by Susan Calder
“I was about to hang up,” her mother said.
“Sorry, I dozed off.”
“A kind man offered to ring you on his cell.”
The clock said eleven-twenty. Her mother and Walter were waiting at the Stampede grounds.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Paula said and hung up.
“I’ll go get them,” Sam groggily said.
She leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll be back in less than half an hour.”
At the north entrance to the grounds, she glimpsed Walter limping toward her through the crowd.
“My foot got stiff sitting in the grandstand,” he said.
Her mother raved about the show. “The fireworks were splendid, the children singers so talented and delightful.”
“The chucks are my favourites,” Walter said.
“I don’t see the skill involved,” her mother said. “The roping and riding at the rodeo is more impressive.”
Walter chuckled. “You should have heard Theda hoot and cheer.”
“I did not.”
When they reached Paula’s car, Walter manoeuvred himself into the back seat. “I was sad the wife had to miss it.” Before they got to their street, he was asleep; his head drooped to his chest.
“Mum, you outlasted him,” Paula said.
“All I want to do is crawl into bed for twenty-four hours. Don’t wake me in the morning.”
* * *
Sam was the first one up. Through bleary eyes, Paula watched him put on the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn last night.
He kissed her forehead. “I’ll shower and change at home to not disturb your mother.”
Paula threw on her robe and dragged herself to the kitchen, where a sweet odour of sex lingered from last night. Dull light streamed through the window, another cool, cloudy morning. While the coffee dripped, she opened her laptop on the table and read the initial reports on her new hail claims. A half-hour later, she texted Leah to say she had to drop by the Becker house at noon to give Florence a smoke restoration estimate. If you want, you can feed me lunch. In reality, she couldn’t draw up the estimate without another visit inside Caspar’s apartment.
Paula returned to the hail claims. The house was strangely quiet. When had her mother slept past nine-thirty? She got up and peeked into the den, relieved to see the covers move up and down with her mother’s breathing.
She spent the rest of the morning in her kitchen, requesting further reports on claims and making initial contacts. Part way through, her mother shuffled in, dressed in her pink robe, her normally tight grey curls sticking out in all directions. In between their showers and Paula’s work, they chatted about her mother’s day at the Stampede. She and Walter had ridden the free sky ride seven times.
“I hope you haven’t planned any outings for me,” her mother said. “I have to put up my feet and rest. Two days at those fairgrounds are a lot for an old lady.”
“Old, Mum? You’re only eighty.”
Toward eleven, Paula’s cellphone rang. The claimant with the shattered window. Her cat struck by glass had been too seriously injured and had needed to be put down. Paula offered to meet with the woman and her husband on Friday morning at seven-thirty, before they left for work. She closed her laptop to get ready to leave for the Beckers’ and told her mother about Leah. They agreed the best approach was to avoid antagonizing her.
“That’s how I’d have handled you at her age,” her mother said.
“I never moved in with a….” No need to remind her mother that Brendan was a suspect in a case of suspicious death.
* * *
Paula poked her head into Brendan’s apartment. “Leah?” His living room looked the same as yesterday.
Leah emerged from the bedroom doorway, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. “I found these clothes among the stash in the front bedroom. They fit pretty good.”
Both were snug and showed off Leah’s slim figure. The yellow shirt had cap sleeves and a scooped neck. Shiny studs lined the seams and pockets of the jeans.
Brendan appeared behind Leah, his arms piled with so much clothing that Paula could see only the top of his face. “There’s more in the wardrobe,” he mumbled through the clothes.
Paula sniffed. An odour she couldn’t place.
“Do you want to eat now, Mom?” Leah asked. “Brendan and I were hoping to have my room all set up before lunch. If there’s time after, I’ll go to Jarrett’s for the rest of my things.”
“Didn’t you go yesterday?”
“Yeah, that. It’s complicated.”
Leah returned to ‘her room,’ dominated by the new queen-sized bed with its extra-thick mattress. The paisley comforter and coordinated pillows on top also looked new. The bed was more neatly made than Leah’s usual efforts. An L-shaped floor space wide enough for one person led to the enormous wardrobe at the far corner. A table obstructed the door to the deck. Paula helped Leah carry the table to the living room. Its mottled grey Arborite reminded Paula of the kitchen table she’d grown up with.
“We’ll have to dig out chairs for it.” Leah said.
“No problem with that.” Brendan swivelled toward his childhood bedroom.
He reappeared with a wooden chair painted an ugly lime shade. His surgical mask rested on his chin. Paula was glad to note the apartment had a door from the living room to the deck so Brendan wouldn’t have to pass through Leah’s room when he wanted to go outside.
Paula rifled through her purse. “Part of my reason for coming is to give you these business cards for art and other appraisers.” She set the cards on the table.
“Can you tell a real diamond from a fake?” Brendan asked.
“Probably not. Did you find jewellery that looks like diamonds?” She recalled the crystal in Johnny’s hands.
“I’ll likely take them all anyway to your jeweller. There isn’t a lot.” Brendan puckered his nostrils at Leah’s bedroom. “There’s a strange smell coming from the wardrobe.”
“Is there?” Leah bounded around the L corner. She halted at the wardrobe. “Phew.”
Paula followed Leah, inhaling the increasingly pungent odour. “Mothballs.”
Brendan stopped at the corner. He placed his hands over his mask and nose.
“Moth what?” Leah asked.
Paula couldn’t believe her daughter hadn’t heard of them. “They’re meant to keep moths from growing in clothes. Gran used them. I don’t know if they work better than cedar, which is far more fragrant.” She touched the plastic sack that had once sealed these clothes shut. “Something chewed through this. It’s a wonder it didn’t die. Mothballs are toxic to rodents.”
“It likely died and made the smell worse,” Brendan mumbled nasally through his mask and hands.
Paula dragged the floppy sack from the wardrobe. “Let’s air these clothes out.”
“What’s this?” Leah squatted to pick up an envelope.
“It must have been under the sack and fallen,” Paula said.
Leah turned the envelope over and read, “To be opened in the event of my death.”
“Johnny.” Brendan eased forward, his hands leaving his face. “Is this what he was talking about? The thing my uncle gave him. You were there, Paula, when he said it. Uncle Caspar must have moved it from the dresser to the wardrobe.”
Looking puzzled, Leah handed the envelope to Brendan. Paula would love to know its contents, but this was Brendan’s family matter. She suggested to Leah they take the clothes to the deck. While they laid out winter skirts, shirts and dresses on the deck tables and chairs, Paula explained about the envelope Brendan’s uncle had mentioned to Johnny, Brendan’s half brother, two years ago.
“Johnny has no idea what it’s about?” Leah asked.
“That’s what he told Brendan.”
Inside, they found Brendan in the living room. He had lowered his mask and was fanning the envelope, to rid it of the mothball smell. “Florence told me to open anything I found in front of the family. Don’t you remember, Paula?�
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“It’s up to you to decide whether to cross Florence or not.”
Brendan opened the door to the interior staircase. He flicked on a light that cast an orange glow on the stairs leading up to Florence’s apartment and down to Caspar’s. Paula held on to the railing during the climb. Brendan opened Florence’s door without checking to see if it was locked. If he kept his door unlocked as well, Johnny could enter this way when Leah was asleep. And any of them could have entered Caspar’s apartment to set the fire.
They stopped in front of the antique sewing machine that still partially blocked the entrance to the kitchen, from which spicy aromas flowed. Florence’s living room looked unchanged: washers, dryers, children’s equipment, Caspar’s research papers. Florence stood in the kitchen door frame.
Brendan held out the envelope. “I found it.”
Johnny sauntered from the alcove. Paula stepped back and banged into the door.
He tipped his black cowboy hat at her. “Aren’t we honoured. Who’s our other guest?”
Florence snatched the envelope from Brendan. She silently read the inscription on the front and ran her finger along the sealed end. “Where was it?”
“In my parents’ wardrobe. Uncle Caspar might have thought it was safer than—”
“Lunch is ready.” Florence said. “There’s enough chili for you all. We’ll open this afterwards.”
“Aren’t you curious?” Brendan asked. “It’s not thick, probably only a few pages.”
Florence glared up at him. “It’s waited two years. What’s a few more hours? Cynthia will want to be here.”
“We can tell her later,” Brendan said. “She’s probably too busy to come.”
Johnny leaped between Paula and the sewing machine, seized the envelope from Florence and reeled backward. Paula edged forward. He back-flipped over the papers and sofa and crashed against a pram.
“Owww.” He rubbed his back.
Leah moved toward him. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.”
Paula folded her arms, refusing to show him sympathy. Florence gripped the sewing machine as though she were the one who needed to regain her balance. What did she think was in the envelope? Johnny tore off an end.
“You’ll rip what’s inside,” Brendan said.
Johnny slid out a couple of sheets of paper.
Florence didn’t let go of the sewing machine wheel, her body tense. Johnny scanned the first page, his expression concealed by the brim of his cowboy hat.
He looked up and stared across the sofa at Brendan. “My apologies, little bro.”
“For what?”
“I assumed this was about you trying to put one over Cynthia and me.”
“What does it say?” Brendan leaned over the sofa and tried to grab the sheets in Johnny’s hands.
Johnny held them up and out of the way. “My first thought was you took my story about the envelope and wrote up a phony will by Uncle Caspar leaving the whole caboodle to you.”
Brendan squeezed between the sofa and TV. “You didn’t say ‘envelope.’ You called it a package.”
Johnny let the papers fall to Brendan’s fingers.
“What’s going on?” Leah asked.
Paula nudged her to stay quiet and watch the spectacle of Brendan perusing the pages, seemingly unfamiliar with their contents, Johnny’s gaze fixed on him and Florence’s face growing pale.
“I d-don’t believe this.” Brendan looked from Johnny to Florence. “You set me-me-me up.”
“Moi?” Johnny asked.
“With Cynthia. You two were always pulling pranks.”
Florence marched to the sofa. “Let me see that.”
“Mom, what is it?” Leah asked.
“Shhh,” Paula said.
Florence read the pages, her mouth open in apparent surprise. An expression that might be relief flickered beneath the shock. She squinted at Johnny. “Caspar wrote this?”
Brendan plucked the papers from her hand. “Or one of you forged his writing and hid the envelope in the wardrobe knowing I’d find it.”
“I certainly didn’t,” Florence said.
“Why would Cynthia and I cut ourselves out?” Johnny asked.
“Do you know a handwriting expert?” Brendan passed the papers to Paula.
Rather than yank them from Paula, Florence leaned into the sewing machine.
Leah grazed Paula’s shoulder, while Paula skimmed: I, Caspar Wilhelm Becker…renounce all my previous wills…bequeath my property…in its entirety to my sister-in-law, Florence Ellis Becker.
Paula glanced from Brendan’s angry face to Florence’s fierce one, which looked bewildered. If Florence’s response to the will had been surprise and relief, what bad thing had she been expecting? Paula read aloud, “I bequeath the contents of said property equally to my niece and nephews: Cynthia…Jonathan…Brendan.”
“Great.” Brendan surveyed the room. “I g-get all this s-s-s-shit.”
“Only a third,” Johnny said. “Like me.”
Brendan opened his mouth to speak. No words came out.
“It’s dated two years ago,” Leah said. “Are handwritten wills legal?”
“Yes.” Paula glanced at the page. “It’s witnessed by Garner Weir, Caspar’s friend.”
Brendan blinked. “Let me see that.” He reached for the papers, but didn’t take them.
“If this is genuine, why didn’t Garner tell the police?” Paula asked. “I talked to him, twice, and he didn’t say a—”
“Why would Caspar leave the property to me?” Florence asked.
“Good question, Ma.” Johnny smirked.
“Don’t you insinuate,” Florence snapped. “Caspar and I never….” She pointed at the papers on the sofa. “Caspar scribbled on some of these. An expert can check his writing against the will.”
“If Caspar wrote this, he was c-c-coerced.” Brendan glared at Florence and Johnny. “Or not of sound mind. I’ll p-prove it in court.”
“And spend all your money from this wonderful shit on lawyers” Johnny said.
“Shut up and stop rubbing it in,” Brendan said.
“Before jumping the gun,” Paula suggested. “Shouldn’t you talk to Garner? Ask him if he witnessed the will and, if so, why didn’t he reveal this, and why did Caspar—?”
“Who invited you here?” Florence grabbed the papers from Paula.
Brendan tried to get them from Florence.
“Careful,” Johnny said. “You’ll tear it to shreds.”
Paula stared at Florence. “I’m here about the smoke removal job downstairs you so desperately want to do yourself.”
“What are you implying?” Florence asked.
“We’re obviously not wanted here, Mom,” Leah said.
“Mom?” Johnny’s lips curled below his mustache. “I thought you two looked alike. Aren’t you sorry, Brendan, that you brought witnesses to the unveiling of our uncle’s new will? You can’t destroy the document now.”
“I d-d-d-d-d-d-d.” Brendan’s mouth clammed shut. He bolted past Paula, knocking her against the sewing machine, and stormed into the stairwell.
Chapter Seventeen
“Why would my uncle shut me out?”
“Shouldn’t the question be,” Paula asked. “Why did he leave his property to Florence?”
She stepped sideways so Brendan could get the pot from the stove drawer, bumping Leah, who stood beside the microwave table. There wasn’t room for three people in this kitchen. Leah retreated to the hallway next to the staircase.
Brendan rinsed the pot under the tap. “You never know what’s been crawling around in it.” He opened an upper cupboard. “Does canned soup go bad?”
“Check the expiry dates,” Paula said.
Brendan peered at the can lid. “Still good, barely.”
“Are there any vegetarian?” Leah asked.
Brendan picked out a cream of asparagus and chunky vegetable. He clipped a can to the electric opener. It made a gr
inding sound, but didn’t move. Another opener on the counter wouldn’t grip the lid.
“Fuck,” he said. “Shit. This place is crap.”
Paula took a turn at struggling with both openers. No success. The blade on a third opener was so rusted she insisted they look for a manual gadget.
Brendan rifled through a drawer filled with spatulas and serving spoons. “There are probably hundreds of openers buried in the stupid place. We can use this ladle for serving.”
“I’ll go change for work,” Leah said.
“Found it.” Brendan held up a hand opener. It peeled off both soup can lids with ease. “Uncle Caspar wrote that will right after I left for Queens. Was he mad at me for taking off?”
“The will may not have been about you, Brendan,” Paula said.
“Florence won’t leave me a cent. Uncle Caspar knows that. Knew that. She never liked me or my mother.”
Paula had heard little about his mother, other than that her name was Dixie and she was the second wife of Caspar’s older brother, Kurt. “What does your mother have to do with this?”
“Florence dumped my dad, but she still hated someone taking her place.”
Brendan hadn’t stuttered since they got to his apartment. Did he have a speech problem that flared up when he was stressed, as he’d been during the revelation upstairs? He had a point about his disinheritance being the main effect of Caspar’s new will. Assuming Florence didn’t gamble away her assets—and she didn’t seem the type—she would likely leave the property to her children. Cynthia and Johnny would each receive fifty percent rather than one third. In the long run, the first branch of Kurt’s family benefited from this new deal. It also wouldn’t be unusual for Florence to dislike the offspring of Brendan’s mother, her replacement.
“Your uncle might not have been thinking about how the will would affect you when he wrote it,” Paula suggested.
“Assuming the will is for real. I want your handwriting expert’s opinion.”
“I’m sure that between us, the police and Garner, we’ll verify or dismiss the document. Do you think your relatives are contacting him?”