by Susan Calder
Nice that Mike remembered. She e-mailed back. The studio Sam lives in escaped the hail. The main house wasn’t so lucky. I suspect Sam’s having a blast pitching in and dealing with the excitement.
Leah appeared in the hall, her wet hair flowing to the towel wrapped around her torso. “Mom, why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m on semiholiday. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. Can I borrow a T-shirt and shorts? I hate getting into my Bandanas rig before I have to.”
Paula told her to have her pick from the bedroom dresser. “How about an omelette? We’ll call this brunch.”
From the fridge, she got out eggs, a green pepper and spinach. No onions, for the sake of the people they would both meet at work. She grabbed a tomato from the bowl on the counter. Leah entered, dressed in the Playa del Carmen T-shirt Paula had bought on her winter vacation with Sam. A belt cinched the shorts to her waist. Outside the window, the sun struggled to peek through the clouds.
“With sweaters, we might be warm enough on the deck.” Paula flipped the omelettes onto plates.
“Definitely, when I’ll be cooped up in the bar for the rest of the day. I can’t wait for Stampede to be over.”
“You’ll find work at a better bar than Bandanas.”
Leah filled their glasses with water. How close was she to abandoning the security of a steady job for a risky venture, possibly with Brendan? If Paula was Leah’s friend, rather than her mother, and the prospective business partner wasn’t Brendan, she would probably tell her ‘go for it.’ Paula put the plates on the serving tray.
“Gran phoned as I was getting up,” Leah said.
“From the Stampede? Are she and Walter okay? If they want to come home for a rest, I’ll go—”
“Mainly, she wanted Sam’s father’s phone number. She was wondering if his garden survived the hailstorm.”
“He doesn’t live close to the line of fire. At most, his plants might have taken a minor beating.”
They settled on the back deck. With more hail claims likely to arrive this afternoon, Paula decided to cut to the chase. “What was this fight with Jarrett about?”
Leah chewed her omelette and drank some water. She bundled her sweater around her chest. If she didn’t want to discuss it, that was fine. Paula was here for support.
“It started with Jarrett skipping Erin’s brunch to go dirt biking,” Leah said. “I mean, how often does he get to see Gran? He can go biking any day.”
Paula bit into her omelette to avoid commenting that Jarrett’s selfishness wasn’t out of character.
“He said, why should he give it up for family duty and accused me of being conventional. I told him, it’s not about that; it’s about caring for Gran or, at least, about me, since I wanted him to come. He said I was as controlling as you.”
“Me?” A piece of pepper stuck in Paula’s throat. She washed it down with water.
“You know you’re like that, or try to be.”
“I haven’t succeeded with you,” Paula teased.
“Gran said you hovered over her and Walter for ages before letting them through the Stampede gates and made them promise three times to find a pay phone and call you if they needed anything.”
“You and Gran talked about me? Gran finds me controlling? Who does she think I got it from?”
“Jarrett said my idea of giving up my job to start up a business was my passive-aggressive way of forcing him to work while he attends university.”
“It’s perfectly reasonable to expect him to support himself through school.”
“Not totally, Mom. We’re a couple and should support one another.”
“You’ve—” Leah had supported Jarrett’s nonworking for years. Did he think support only flowed one way? What was Jarrett prepared to give up to support Leah’s aspirations?
“Ever since Jarrett got into this psychology program, he thinks he’s the only one who understands people’s psyches. I’m tired of him picking apart my brain and analyzing everyone. Jarrett’s being an asshole. He got mad when I told him all that.”
Understandably, but Paula had found Jarrett an asshole from the start, expounding on every issue he had the slightest knowledge about, in a way to make himself look superior. Was Leah finally seeing him like this? Much as she had wanted it, Paula felt a twinge of sympathy for Jarrett. She had never doubted he cared for Leah.
“I’ve been thinking of meeting Jarrett halfway,” Leah said.
“What do you mean?”
“I have to go over before work to grab a few things. I’ll be civil and suggest we do something with Gran later this week. Give him another chance.”
“That’s mature of you,” Paula said. She hated the prospect of Leah going through the pain of a break-up. But better now, at twenty-five, than later after investing years in Jarrett and, God forbid, getting married and having children. Leah insisted she wasn’t interested in either, and Jarrett was philosophically opposed to marriage. His views on children were about the only thing he hadn’t publically pronounced on.
“Are you really serious about starting your own business?” Paula asked.
“I don’t know. Brendan says most start-ups fail, which I sort of knew. That’s why he’s being careful about what he gets into.”
“Good for him.” Paula hoped Brendan meant it. Had he learned from his father’s failed business experiences? “All I ask is that you give it serious thought before going into partnership with him.”
Should she leave it at that? Paula had sometimes wondered if Leah had stuck with Jarrett longer than she might have out of stubbornness or rebellion because she knew Paula disliked him. Why risk driving her to Brendan? On the other hand, Leah might be overlooking certain aspects of this situation.
“Brendan stands to inherit a significant amount of money,” Paula said.
“Only if they sell the property. Brendan says they might keep it as a source of steady rental income.”
“Where would he get the money for his business?”
“A bank, with his third of the house as collateral.”
“You have no money to invest.”
“I’d be involved in the loan. We might wind up with different shares in the business. It would all be set up legally.”
“Brendan’s share is bound to be larger than yours.”
“Probably.”
“Substantially larger, if they sell.” And most likely they would. Cynthia wanted that. So would Brendan, Paula bet, to achieve his business dream. Who knew what Johnny wanted, but the other two could outvote him. Paula had to agree with Cynthia the house wasn’t worth keeping for Florence, when the view was its prime feature and she had no apparent interest in it. Johnny could squat somewhere else for the few months a year he spent in Calgary.
“Brendan has a graduate degree in business,” Paula said.
“I wish you’d stop harping on my not going to university. That was my decision. I’m glad I—”
“It isn’t that, Leah; this is about equality. Business partners should be equals. I’m afraid you’ll wind up as Brendan’s employee, in effect, which won’t give you the satisfaction of being your own boss.” All of this was true and reason enough to try to dissuade Leah, aside from Brendan’s involvement in a suspicious death case that might never be solved.
Leah dropped her fork to her empty plate. “I’m not you, Mom, even if Jarrett thinks I am. Nils has been after you for years to take over his firm. You don’t want it, and I respect your choice. For once, would you respect mine?”
“I respect most of your choices, Leah.”
“You never respected Jarrett.”
Paula scrambled for something to say. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry you didn’t support me or sorry I was an idiot about him?”
“You are not an idiot.”
Leah gathered her plate, glass and cutlery. “I have to get going to Jarrett’s or I’ll be late for the bar. I hate this job.”
“Stampede w
ill be over in six days.” That wouldn’t be nearly enough time to resolve everything for Leah.
* * *
Paula entered the office and stopped. Mike Vincelli leaned against the reception desk, talking with Alice, Isabelle and Nils.
Nils looked at Paula. “Nice to finally meet this chap we’ve heard so much about.”
“I was passing by,” Mike said. “Thought he’d have a look at your building before they tear it down.”
Mike wore his work clothes, a dark suit. Paula wondered if something urgent had happened with the Becker case that he wanted to discuss in person. She tore him away from the others and into her office. Mike closed the door. He studied her paintings and shelves full of family pictures, mementoes and insurance books. Her plants were already at home, in transit for the move.
“Have you had time to read the transcript of Brendan’s interview?” he asked.
“You only sent it an hour or two ago.”
“It doesn’t add anything. I can’t decide if Brendan is what he seems to be, or not.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
Mike lowered himself to the corner of her desk, which brought him approximately to her eye-level. “We picked up one new potential clue.”
“From Brendan?”
“Garner, Caspar Becker’s friend.”
“He was in here this morning with a list of objects he remembered seeing at Caspar’s.”
“Did he mention Caspar’s smoking?”
“Not today. When we talked at his house, he may have referred to Caspar’s smoking in bed being the presumed cause of the fire. I don’t remember specifically. Why?”
“Garner phoned homicide yesterday and told us Caspar quit smoking this past winter.”
Paula stepped back. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this from Garner or anyone. I thought you or someone in your unit spoke to him on the weekend?”
“Seems the smoking issue didn’t come up. Garner tells us now he knew Caspar had snuck a cigarette a couple of times and had assumed he slipped that particular night. Garner didn’t think of it during our interview but, later, got to discussing it with his wife. She told him to report it anyway, since it might be relevant.”
“She’s right. If Caspar didn’t slip….”
“Someone set up the fire to make it look like he was smoking in bed.”
“Someone who didn’t know he had quit. That could be…certainly, Brendan. He’s been away for two years and barely kept in touch with his uncle and the rest of the family.” Paula paced to the bookshelves. “Florence lives upstairs and Johnny had been there for a couple of weeks, but I don’t think either of them talked a lot or very deeply with Caspar. Cynthia…she was far from Caspar’s closest pal. It’s entirely possible none of them knew.”
“There’s still a good argument that Caspar was bound to slip.”
“Most who quit smoking do, at some point.”
“Garner says Caspar tended to stock up on cigarettes when he found them at a good price.”
“Like he did with paper and cereal.”
“When he quit, cold turkey, he had a few cartons left. Garner tried to convince him to throw them out so he wouldn’t be tempted. Caspar objected to the waste and said he’d give them to his neighbour.”
“Did he?”
“Garner doesn’t know which neighbour he meant. We’re canvassing them.”
Paula made a mental note to have Isabelle include this in her questioning of the neighbours. “Knowing Caspar, as I’ve come to know him, odds are he never got around to giving the cartons away.”
“More than that. On a later visit, Garner noticed an open pack of cigarettes under a pile of mail and offered to get rid of the pack for him. Caspar bristled at the suggestion. It was the same as with the rest of his garbage, Garner told us. Only Caspar could touch it. Caspar promised he’d give the pack to the neighbour when he brought him the cartons.”
“So he hadn’t disposed of the cartons yet.”
“Garner didn’t ask about them during his last visit, shortly before the fire, and didn’t have an opportunity to look in the breadbox where Caspar usually kept them.”
“Breadbox?”
“Garner was quite sure that Caspar wasn’t smoking the last time he saw him.”
“That doesn’t mean Caspar never stole a smoke when he was alone, which was most of the time. It’s also when he might have needed it most.”
“Suppose he disposed of the cartons and that cigarette pack,” Mike said. “That evening he could have come across a cigarette buried in a pot or shoe and given in. Or had an overwhelming urge to smoke and driven out to buy a pack. We’re checking with the nearby convenience stores.”
“Even if no evidence turns up, how do you show that Caspar didn’t somehow get hold of a cigarette that night and light up? How do you prove a negative?”
“You can’t.” Mike rose from the desk. “Homicide is still debating how to act on the information. For now, let’s keep this new detail from the Beckers. Who knows? We might be able to take one of them by surprise.”
Chapter Fourteen
Paula pressed the Beckers’ doorbell, that didn’t work. She knocked on the screen door. No reply. Brendan’s van and Florence’s car were in the driveway. Johnny’s pickup wasn’t parked on the street. What a break that would be to miss him at the appraisal.
Around the side of the house, Brendan’s door stood open. His living room emitted its usual odour, now mixed with a sweet aroma. Paintings lay stacked against two walls. Bicycles, skateboards and scooters formed a nest in one corner; hockey equipment heaped in another. The middle of the room contained a pile of rods, reels, hip wader boots and other fishing gear. Where was Brendan? If his layout was the same as Florence’s, the closed door facing Paula would lead to the bathroom. His room below Florence’s alcove had a door, which opened. Brendan stopped in the door frame, a surgical mask over his mouth. He carried a suitcase.
“I’m here for the appraisal,” Paula called across the living room. “Florence and Johnny didn’t answer upstairs.”
Brendan set the suitcase down and lowered his mask. “I saw her this morning.”
“Are you taking a trip, or is that your uncle’s garage sale purchase?”
“You guessed it.” He glanced at the hard, old-fashioned case. “It weighs as much as today’s whole airline luggage allowance. Is the appraiser down at my uncle’s?”
“I’m early. He hasn’t arrived yet. The smell here doesn’t seem too bad today.”
“Cooler temperatures and a hundred air fresheners have done wonders. It might be almost liveable by tomorrow.”
“You’ll be glad to move out of your van.”
“I’ve got used to sleeping in there.” He sneezed.
“Gesundheit,” Paula said with his second sneeze. “I found the dust at Florence’s bothered me too.”
“I’m sensitive to odours.” He touched the mask covering his chin. “Johnny and I traced the source of the rotten smell. Seems a family of mice had moved in. Squirrels, too, and birds. Their carcasses were littered underneath the junk.”
Paula shuddered. “How would birds get in?”
“The patio door was unlocked. In fact, the catch was broken. It wouldn’t surprise me if squatters were living here during the winter. A reasonably nimble person could shinny up the tree at the side of the balcony and get in. We found pieces of rotting meat and take-out containers. There might have been different groups of squatters during the past two years.”
“Wouldn’t your uncle have noticed all that activity? Heard footsteps above him? Seen evidence or the people themselves when he brought stuff up here to store?”
Brendan shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t care, if they weren’t doing damage or harm. He’d think everyone needs a place to live.”
“That would be kind of him.” Paula studied the living room that was cluttered, but organized, with pathways for walking. “You’ve done an amazing job of cleaning up.”
It was always refreshing to meet a claimant who viewed her as there to help, not oppose. “I’ll give you some business cards. What about those paintings?”
“I’ll get them evaluated too. The frames might be worth something. Would you recognize good art?”
“I could probably spot something really dreadful.”
He grinned, looking rather handsome and a bit like a doctor, in his mask and soiled white shirt and beige pants. It wasn’t hard to see how a young woman like Leah might be attracted.
“I know you were mad at me for searching out Leah at her bar,” Brendan said, as though he’d read Paula’s mind. “While I was in Ontario, I lost contact with most of my Calgary friends. It’s great to meet someone smart my own age, and I loved those drawings Leah did.”
Flattering a daughter is a path to a mother’s heart. It was working.
“Leah and I have been texting each other with ideas.”
The door to the interior staircase creaked.
“Appraiser’s here,” Florence’s voice shouted from around the corner.
Paula edged into the room until Florence was in sight. “I tried knocking upstairs.”
“I must have been on the deck airing out the furs.”
“Paula probably knows a furrier who can give us a price for them,” Brendan said.
Florence entered the hall and closed the door to the hidden staircase, as Cynthia’s children had called it. “Would her furrier give us a fair amount?” This was Paula’s more usual suspicious claimant.
“Hey, Paula.” Terry Solomon, the appraiser, said from outside.
They joined Sol in front of the fence. Paula opened the lock.
“Where is Johnny?” she asked. No sign of Cynthia, either. It was too much to hope that both wouldn’t show up.