by Susan Calder
“What’s the matter?” Anne said.
“She’s gone. There’s no one in my life to replace her.”
Two minute cool down scrolled across the elliptical panel. Anne maintained her pedaling pace. She always worked vigorously to the end.
“My best memories of Callie are of us being silly,” Paula said. “Like that night we went out drinking to celebrate my divorce. I told you about that. We wound up running along Stephen Avenue downtown shouting, ‘Death to all husbands.’ I can’t believe I did that, even when drunk.”
“You stumbled into a cop and collapsed in hysterics.”
“He threatened to drag us off to jail. Instead, he put us in a cab and sent us home. I told him drunkenly he’d restored my faith in men.”
Paula stepped off the elliptical machine. “Now that she’s dead, all my petty jealousies seem like a waste of time. I was even jealous of Leah’s preference for her, that year after we moved to Calgary. I’m glad I forgot about that when the detectives were grilling me.”
Anne led them to ab-cruncher. “I’m sure Leah didn’t prefer her—
“She rubbed it in about how much more fun Callie was, more like a friend than—”
“Normal teenage rebellion,” Anne said.
They lay down on the benches and moved up and down in sync.
“Leah blamed me for dragging her here, away from all her friends in Montreal,” Paula said. “She let Gary off the hook, although it was as much his fault.”
“Kids are never fair,” Anne said.
Even at the time, Paula understood Leah’s need to heap all the blame on her, so she wouldn’t feel betrayed by both parents. It didn’t stop Paula from being hurt, and holding back anger wasn’t her strong suit. She pulled her body higher to attack her abdominal muscles. So many words she would take back, so much she would change. “I wish I’d said ‘screw work’ and gone with Leah, Callie, and Skye for that girls’ week in Palm Springs. It would have been fun to have had that time together. I might have got grunge.”
Anne turned sideways, her heart-shaped face sweaty and perplexed. Paula faced her to work the obliques.
“In Palm Springs, they saw a grunge band in a club,” Paula explained.
“What, exactly, is grunge?” Anne said.
“Beats me.”
“Could be Dimitri’s ear-splitting teenage music,” Anne said. “That reminds me, a reporter interviewed him today while he was leaving Sam’s house. The clip should be on the eleven o’clock news.”
Dressed for bed, Paula flicked on the tv and collapsed into the sofa cushion. Outdoors, a vehicle made a U-turn on her street. Its headlights scanned her dark living room. The light stung her eyes. She was desperate for sleep, but couldn’t miss the nightly news for Dimitri’s interview and any updates on the murder.
Due to Callie’s involvement with Sam, Paula had followed Dimitri’s political career through the right wing Reform-turned-Alliance-turned-Conservative party. During his election campaign, the newspaper ran a profile piece in which the interviewer questioned him about his illegitimate birth. Dimitri spun his answer into support of family values by remarking he was glad his parents didn’t abort him. The next day a left-leaning columnist implied Dimitri’s parents had made an unfortunate choice. The columnist’s remark inspired a couple of letters-to-the-editor.
On the screen, the news anchor reported on a hostage’s reunion with her family, after days of captivity in Iraq. He segued to a report about United States veterans who opposed a monument honoring draft dodgers in Nelson, BC. Shots of the picturesque mountain town. A sketch of the proposed statue. It could be a half hour before they got to the local stories.
The anchor returned to the screen. “Federal Conservative member of parliament Dimitri Moss was shocked yesterday by the murder of his stepmother.”
Paula jerked forward.
“Zoë Jensen talked to Mr. Moss at his father’s Calgary residence.”
Bathed in sunlight, Dimitri spoke into a microphone. He looked down, not at the reporter or the camera. “I was in my office, answering constituents’ mail. My father came in and suggested we go for a coffee. He hadn’t done that before, but I didn’t think anything of it. I’d heard about the murder on the radio. Names weren’t mentioned. I had no idea.” His voice trailed.
He wore a leather jacket and held a motorcycle helmet. His hair was thinning on top. Otherwise, he seemed a younger version of Sam; same muscular build and strong cheekbones. Dimitri stood in front of a bow window with closed blinds. The reporter asked for his reaction to the news.
“Disbelief,” he said. “I last saw Callie on Labor Day weekend, less than three weeks before it happened, at a barbecue with family and friends. She was full of life.”
“How would you describe your stepmother, as a person?”
He looked up. “She wasn’t my stepmother. She was my father’s wife. There was no reason for anyone to kill her.”
“Your party advocates stiffer penalties for criminals. How will this experience influence your views on that issue?”
Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. He looked ready to bark out an angry reply.
“I have always been tough on crime,” he said. “Nothing has changed.”
The reporter signed off. Calgary police had reported no new developments on the case.
So, Dimitri didn’t accept Callie as his stepmother. Why would he? He was thirty when his father/friend married her. Still, his response had been sharp, his answer to the crime question sharper. The newspaper profile had referred to his temper as a trait he struggled to control. Callie had confirmed that, adding she thought Sam spoiled him, giving him everything he wanted. Anne worried about his motorcycle riding. He wasn’t reckless, she said, but bikes were intrinsically dangerous. The telephone rang. Paula jumped up. It was after eleven. Who would phone at this hour? She hurried to the kitchen. “Hello?”
No one spoke. Someone had called and hung up early this morning, too.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
The line went dead.
Chapter Six
Paula finished her morning coffee, her mind numb from two sleepless nights. She got Detective Vincelli’s business card from the telephone cabinet. Two hang-up phone calls the day after Callie died might be a coincidence, but Vincelli had told her to phone about anything possibly connected to the murder. Thank God, none had blasted her awake this morning, and Hayden would be staying over tonight. The doorbell made her jump. She glanced at the wall clock. Five past ten. Hayden wouldn’t have finished his work already. She hurried through the living room. On tiptoes, she peered through the front door window. The opaque glass obscured the tall, bald man in a business suit—Detective Vincelli.
“I was passing by on my way to the station,” he said.
“Is there some news about the murder?”
“Nothing significant. I can only stay a minute.” His face looked as tired as hers had this morning in the bathroom mirror. His beard stubble was moving from fashionable to unkempt.
She cinched her bathrobe belt and patted her bed hair. “I was going to call you about some phone calls I received.”
“Yesterday morning and last night shortly after eleven o’clock?”
“How did you know about them?”
“They were sent from Callie’s cell phone.”
She gripped the belt, trying to take this in. Callie had her cell with her when she died. If someone was using the phone now . . . “Did the killer take the phone and gun?”
“The cell might have been dropped and picked up by someone else.”
Or the murderer had phoned her last night. Hello. Hello? she had said into the line.
“Did the caller say anything?” Vincelli asked.
“Nothing. The line sounded dead, both times.”
“What about breathing?”
“No, I hung up fast. Why would the killer phone me?”
“We don’t know that’s who it was.”
Sweat beads flecked his be
ard stubble, despite the cool air flowing into the house. She stepped back to let him into the entranceway.
“Your number was the last one Callie phoned,” he said. “Someone likely pressed redial as a joke.”
“Twice? At sixteen-hour intervals?”
“Did you hear any background sounds? Music? Mumbled voices? Think carefully.”
She twisted the belt around her fingers. “I’m sure there was nothing. Why would the murderer joke around with the phone?”
“Why not? The calls would be traced to Callie’s cell, not to the person who placed them.”
“You could trace them to a cell phone tower.”
“That didn’t tell us enough.”
“Did he do it to scare me? Was it a threat?”
He pulled his tie, as though he found it choking his neck. “Callie may have, inadvertently, placed you in a difficult position. Several people we spoke with had the impression you were her main confidante. It appears she exaggerated the level of your recent friendship.”
“To whom? Sam? He called me her best friend.”
“She told someone she was having lunch with you this week.”
“We didn’t because I didn’t return her call.”
“Who’s to know you didn’t?”
Now, would he want her alibi for every noon hour this week?
“We don’t think Callie was worried about being murdered,” he said. “But supposing the two of you had met and Callie had said ‘so-and-so’s doing this or saying that or otherwise causing me grief.’”
“I would have given her advice, as best I could.”
“And if she hadn’t taken it, or did take it and was killed?”
“I would have told you about it yesterday, when you questioned me.”
“You might have withheld information to spare her embarrassment.”
“I didn’t.” Her voice cracked. She glared up at him. “Are you accusing me again?”
“What if it was subtle?” he said. “Suppose, last week or last month or last year Callie said something, a throw-away remark, that seems trivial, even to us, but with new facts could turn out to be significant. People often know more than they think.”
“I don’t know anything. I’ve been racking my brain over this for two nights.”
“The bad guy doesn’t know that,” he said. “For all anyone knows, she told you, her close friend, the one piece of information that would break open the case. Someone out there may be worried you know too much.”
“The person who phoned me?”
“One call could have been someone pressing the redial button by accident or to see whose name comes up. A second call sends a message. That’s why I advise you to be on guard.”
She leaned against the console table, rubbing her throat.
“Let us know instantly about any behavior that strikes you as strange: if someone you hardly know probes you with questions or rings your doorbell or meets you by accident on the river pathway, which I would advise you to stay away from, at all times of the day.”
“Yesterday, you thought I’d killed her. Now, you suggest I may be the next victim?”
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “It’s a matter of taking care. Your office is in a seedy neighborhood. Don’t go there alone. Don’t go at all after dark. Don’t walk around this neighborhood at night. Continue to park on the street, not in your lane, so you come in by the front of the house.”
Vincelli bent over to study her doorknob. He gave it a hard turn.
She shivered under her robe. “Are you purposely trying to scare me?”
“This lock looks solid. I’ll check the kitchen door, too. Do you have bars on your basement windows?”
“No.”
“You should install them. Everyone should. It’s common sense.”
“I haven’t had time. I’ve just moved in. I didn’t expect . . .”
He took several short breaths. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.” His face relaxed; his voice turned soothing, like a doctor reassuring a patient. “It’s wise to be prudent, but you probably aren’t in immediate danger.”
“Probably?” she said.
“Not yet.”
In her dark living room, Paula snuggled against Hayden on the sofa. He flicked off the DVD.
“I’m not sure I bought that ending,” he said. “Did you?”
She had lost the plot midway, not being able to focus more than a few minutes. “The movie was meant to be light.”
He had chosen the romantic comedy, to take her mind off the murder.
“Even light could use a little meat,” he said.
“I forgot to tell you Leah invited us for lunch tomorrow.”
“What horrible vegetarian concoction are they planning this time?”
“She wants me to help her install a closet organizer.”
“She and Jarrett can’t handle that?”
“Jarrett pick up a hammer and nail?”
“True.”
“Besides, as Leah says, organizing’s my thing.” She cocked her head at him.
He seized the opportunity for a kiss. His mouth tasted of buttery popcorn and the garlic sausage they’d had for supper.
“You don’t have to go to Leah’s,” she said.
“I swear, when this trial is done, you come first.” He ran his hands down her back. “Can you get time off this November?”
“Why?”
“What would you say to a week in the Caribbean?”
This would be their first trip together. She closed her eyes and pictured turquoise waves on a crescent beach. Palm trees. The water lapping white sand. Waves unearthing a body on the beach. Callie’s body on the Elbow River Trail. Isabelle’s hand grazing Sam’s bare arm. Detective Vincelli’s deep voice: You probably aren’t in immediate danger; not yet.
Hayden raised her T-shirt above her head. Focus. Forget the rest, for a moment. One moment. She unbuttoned Hayden’s shirt. Was Isabelle doing this to Sam at the moment, in Callie’s house? Focus. Focus. She kissed Hayden’s hairy chest. Did Sam’s chest feel like this? Different? From the cling of Sam’s polo shirt, his chest looked firmer than Hayden’s. Sam’s hand through the flowers had felt warm, warm from the shower, and moist. Hayden’s were dry. His breathing grew heavy, garlicky hot. This was not going to work, not for her, tonight. She pressed her lips into his. Fake it.
Sunday, after breakfast, Hayden left for the office. Paula paid an impromptu visit to the liability claimant who still hadn’t returned her calls. His house was a two-story split, with side-facing garage. His front door was open, with the screen door letting in air.
As she rang the bell, a man appeared. “I thought I heard someone.”
She introduced herself.
“Oh yeah, I was meaning to call.” He pushed past her, onto the driveway, and pointed up to the garage roof. “There’s where my neighbor fell from.” He led her around the garage to the grassy side.
The garage roof was one-story, with long eaves. If the neighbor had landed with a lucky roll, he might have escaped with a few bruises, as opposed to the concussion and broken arm. Paula asked the homeowner what happened.
“I got my neighbor to help me put up Christmas lights,” he said.
“In September?”
“This is Calgary. You take your good weather when you can.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I laid a string of lights on the garage roof, by the eaves, and asked him to come over and help me string the higher up ones.”
“Can you show me where?”
He trotted to the driveway and pointed to the Christmas lights hooked to the eaves overhanging the second story. “I asked him to bring me the hammer and forgot to tell him about the string in the way.”
“Shouldn’t he have noticed it?”
“I’m the one who put it there. He was doing me a favor. It was getting dark.”
“What do you mean by dark? Was this after dinner?”
“That’s when he was available.”
They went inside so she could take a written statement. The man’s wife hovered nearby, offering coffee and cookies, which Paula refused so she wouldn’t spoil her lunch at Leah’s. The wife hadn’t witnessed the incident; nor had anyone else, to the couples’ knowledge. The husband had driven their injured neighbor to emergency.
“I feel so guilty,” the wife kept saying. “I hate them going on the roof.”
“Do they do it often?” Paula asked.
The husband shot his wife a glance. She pursed her lips.
“How often?”
“We went up the once to hang up lights.”
His wife nodded in agreement.
The injured man lived directly across the street. His wife answered Paula’s ring and directed her to the backyard. The man reclined in a lounge chair reading a book, his right arm in a cast. He held a beer in his left hand. His torso looked stiff. Bruised ribs. He told Paula to pull up a chair and offered her a beer.
“No thanks.” She took out her notebook and asked for his version of the incident.
“We were putting up Christmas lights . . .” His statement matched his friend’s almost word for word. He told her his work in graphic design was largely done by computer and raised his right arm. “Can’t type. My thinking feels off, too.”
“In what way?”
“Hard to explain. It’s like the lines don’t link. I’m seeing my doctor about it this week.”
“Ask him to fill out a medical report. We’ll reimburse you the cost.” Paula handed him her business card.
She knocked on their adjacent neighbors’ doors. No one who was in had witnessed the fall. A man had heard about it, but couldn’t add anything. A woman had once seen the injured man carry a case of beer to the homeowner’s house. Paula asked if she’d known the pair to go up regularly to the roof.