Deadly Fall (13 page)

“Sam felt guilty about cutting our lunch short,” she said. “He wants to continue the conversation tonight.”

Hayden snorted. “I trust you told him no.”

“I thought you'd be tied up at a meeting.”

“Don't tell me you said yes?”

“I hated to miss the opportunity.”

“What opportunity?”

Raindrops blotted her living room window. In fine weather, she could walk to the Saddledome from her house. Sam said he would pick her up at six fifteen. They would grab supper at the game.

“I didn't learn anything from Sam at lunch,” she said. “He was too upset about the gun thing.”

“I'll bet he was. His father is implicated in a murder.”

“It's not certain the gun belonged to him.”

“At the bare minimum, he'll be charged with harboring an illegal weapon.”

She sipped her wine, searching for more reasons to have said yes. “Sam lost his wife last week. Suddenly, he's alone. I can understand him wanting company.”

“Doesn't he have friends?” Hayden said. “What about this Felix?”

“He'll be too drunk to offer any support.”

“You've already given Sam lunch. One meal a day for a virtual stranger is enough.”

“You and I can have dinner tomorrow.”

“I changed my meeting to tomorrow for you, remember? I'm not shifting it again.”

“Then we'll make it Thursday.”

“I'm not sure about Thursday.”

“You're not sure?” She got up. Blood rushed from her head. She dropped to the chair. After five nights of disrupted sleep she was too tired for anyone, never mind a hockey game. “We'll make it Friday or Saturday or whenever. The point is you and I can see each other any time.”

“And Sam is only free tonight?”

She dug her fingers in her hair that needed washing and massaged her scalp. “I agreed and I don't like canceling people on short notice.”

“You don't mind canceling me or your claimant meetings. How does work fit into your running around?”

“I've got a handle on it.” She would be playing catch-up through next week.

“Where are you and Sam meeting tonight? Is it for dinner?”

A hockey game would sound so frivolous and cheerful. How could she be attending one with Callie's husband the day after Callie's funeral? Outside, the rain had stopped. Sun strained to break through the clouds.

“I've told you why I'm doing this,” she said.

“Do you really believe you can ferret information out of a man like him?”

“What do you mean ‘like him'?”

He clinked his wine glass on the end table. “Why did Sam tell you about the gun
ID
, when the detectives told him not to?”

“He assumed I was off the suspect list.”

“Or, he was putting on a show of openness and sucking you in with tales of his quirky father and his mother's sad death. What woman can resist a man with a childhood wound?”

“Sam was over twenty when his mother died and a father himself already.”

“That was careless, getting his girlfriend pregnant.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She rose, slowly this time, and paced to the wall unit. “What's he sucking me into? What would he gain from that?”

Hayden got up, presumably to match her height—more than match, since he was a half foot taller than her. With Sam, she stood face to face, on an equal level.

“I don't know what he gains,” Hayden said. “Neither do you. That's my point. The killer has the upper hand because he's the only one who knows what's going on.”

“We don't know Sam is the killer.”

“If he is, it was clever of him to subtly mention his father may have murdered Callie for some crazy reason, shifting suspicion from himself.”

“Would he do that to his own father?”

“If he's a cold-blooded killer, he would, and this murder is starting to sound pre-meditated.”

“I agree.”

“Sam's father's gun was stolen in advance, with intent to commit the crime.”

“The killer knew Callie would be on the trail.” She rested her elbow on the wall unit, relaxing at the conversation shift from emotion to reason. “It makes you wonder about Felix. His house has a view of the Elbow River path. Sam implied the police suspect him.”

“If Felix knew of Callie's jogging habit, there's a good chance he told Sam about it.”

“Sam said in the newspaper he didn't know.”

Hayden's smirk implied she was being naïve. “Sam knows you witnessed his argument with his little Lolita-Isabelle. To make a show that there's no hanky-panky between them, he sends her to live with Felix, his friend.”

“Hanky-panky?” She mimicked his condescending air. “Isabelle doesn't act like she's interested in Sam that way.”

“How do you know she's not a con artist?”

“Isabelle?” Isabelle's blond lashes had flickered at the reference to a deal between her and Sam, and she had been capable of keeping the nature of that deal a secret from the cops.

“I bet the minute her daddy is on the plane Isabelle will run back to Sam's cozy nest.”

This was possible and would explain why Isabelle had gladly moved in with Felix.

“Your playing detective will do nothing but mess up the police investigation and put you at risk. Let Isabelle comfort Sam and let the police do their work.”

Sam would pull up to her curb in four hours, which left plenty of time to phone him and cancel. Her legs wavered. She returned to her chair. Hayden remained by the wall unit, eyes boring down at her.

She stared up at him. “Give me one day.”

“For what?”

“I'll get what I can from Sam tonight, and then I'm finished with him for good.”

“I've argued my case.”

“Don't be such a lawyer.”

“If I hammer it, you'll go out with him to spite me.” His face darkened.

“Are you jealous of me spending time with Sam?”

“Ha.”

The “ha” was slightly off-key. She had hit a nerve.

Hayden had been the one who pursued her. Despite his work commitments, it was always him, not her, who pushed it to the next level. Why did one in a partnership always want it a bit more?

Slumped on the chair, she softened toward him, just as she had softened toward Sam at lunch. Hayden had been right about that; his case, whatever its motives, made sense. Tonight, she would be careful.

Sam's Acura pulled up behind her Echo. He was five minutes early. Paula let go of the living room shutters, smoothed her burgundy sweater, and answered the doorbell ring. He wore his lunchtime bomber jacket and jeans, but had changed from his T-shirt to a white turtleneck sweater. His shorter hair and its crisp lines indicated he had squeezed a haircut into his busy day.

He held out a paper bag. “I brought these to make up for the monkey one I ruined at lunch. They're ones Callie bought, but didn't get around to using.

She reached into the bag and took out a box.

“If you want more, you can have the rest from the drawer in the sideboard, since you seem to like candles.”

She didn't particularly like them, but he had put thought into the gift. A plastic lid covered the set of nine votive candles in colored jars—peach, blue, mint, mauve.

“They may be too pastel for your taste.” Sam studied her living room. “I like that cinnamon wall color. I see you haven't got around to putting up pictures. How long did you say you'd lived here?”

“A month. I'm taking my time to see what fits. How's your father?”

“Better. I left him stewing his tomatoes. This house reminds me of his Bridgeland place. Two bedrooms? One in the front, one in the back?”

If he was hinting for a tour, he wouldn't get it.

“Are the kitchen and bathroom redone?” he asked.

“I painted the claw foot tub—pewter.”

“Claw foot, sharp.”

She adjusted the pendant dangling over the sweater she had chosen because it was her darkest and most subdued. His non-funereal white sweater heightened his dark skin tones. He was missing his wedding ring. Married men who removed their rings when they went out with other women—an airplane roared above them.

“That's my big complaint about this neighborhood.” She picked up her purse from the console table.

“There's a new type of window that would block the sound.”

“Completely?”

“Like you wouldn't believe. I'll give you my wholesaler's number. He doesn't usually do residential, but I'm sure he'll make an exception.”

If nothing else, this would be a practical benefit from the evening.

During the drive through Ramsay, Sam chatted about the architecture in her neighborhood. They entered the Stampede grounds.

She steered the conversation to his father. “Do you think the detectives consider him a suspect or are they convinced his gun was stolen?”

Sam parked between two
SUV
s. “They told me no bus route could have got him to the site that early in the morning, but he's probably still on their list. I doubt he's number one.”

“Who is?”

“Me.” He removed the keys from the ignition. “The husband usually has the strongest motive.”

Startled by his blunt answer, she got out of the car. A husband's motive would be inheriting money or love gone wrong. They joined the crowd walking toward the Saddledome stairs.

“There'll be more people than usual,” Sam said, “on account of the
NHL
lockout. It could wreck the whole hockey season.”

“Some National League players are paid way too much.”

“You don't think the ones with talent deserve it?”

Did he relate to the players due to his high salary as an architect? They wove around a group of men in business suits. Young adults and families were the more usual Hitmen patrons. She and Gary used to bring the girls to these junior league games and spring for Calgary Flames' tickets for themselves. It had been over five years since she had seen any hockey game live. Hayden didn't like watching or playing team sports.

Inside, she thrilled to the atmosphere: people milling, out for an evening of fun, the anticipation of a fast-paced game. For dinner, they opted for food court sandwiches. This would be neater to eat on her lap than pizza.

“Do you want a beer?” Sam asked.

“Of course.”

Music geared to a young audience blared from the dark arena. They made their way up the steps to the second level.

“They aren't the greatest seats,” Sam said.

“They're center ice. Good overview.” Assuming she would focus on the game.

Sam settled into his seat beside a seven- or eight-year-old girl. His hand brushed Paula's as he passed her his jacket to place on the spare seat next to her. She draped her jacket over her shoulders, breathing the cool air. Strobe lights swirled over the ice; a ticker tape circled the arena. The clash of the metallic musical tones reminded her that the point of this evening wasn't enjoyment: it was to probe Sam.

“Nice to get away,” he said.

“It's bad enough for you to go through a loved one's death,” she said. “On top of that, to be the brunt of the cops' suspicions—”

“It's fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'd think the same in their place.”

“Please rise for the national anthem,” the announcer said. “And remove your hats.”

Sam sang along with “Oh, Canada,” one of the few people she knew who did that. His voice was deep and strong and could carry a tune. With the puck drop, the game began. Intently, Sam followed the play, while eating his sandwich. He moaned with the crowd when the puck missed the net.

“Did you play hockey as a kid?” she asked.

“Just on the neighborhood rink, not in organized leagues, like they do today.”

“Did Dimitri play?”

“For a few years. He was pretty good. I liked taking him to games.”

“You were quite involved in his upbringing.” She knew this from Callie and Anne. “A lot of guys would have buggered off.”

“It was the timing, I guess.” His gaze stayed fixed on the ice. “Yeah.”

The Calgary Hitmen had scored. The crowd cheered. The strobe lights went wild. The girl beside Sam blew her plastic red alp horn. Paula watched the goal on the instant replay.

“Dimitri's upset that my father's gun might be the murder weapon,” Sam said. “He and the old man are close. Dimitri's worried he did it.”

“Do you think he did?”

“I don't know or especially care.”

“That's odd.”

He nursed his beer, either reflecting on or avoiding her remark. “Worst case scenario: my father goes to jail. If they give him a patch of earth to garden, he won't find it much different from being at home. He's eighty and has lived out his life.”

“You're hard on your father.”

“He would say the same about me, if he thought I was guilty.” His tone was neutral, with no trace of resentment. “In fact, he did say it this afternoon.”

“He suspects you?”

He took another sip, probably stalling for more time. “Callie and I used to visit him together. Once, while she went to the washroom, he told me I was cool and not good enough for her.”

Again, his flat tone suggested no pain. Acceptance or denial? His ring-less hand grazed her arm. She felt a chill through her sweater. “Were you cool toward her?”

Sam jumped. The girl beside him had spilled her Coke on his jeans. Her mother leaned over and apologized, over and over.

“It's okay.” Sam wiped his jeans with his hand, barely seeming bothered. “I do that all the time,” he told the girl.

Paula passed him her napkin. He cleaned his sticky fingers. The whistle brought the period to a close. Girls carrying sticks and rings skated onto the ice.