Deadly Fall (16 page)

Isabelle shook her head. “He went out after the phone call. When he came back, he acted like nothing happened and I thought, maybe it was business.”

“Without knowing the context, we can't assume.” Given his nine-month estrangement from Callie, it wasn't unlikely Sam would have an affair; it was more than likely. Surely the cops were looking into this.

“She'd be a suspect,” Isabelle said. “She could have killed Callie out of jealousy or to get Sam for herself.”

“He called her Beth?”

“He went out again that afternoon. Remember, that was the day you came over? He didn't get back until late. While he was gone, I went down to the basement and found his address book. There wasn't anyone in it named Beth.”

“What about Elizabeth?”

“I tried that, too.”

“Are you certain that was the name you heard: Beth?”

“Bev,” Paula said.

Shadows floated across the ceiling of her dark bedroom. She shook her head on the pillow, recalling the woman seated behind her at the funeral, who had chatted with her two friends. “Bev” could have sounded like “Beth” in an overheard phone call.

Paula rolled onto her side and curled her legs into a fetal position. What a coincidence if she was Sam's “Beth.” Or would it be? Didn't mistresses traditionally attend the wife's funeral, sit in the back pew and cattily discuss the deceased? Paula struggled to recall the women's conversation. Her head throbbed. She was almost sure Bev was the one who left early. Did she leave so she wouldn't be seen? By whom? Sam? Detective Vincelli, who was sitting across the aisle in the other back pew? Bev had arrived after the other two friends. One had called out “Bev” and asked the woman in the wide-brimmed hat to join them. So, technically, Bev hadn't chosen the back pew. She probably wasn't Sam's mistress. But what if she was?

One of the three women knew Sam. Paula bet that was Bev, the interior decorator, who had worked with him on a building. She had called him full of himself or something equally negative. That sounded like a mistress scorned. The woman in the wide-brimmed hat was at least six feet tall. Paula giggled, imagining her with diminutive Sam. Giggling made her head ache more. Wouldn't it be delicious if that bitch was Sam's “Beth”? It would serve him right for the problems he had caused the cops by holding back the information on his son. Bev was the bitchiest of the three bitches.

Paula clutched the blankets to her knees. The women and Callie had been friends when their kids were growing up. They had probably been her neighbors in Mount Royal. Hadn't one mentioned that she worked in a Mount Royal Village boutique? That was Janet or Janice. The third woman had a sweet voice and seemed a homey type. What was her name? Never mind.

The digits of the bedside clock rolled to 4:00
AM
. In a few hours, Paula would be officially hung-over and facing a day packed with meetings, some already postponed twice, but she could squeeze in a shopping trip to Mount Royal Village. The clerks in those upscale shops worked on commission. She could ask for one named Janet or Janice, explaining she had dealt with her last week and wanted to give her the sale. The three women had talked about meeting for lunch. When she left, Bev gave them her card. Paula could get Bev's phone number and address from Janice or Janet by saying she wanted to question her about the murder case. But why would she, not the cops, be doing the questioning? She needed a pretext.

No. Paula should tell Detective Vincelli about this, but if Bev was “Beth” he probably already knew. If she wasn't, he would think Paula nuts to jump to the conclusion. She would check it out first. The likelihood that Bev was “Beth” was one in a million, or more like one in a thousand. Paula bet one in ten. Still not high enough odds to tell Vincelli and she really wanted to meet this ball-breaking Bev, if she was Sam's “Beth.”

Drum beats pounded Paula's brain. The rhythms blasted through her bedroom door. Blades of light cut through the shutters. It was 9:23
AM
. She crawled out of the covers, staggered into the hall. The den door was open. The fuchsia yoga suit lay heaped on the floor. She stalked toward the rhythmic blare. Isabelle sat at the kitchen table, bopping her head. Paula flicked off the radio.

“Hey,” Isabelle said. “I like that song.”

“It's my house.”

Newspaper littered the kitchen table. Callie's picture stared up from the City and Region section.

“Any news?” Paula asked.

“A rehash of the old stuff.” Isabelle brushed toast crumbs from the sleep shirt she had borrowed from Paula. “They don't mention the murder weapon or say Sam's father owned it.”

“They like keeping their little secrets.” Outside the window, clouds blurred the crab apple tree. That might be her fuzzy eyes. The thermometer tacked to her garage strained toward forty-five degrees.

“Your hair's all sticking up,” Isabelle said.

“Who cares? Can you make coffee while I shower?”

“I couldn't find where you keep it, so I made juice. I don't like coffee much, except in cafés, where it comes with foam and chocolate. My mother loves coffee.”

“Stop talking about coffee until I've had some.” Paula rubbed her pounding head.

“You're a grizzly-grump in the morning.”

“Get used to it.” Paula got the coffee from the fridge, where anyone might have thought to look for it, and ran cold water into the carafe. When she fell into bed, around 2:00
AM
, Isabelle had been tapping away on the computer. “Don't people your age sleep all morning?”

“I got up early to look for work. I forgot to tell you last night. Your friend called while you were out with Sam.”

“What friend?”

“I forget his name. I wrote it on the pad by the phone.” Isabelle picked up her juice glass.

“Can you walk over and get it for me?” The brew began its merciful drip. After some food—Paula couldn't handle more than toast—she would down an Aspirin or two. Or three.

“Hayden.” Isabelle ripped the sheet from the notepad. “He was surprised that I answered. At first, he thought I was your daughter. He knew all about Callie and me, but didn't believe it when I said I was moving in with you.”

“You aren't.” Would the fucking drip ever finish?

“He said to call after you got home from your date with Sam.”

She had got home before ten o'clock. Hayden would think she had been out later than that. “Did Hayden call it a date?”

“He did or I did. I forget which.”

“Thanks a lot.” Paula massaged her spiky hair in an effort to smooth her sore brain. The coffee dripped at glacial speed. She grabbed the carafe. Black liquid sizzled on the warming tray. Hayden was one more thing to take care of today on top of work, Isabelle, arranging for new door locks, telling off Walter for letting Isabelle in, and tracking down Bev.

“Can I borrow some clothes?” Isabelle said. “There wasn't room in my sports bag to squish dresses or skirts. Can you drive me to Felix's this afternoon to pick up the rest of my stuff?”

“I'm busy.” Coffee wove through Paula's brain, mending the ache.

“I could borrow your car. I have a license.”

“I need my car.”

“I guess I should phone Felix before he notices I'm gone.”

“Felix doesn't know you're here?”

“He fell asleep in his chair. I shouted at him. He'd taken some pills that conked him out after all those screwdrivers. I decided to split. He probably figures I'm still asleep upstairs.”

Last night Isabelle had said Felix's drinking increased, if that was possible, after the detectives left. They had started a few board games, but he couldn't concentrate and ended up pacing the house, mumbling words Isabelle couldn't make out.

“If Felix goes out, he might not notice I'm gone until tonight,” Isabelle said. “But what if my parents phone from Banff to check up on me? They'll freak if Felix checks my room and tells them I'm missing. My dad will feel better when he finds out I've moved in with you.”

Paula drained her mug of coffee. “I need a shower. After that, we'll talk.”

“You can't live
here. Not permanently,” she said. “It might work if this were a monstrous house, like Felix's. There isn't space. We're different ages, with conflicting lifestyles.”

From the seat Paula usually occupied, Isabelle stared out the kitchen window. She hadn't changed out of the pale blue sleep shirt with teddy bear decals on the chest. Paula had bought the shirt on sale, but had never worn it. The teddy bears looked more corny than cute when she got home.

“When I get a job, I'll find an apartment,” Isabelle said.

“Could you afford one?”

“Waitresses get tips. I could share an apartment with someone. I'd like that better than living alone.”

Paula sipped coffee, wondering how Isabelle would support herself on McJobs she regularly quit. She should go home with her parents. “Montreal has plenty of restaurant jobs. You're bilingual, which would be a plus. Apartments are cheaper there. You don't have to live at home. You could share with a friend.”

They had touched on Isabelle's love life last night. Isabelle confirmed she wasn't involved with Sam. Her sudden departure from Montreal last May hadn't stemmed from a failed romance. Among her wide circle of Montreal friends were some male ones with occasional benefits. Paula told her that she didn't understand that kind of casual friendship-sex. “Montreal is old,” Isabelle also said. “The buildings are old. People complain all the time. Calgary's more fun.”

Paula finished her toast. “Montreal is bigger, more exciting and multicultural, with real action downtown. If I were your age, I'd find it more interesting.”

Isabelle twirled a strand of blond hair. “Flying to Calgary was my first time on a plane. I got to talking to the guy beside me. He owns a company that makes computer games. We flew past the airport and circled the city about six times. There was this grinding noise under the plane. The computer guy said the landing gear wasn't working, the wheels weren't coming down, any minute they'd tell us to prepare for a crash landing.”

“That must have been scary.”

“It was exciting, you know, something was happening. We kept circling toward the mountains. They were shining white. The day before there'd been a huge snowstorm. The whole city was white. I mean, a snowstorm in May. Whoever heard of that?”

“Not a great start to your visit.”

“All that white around the shiny downtown buildings looked like,” Isabelle let go of the twisted hair strand, “like an egg dropped sunny side up from space. Sam picked me up at the airport. He told me he designed some of those buildings and I thought, wow, you can do that here.”

“You can, after years of school.”

“I hate school,” Isabelle said. “I don't want to design buildings, but you know what I mean.”

She might, once the coffee kicked in. Paula refilled her mug. “You should have asked that computer guy for a job.”

“I wasn't thinking about staying in Calgary then.” Isabelle bolted up. “I have to get ready to look for work. The restaurants around here will be open soon.”

While Isabelle showered in the adjacent room, Paula popped herself another piece of toast. Odds were Isabelle wouldn't be hired for a restaurant job by Friday, when her parents returned from Banff. Between the three of them, they should be able to convince her go home. Paula could tolerate a roommate for two more nights, and it would be an excuse to avoid seeing Hayden those evenings. Not that she would go out with Sam again. This morning, she would phone Hayden to reassure him there would be no more Sam dates. Hayden didn't need to know about Sam's invitation to go hiking in Kananaskis.

The shower water stopped. Paula loaded the dishwasher. Isabelle came into the kitchen, her hair bouncing on Paula's navy dress. Since she was taller, the skirt stopped several inches above her knees. A belt cinched it to her narrow waist. The blue color brightened her eyes.

“You look better in that outfit than me.” Paula smoothed her magenta slacks. Her black suit jacket would hide the trace of pot she hadn't managed to work off since her divorce. Today was Wednesday, wasn't it? She wouldn't have time for her usual workout. Before she forgot, she phoned Anne to let her know. Isabelle wandered back to Paula's bedroom. Anne answered from her office in the fitness center.

“My day is packed,” Paula said. “Meetings with claimants, appraisers, a traffic cop . . . I also want to stop in at Mount Royal Village.” Why had she brought that up? Anne would find her snooping weird.

“I was thinking of looking at stores there for a dress,” Anne said.

“Those places are expensive.”

“I need something special for the reception in Ottawa next month.”

Dimitri was bringing his mother, in place of a wife, to the reception for new members of parliament. Anne was excited about meeting the Governor General.

“I can't shake hands with the Queen's representative wearing department store clothes.”

Paula laughed and realized Anne was serious. How would Anne react to the news about Dimitri's crush on Callie? From everything Anne had ever said about him, there was no chance she suspected.

“How about I meet you at Mount Royal Village?” Anne suggested. “What time?”

They agreed on 4:30
PM
.

“This will be fun,” Anne said. “I never do girlfriend things like shopping together.”

Would it be fair to dump the news about Dimitri on Anne when it was only hearsay from Isabelle, not the most trustworthy source?

Isabelle returned to the kitchen, Paula's best purse draped over her shoulder. “We wear the same shoe size. Isn't that lucky?” She raised a foot. “These look cool with this dress. And the purse matches.”