by Susan Calder
“So why did you witness the will?”
“Caspar kept badgering me about it and I figured, if I didn’t sign, he’d go to someone else who might tell him that wills with only one witness signature aren’t legal. Are you sure they are?” He cocked his rosy face at her.
“Positive. We deal with wills often in insurance.”
“How does the new will affect your business with them?”
Finally, he’d asked why she was here. “I have to deal with the representative of Caspar’s estate. The holograph will doesn’t name an executor, but once I confirm the will is valid, Florence becomes primary for insurance purposes.”
Garner drained his can of Coke. “When the police were interviewing me, I thought about bringing the will up but decided that saying nothing would make things right.”
“You also didn’t initially mention that Caspar had given up smoking.”
“That didn’t cross my mind. I’ve known so many who’ve tried to quit the habit and can’t. My daughter I sometimes disagree with, for one.”
“What made Caspar decide to quit?”
“It was after his brother, a smoker, died of a heart attack at age seventy-two. Caspar realized that their parents, with their clean living, had made it to their nineties, and it’s the same genetics. That reminds me. I called Cynthia this morning about the memorial service. She said they’d already buried Caspar in the fourth plot his parents had bought years ago. No service. That isn’t right, either.”
“When Caspar told Johnny about the envelope to be opened after his death, he referred to the ‘weight of the Beckers.’ Do you know what he meant by that?”
“Johnny knew about this? Why didn’t he bring it up? The fire was almost two weeks ago.”
“He couldn’t find the envelope where Caspar had said he left it.”
“I saw Caspar put it in his den desk. That’s why I thought it had burnt. Wouldn’t Johnny have read the will and remembered a bequest as startling as that?”
“The envelope was sealed.”
“Would that have stopped someone like Johnny?” Garner said. “This heat’s making me thirsty. Care for another Pepsi?”
“No, thanks. So, you have no idea what Caspar meant by the weight of his family?”
“He never said anything like that to me. I’m sure I’d remember. Caspar wasn’t normally one for philosophical statements.” Garner eased himself to his feet. “I’ll have a Diet so Rosalie doesn’t kill me when she gets home. I swear she keeps count of the cans in the fridge.”
Paula checked her watch. Plenty of time to drop by Mike’s. She leaned her head back, enjoying the warmth on her face. She, too, was surprised that Johnny hadn’t rooted through the dresser after Caspar told him about the envelope and also doubted he’d refrain from opening it out of respect for his uncle’s wishes. Had he simply forgotten their drunken conversation?
“They’re forecasting hot, dry weather ahead,” Garner said. “It seems most years we have to wait until the middle of Stampede for the turning point into real summer.”
Since she was unlikely to get more from Garner, Paula rose to leave.
“About the ‘weight,’ this is mere speculation,” Garner said. “With Caspar writing this book about his parents’ history, I wonder if it’s related to that.”
“Could the parents have confided something to him and Florence?”
“Beats me. It’s a wild thought,” Garner said. “Well, Florence did well for herself, didn’t she? Coming from nothing to lady of the manor.”
“Life can take people down unexpected paths.”
“Others make their own fortune.”
Paula waited.
Garner squeezed the thin aluminum can. “Don’t you find it odd how Florence left her husband but stuck with his family?” he asked. “She knew the parents’ had money and, for want of a better word, insinuated herself into their graces, maybe purposely, maybe not. That sounds harsh, but I didn’t like my friend being taken in. There’s Rosalie.”
The blue Pathfinder rolled toward them over gravel and stopped beside the chairs. While Garner went to greet Rosalie, Paula returned the chairs to the garage. In the back corner of the room, she spotted a wooden bench and went over for a close-up look. Its back had an intriguing bow-tie-shaped engraving Sam would love. She sat down. Comfortable.
Garner walked over to her. “With a little sanding and staining that bench will be beautiful,” he said. “A pity we’ve already got more outdoor furniture than we need. The kids aren’t interested.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“I paid fifteen dollars. How about thirty to cover my supplies?”
“Plus extra for your labour.”
“We’ll talk price after you see the finished job. I was thinking of a natural cedar stain.”
Sam would like natural.
Garner stroked the wood backrest. “I’d be glad to have you give this fine old piece a home.”
This home might be on the new front porch, as Sam wanted, or worked into their backyard landscape plan. Either way, she’d give the bench to Sam as a surprise gift.
“About the service,” Garner said. “I told Cynthia I’d like to arrange one, a simple service by the grave. Rosalie and I would be glad to have everyone here afterwards for refreshments. Would you come?”
“Me?”
“Who else is there? I’m not counting on those nephews and niece to make an appearance, especially if they’re feeling negative toward Caspar for making them wait for their inheritance. Florence is miserable enough to live to a hundred.”
It could be Garner, Rosalie, her and, perhaps, Florence standing by the Becker family plot. That might be interesting. “I’d be happy to pay my respects to Caspar.” This was true. “Let me know the day and time.”
* * *
Paula rang Mike’s doorbell and scanned his front yard. Orderly and green, with a single tree, no flowers and a few shrubs under the window. A black Mazda was parked on the driveway; a yellow one on the street. One for Mike and one for his sister, who lived with him? Paula would bet the black was his, although she couldn’t say she knew him well enough to put money on it. The door opened. Paula gazed up at a blond woman dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Paula?” The woman’s blue-grey eyes brightened as she extended her hand. “I’m Lucy, Mike’s sister. He told me you all had a fabulous time at the Stampede.”
Paula had expected the height from Mike’s sister but not the fair colouring. He had said Lucy was two years older than him, making her thirty-five. Eli ran up behind Lucy.
Paula leaned over to say hello. “Remember me from the Stampede?”
“Hail. Hail.” Eli clapped his hands. “We hided.”
“Eli, go get Mike from out back,” Lucy said.
“Are we going to the park?” Eli asked.
“In a minute.” Lucy smiled at Paula. “Mike seemed quite taken with your mother. He admires her spirit.”
Mike appeared in the living room. Eli ran figure eights between him and Lucy.
“How was the dentist?” Paula asked.
Eli stopped and bared his teeth.
“Last month, his front tooth had a collision with a swing,” Mike said. “The dentist is monitoring it. So far, it’s still vital.”
“Mommy.” Eli tugged Lucy’s jeans. “The park.”
“I’m glad I was here to meet you,” Lucy told Paula. “It’s not often Mike and I get home early the same day.”
“You’re a police officer too,” Paula said. “What unit?”
“Child abuse.”
“That must be painful to deal with.”
“You have to force yourself not to let it get to you or you’ll crash.”
Lucy was close to six feet tall. In addition to height, she shared her brother’s muscular physique. Her strawberry blond hair was swept up into an attractive French roll.
“Make sure my brother offers you something to drink,” Lucy said as she left.
; “My sister assumes I have minimal social skills.” Mike led Paula through the bungalow’s living room. “Would you like a drink?”
“Coffee would be terrific if it’s no trouble.”
“I was about to make myself an espresso.”
The elaborate espresso machine seemed out of place in the kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been remodelled since Mike was a child. U-shaped plan, particle board cupboards, Linoleum with mustard swirls, daisy patterned curtains. Paula’s mother would approve.
“I see height runs in your family,” Paula said.
“From our father’s side.”
“I hadn’t known any Italians to be so tall.”
“Occasional ones are,” Mike said. “But Vincelli was our stepfather. Our natural father was Swedish descent.”
“Hence your fair-haired sister.”
“I got my colouring from my mother. Her family was also Italian.”
Since the children had taken the stepfather’s surname, he had probably come on the scene early. Had Mike’s natural father died when Mike was young, or had his parents separated? If the Swedish father was still alive, did he maintain contact with Lucy and Mike? Paula wished her mother was here to probe.
In contrast to the kitchen, the backyard was a modern haven. A low brick wall enclosed the patio furnished with an outdoor sofa and chairs, an enormous barbecue and glass coffee table.
“Summer’s short,” Mike said. “We like to take advantage of it.”
She hadn’t pictured Mike as a suburban barbecue guy. He sat down on a chair; she took the sofa that faced the lane and filled him in on her conversation with Garner. Mike said he would still recommend that the police handwriting expert verify the will. Whether or not Caspar was of sound mind might become a matter of debate, but this wasn’t Paula’s or homicide’s concern. They agreed the new development bumped Florence up the suspect list.
“We’d always considered her,” Mike said. “She might have killed to benefit her children, especially Cynthia, whose credit cards are deeply extended according to our financial checks.” He added that Cynthia’s second husband had filed for bankruptcy in March. His alimony payments were suspended indefinitely. Cynthia continued to pay for her children’s expensive hockey and skating programs and had bought, among other things, thirty pairs of shoes this past year. Admittedly, some were for her children.
“Cynthia wasn’t present for the reading of the new will,” Paula said. “There’s no way of judging her level of surprise.”
“We have to assume she’d expected to inherit a third of the property.”
“As did Johnny and Brendan. They seemed totally blindsided, but both have acting experience, and Johnny has fooled me too many times. For all we know, Florence is a natural actor who faked her surprise. I also had the feeling she expected something else in the envelope, something that worried her. Again, that was my subjective impression.”
Mike told her their accountant had gone over the Becker company books, that were handled initially by Caspar’s mother, Wilhelmina, and gradually taken over by Florence. The accountant found nothing out of line and was impressed by the meticulous records. He said if he were looking for a bookkeeper, he’d hire Florence on the spot.
“She really worked herself into that family,” Paula said.
“You think her a schemer?”
“Garner suggested she ingratiated herself to the Beckers to get their money, but I wonder if her motive was more innocent. With no real family of her own, did she latch on to them out of a need for family connection? Caspar may have viewed her as a sister.” Had this occurred to her because Mike and his sister shared this home? “I know the obvious reason for Caspar leaving her the property is that they were having an affair or had one in the past. Did you ever find out who Florence was hiking with the night of the fire?”
“Nope. I’ll recommend we interview Florence again. I’ll try to do it myself so I can meet this woman.”
“I get the sense you aren’t primary on this case.”
“We’ve switched from that system to the Command Triangle.”
“What’s that?”
“Everyone on the team takes a turn at lead, with his partner handling the file. On the whole, it works pretty well.”
Paula drank some espresso. Mike would elaborate if he wanted, whether or not she pressed.
“The guy whose turn came up in this rotation joined homicide this spring. He has good potential.”
“But his more senior partner’s experience is wasted in the clerical role.”
“Every system has its weaknesses and strengths,” Mike said. “Our investigation into Caspar’s smoking has turned up nothing of real interest. The operators of the convenience store recognized Caspar as an occasional patron. They don’t recall him buying cigarettes recently, but couldn’t say for certain he hadn’t. Caspar’s credit cards lapsed years ago, so he paid cash for everything. No neighbours said he’d given them his stock of cigarettes, which doesn’t prove he smoked any ones left in his house. We found no cartons in his breadbox or anywhere else easily visible.”
“I’ve asked Isabelle to canvass the neighbours. She might pull up something your people missed.”
“So Isabelle is really doing well at your firm?” Mike looked as sceptical as Paula had felt when Nils hired the younger woman ten months ago.
“She’s keen on the work,” Paula said. “And, of course, curious. For instance, today she asked to meet me at the Beckers’ before we go to dinner. She wants a tour of Caspar’s place.”
“Too bad. You could have eaten with us.” Mike bolted up. “I have to put the lasagne in the oven.”
“Homemade?”
“Mama’s recipe.”
Would he have invited her to dinner if he had thought she was available? In the kitchen, she watched him pop the casserole into the oven. “Who cooks, Lucy and/or you?”
“Together we whipped up an enormous batch one evening and froze a few pans for later.”
“It looks delicious.”
Even if Mike repeated his invitation, she couldn’t cancel her meeting with Isabelle, who had to be briefed on the jewellery claim before seven o’clock. Sending Isabelle to handle it on her own had been Paula’s solution to fitting in her own whiplash claimants tonight. Isabelle’s sole task would be to deliver the claims release and a cheque for the allegedly stolen jewellery. If the insured objected to the figure, Isabelle would leave, saying she had no authority to negotiate and had to consult Paula. Hopefully, this would encourage them to settle rather than delay. This bluff by Isabelle could work out better than Paula going herself.
“Another espresso?” Mike asked.
“Are you having one?”
“That was enough for me.”
“Me too.”
She couldn’t think of any more business to discuss. Soon Lucy and Eli would be returning from the park. Until the visit to the Stampede grounds, Paula had viewed Mike as a loner. She was glad he had his family.
“I was thinking,” Mike said at the door. “Caspar’s new will might work to our benefit by driving a wedge between Brendan and the others, and forcing everyone out.”
A mild breeze blowing in prickled Paula’s arms. “I don’t know if I want that much truth.” For starters, Leah was living at Brendan’s. “Are some families better off left dysfunctional?” She remembered the ‘weight of the Beckers’ and decided not to drag out her stay by bringing it up. At this stage, the ‘weight’ was obscure, hearsay and speculation.
Chapter Nineteen
“It will be cool to see inside their house after reading about them on the Net,” Isabelle said.
“You’ve had time for that research?”
Paula unlocked the padlock on the gate from the lane, where she had suggested they meet so the Beckers wouldn’t delay them with questions. She needn’t have worried since it seemed they were out. When she drove by the front of the house, all three vehicles were gone.
In the yard, Isabelle stoppe
d at the van. “Is this Caspar’s? His neighbour said he drove a decrepit one that belched smoke.”
“Someone’s fixed the flat tire.” Was it Johnny?
The rusted lawn mowers and barbecues had also been moved away from the house to let air into opened windows. Curtains fluttered in the breeze, probably for the first time in decades.
Isabelle darted to the pile of gardening implements. “If they don’t need all these shovels, we could use one at the house. Habib wants us to grow vegetables next year.”
“What dirt on the Beckers did you dig up?” Paula asked.
“Johnny was a figure skating champion.” Isabelle picked up a shovel.
“Put gloves on before touching those.”
“Not exactly a champion, but he almost made the Olympics. It was on Wikipedia.”
“Then it must be true,” Paula said. “And is true, according to Johnny.”
“After that, he joined Cirque du Soleil. How cool is that? Wouldn’t you love to be an acrobat?”
“He told me he was a clown.”
“Wikipedia didn’t say that.” Isabelle’s forehead puckered at the shovel. “It looks kind of warped, like it melted at the end.” She tossed the shovel to the pile and searched for another one. “The entry mentions him acting in a Wild West melodrama somewhere in the south. I wrote the place down. Melodramas are kind of interesting. They’re skits where performers act out historical character types, like the oily landlord who wants the girl.”
The Internet entries jibed with Johnny’s report of his personal work history. “What about the other Beckers?”