Deadly Fall (10 page)

“And been accepted.”

“People keep secrets.”

“She told me.”

“You were her closest friend.”

“Did she tell you I was her best friend?”

“She . . .” He pressed his hand on his leg to stop it jittering and looked over her shoulder, out the window. “I was thinking we should get together for lunch. It might be good for us both to talk things over.”

Detective Vincelli had warned her to watch out for strangers probing. Callie had told her Sam was the one who encouraged her to go for the higher degree. She might still have kept the application secret from him, but not the acceptance. Had she lied to Paula about any or all of it?

“Are the detectives checking the university records?” she asked.

“I expect they're doing it today. A car's turning in the driveway. That must be Dorothy.”

He jumped up and rushed to the door. His edginess didn't jibe with Dimitri's remark that the cops were easing up. Maybe Sam thought they were busy collecting evidence, preparing to pounce.

Isabelle, Dorothy, and Ginette bustled in. They were followed by Tony carrying two wreaths, one round and one cross-shaped.

Dorothy apologized for being late. “The minister asked me to take the leftover funeral flowers. I know you told her you didn't want them, Sam, but they aren't suitable for shut-ins and I hated to see them go to waste.”

She directed Tony to set them in front of the fireplace. He placed an arrangement on either side. She told him to move the cross to the left, the circle to the right, the cross an inch forward.

“Do it your fucking self,” he said, and headed for the kitchen.

Dorothy flushed.

Ginette patted her sister-in-law's arm. “Tony's wound up from the funeral. A smoke and a beer should calm him down.”

Isabelle scratched a black jewel in her navel. “I'm starved.”

The doorbell rang. Three women from the church choir trooped in, followed by Felix Schoen, the journalist. His weekly column in the city's newspaper's community section was a chatty mix of personal and social commentary. Paula scanned it now and then.

Felix went directly to the kitchen for a drink. The minister had been invited, but had a prior engagement. No one knew why Callie's son, Cameron, didn't show up. A caterer announced the buffet was ready.

Paula lined up behind Felix and filled her plate with vegetables, dip, coleslaw, and mini sandwiches. In the living room, Felix lumbered toward Isabelle at the baby grand. Dorothy and the church ladies were claiming the love seat and chairs. Ginette hauled in a dining room chair so she could sit with them. Paula considered looking for Sam or Tony in the kitchen or dining room.

“Here's to Callie.” Felix raised his glass of Scotch to her. He was about six feet tall and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His crumpled beige suit and shirt, open at the neck, looked like they had been pulled from a laundry hamper.

“I enjoy your column,” she said, struggling to recall a specific thing he had written.

“I've canceled it this week. Who can write drivel in the midst of this? I'm mulling an idea, can't get it started. It's got to be real and not exploit her death.”

Isabelle wandered over. “Where is everyone? There were tons of people in the church.”

“Most of them came to gawk at the car crash,” Felix said.

“It would be fun to report on accidents and stuff.” Isabelle toyed with her necklace, dipping it in and out of her cleavage. “Can you get me a job at your newspaper?”

Felix downed some Scotch. “I'm freelance. I don't set foot in that hell hole.”

“I've gotta get a job by the end of the week,” Isabelle said. “My parents want me to go home with them.”

“Where's home?” Felix made it sound like a philosophical question. He looked better in his column photo, which must be an old one taken before his crown went bald; blond or gray locks scraggled down the back of his neck. He had been too broken by Callie's death to serve as pallbearer and left the service with tear-drenched eyes.

“Is my dad with Sam?” Isabelle asked and departed for the kitchen.

Felix turned to Paula. “I remember seeing you in the church. Who are you again?”

“I grew up with Callie in Montreal.”

“You came all this way.” His voice choked over her dedicated friendship.

She didn't bother to set him straight. “Do you think Sam will stay alone in the house?”

“He'll be gone by Christmas, after the reno's finished.”

“It's a shame he has to move the minute the work is done. He must feel sad about that.”

“Sam never liked this place.” Felix's blush suggested this had been a slip. He drained his Scotch and held up the empty glass. “I need a refill.”

Rather than join the ladies in the nook, she followed Felix to the kitchen. No sign of Isabelle or Tony or Sam. It was an odd architect who bought a house he disliked.

They replenished their glasses at the table bar. Felix drifted to the living room. Through the patio doors, Paula spotted Tony on the deck. She slid the glass open.

Tony turned at the sound. “You caught me.” His grin revealed a gold eye tooth.

“Sam doesn't let you smoke inside?”

“I figure it's polite in a non-smoking house.” He drew on his cigarette.

The house shaded the deck and yard, a jungle of poplar and birch still holding onto their leaves. Through the yellows and greens the Elbow River was barely visible. Tony, like Felix and Sam, had taken his jacket off. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt. On his upper arm, a tattooed snake coiled around a sword.

He pointed his cigarette at the house. “I didn't know architects made this much bread. I figured the name-brand ones were rich, but Sam only designs offices.”

“He's pretty successful at it.”

“Kenneth, her first husband, is even richer. His house isn't a mansion, like this, but I get the impression there's a lot stashed in investments. Callie did well for herself.”

“Until she got killed.”

Tony flicked ash over the railing. “Skye says Callie got a hefty divorce settlement and sank most of it into this place. Sam gets it all after one year of marriage.”

“Are you suspicious of him?”

He stared at the trees, dragging on his cigarette.

Paula finished her wine. “At the church, Ginette said you'd talked with Callie a lot these past few months, after your daughter moved in with her. Did she say anything that would lead you to think someone might kill her?”

“Most of our talk was joking or about Isabelle, like how late was she staying out and what job was she quitting now.”

“You're sure there wasn't something?”

“Nothing.” He dropped the cigarette butt into the yard. “What difference would it make now? The dead are dead. Sending a man to jail won't bring her back.”

“It might prevent him from murdering someone else.”

Tony took out another cigarette. “Exactly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He turned away and rested his arms on the railing.

She returned to the kitchen and placed her wine glass by the sink. Beyond the arch, Felix expounded to Ginette. His hands flailed so wildly no Scotch could possibly remain in his glass. Rather than cut between them, Paula took the hall route to the living room and passed a door that might lead to a pantry. Muffled sounds flowed through the second closed door. She stopped. Through mahogany arched panels, she heard a man's low tones, a girl's high pitched ones.

Isabelle's voice rose. “We had a deal.”

“Ssshhhhhh.”

“You . . .” Isabelle's voice trailed.

The den door opened. Paula stepped back. Sam froze, his hand on the knob. He stared at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open, and slammed the door in her face.

She slunk down the hall to the dining room and collapsed on a chair.

We had a deal. The dead are dead. Prevent him from murdering someone else.
Sam wasn't upset about the cops preparing to pounce. His plan was unraveling.

Sam entered the dining room and halted. “I didn't know you were here.”

Isabelle brushed past him on her way to the table. She loaded a dessert plate with pastries and fruit kabobs. “This stuff is really good. Sam, try the dip.”

“It's time I checked out the food.” Sam grabbed a dinner plate.

He and Isabelle circled the table, not too close to each other and not deliberately far. Sam said he would ask the caterers to make up take-out boxes for Paula and the other guests, since there was too much food for them to use up. Somehow, Sam had smoothed things over with Isabelle. Their deal, whatever it was, was back in place. They were co-conspirators again.

Sam asked Paula which of the sandwiches she liked. She couldn't stand it anymore and strode across the hall to say good-bye to Dorothy.

“So soon?” Dorothy looked disappointed. “We haven't had a chance to catch up.”

Paula bussed cheeks, inhaling old lady perfume. The fake fireplace crackled between the funeral wreaths. Sam entered with his plate. Dorothy told him Paula had to leave. He set his plate on the coffee table and walked Paula to the door, playing the proper host. She thanked him for having her. They stopped in front of the door.

“We talked about getting together for lunch,” he said. “Why not tomorrow, if you're free?” His tone was casual, as Callie's had been in the answering machine message when she suggested meeting Paula for lunch. Paula had failed to answer that message. Sam wanted to know what Paula had overheard and what Callie had confided to her closest friend. Paula bet he was already formulating an explanation for his argument with Isabelle. That was easy. She could formulate one herself. “I told Isabelle she couldn't stay and she got melodramatic.” If they met for lunch, Paula would assure him she understood and make it clear Callie had told her nothing, all in the guise of friendly conversation. Sam would be on guard, but, perhaps, less guarded than he would be with a cop. There was a chance he would slip. Sam was waiting for her reply. His face said, “Yes, no, either way, I don't care” while his hand opened and closed into a fist, opened and closed against his shaking leg. He was hanging on her answer. Saying “no” would close the door. After talking with Vincelli, she could cancel.

“I can do lunch tomorrow,” she said. “Where? What time?”

“Your choice.”

She thought of a nearby restaurant. “Do you know Lily's Café?”

“I've heard of it.”

“Noon. I'll give you directions.”

As Paula slit the film cover of a frozen butter chicken dinner, the door bell rang. It couldn't be Hayden, who was working tonight. Leah was at Skye's memorial service and Erin had a class. She hurried to the living room and pulled down some shutter slats. A sedan was parked by the curb between her car and Walter's pickup. From this angle, she couldn't see who was on the porch. The bell rang again. Vincelli had warned her about letting in strangers. How could she live like this, being constantly afraid? She looked through the opaque glass. Detective Vincelli. So far, he was the only stranger who kept turning up. She cinched her bathrobe sash.

“I saw you this morning at the funeral,” she said. “You left the service early.”

“They didn't need to know I was there.”

“They? You mean the suspects?”

“I mean the family. They deserved the break from the investigation. You called me about something?”

Cool evening air flowed into the house. She was hardly dressed for visitors, but stepped back so he could enter.

“You didn't have to stop by,” she said as they walked to the kitchen, which seemed to have become their established meeting place at her house.

“It's on my way home from the station,” he said.

“Whereabouts do you live?”

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” His nose twitched at the South Asian aroma.

“It's just a microwave meal I can reheat.”

Was it significant that he hadn't simply phoned in reply to her message that she wanted to talk to him about some things that had happened at the funeral reception? He was either particularly curious about her observations or seizing the chance to check her out. Surely, he had eliminated her from his suspect list. Sam still had to be on it, but how close was he to the top? Dimitri said the cops seemed to be easing up on him. She offered to make coffee. Vincelli said water would be fine and claimed his chair next to the kitchen side door. She got out a water jug and two glasses and took her place opposite him.

His hands went flat on the table. “What did you want to tell me about the funeral reception?”

“I was the first to show up at Sam's house,” she said. “He was there alone. He seemed edgy. I got the feeling he was worried Callie might have told me things.”

“What things?”

“Whatever he's hiding. You do think there's something?”

His expression remained the same. He hadn't taken out his notebook.

She rubbed the top of her robe to make sure it wasn't open at the chest. He must think she lived in this outfit when she was home alone. “Sam didn't know Callie had been accepted into the
MFA
program. He didn't even know she'd applied. You obviously know that. Have you checked the university records yet?”

He paused. Was he considering how much he should share?

“She didn't apply,” he said.

“That's odd,” Paula said. “Isabelle arrived in May. Did that have something to do with Callie changing her mind about the
MFA
? What do you think about Isabelle and Sam?”

He sipped water, clearly as an excuse to avoid her questions.

“I overheard an argument between Sam and Isabelle,” she said. “They were in the den. Isabelle said angrily to him, ‘We had a deal.'”

“About what?”