Read Online A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) by Vicki Delany - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vicki Delany
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grab a coffee before facing the difficult task of asking a man if he’d killed his wife.
Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium was quiet for midafternoon. A handful of skiers were back early, seated around a long table, gripping mugs, nibbling on warm pastries and muffins. They illustrated runs and jumps with swirling arms and swooshing noises and loud laughter. Wet gloves, scarves, and hats were piled on another table, steaming as they dried.
Jolene came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of cookies, straight from the oven judging by the smell. John Winters’ detective powers were at their height when it came to baking.
Without being asked, Eddie poured a large coffee, black no sugar, and passed it to Winters.
“Thanks. I’ll have a hot chocolate too, plenty of whipped cream. And two, no make it four, of those cookies, please.”
“Bad business,” Eddie grumbled.
The colored beads in Jolene’s hair clinked as she shook her head. “Bad for business. I overheard a couple discussing whether they should pack up early and go back to Winnipeg.”
“Because of the shooting?” Winters asked.
“People are saying there’s a killer out there.” Eddie pitched his deep voice so as not to carry.
“One person has been killed. Unfortunately. We’re investigating and expect to make an arrest shortly. I don’t think it’s a whole lot safer in Winnipeg.”
“People want to be part of the drama,” Jolene said. “Even if only to clutch their pearls and throw frightened glances over their shoulders. Makes them feel important.”
Eddie snorted as he sprayed a mountain of whipped cream onto an extralarge cup of hot chocolate. Jolene selected four of the plumpest cookies and slipped them into a paper bag. Winters pulled out his wallet.
People would be spooked. Rumors were running amok, panic spreading along with misinformation. The dispatchers reported a steady stream of calls, few, if any, of which were of help. A man was seen getting onto a snowmobile with a machine gun poking out of his bag; a swarthy stranger had approached a woman in the street asking for directions; a dog had howled in the night. Jenny Jones, who lived in seclusion deep in the woods and loved nothing more than to “assist” the police, called twice. Once to report snowshoe tracks through her property, and then to say she’d seen an image of the killing in the sparks from her fireplace and could identify the killer. Denton scratched off the regular kooks and sent an officer around to speak to the others.
Winters passed over his money and accepted change which he dropped into the tip jar.
The door opened, bringing a gust of cold and a scattering of snow as a family stumbled in. Mom and Dad in ski clothes, a pack of laughing children in an arrangement of outlandish headgear. John Winters was pleased to see that not everyone stayed at home-cowering under the blankets.
He drove to the top of Martin Street. A cruiser was parked there, and Molly Smith stood on the path, stamping her feet, rubbing her hands together, looking mighty bored. No other cars were around.
Smith walked over as the GIS van pulled up, happy at the break in the monotony.
“Get in,” he said, “I figured you’d be ready for a snack.”
“Am I ever.” She clambered into the passenger seat, and he passed her the cup of hot chocolate and the cookie bag. He kept the engine on, the heat cranked high.
She closed her eyes and took a long sip. When her head came up, the tip of her nose was covered in cream. She wiped it away and said, “Heaven.”
“Many people come by?”
“Next to no one. More of us are up here than civilians. I chased off a bunch of local kids who wanted to see where she’d died. Ghouls.”
“Anyone showing any particular interest?” For once popular belief was true. Plenty of killers did return to the scene of the crime. They enjoyed watching the fuss they’d caused.
“No one who came this way. Adam stopped by earlier. Norman wasn’t picking up anything fresh.” She
Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium was quiet for midafternoon. A handful of skiers were back early, seated around a long table, gripping mugs, nibbling on warm pastries and muffins. They illustrated runs and jumps with swirling arms and swooshing noises and loud laughter. Wet gloves, scarves, and hats were piled on another table, steaming as they dried.
Jolene came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of cookies, straight from the oven judging by the smell. John Winters’ detective powers were at their height when it came to baking.
Without being asked, Eddie poured a large coffee, black no sugar, and passed it to Winters.
“Thanks. I’ll have a hot chocolate too, plenty of whipped cream. And two, no make it four, of those cookies, please.”
“Bad business,” Eddie grumbled.
The colored beads in Jolene’s hair clinked as she shook her head. “Bad for business. I overheard a couple discussing whether they should pack up early and go back to Winnipeg.”
“Because of the shooting?” Winters asked.
“People are saying there’s a killer out there.” Eddie pitched his deep voice so as not to carry.
“One person has been killed. Unfortunately. We’re investigating and expect to make an arrest shortly. I don’t think it’s a whole lot safer in Winnipeg.”
“People want to be part of the drama,” Jolene said. “Even if only to clutch their pearls and throw frightened glances over their shoulders. Makes them feel important.”
Eddie snorted as he sprayed a mountain of whipped cream onto an extralarge cup of hot chocolate. Jolene selected four of the plumpest cookies and slipped them into a paper bag. Winters pulled out his wallet.
People would be spooked. Rumors were running amok, panic spreading along with misinformation. The dispatchers reported a steady stream of calls, few, if any, of which were of help. A man was seen getting onto a snowmobile with a machine gun poking out of his bag; a swarthy stranger had approached a woman in the street asking for directions; a dog had howled in the night. Jenny Jones, who lived in seclusion deep in the woods and loved nothing more than to “assist” the police, called twice. Once to report snowshoe tracks through her property, and then to say she’d seen an image of the killing in the sparks from her fireplace and could identify the killer. Denton scratched off the regular kooks and sent an officer around to speak to the others.
Winters passed over his money and accepted change which he dropped into the tip jar.
The door opened, bringing a gust of cold and a scattering of snow as a family stumbled in. Mom and Dad in ski clothes, a pack of laughing children in an arrangement of outlandish headgear. John Winters was pleased to see that not everyone stayed at home-cowering under the blankets.
He drove to the top of Martin Street. A cruiser was parked there, and Molly Smith stood on the path, stamping her feet, rubbing her hands together, looking mighty bored. No other cars were around.
Smith walked over as the GIS van pulled up, happy at the break in the monotony.
“Get in,” he said, “I figured you’d be ready for a snack.”
“Am I ever.” She clambered into the passenger seat, and he passed her the cup of hot chocolate and the cookie bag. He kept the engine on, the heat cranked high.
She closed her eyes and took a long sip. When her head came up, the tip of her nose was covered in cream. She wiped it away and said, “Heaven.”
“Many people come by?”
“Next to no one. More of us are up here than civilians. I chased off a bunch of local kids who wanted to see where she’d died. Ghouls.”
“Anyone showing any particular interest?” For once popular belief was true. Plenty of killers did return to the scene of the crime. They enjoyed watching the fuss they’d caused.
“No one who came this way. Adam stopped by earlier. Norman wasn’t picking up anything fresh.” She
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