A

hardware store, or that guy who came to work on the roof, had been Jackson. It soon turned out they weren’t. They were too young.
This time…this time… she knew .
***

From the street, the Lindsay home looked like any other. The driveway was freshly shoveled, the snow on the front lawn chewed up by crisscrossing boots, paws, and tracks of rolling snowballs used to create a childish snowman. The snow sculpture occupied pride of place in the center of the yard, with carrot nose, black-button eyes, and a red licorice mouth; a layer of fresh power draped over it like a cloak.
Winters and Smith parked in the street. They met on the sidewalk. Smith shifted the weight of her gun belt, clearly uncomfortable at what they had come to do. A battered Ford pickup sat in the driveway. The garage doors were closed.
He hadn’t needed to bring a uniform, but Molly was observant and insightful and it never hurt to have a second opinion on a delicate interview.
They walked together up the neatly shoveled path. The door opened as their feet touched the bottom step. The woman was in her late sixties, face heavily lined, hair stuffed haphazardly into a gray bun. She wore faded jeans, a blue blouse under a fleece pullover that was a souvenir of Turks and Caicos. The blouse had become untucked on her right side. Almost certainly this was Gord Lindsay’s mother.
She watched the police climb the steps, her face red and puffy with weeping. She twisted a damp, torn tissue in her hands.
“Mrs. Lindsay?” Winters asked, stomping loose snow off his boots.
“No. I’m Renee Podwarsky.”
The mother. Not the mother-in-law. Much worse.
“Mrs. Podwarsky, I’m Sergeant John Winters and this is Constable Smith. We’d like to speak to Gord Lindsay, if he’s available.”
She stepped wordlessly aside and they entered the house.
Winters could smell something delicious roasting in the oven. Behind a door, a dog barked.
“My husband and Ann, Gord’s mother, have taken Jocelyn to a movie. Gord’s through here.” She led the way into the house without looking to ensure the police followed.
Gord Lindsay sat on a reclining chair in the family room. TV remote in hand, a hockey game playing on the flat-screen TV that occupied most of the opposite wall. A mug of coffee rested on the table beside him.
“Mr. Lindsay.”
The man turned his head. His eyes were blank, empty, unfocused. He blinked several times. “Oh. Yes. Sergeant, come in. We had an appointment, right.” His finger moved and the TV went black.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Mrs. Podwarsky said. “If you need me.” She shut the door softly behind her.
“Please,” Lindsay said. “Have a seat.” He pushed his recliner upright.
Winters perched on the edge of a comfortable leather chair. Smith leaned against the wall.
A fire burned in a gas fireplace. The room was far too hot but Winters did not take off his jacket. This was not a social call.
“Mr. Lindsay,” he began. “My condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you.” A voice drained of emotion. A stock answer to a stock expression of sentiment.
“I know how difficult this must be for you, but questions have to be asked.”
“I understand.”
“Did your wife have enemies? Anyone who might want her dead?”
A table beside the TV held a cluster of framed photographs. Formal school portraits of a boy and a girl at various ages; the family dressed as though attending a wedding; a beaming Cathy Lindsay with a baby in her arms, and a young child leaning against her leg. Young, attractive, happy.
Gord Lindsay remained silent for a long time, watching the light of the flames play against the wall. Watching, but not seeing. Winters knew to let the man have all the time he wanted. Wait him out.
Smith shifted her feet, but wisely said nothing.
“Enemies?” Gord said at last. He talked to the police, but kept his eyes on the photographs. “You mean like the parent whose spoiled brat of a kid got a lousy mark and wants to have her fired? Or