Free Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery by Vicki Delany Page A

the evening. The ski hills weren’t operating yet. He liked to go hiking, into the wilderness. He camped out sometimes, went by himself for a few days into the mountains when he had time off work. Once you got out of town and off the highway, cell phones didn’t work.
Hadn’t he told her he picked up a few extra shifts this week when one of the other bartenders had sprained his ankle?
He wouldn’t skip work to go camping.
Unless the fight with his father had upset him so much he needed to get away.
He hadn’t seemed upset last night. He seemed to have forgotten all about his dad being in town.
Matt’s dad.
He was a cop.
Tracey pulled her phone out of her pocket once again. Matt wouldn’t thank her for interfering, but if he was in trouble, in bad trouble, serious trouble, how could she simply go back to Kevin’s and wait on tables as if everything was okay?
She punched in 411. Asked for the Banff Springs Hotel.

Chapter Eighteen
     
TRAFALGAR CITY POLICE STATION. TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY MORNING.
John Winters finished his magazine. He took his feet off the desk. Dave Evans and Dawn Solway came in the back door and walked past his office, heading to the lunch room. Winters started to rise. He could use a coffee himself.
His phone rang and he checked the display. The boss.
“Aren’t you in Banff?” Winters said.
“Yes. And that’s the problem. Look, John, I have something I need you to do for me.”
“Shoot.”
To John Winters’ increasing surprise and dismay Keller explained that his son, Matthew Allen Keller, was a suspect in a homicide. Matt had called his father to say he’d discovered a body, and then fled the scene. The Mounties were hunting for him now. The Banff RCMP were being polite to their visiting colleague, but not letting him in on much that was going on.
“I want a record-check on Matthew. I want to know if he has a vehicle, any other known place of residence. Everything you can find.”
“Do you think that’s wise, Paul? Let the locals handle it.”
“He’s my son. It might not be wise to get involved, but it’s what I have to do. I guess I also have to call Karen. Not looking forward to that.”
“Okay,” Winters said. It wasn’t as if he could tell his boss he was too busy with his own cases. “I’ll see what I can find out. What’s the name of the victim? I’ll dig up what I can on him, too.”
“Barry Caseman. I don’t have his DOB, but I do know where he lived.” Keller rattled off an address.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks.”
“And, Paul, good luck.”
Winters hung up, and turned to his computer.

Chapter Nineteen
     
TOCEK-SMITH HOME. OUTSIDE TRAFALGAR, BRITISH COLUMBIA. SUNDAY MORNING.
This wasn’t supposed to be so hard.
Molly Smith struggled to lift the pastry into the pie plate in one piece. It kept coming away from the countertop in sticky clumps. She tossed another handful of flour into the bowl, and rolled it all up into a ball again.
Now it was so dry it wouldn’t hold together.
She glanced at the magazine article she’d cut out and stuck to the fridge with a souvenir magnet from their summer trip to Las Vegas to see “Love,” the Cirque De Soleil Beatles show. The well-manicured hands in the photo held a marble rolling pin with one smooth round of pasty wrapped around it. In the next picture the pastry was folding perfectly into the bottom of the glass dish.
Smith’s mom made pie all the time. She tried to remember how Lucky did it. Come to think of it, didn’t Lucky use store-bought pastry these days?
Enough of this. She grabbed the lump of dough, threw it into the pie plate, where it landed with an uninspiring thud, and began stretching it and smoothing it out with her fingers. Pecan filling bubbled on the stove and Adele was singing on the iPad.
Sylvester wandered in from the family room, where he’d been enjoying a morning nap. He eyed her meaningfully and she obediently opened the back door. Sylvester was Lucky’s dog and usually