by Susan Calder
Moss was known locally for her charity work. She co-chaired the 1997 Fundraiser for Children with Cancer. Sam Moss is an internationally renowned architect. Her former husband, Kenneth Unsworth, president and CEO of Unsworth Oil Ltd., was twice honored as Calgary’s entrepreneur of the year. She leaves a son, Cameron Unsworth, an award-winning graphic artist, and a daughter, Skye Ravenshaw, a Calgary actress and winner of this year’s Betty award for supporting actress.
Family members reported that Moss was in the habit of going out alone for morning jogs. “We’re both early risers,” Sam Moss told police. “I work out most days in the basement before work. I assumed Callie was jogging through our neighborhood. It never occurred to me that she would run on the (Elbow River) pathway before dawn.”
He wasn’t surprised when his wife didn’t return home for breakfast. “I saw no reason to worry about her being out at that hour. I’ve always considered Calgary to be a safe city.” He didn’t report her missing.
An autopsy will be performed today. Preliminary evidence shows no indication of struggle or sexual assault. Homicide police are investigating.
No sexual assault, thank God, but what was the motive? Robbery? You wouldn’t expect a jogger to carry much cash.
Strange that the article mentioned Callie’s old volunteer work and made no reference to her current pursuit of a masters degree in music. Yet it highlighted Sam’s, Kenneth’s, Cameron’s, and Skye’s achievements. Callie was more than the wife of two alpha men and the mother of alpha children.
Sam hadn’t realized his wife was missing. The police must have shown up at his office with the dreadful news and taken him to the morgue to identify the body. It had probably fallen to him to contact Callie’s children, her sister in Toronto, her brother in Montreal, any close friends, and possibly her ex-husband Kenneth.
Paula had to call Sam. The article said he was an early riser, but he might be sleeping late after a troubled night. First, she would shower and dress, then phone Gary at his office. Her ex would want to know that the murder victim was their friend.
She got Gary’s voice mail. “Thanks for phoning last night,” she said. “Yes, the murder has shaken me up. Call if you want to talk.”
She tried Sam’s house next. To her surprise, a woman answered.
“He’s not in,” the woman said. “Who’s calling?” Callie’s voice.
It was all a mistake. Another body had been falsely identified. Callie was alive. Don’t be stupid.
“Is anyone there?” the young woman said.
“Skye? Is that you?”
“Uh huh.”
“It . . . it’s Paula. Paula Savard, your mother’s friend.”
“You and a hundred others.”
“Pardon?”
“Now that she’s dead, people are phoning non-stop, claiming they were her friends. Why weren’t you there for her when she was alive?”
The answering machine’s “01” message stared up at Paula. If she had returned that Monday call, she and Callie might have met for lunch and Callie might have told her . . . what?
“Skye, I’m so sorry about your mother,” she said. “The last time I saw her was at your play. Congratulations, by the way, on the Betty award. I phoned Callie when I heard. She wasn’t home. I left a—”
“Look, Paula, I can’t chat with you now. We’re up to our fucking ears in funeral arrangements.”
Paula’s stomach knotted. “Are you staying with Sam?”
“Why would I do that?” The voice was Callie’s with an edge.
“I thought, maybe—”
“My aunt drags me over here to discuss funerals, and then Sam buggers off.”
The knot tightened. “Will he be back soon?”
“He didn’t say.”
“I’ll leave my number for him to call. Do you have a paper and pen?” Skye’s aunt would be Callie’s sister. Paula hadn’t seen her in twenty years. The funeral might be too formal and pressured for a genuine talk. “Will there be a visitation?”
“We decided not to go through with that.” Skye’s voice drifted from the phone. “Where the fuck do they keep pens around here?”
Paula looked out at the garage thermometer. It was already pushing toward sixty degrees.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll come over for a short visit. Will you be there this afternoon?”
“Not me.”
“Will your aunt?”
“I don’t imagine she’s going anywhere.”
“Sam?”
“Who knows about him?” There was a bite to the tone.
Clearly, Skye was not impressed with Sam’s behavior. His “buggering off” was odd. Or it might not be. People expressed grief differently. Lashing out was typical of Skye, who had inherited her mother’s voice and delicate features, but not her temperament. Skye and Callie had often clashed, but Callie had been proud of her daughter’s spirit. It was natural that Skye would be upset by her mother’s shocking death and annoyed by ghoulish public interest.
Paula had promised Anne she’d be at the fitness center this afternoon, but could postpone that to the evening. Meanwhile, she had to get to work.
Seated at her office desk, Paula skimmed the hit-and-run claim that had come in this morning. Damage along the vehicle’s right side. Time of accident: 11:50 PM. Driver states it was too dark and happened too fast for him to identify that car that sideswiped him. Minor whiplash.
Paula phoned for the police report; she called an appraiser to inspect the vehicle at the garage and left a message on the claimant’s voice mail to arrange a meeting. A junior adjuster could have handled that. She would talk to Nils, her boss, again and insist he hire the next good candidate who came along. It wasn’t fair of him to saddle her with routine work, while he grabbed the fun claims for himself. Right now, Nils was at a construction site examining a building that had collapsed.
She moved on to the liability claim: a neighbor fell off the homeowner’s roof. Neither the insured nor the claimant had returned her Tuesday call. Shit. A junior adjuster would have followed it up. Nils’ fussiness was dragging the business down. The claimant sustained a concussion, broken arm, and bruised ribs. What was he doing on the roof? The file didn’t say. One story or two? The fall could have resulted in worse, so much worse. He was lucky.
Unlike Callie. She’d had no luck, at the end. Paula rapped her pen on the folder. From her bookshelf, Hayden and her daughters gazed from photographs. In Paula’s favourite one, Leah’s head leaned into Erin’s, dark hair against fair, hazel eyes and blue. They were laughing, loving sisters, for the moment, despite their differences and frequent scraps. Paula had no sister. Callie was as close to a sister as she would get. Now Callie was gone. Forever. The end. Paula blinked and swallowed tears.
Chapter Three
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. Wh
at 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.�
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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?