by Susan Calder
“What was your impression of him?” Mike asked.
“He’s who Caspar Becker might have been.”
“Huh?” Mike suggested they meet to discuss the case further. Like her, though, he was tied up the next day.
“Monday?” Paula said. “If we finish by eleven, I’ll have plenty of time to take my mother to the Stampede grounds.”
“I’ve booked the day off to look after my nephew. I suppose my neighbour could take him, although I hate to impose on her again.”
“Bring him to the grounds,” she joked. “We’ll hash over the Beckers between the rides and shows and minidoughnuts.”
“I wouldn’t intrude on you and your mother.” He sounded as serious as Florence had when asking her to clean. “He and I will go another day.”
“Monday’s as good as any.”
“Better than Kids’ Day. Now, that’s wild. We made that mistake last year.”
“My mother would love your company.”
“If you’re sure.”
Astonishing that Mike, normally so reserved, had leaped at her throwaway offer. This would be their first nonbusiness get-together. Well, part business.
“My nephew will be thrilled,” Mike said. “Good luck with Florence tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight
“I can’t believe it’s only been three days,” Paula said in the restaurant.
“That’s part of the spice, don’t you think?” Sam said. “Time apart yields ‘wow’ when we get together.”
“Will we lose that if we’re together full time?”
“Something better will replace it.”
Paula opened the menu. “My mother thinks my holding back on committing to the house renovation is about clinging to past hurts.”
“We all do that. You can’t avoid it.”
Sam’s mother had died when he was in his late teens. Paula doubted his father had said more than ten kind words to him in his life. His only sibling, a brother, lived in Vancouver. He and Sam talked about once a year. It all explained Sam’s history of failed romantic relationships, but it didn’t mean she had to throw her lot in with him.
“I think she’s wrong about that,” Paula said. “But I’m starting to see the advantage of befriending objects over people. They don’t talk back.”
The waiter appeared. He poured the wine into their glasses and took their food orders. Paula brought Sam up to date on the Becker claim with as much detail as she could without compromising the police case. The conversation then shifted to Sam’s major work project, a proposal for an office-retail complex in Brno, Czech Republic. Winning the international competition would be huge coup for the firm that he and his partner, Henry, had started last winter.
“Caves,” Sam said. “There are several famous ones near Brno that I’d like to evoke in the building design. Underground formations, passages and rivers. Henry and I have, basically, nailed down the practical details. What’s missing is the thing that will jump our bid out of the pack.”
“The wow.”
“I’m stuck on caves and something involving the Holocaust. The complex is in a former Jewish neighbourhood.”
His face glowed and excitement permeated his voice as he got into architectural mechanics. Insurance hadn’t brought her much passion until her recent involvement in cases of suspicious deaths. She’d often wondered why they pumped her up so much more than other claims, which essentially involved the same investigative work, and had concluded it was the higher stakes. Potential dangers and risks gave her a rush. Who knew she was an adrenalin junkie? It was also the stakes for the people she dealt with. Sudden death under tragic circumstances struck the victim’s loved ones to the core of their beings. She could help them find some resolution. As Mike had said, you do it for the family.
She gave up on trying to grasp Sam’s obscure architectural talk and mulled over the contrast between him and Johnny Becker. Sam could be fun loving but was also focused and directed. His naturally upturned lips and laugh wrinkles gave him a more wholesome look than Johnny, despite Johnny’s Irish Colleen nose. Sam still looked young for his fifty-three years, although she wondered if his salt-and-pepper hair had grown greyer since they met ten months ago. Sam said this was due to the lighter gel he was using on his short spikes.
“Sorry.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve been rambling on.”
“Don’t stop. I’m interested.”
Sam’s architecture passion improved the physical world. His enthusiasm for renovating her home was an aberration. In his work he favoured building from scratch to avoid dealing with the baggage. Garner rescued and repaired abandoned objects to give them new purpose. Caspar hoarded, creating nothing. There was some kind of metaphor in all this. Or was she drinking too much?
“Caves and the Holocaust,” she mused. “That’s a tough one. Or maybe not, symbolically.”
Sam swirled a piece of bread in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “It might have been a mistake for me to move into Henry’s studio. When I’m living and working in his backyard, I can’t get away from the proposal. My thinking is in a rut.”
“You can always crash on the bed you’ve stored in my basement.”
“I’ve got a contractor who can start our reno August first.”
“So soon?”
The waiter brought their soups; minestrone for him, roasted red pepper for her.
“I can’t get ready in three weeks,” she said.
“What’s to get ready? We’ll have the proposal done by then.”
“Where will I live while they rip open my roof?”
“With me, in Henry’s studio. Together we’ll rut like rabbits.”
It would be practical to get the exteriors completed before fall. “Give me a week or two to decide.”
“We’ll need to tell him sooner,” Sam said. “I’m worried he’ll go with a bigger job.”
The waiter swooped in to ask how they were enjoying their first bites.
“Terrific, as always,” Sam said.
Paula tried her soup. “The right blend of sweet and tart. I’m glad I went for something different.” She extended her spoon to give Sam a taste. He held her hand to steady it, his touch warm, firm and gentle.
“It’s great we have all of tomorrow free,” he said.
“Not quite. I arranged to meet Florence Becker in the afternoon, after I pick up my mother from Erin’s.”
They finished their soup. The waiter collected their bowls.
“I owe my father a visit,” Sam said. “Why don’t I go get your mother and take her to his place? She can meet both of us Moss men in one shot.”
“Don’t feel you owe me for standing us up last night.”
“It’s easier seeing him with someone else around.”
Sam often brought her along as a buffer, not that this stopped his father from constantly criticizing Sam and accusing him of never doing anything for him. The reality was that Sam saw him at least once a week and took care of all kinds of matters, like paying half of his father’s city tax bill. The miserly coot deducted amounts for civic expenditures he disagreed with.
“I’ve been thinking about your family of hoarders,” Sam said. “It’s ironic they operated a housecleaning business.”
“It seems the first generation moved the merchandise they received from wealthy employers. The castoffs became cheaper and got stuck at the second generation.” Paula topped up their wine glasses. “I have a question for you. Hypothetically,” she added, to keep on the good side of homicide, “You’ve hired cleaning women, and, to be nonsexist, I should say men as well.”
“They were always women.”
“The Becker men, Caspar and his father, worked in the business, but they might have done heavier jobs, like washing walls and floors.”
“Some of those women I hired had impressive biceps.”
“What would you do if one of them stole from you?”
“If I was sure she did?”
“Or suspected. Did that ever happ
en?”
“I always hired ones recommended by neighbours or friends. A cleaning person who stole wouldn’t last long in the business.”
“That answers my question.”
“Which is?”
“Could you operate a successful home-cleaning company while stealing from your employers?”
Sam paused over his wine. “Cleaners work for too many different people. One would be bound to notice money or a watch or whatever missing and report it to the cops, or at least fire the person and tell their friends not to hire them and refuse to give referrals. I can’t see a crooked worker lasting long.”
“A cleaning business lives and dies on word of mouth.”
“Especially a small operation,” Sam said. “I assume this is somehow related to the Becker claim.”
“Hypothetically.”
Their entrees arrived. Paula was experimenting with the eggplant cannelloni, while Sam had gone for his usual veal parmigiana. Since spring Sam had been nagging her to hire a cleaning person, which went against the grain of her upbringing.
“We can afford it,” he had argued. “We’ll pay well. They need the money and work. We’ll be doing them a service.”
Her mother would call it laziness to spend money on work you can and should do yourself. If Paula and Sam lived together, she couldn’t expect him to gladly pitch in on tasks he was against wasting time on, but she was bound to resent doing them all herself.
In his car Sam told her he’d brought a box of Henry’s old architecture magazines for her neighbour Walter.
“Why?”
“He said he’d be interested in them.”
“When were you talking to Walter?” she asked.
“When I came by to verify my measurements for the new porch.”
As they pulled up behind Walter’s pickup, Paula wasn’t surprised to see his face peering out his front window. Sam promised to deal with him quickly. He opened the trunk to get the box.
Walter hobbled toward them. “What do you think of—?”
Sam shoved the box into his arms. Walter tottered. Paula caught him before he fell.
Walter peered into the open box. “The wife will be tickled by these.”
“She reads them?” Paula asked.
“Gives her ideas for our place.”
Paula had imagined Walter’s décor closer to Becker than Architectural Digest. Now she was curious to see it. “Do you have a problem with your leg?”
“Turned my ankle.”
The pointed toes of his cowboy boots stuck out from below the hem of his jeans.
“You might switch to safer shoes,” Paula said.
Sam offered to carry the box into Walter’s house. Paula left them and walked through her gate, up the stairs, into her home. Next month, if they started the renovation, she would smell sawdust when she entered. The wall between the living room and kitchen would be torn down to create an expanded kitchen with a dining area. She’d miss sitting at her old table, looking out the back window at her crab apple tree. Perching on a bar stool at the island wouldn’t be the same. Why was she so attached to a little house she had lived in for less than a year? Because she’d bought the place loving it as it was with no desire for changes, the biggest change being Sam. He burst into the house.
“That was quick,” she said. “What’s Walter’s décor like?”
“I didn’t get past the entrance. It was plain.”
She looked at the floor. “I wonder if my mother’s right that ceramic tile will be too hard for standing on for long periods of time.”
“How much time do we spend cooking?”
Her mother criticized their proposed granite counter as equally hard yet porous enough to let in potentially hazardous liquids. Stainless steel appliances, in her view, were industrial looking and a bother to keep clean due to fingerprints. Blinds were less homey than ruffled curtains.
“I suppose my desire for coziness comes from my mother,” Paula said.
“Let’s get cozy in your bedroom.”
“Do you want coffee?”
Sam took her into his arms and waltzed her down the hall. She inhaled his oregano and spicy aromas.
“Paula, I’ve missed you.” He spun her toward the bed and clunked into the dresser.
“Are you hurt?”
“That’s why we need a huge bedroom.” He raised his arms into a wide V-shape.
She studied the room that barely contained her dresser and queen-sized bed. “No space here to swing a cat.”
He glanced at the ceiling. “I was rethinking the master bedroom plan—”
She kissed him quiet. He nuzzled her ear, sending quivers down her arms. She had worn the low-cut sun dress he liked best and a necklace rather than a bandana.
He nibbled her neck to her collarbone and fumbled for her back zipper. “Why would you want to swing a cat? I never did get that.”
“No deep thinking, or I’ll kiss you again.”
He drew her lips to his, slid her dress down her body, unclasped her bra. She pulled his polo shirt over his head and hair that was still mostly pepper shade. Their chests pressed together, naked. She loved him. Who wanted a cozy one-person home? This was better, so much better.
* * *
After they had eaten brunch on her sunny deck, Paula kissed Sam goodbye. He agreed they could wait a week before giving the contractor the go ahead for the reno.
“I want you to be completely sure,” he said.
Paula arrived early at the Becker house thanks to light Sunday traffic. From the number of cars on the street it looked like a party was going on. She parked between Johnny’s pickup and a white Civic similar to Leah’s. A van with fender rust stood in the driveway beside an even older Corolla. On the front lawn, people milled between microwave ovens arranged in rows like grave stones. The sign on one of them said ‘$10—it works!’ Others had signs saying ‘Free—Start button broken’ or whatever its problem was. Behind the screen door, the damaged front door stood open. No Becker in sight. A woman made a beeline through the appliance graveyard to a black microwave. She rested her foot on it to stake her claim. The man following her continued to the enormous glass jar by the front steps. He dropped in a bill.
The van’s rear windows were too darkly tinted for Paula to see through to a platform bed, but this had to belong to Brendan. Down the stairs at the side of the house, the door to his middle apartment was open against the fence. Paula stepped past the money jar with the sign: ‘Pay Here. No Cheatin’.’ She pressed Florence’s door buzzer. No sound. Its being broken would account for Johnny’s not hearing the firemen ring the night of the fire. She knocked on the aluminum, knocked harder, tried to open the screen door. Locked. Down the hall a woman was striding toward her. Brown hair threaded with grey, cropped unstylishly; wrinkled, tanned face, the woman was easily seventy, Florence’s age. Paula introduced herself.
Florence’s maroon shirt sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Dust coated her hands, arms and jeans. “If you want to talk to your daughter first, she’s downstairs.”
Paula turned toward the white Civic on the street. “Why is Leah here?”
“She had something to give Brendan. When she knocked, I assumed it was you. She said the insurance adjuster was her mother.”
“Yes, I’ll talk to Leah first.”
Florence squinted. “You two do resemble one another.”
At the side of the house, Paula bumped into Leah coming up the stairs. They gripped arms to steady themselves.
“What were you bringing to Brendan?” Paula asked.
“A portfolio. Mom, I can’t talk now. I’m late for work.” Leah wore yesterday’s sheer top over her bandana halter.
Downhill, Brendan poked his head out of his doorway. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face.
Leah pecked Paula’s cheek. “Bye, Mom. Talk to you later.” She darted down the driveway, her mini jean skirt kicking up behind her.
Paula marched down to Brendan’s landing. In
addition to the mask, he wore work gloves, a T-shirt with decals too faded to read and jeans ripped at the thigh. A faint odour of decay flowed from his living room crammed with bicycles, paintings, hockey sticks and goalie pads.
“Why did Leah come to see you?” Paula asked.
“To….”
“What?”
Brendan lowered the mask to his chin. “I don’t think it’s a secret from you.”
“What isn’t?”
“The plans for her wine and tapas bar. They’re drawings, not on computer or easy to scan. She dropped them by here on her way to work.”
“During that brief time at the Lonestar Saloon, you and she arranged all that?”
“We talked longer last night.”
“Last—?”
“At Bandanas, where she works.”
“Why were you at Bandanas?”
“I had nothing special to do, being on my own here,” he said. “Things were slow her last half-hour of work. We got to talking. I think her ideas have terrific potential. Bars are one kind of business I’d like to get into.”
“Since when?”
“What do you mean?”
“Leah’s bar is a long-term plan. You’ll want something sooner than that.”
“I’m still at the exploration stage.”
She didn’t want him exploring with Leah, not before this Becker case was resolved.
Brendan touched his mask. “I still can’t find where the rotten smell’s coming from. Even out here I can barely stand it.”
“I don’t notice anything.”
“Leah wasn’t bothered by either.” Brendan’s brown eyes brightened. “She’s some girl, I mean, woman.”
Was Brendan interested in Leah or in her business idea or both? This was Paula’s fault. She cursed herself for bringing the two together at the bar. It had been damned carelessness.
Chapter Nine
“Aren’t all these microwaves too smoky to sell?” Paula asked.
Florence scooped bills from the glass jar by her front steps. “A half-hour in the yard airs them out.”
Paula sniffed only fresh air.