Deadly Fall (29 page)

Paula rolled off her sensible cotton underwear and rifled through her drawer for the bikini nylon lace ones Leah had given her as a joke. She struggled to zip up the back of the gown and adjusted the bodice, studying herself in the dresser mirror. Without a strapless bra, her boobs sagged. The hip bow looked dorky. Her ass was too wide. She tried a few necklaces, but all looked too clunky or thin and cheap. The hell with them. She would go with a bare neck and ears. After all the fussing, there was no time for make-up. She plumped up her sweaty, tangled hair and turned around again. Her ass wasn't so bad. The hip bow might pass for elegant. Her boobs were reasonably perky for someone her age. She smoothed her hair a final time and opened the bedroom door. Music wafted from the living room. Ray Charles. Good choice, except that the
CD
had been a gift from Hayden. She remembered the condoms she and Hayden had stopped using and probably didn't need with Sam, but grabbed one from her bedside table and dropped it into her cleavage in case they didn't make it back to the bedroom. It was wise to be prudent. She followed the music down the hall to the living room. Sam stood at the far end of the sofa, his back to her, lighting a candle on the end table.

Sam turned around and said something. Paula couldn't tell what from the buzz in her ears. He had slid the ottoman toward the front window so there was nothing between them but open floor. Five candles in glass jars lit up the wall unit shelves. The jars shimmered peach, green, pink, yellow, blue. Mint glowed from the glass on the far end table. Sam lit the mauve candle on the table between the sofa and chair. Ray Charles sang from the
CD
speakers.

Sam walked toward her and held out a match. “You light the last one for luck.”

She shook her head. Her hands would drop it to the wood floor and burn the house down. From the speakers, piano notes rippled down a keyboard. Sam took her hand and placed his other one on the hip without the bow. They moved, rather than waltzed, to the room's center. The ninth candle shone white from the entry console table. Sam had closed the living room shutters. His cheek was rough against hers. When they set out this morning his face had looked so smooth.

They kissed; his mouth and tongue tasted like Mediterranean food and mountain air. His hands were all over her back. He slid her zipper down. She pressed closer to keep her dress from falling and felt him harden against her. He kissed her hair, her ear, her throat. She stepped back, wanting his lips on her breasts. The dress slid to floor. He sucked her nipples. She fumbled with his belt buckle. He drew back and stripped off his shirt the same way he had this afternoon. All she had on now were the nylon lace bikini panties. She stepped out of the bunched dress so it wouldn't get more creased and turned to the candles staggered on the wall unit shelves. Peach, green, pink, yellow, and blue quivered in colored jars. Behind her came the thud-thud-thud of him hopping out of his pants. For him, this was fun, a release from stress, a chance to get laid after two dry months. He had nothing to lose, while she could wreck everything with Hayden, if she hadn't done that already. Hayden had warned that Sam was using her. For what? She couldn't remember, with Sam nuzzling her neck and rubbing her and sliding his hand down her thighs, down her calves. She blew out a candle for luck, turned around, and kissed him. They sank to the pile of clothing on the floor. She straddled his thighs, remembering the condom that was buried somewhere under the dress. Forget it.

“Ouch,” Sam said.

“What?”

“My buckle jabbed me in the back.” He shifted position. “Ooh. I think that was your dress bow.” Gingerly, he edged their bodies sideways.

“We could go to the bedroom,” she said.

“That might be safer for me.”

“In that case . . .”

Colored candlelight danced on his face and chest. She loved how it shimmered on his silver hairs. She kissed his skin shining yellow and green and blue and mauve. Hands fumbling, she slipped him in. Quivers shot through her arms, her thighs, her whole being. She loved this. Make it last forever, Sam. She loved it, loved it, loved it.

He was gone from her bed. Paula spread her arm across the cold sheets. Had she imagined last night? She hoped so. No, she didn't and she hadn't. Their empty orange juice glasses sat on the bedside tables. The clock rolled to 7:43
AM
. Dim light flowed through her window. The door was ajar. No sounds streamed in. Sam must be in the kitchen or living room. She crawled from the covers and put on her sleep shirt.

In the bathroom, she dabbed water on her morning hair, patted it down as best she could and padded to the kitchen, where Sam wasn't sitting. Nor was he in the living room that reeked of acrid candle smoke. Her cosmic blue evening gown was draped on the chair, where they had placed it after waking up. Wrinkled and smelling of sweet sex, it would need to be dry-cleaned. Sam's T-shirt and jeans and briefs were missing. The Sunday newspaper lay on the console table. He must have brought it in. She opened the shutters. His Acura was parked on the street. Drizzle coated its metallic red. Where the fuck was he? She rolled the ottoman back to its spot in front of the sofa and checked the kitchen again. He hadn't made coffee. There were no signs he'd had breakfast. He wasn't on the back deck. The only place left was the basement. She opened the door and shouted his name. No reply. She called again and rechecked all the rooms, peered into closets, looked under the beds, which was nuts. How could you lose someone in this little house? The hell with him. His car was here. He had to turn up. She started the coffeemaker and carried the newspaper to the kitchen table. The City section featured a recap of Callie's murder with her usual photograph. No news. The front door creaked. Sam stood in the entry, removing his windbreaker.

She stopped beside the ottoman. “Where were you?”

“I went for a walk,” he said. “Didn't you see my note?”

“No.”

“I left it on the telephone table.”

“Why would I look there?”

“Sorry.” He moved toward her. “I assumed you'd guess I didn't go too far.”

“Why did you go out at all in weather like this?” She crossed her arms.

His hair was rumpled and damp. “You were sound asleep. I didn't want to disturb you with the radio or
TV
. I felt like stretching my legs. It wasn't raining when I left. It still isn't. Just a little mist.” He smelled mustier than her evening dress.

She stepped back. “Where did you go?” Her hand rested on a glass jar.

“I planned to look at the old commercial buildings on 9th Ave, but got blocked by a train. So, I went to the murder site. I hadn't seen it, since the murder, that is.”

Paula picked up the jar. The mauve candle had burned halfway down while they slept on their clothing. She had woken with a jolt, rousing Sam. He'd got their orange juice, while she used the bathroom. He was waiting for her in bed, where they did it again, slowly this time.

“The place where she was killed looked so normal,” he said.

“It always does, whenever I go there. I can't believe I didn't notice you leave. How long were you gone?”

He glanced at his watch. “About an hour, I guess.”

“The site's ten minutes away.”

“I continued to Macleod Trail and circled back through the streets.”

She plunked the jar on the table. “Would you like breakfast? The coffee smells ready. There's cereal and toast, maybe fruit if we're lucky. Orange juice.”

“I'm meeting Dimitri at ten o'clock for brunch. I could have a coffee.”

She had to leave around ten o'clock to pick up Isabelle. He would want to go home to shower and change. They both conveniently had excuses to avoid the question of what to do the morning after. Had he made up the brunch date with Dimitri? He would be more used to these first-time situations than she was, having changed women every two or three years. Over thirty years of adult life that would make . . . how many? She was too tired to do the math. She poured their coffees and sat down across table from him.

He added milk to his mug. “I did a lot of thinking on the walk.”

“About what?” She sipped, dreading whatever he had to say.

“About you and me and other things. I'd like to see you again.”

Paula ran her fingers through her matted hair. In the bathroom mirror, her skin had looked sallow, her eyes red. He didn't look much better, on the whole, although his tousled hair was splendid. So were his eyes that were way too eager for this hour of day. In that first newspaper article, he had said he was an early riser. That figured.

“We really clicked last night,” Sam said.

A flush warmed her neck and face. “I've been thinking, maybe I should be alone for awhile, to sort things through.”

“If it's about that guy you're with, I wouldn't mind sharing with him while you're sorting.”

“I'd mind. And he certainly would.” How could Sam understand her so little? Last night, they had been so connected. She knew what was under his T-shirt and jeans now, but didn't get what was in his head, like was he willing to share because he wanted her that much or because he just wanted a partner to click with? Had he loved any of his previous women, aside from those moments during sex when the body tricked you into feeling love? She didn't love him beyond those moments yet, but to continue with him she would have to believe there was potential.

“I'll phone you tonight,” he said. “Are you still planning to swing by Felix's today?”

She nodded, finishing her coffee.

“He was acting weird yesterday, even for him. Give me a call if he still seems off balance.”

He cared about Felix, his friend. He cared a great deal about his son. He looked after his father who disliked him and whom he didn't like very much. He had showed concern for Callie and Isabelle. There was potential.

Paula pressed the
doorbell again and heard it ring inside the house. Felix didn't answer. His living room blinds were drawn.

Isabelle put her ear to the door. “I can hear the
TV
. He probably fell asleep watching it, like he did the night I left.”

“Sam said he had to ring ten times yesterday before waking him up. Felix might have been up all night, struggling with his newspaper column, and only fallen asleep this morning.”

Isabelle looked down the street, the feather cap perched on her head. “He could have gone for a walk, like Sam did with you this morning.”

During the drive, Paula had filled Isabelle in on some of last night's details. At Erin's house, she had stuck to the minimum facts: Sam stayed over. They might get together again. Hayden was probably toast. Leah would have pushed for details, but Erin implied this was more than she wanted to know about her mother's sex life.

“Felix could be sleeping upstairs,” Paula said. “Or in his den, too absorbed in his work to hear the bell.”

Isabelle bounded down the stairs to the sidewalk and squinted up at the second floor. “I don't see a head in the window. I'll check the deck.” She ran around the side of the townhouse.

Paula zipped up her jacket. She doubted Felix would be sitting outside on this chilly morning that threatened rain. It was possible yesterday's hike had inspired him to use the pool or gym at the Talisman Center down the street. Most likely he had gone on a quick errand and not bothered to turn off the
TV
. Paula should have phoned, but had assumed Felix was expecting them and would be at home all day working on his urgent column.

Isabelle reappeared. “I looked through the window. His chair is leaned back, like he's lying in it. I think I saw the top of his head. The house is all dark, except for the
TV
. I was right about him falling asleep.”

“Do you have his phone number? The ringing might wake him up.”

Isabelle shook her head. Her blue eyes brightened. She squatted and unsnapped the side pocket of her tote back. “I kept it when I left his house, in case you weren't home and I had to come back here.” She held up a brass key.

“Is that Felix's? We can't use it. That would be almost breaking in.”

“We'll sneak upstairs, get my things, and split before he sees us.”

Paula pressed the bell and waited. The lack of reply from Felix didn't say “all is well.” He didn't seem the sort to fuss about friends breaking in, provided they didn't disturb his work. And she didn't want to make another trip.

Isabelle turned the key in the lock and entered the house. She stopped so abruptly that Paula bumped into her.

“What's that smell?” Isabelle said.

Paula's nose twitched at the rank odor. Voices chattered from the
TV
. Felix lay on the recliner chair, his face covered with blood. Drops spattered the floor. Isabelle screamed.

“Oh my God.” Paula covered her mouth.

Felix's mouth was all blood. Paula searched her purse. She had to call . . . whom? The paramedics or cops or the morgue? Emergency would know. She pressed 911. No answer. Was no one answering anywhere today? Shit. She had pressed the wrong digits. She punched them slowly. Why was no one picking up?

“I see something.” Isabelle ran to the dining room.

Felix's lower face and his shirt were covered in blood. He held something blue in his left hand, something black in the other. Isabelle stood beside the dining room gun rack and case, reading a piece of paper. A woman's voice came on the line.

“He's dead,” Paula said. “We need someone here. Now.”

“Who's dead?”

“Felix. He shot himself. He's holding a gun.”

“Try to calm down, ma'am, and tell us where you are.”

“At his house.”

“What's the address?”

“I don't know. Can't you tell from the phone number? Don't you have call display?”