Deadly Fall (3 page)

The murder site looked benign. No marks marred the pavement or earth. Shrubs lined the ridge that dropped to the Elbow River. Their jade leaves glistened in the afternoon sun; limbs swayed in the warm breeze. Across the river gorge, the Saddledome's curved roof embraced the sky.

A pair of cyclists coasted down the slope. Paula stepped aside to let them pass. Last evening, she had walked to the blocked-off pathway entrance. The police refused to tell her anything. A spectator had heard the murder took place behind the auto body shop, which would have been closed when Callie died. A poplar grove obscured the view from a hilltop house, the only residence in the area. Witnesses to the murder were unlikely. The spectator didn't know if Callie had been shot in the chest or back. Had the killer crept up behind her? Had she heard footsteps getting closer and whirled around? Or had she jogged toward someone who appeared normal, like this couple walking down the slope, holding hands?

Paula nodded hello.

“Lovely afternoon,” the gray-haired pair said.

A roller-blader wove between the three of them. The weather was drawing a good crowd for a Friday afternoon. On dreary days, this stretch of trail behind the Stampede grounds was deserted. What had Callie been thinking, jogging here alone in darkness?

Paula picked up her pace to get some exercise, even though she would get more later on the fitness center machines. She couldn't wait to hear Anne's take on the murder. Unlike her, Anne was acquainted with Sam, being his former girlfriend and mother of his son.

She passed some wildflowers sprouting by the trail. Why hadn't she thought to bring the family flowers? She detoured off the trail into Mission, a trendy neighborhood she had considered moving to until she discovered the price of its homes. Ramsay was a relative bargain and, according to her real estate agent, poised to take off. Artists and professionals were replacing aging working class residents, like her neighbor, Walter, whom she had managed to avoid today when she left the house.

At a florist shop, she bought a bouquet of lilies, roses, and spider mums in fall shades of orange, gold, burgundy, and brown. All the way to Riverdale, she inhaled their wistful scents. She arrived sweating from her power walk. What a dumb decision to wear a rayon blouse. A cotton T-shirt and shorts would have suited the weather, but the blouse and capris were more appropriate for a sympathy visit. Too bad she hadn't thrown a mirror and powder into her fanny pack. Her warm, damp forehead must be glowing. She patted her windblown hair, which could use a comb.

Large, solid trees lined the entry street into Riverdale, an enclave of old luxury homes. During the past year, she had driven by Callie's house when she was in the area adjusting claims. Once she had knocked on the door; no one was home. She had followed the progress of the exterior renovations: wood siding torn off and replaced with river stone, cracked driveway dug up and redone with patterned concrete, single garage morphed into a triple.

The two-story house didn't look large from the front, but it extended deep into the backyard bordering the Elbow River. The driveway curved around a garden that must have bloomed all summer. Now, a sapling dripped orange-red leaves onto a patch of haggard roses.

No cars were parked on the driveway or by the curb. She wouldn't be disturbing other visitors. Plantation blinds covered the front bow windows, blocking her view into the house. She rang the bell on the huge center door. It was opened by a teenager.

Blond hair fell over the girl's shoulders. Her tank top with spaghetti straps stopped several inches above her navel. This had to be the right house. Paula said she was looking for Sam Moss.

“He's in the basement,” the girl said. “Do you want me to get him?”

“Is Dorothy . . . ?” What was Callie's sister's married name?

“Aunt Dorothy's out shopping.”

Paula stepped back. “Isabelle?”

“Uh huh.”

This was Callie's brother's daughter. Isabelle scratched her earlobe decorated with a half dozen earrings. An amber navel ring nestled in her flat waist. A scissor-kick skirt flared from her hips.

“Callie showed me pictures of you growing up,” Paula said. “In the last ones, you were this little girl with wispy hair. Now, you must be, what? Seventeen, eighteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You look young for your age.” Like her Aunt Callie.

Tanned legs extended flamingo-like from Isabelle's skirt to her bare feet. Somehow, she combined slimness with curving hips and good-sized breasts. Nipples protruded into her shirt. She was braless and firm enough to carry it off.

“Is your father here?” Paula said.

“He went with my mother and Aunt Dorothy to look for a caterer.” Footsteps sounded in the hall. Isabelle spun around. “Here's Sam.”

He stopped beside Isabelle. Dark hair slicked back from his forehead.

“Sam,” Isabelle said, “This is . . .”

“I'm Callie's friend—”

“Paula.” Sam reached through the bouquet to shake her hand. His fingers got tangled in the flowers.

“These are for you.”

He extricated the bouquet from her hand and asked Isabelle to put the flowers in water. Isabelle padded down the hall, skirt swaying.

“How did you know who I was?” Paula asked Sam.

“Callie has a picture of you and her upstairs, taken at a fancy restaurant. Your hair was longer, a bit straighter.”

She tried to smooth it down. That would be the picture taken at Kenneth's and Callie's last anniversary dinner. She had seen pictures of Sam, too. He was shorter than she expected, around five-foot-six, an inch taller than her, she estimated while babbling platitudes: “I'm sorry about Callie. It was such a shock. I still can't believe it.” Sam's hair, she realized, was wet. Had he come from the shower? His black polo shirt and cream chino pants were dressy enough for going out. Here she was sweating, with her hair all over the place.

“I'm glad we meet at last,” she said. Was there no end to her inane comments? “Callie arranged a number of dinners. Something always came up with your work.”

“I thought it came up with your work.”

His upturned mouth lines and eye crinkles suggested he had a sense of humor, although dark circles under his eyes hinted at the recent strain. She liked his high cheekbones. Hair covered his lower arms. Despite his upper body stockiness, his waist was trim, presumably from the morning workouts he did while Callie jogged to her death. He dug his hand into his pants pocket and jangled his keys.

“Is this a bad time?” she said. “Skye said Callie's sister would probably be here.”

“Were you talking to Skye?”

“Didn't she tell you?”

“No.” He glanced at his watch. “I can spare a few minutes for Callie's best friend.”

She hadn't been such a best friend lately. Above them, a chandelier dangled from the twenty foot ceiling. The mahogany staircase rose straight to the second-floor landing, which was bordered by a railing. Isabelle loped down the hall from the kitchen.

“I gather you and Callie grew up together in Montreal,” Sam said.

“She knows my father and Aunt Dorothy,” Isabelle said. “Where are you going, Sam?”

“To meet friends for dinner.”

“It's only three o'clock.”

“Don't you have to get to work? In fact, shouldn't you have left an hour ago?”

“I quit.”

Sam's eyebrows rose. “Since when?”

Isabelle touched the bead of her navel ring. “Last night. I asked the manager for time off, on account of my aunt being killed. He said I could have a half day for the funeral and that was it.”

“We can talk about it later,” Sam said.

“He's a retard,” Isabelle continued. “He didn't give a shit that I'm in mourning. I told him, ‘fuck you' and split. He better pay me for the time I worked.”

To avoid appearing like an eavesdropper, Paula studied the living room that was framed by an arch. A white love seat and two chairs grouped in front of a fireplace, above which hung a painting of a beach café. An oriental carpet accented the oak floor and cranberry walls. She glimpsed the corner of a grand piano.

Isabelle tapped her bare foot. “I was hoping you'd be here for supper, Sam. Daddy will go ballistic when he finds out I quit.”

“He doesn't know?” Sam said.

“I might tell him tomorrow.”

“I'll be glad to miss that conversation.” Sam looked at Paula. “Sorry about the interruption. When did you move to Calgary? Callie didn't—”

“I don't need that crappy job,” Isabelle said. “It was even shittier than the one at the pizza place.”

“I won't keep you any longer,” Paula told Sam.

“We'll have you to dinner another time,” he said, “when this is over.”

“You can show me all you've done with the house.”

“We haven't done much this past month. When were you last here?”

“This is my first time. Callie said you didn't want visitors until all the renovations were finished.”

“We'd never have any company if we waited that long.”

Isabelle touched Sam's arm. “Can I take Callie's car this afternoon?”

“What for?” he said.

“To look for work.” Isabelle's hand lingered on his skin.

Sam didn't flinch. Nor did he shake the hand off.

His eyes crinkled. “I thought you were in mourning.”

Isabelle's fingers drifted from his arm. His shadowed eyes aside, Sam seemed too glib or relaxed or something for a man whose wife was murdered yesterday.

“I really must leave,” Paula said.

Sam and Isabelle didn't argue. They followed her onto the porch.

“Where did you park?” Sam squinted at the street.

“I walked along—” She stopped herself from saying “the Elbow path.”

Sunlight glanced off Sam's wedding ring. His hair was fluffing and drying to a blend of black and gray.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he asked.

“Thanks, no.” Although it would be nice to avoid the trek home.

“So, can I borrow Callie's car?” Isabelle edged toward Sam.

He didn't step back. “No one else is driving it,” he said. “But this time you're paying for any parking tickets.”

Isabelle darted into the house. Sam raised his eyebrows at Paula. Was this to show exasperation? They headed down the driveway.

“I guess I'll see you at the funeral,” she said. “When is it?”

“Monday. I'd have preferred later, but Callie's sister has to leave the next day.” He pressed the code for the automatic garage door. “Sorry I have to cut out like this. I've got these friends waiting.”

Since she had already delayed him, she didn't say she had changed her mind about his offer of the drive. His red car cruised past as she walked down the shaded Riverdale street to the trail. Evidently, Isabelle had been living with Callie and Sam long enough to find and lose two jobs. It seemed she intended to remain alone in the house with Sam, who didn't appear to object. Nor did he object to her touching his arm. When he had said “we” would have her to dinner, did he mean him and Isabelle?

Had Callie lied about Sam's not wanting visitors during the renovation? And what about those get-togethers, allegedly canceled because of Sam's work? Had Callie purposely kept her away from Sam and the house? Why? So she wouldn't see what was going on? Or was Sam the one who lied? Interesting that he had remembered seeing her in the photograph.

Her legs ached as she rounded the Stampede grounds. It was possible neither one had lied. It might be miscommunication. Sam and Isabelle might be types who touch everyone naturally. Sam hadn't looked embarrassed, like he had been found out, and his attitude toward Isabelle seemed paternal. Paternal could be sick. If Callie had phoned her Monday to discuss a problem, she bet it was related to this pair.

She reached her street, dying to guzzle water. Walter leaned on a rake, gossiping with two men in business suits. They might be Mormon missionaries who could keep him occupied while she slipped into her house. Walter pointed at her. The men wore colored shirts, which was unusual for Mormons.

The tall, broad one strode toward her. “Ma'am.” He held up a wallet folder. “I'm Detective Michael Vincelli. This is Detective Brian Novak, from the Calgary Police. We're investigating the murder of Calandra Moss.”

His shorter companion also flashed an
ID
and badge she was too startled to read.

“They were by this morning, looking for you,” Walter said. “I didn't know then they were cops, since they weren't in uniform.”

The older detective returned his wallet to his pocket. He had a ruddy complexion and looked around her age, in his early fifties. “We'd like to ask you a few questions. Can we step inside?”

“I told them you'd only lived here a month,” Walter said. “And didn't know nothing about the murder when I talked to you yesterday.”

“My neighbor's right. I first heard about it on the news.”

“You heard it from me,” Walter said.

“You are an acquaintance of Callie Moss?” the tall man said. He wasn't much older than thirty, with a fashionable stubble beard and shaved head. What did he say his name was?

She glanced at Walter, who looked thrilled by her connection to the case. “Callie and I are friends,” she said. “We were friends, I mean.”

“When did you last see her?” the young detective said.

“March.”

“Have you spoken since then?”

“She left a phone message this week. I didn't return it, unfortunately.”

Walter squeezed between the larger men. The dark sedan parked behind his pickup must belong to them. They wore suits and drove an unmarked car. The older one's gut bulged above his belt. Weren't policemen required to keep in shape? How did she know they weren't frauds trying to insinuate their way into her house for a sinister reason?