Deadly Fall

To Will, Dan, and Matt, with love.

Yellow tape cordoned off the entrance to the Elbow River trail. Behind it, a policeman stood guard. He talked to the spectators crowding the sidewalk. Paula stopped at the railway crossing and lowered her passenger side window. She strained to hear the conversation above the freight train's roar. “Body . . . morning . . .”

With a clang, the railway barriers lifted. Her car bumped over the tracks. A crime scene van was parked in front of the entrance to the second pathway, also barricaded with tape. Men in coveralls squatted to search the grass.

She rested her elbow on the car's window frame. A warm breeze licked her skin. Steering away from the sun, she drove down 8th Street. Two turns brought her to her side street of clapboard and stucco bungalows set into tiny front yards. She parked in front of her neighbor's pickup truck. She should clear the junk from her garage before snow arrived. In Calgary that could be next week.

Her neighbor, Walter, rocked on his porch, enjoying a pre-dinner smoke. He would want to chat. All she wanted to do was strip off her business clothes, eat dinner, and go for a walk. She grabbed her sweater, purse, and take-out salad from the passenger's seat. No laptop or briefcase tonight. She had left them at work so she wouldn't be tempted to review any claims.

“You're home,” Walter called from the porch. “The wife and I noticed your car was gone overnight.”

She squeezed between her trunk's bumper and his pickup. Nosey neighbors were another reason to clean out the garage, so she could come home by the back lane.

Walter dropped his cigarette butt over the railing. “I put your newspaper behind the screen door so burglars wouldn't know you were away.”

“Thanks.” She rested her hand on her iron gate. If she asked him about the police tape at the trail entrance, it would give him an opening to talk.

He made his way down his steps, holding onto the railing. “What do you think of all the excitement?”

She glanced west, toward the Elbow River. “You mean over by the railroad bridge? What's going on?”

“It's been on the radio all day. I heard it first thing when I got up.” He stopped in the middle of his yard, squinted at her, took a deep breath, and said, “A woman was shot.”

“What?”

“Killed.”

“When?”

“On the river path, a few feet this side of the bridge.” He scratched his whisker stubble. “A man riding his bicycle to work found her. The wife and I walked over. Cops were everywhere, taking pictures.”

“Good God. Is it related to that killing a few weeks ago?” The body of a prostitute had been discovered farther down the trail; much farther down.

“At first, the wife and I were scared the woman was you, since you didn't come home last night. The radio said she looked to be about your age, early forties.”

She was fifty-two. Trust him to fish for personal information.

“At the scene, we heard a man say the victim had long, blond hair and the wife said, ‘That can't be Paula, her hair is short and dark.'” He checked his watch. “The news'll be on in twenty minutes. They'll have more details.”

“I better get in, so I don't miss it.”

Walter looked at her take-out bag. “What's cooking?”

“Greek salad.” Olive oil seeped through the paper. She held it away from her silk shirt.

“You call that dinner?” he said. “Careful locking up, in case there's a mass murderer on the loose.”

“They think it's related, then?” She shuddered. “A serial killing?”

“Feeling sorry you moved here?” He grinned. “You could ask your boyfriend to bunk in with you.”

Asshole. She opened her gate and crunched over fallen leaves. Walter's presence next door and airplanes flying overhead were her only regrets about her choice of neighborhood. She hoped the murder wouldn't change that view. During her month of living here, she had enjoyed Ramsay's urban character, even the street people who slept in abandoned lots and prowled her back lane for bottles and cans. She left them her empties beside the garage. As for inviting Hayden to “bunk in,” they were far from ready for that.

She collected the letters and flyers from her mailbox and opened the screen door. The newspaper tumbled out.
“
Hostage escapes Iraqi beheading,” the headline read. The local murder would have been discovered after the paper went to press.

Inside, she kicked off her high heels, sniffing the fresh paint smell, and plunked her salad on the ottoman tray. She flicked the remote control to the channel that featured local news at six o'clock, after
Entertainment Report.

She brushed her bangs back from her sweaty brow. Sun poured through the living room windows. Dust hovered in the beams of light. The house had been closed up for over a day. Should she open the windows with a murderer on the loose? Screw Walter and his attempts to rattle her. The streets were safe, and she wasn't stupid enough to walk on the trail at night. She cranked open a window, inhaled the scent of dry leaves, and padded across the hardwood to the kitchen. The answering machine flashed five messages. She pressed the play button.

Hi Paula, it's Callie—
She forwarded through her friend's old message and then played two blank ones. They were probably from telemarketers. The fourth caller was her ex-husband.
Hey, it's Gary. I heard about the murder in your new neighborhood. I hope it hasn't shaken you up. If you feel like it, give me a shout. Talk to you later.
Hayden's voice followed.
If I work tomorrow night, I'll be free Saturday. Are you up for tennis?

She deleted the blank messages as well as Gary's. “Talk to you later” was his habitual signoff. He didn't expect her to return the call and phoning his house was useless. His girlfriend always answered, said Gary was busy, and rarely passed along the message.

She left Hayden's and Callie's messages on the machine as reminders to return the calls. She should have phoned Callie days ago, but had been occupied with Hayden, work, and enjoying this burst of summer-like weather, all of which were more appealing than listening to Callie prattle about her perfect life.

In her bedroom, she placed her shirt on the dresser to be hand-washed, peeled off her bra, and slid down her nylons and skirt. Her skin breathing freely, she put on shorts and a T-shirt and opened the windows. Low-hanging sunlight splashed her poplar tree. Its leaves fluttered emerald, gold, and sienna against a clear, blue sky.

Callie's perfect life.
It was petty to resent it, when her life was going reasonably well. Her job adjusting insurance claims paid for her needs and wants and she enjoyed the challenge of negotiating with claimants, at times. Her daughters were independent and content, even if the eldest was living with a jerk and squandering her talents working as a barmaid. Like Callie, Paula had a new romance. She wondered if it was going somewhere, or not? That was a topic to discuss when she met Callie for lunch. And Callie must have a lot to tell her, since Callie had been too busy this summer to return any phone messages. They hadn't talked since April, after Paula had slept with Hayden for the first time. Paula had described the event as less than stellar and Callie replied, “The important thing, kid, is that after five post-Gary years, you got yourself laid.”

Paula smiled, missing their conversations. She would definitely call tonight.

“Martha Stewart,” a
TV
voice blared through the bedroom wall. “Household guru . . . prison . . . lying.”

The clock radio indicated enough time before the news to get a drink. Paula hurried to the kitchen, uncorked the bottle and filled a glass with red wine—good for her aging heart. She carried the glass to the living room and settled on the sofa. A commercial followed the Martha Stewart story. She removed the lid of the take-out bowl, mixed the olive oil into the greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, black olives and feta cheese, and scanned her wall unit full of
DVD
s and videos. If there was time tonight, she would treat herself to a movie, popcorn, and a second glass of wine, doubly good for the heart. She speared a tomato wedge.

Two news anchors appeared on the screen. Behind them, sunlight bounced off the Calgary skyline with its landmark tower.

The male anchor spoke. “A woman was murdered early this morning on the Elbow River pathway. The hostage drama in Iraq ends happily . . .” An airplane roared overhead. “. . . what to do with the government of Alberta's two billion dollar surplus.”

The camera zoomed in on the female anchor. “Tonight's top story: A Calgary woman was shot to death on the Elbow River Pathway. A morning bicycle commuter discovered the body near the Canadian Pacific Railway Bridge in the inner city Ramsay neighborhood. Police estimate the time of death to be between 3:00 and 7:00
AM
. Fiona Terry is at the site.”

A breeze ruffling her hair, Fiona spoke into a microphone. Behind her, people milled in front of the taped-off trail entrance. The auto body shop and pathway sign framed the scene. While Paula nibbled a feta-smeared olive, Fiona repeated the news capsule and added, “Police have now identified the woman as Calandra Moss. Moss is the wife of prominent architect Sam Moss.”

Paula stopped chewing. Her fork dropped to the bowl.

Morning light illuminated the crabapple tree outside her kitchen window. Paula gulped coffee, hoping the caffeine would jumpstart her into motion. She hadn't slept more than an hour last night. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured gawking spectators, policemen, and news anchors telling her Callie was dead. She had finally drifted off, to be awakened by a hang-up phone call, her first one since moving to this house. Strange it should happen today.

Were the spectators and police still at the murder site? Did yellow tape still seal off the trail? She would check on her way to work. If she had driven to the office from her home yesterday, rather than from Hayden's, she would have seen commotion by the trail. Would she have stopped and learned about Callie earlier? She drove by that spot daily and must have walked the Elbow pathway a dozen times.

She refreshed her mug, smoothed the newspaper on the table and stared at the front page. “Woman murdered in Ramsay.” Below the headline was a large color photo of the crime scene unit scouring the site. Within the article was a wallet-sized portrait of Callie smiling straight at the camera looking happy and closer to thirty-two than fifty-two years old, the way she had looked for the past twenty years. Last October, they met for lunch. Callie had spent the morning shopping for a vacation to Hawaii, where she was going to marry her new love, Sam. During dessert, she took out the bikini she had bought. Paula joked about its skimpiness, saying she hadn't worn an outfit like that since her twenties. Callie was still slim enough to pull it off. She had held up the bra top. The orange and yellow sunset pattern heightened the brown tones of her eyes and hair. She had said, “Won't this suit look awesome with a tropical tan?”