by Susan Calder
“Caspar, Florence and Cynthia don’t exist on the Net.”
“Not Cynthia? She also got to the figure skating Nationals.”
“She’s on Facebook, but she doesn’t do anything except make dumb comments on her kids’ posts, like ‘Good for you, sweetie.’” Brendan’s there, too, and also on business networking sites.”
“That figures.”
“On Facebook he talks about hanging out at events like concerts and bars. Nothing wild, the usual fun stuff. He’s looking for a start-up opportunity.”
And, wisely, had put forward the image of a professional who mixed well with people.
“I’d like to look more into him, but Nils says I have to give the hail claims our priority. They’re our bread and butter.”
“He’s made that point clear.”
“Do you think they’d sell us this shovel for a few dollars?”
“No harm in asking.”
Isabelle placed it away from the pile. “I talked to all the neighbours I found at home. Most said Caspar and Florence keep to themselves. They didn’t see Caspar much since he’d usually come and go by the lane and the fences around his yard are so high. A woman said he talked sometimes to neighbour who’s in Cold Lake helping look after a new grandchild.”
From the chilly shade of the garage they gravitated toward a spot of sun. With no Beckers upstairs and a smelly house to avoid, Paula was happy to let Isabelle string out her information.
“The woman had told the neighbour in Cold Lake about the fire,” Isabelle said. “The guy e-mailed back surprised about Caspar smoking in bed. He and Caspar had started a contest this winter to quit smoking. He’d thought Caspar was succeeding.”
“He couldn’t know for sure.”
“I e-mailed the man in Cold Lake to ask more about it.” Isabelle paused at a barbecue with only a bit of rust. “One of the neighbours said the Becker grandparents owned a cleaning business. I did a search on the Net and came up with a post about Becker Family Cleaners. I’d have picked a jazzier name.”
“What did the post say?”
“The neighbour thought the business folded when the Becker grandmother died. I couldn’t find an old website for the company.”
“They might not have had one, hard as that is to believe today. I gather their business mainly came from word of mouth.”
“The post was on a forum site about Calgary cleaning businesses,” Isabelle said. “One person asked if anyone knew what had happened to Becker Family Cleaners. They used to clean her parents’ home, and her mother swore they were the most thorough, reliable and reasonably priced operation in the city. No one responded to the comment. I wrote that I was looking for them, too. It’s tagged, so any responses come to me.”
Paula took out their safety gear from her bag. “You have been busy. I hope this hasn’t taken you away from the bread-and-butter claims.”
“The really interesting thing I found was about Johnny,” Isabelle said. “That took a huge amount of searching. Other than his acting and skating and acrobating, there wasn’t anything, at first. No criminal record.”
Like the Beckers, Isabelle had tendency toward drama. Was she building to a climax?
“When I got into the melodramas and finding out what they were, I turned up this blog written by a guy in Wyoming who used to work with a man named Johnny Becker. The guy blogs about all the wild stuff he does, like rustling cattle—he calls it that. It seems to be stealing a rancher’s calf or chicken and selling it for meat.”
“Aren’t the cattle branded?”
“I don’t know that he really does it. His posts seem like bragging. In one he talked about how he and Johnny abducted this girl who had pissed Johnny off. They held her hostage in an abandoned barn, sent her father a ransom note and released her.”
“Why?”
“To teach her a lesson, the guy said. The girl’s father reported it to the cops. They hauled Johnny and the guy in but didn’t lay charges. The guy didn’t say why.”
“Will you forward me the post?”
“Already done. We need a new barbecue, too. Do you—?”
“Time to go in.” Paula handed Isabelle her white suit.
They put on suits, hoods, gloves, shoe covers and goggles.
“We look like spacemen.” Isabelle giggled. She took her phone from her purse. “Habib will die laughing when he gets this.” She snapped a picture of the two of them against a backdrop of Caspar’s apartment.
Paula unlocked the door. Odours of burnt plastic and soot rushed out. Her respirator protected her from the worst of it. Enough light now filtered in that they could follow the path to the den without her phone light. Boxes of papers, with tools on top, had been moved to the middle of the den to let in air. Did Caspar move his will from here to protect it from a fire he intended to set to commit suicide?
But what if, that night, someone aware of Caspar’s nocturnal habits came by to confront him? Caspar would have let Johnny, Brendan or any of them in. Supposing they argued, and Caspar stormed down this path to the interior staircase and slipped or stumbled. While he struggled to get up, the killer could have grabbed an object, whacked Caspar unconscious, and seized the opportunity to get rid of him.
Isabelle disappeared into the kitchen. A lantern on the counter shone through the windowless room. Johnny probably left it behind when he went in to open the windows and root around. Isabelle opened a drawer filled with wallets. Paula pulled her away. Johnny would have checked them for cash, and they had to grab dinner before their claimant meetings.
Outside, Isabelle pulled off her respirator. “It was weird to be in there and not talk, like walking underwater.” She turned to her left. “What’s that noise?”
Isabelle ran to the side of the building. Paula followed. Up the hill, Brendan stood behind the fence.
“I didn’t notice your car out front,” he called down.
Isabelle ran up the stairs. Paula joined her at the fence and explained they had parked in the lane.
“Can I buy a shovel and barbecue from down there?” Isabelle asked.
“This is Isabelle, my assistant,” Paula said.
“Leah’s mentioned you.” Brendan stared at Isabelle. “Johnny says the barbecues are all busted, but help yourself to anything you like.”
“How much do you want for them?”
“For you, they’re free.”
Isabelle grinned and skipped down the stairs to claim her gifts.
“Have you and Johnny started work on the mould at Caspar’s?”
“I stay out of that part as much as I can. The smell—”
“The job would be much better done by a professional.”
“Tell that to Florence.” His eyes narrowed at her, or at the sun in his eyes. “Anything related to this property is not my business anymore. If you’ll excuse me.” He went into his apartment.
* * *
While waiting at the picnic table for their order number to be called, Paula raised the issue of Isabelle’s three months’ overdue rent.
“I’ll get caught up after Stampede,” Isabelle said.
“That means you’ll have to cut back on things you like: restaurants, concerts, trips.”
“I have to visit my parents. They’ll be upset if—”
“Have you bought your plane ticket yet?”
“My dad thinks it will be more fun if we get together in Florida.”
“Tell him you can’t afford it.”
“He’s buying the tickets, but I don’t want him paying for everything. That’s our number.”
Isabelle jumped up to get their burgers, fries and milkshakes. Paula savoured the warmth of the early evening sun. Nothing said summer like a take-out joint. Her gaze strayed to the squat building’s side wall painted with a mural of a comic cowboy on a wild bull. Half of the patrons at the picnic tables wore cowboy hats, which offered the practical benefit of shading their heads.
Over their baskets of hamburgers and fries, Paula briefed Isa
belle on the jewellery settlement. From the start, Paula had found the DeLong theft fishy. Mrs. DeLong’s mother lived with the couple. While they were at work, a man dressed as a firefighter came to the door and said he was doing a neighbourhood check of smoke detectors. The mother let him in and sent him upstairs alone. In the evening, the insureds discovered all of their jewellery gone from the master bedroom. Paula disliked Tom DeLong’s belligerent attitude; she had a gut feel he’d set up the theft to collect on the insurance but couldn’t prove it. Isabelle had scoured pawnshops without turning up the jewellery. The best Paula could do was argue Tom down a few thousand dollars.
“He agreed to my figure over the phone,” she told Isabelle. More accurately, Tom had protested in a way Paula had interpreted as acquiescence. “If he balks at signing the release, leave it with him and say that he and I will talk next week, after I’ve dealt with my urgent hail claims. I foolishly agreed to take on two more today.”
“Nils assigned me another one on my own.” They finished their juicy meat and fresh-cut fries. While Paula slurped the last of her shake, Isabelle scrolled through her text messages. She chuckled at the phone.
“What is it?” Paula asked.
“Erin says she and Gran are waiting for their food at the bar.”
“She took Gran to a bar?”
“Leah’s bar, where she works. Erin says if Gran drinks any more beer, she’ll be dancing on the table. It was a joke.”
“Gran’s limit is one beer. Erin doesn’t joke.”
“She added a smiley face.” Isabelle’s own smile faded. “I know it bugs Erin that I couldn’t pay my rent.”
“It also bugs her that tenants push her around, invite friends to stay without her permission and leave filthy kitchens for her to clean up.”
“Habib and I clean our own messes.”
“Did Habib tell you that Erin asked me to sell the house?”
Isabelle’s mouth dropped. “Our house? Where would we all live?”
“Erin plans to rent a studio for herself.”
“Without me?” Isabelle’s eyelids flickered.
If this shocked her into improving her ways, good.
* * *
It was pushing ten-thirty when Paula turned into her street, glad to be done with claimant meetings for tonight. Walter’s house was dark. This was early to bed for him, but he might be tired after yesterday’s outing to the Stampede. Her mother had napped half the afternoon, which would have refreshed her for dancing on bar tables. Paula smiled at the impossible image. Erin’s station wagon wasn’t parked at the curb, and Paula’s house was unlit aside from the living room timer. Her had mother probably hit the sheets right after Erin brought her home. Erin had to work in the morning and wouldn’t linger. Paula longed to crawl into bed herself although, with a second wind, she might spend an hour reviewing notes and e-mails and organizing tomorrow’s work.
She parked and grabbed her laptop and purse. A pickup rolled past and stopped in front of her car. The driver got out, a silhouette under the indigo sky. Black cowboy hat, shirt, jeans and boots. Johnny Becker. Not again.
She halted on the sidewalk, a few feet from him. “Were you following me?”
Johnny shoved his thumbs behind his belt. “That was some shit my uncle created with his new will.”
Paula shifted mental gears to the Becker family development. Mike had suggested it might force them out, but he had expected the person forced would be Brendan.
Johnny stared at her. “You and I are on the same side.”
“What side? What do you mean by that?”
“I can’t explain in thirty seconds.”
“We can discuss it tomorrow. I’ll come by your—”
“The more time wasted, the more it gets out of hand.”
This echoed Mike’s saying about homicide investigation. Every moment delayed diminished the odds of solving the case. Would it be safe to talk to Johnny tonight? For certain, not in the house. Paula glanced at her front porch. This would be a chance to ask Johnny about the blog post. Damn her curiosity. His possible involvement in an abduction should scare her into ordering him away. What side did he think they were both on? The side against Brendan?
“All right,” she said. “I’ll play.”
He smiled. “You won’t regret this.”
Chapter Twenty
“What a rickety piece of junk.” Johnny rocked the patio chair from side to side. “Did you get it from my uncle?”
Paula had taken the good chair. Why be hospitable to an unwanted guest? Her rocker, being farther from the porch light, shrouded her in darkness while giving her a good view of Johnny. He took out his pack of cigarettes and offered her a smoke. She shook her head. He struck a match on the sole of his cowboy boot—was that supposed to be macho?—and lit up. She decided against opening with a question about the abduction of the woman in the United States.
“Why did you say we’re on the same side?’
“Do you know why I pulled that gunfighter chase at the parade?”
She absorbed the non sequitur. “Enlighten me.”
“To be honest, at the time I thought I was doing it for fun,” he said. “That was part of it. Now I see it was more.”
He dragged on the cigarette, which she used to find a great stalling tactic. A glass of wine to sip would work equally well, but she wasn’t opening her front door. He hadn’t questioned her suggestion they sit outside, possibly because he virtually lived on his deck. Nor did he seem to expect her play hostess by offering a drink.
“I knew it would pique your interest,” he said.
“Pique?”
“I know some high-class words, too.”
“What did my interest have to do with it?”
“Got you more involved in our case,” he said. “You and that tight-ass cop.”
“Mike?”
“You have to admit, my buddy’s and my act made you and Tight-ass work harder to sniff around my uncle’s death.”
He inhaled the cigarette. Clouds of smoke obscured his face. The stunt probably had spurred on her and Mike. Had that really been Johnny’s intention, or was he making that up to justify his prank or, worse, to manipulate her now?
“Unconsciously,” Johnny continued, “I didn’t believe Uncle Caspar’s death was an accident. Something about it nagged me. I don’t know why.”
“You could have shared your suspicion with the police. Wouldn’t that have been easier than crashing the parade?”
“But less entertaining.” He grinned. “And how much do the cops listen to outsiders, especially someone like me? They want to control everything and investigate under their rigid system. Plus, the person I most suspected was my sister. I didn’t want to be responsible for sending Cynthia to jail.”
“Do you still suspect her?”
He pulled on his cigarette. The sky’s dying strip of orange light outlined the houses across the street.
Paula rubbed her arms against the evening chill, tempted to risk going in for her sweater. “You’re saying you drew attention to yourself and, by extension, your family by that indirect approach?”
“Unconsciously.” He smirked. “I’m a complicated man.” He tapped ash to her porch. “This was before I found out Brendan was in town. If I’d known, I might have been more direct.”
“You don’t care if Brendan goes to jail?”
“Not especially.”
So in this version, she and Johnny were the good guys out to uncover the truth and set the Becker world right. Lift the weight of the Beckers.
“What about Florence?” Paula asked. “She has the strongest motive now.”
“Ma didn’t know about the new will. She was as shocked as the rest of us.”
“How do you know that for certain?”
“Are you calling my sweet little mother a liar?” He curled his hand into a fist and punched the air.
She bit her lip to not smile. “Why do you think your uncle wrote the will in her favour?”
“He’s her hiking companion?”
“They’re both into the overnight back-country gigs. A few times I’ve asked to go with them. Ma refuses. She keeps that part of her life private.”
“She’s refused to give the police his name, assuming this is the man she was with the night of the fire.”
“He’s a bigwig oil man turned philanthropist with his name on some Calgary building or good-deed program. Anyone with a computer brain could dig him out with those clues and his connection to Ma.”
Another task for Isabelle.
“Good luck to the cops in dragging the man’s name out of Ma. When she sets her mind…. I wonder if the guy is leaving her any money for her years of service, so to speak. With my uncle’s property on top of that, she’ll be a rich woman.”
“Whose wealth will eventually go to you and Cynthia.”
“When it’s too late for us to enjoy it,” Johnny said. “Ma’s healthier than your average horse. She’ll probably outlive us both.”
Paula rocked her chair. “So you aren’t happy with the new will, even though it cuts Brendan out and, in the end, will give you half rather than a third of your uncle’s property?”
“Cynthia needs the cash now. She’s trying to convince Ma to trickle her windfall down to us earlier. Ma knows Cynthia will blow it on purses and clothes and scarves and…. Did you see the designer crap in her bedroom and basement?”
He ground the cigarette butt into the arm of his chair, which was, fortunately, due for the scrap heap.
“Do you need the windfall now?” she asked.
He took out another cigarette. “My only spending vice is cancer sticks, if you don’t count drinking.”
“Depends on how much you drink.”
“I can live on what I’ve got.”
“Who wouldn’t want more?”