Deadly Fall (42 page)

Hayden flashed his self-deprecating smile and hugged her with his big strong warm arms. She missed him already.

He left her alone with her coffee. Vincelli returned to say he was ready to drive her home. Outside, the crime scene unit was packing up. Officers were taking down the yellow tape.

She hobbled to the coffee shop entrance and stopped. “I forgot all about calling work.”

“Already done.” Vincelli opened the door for her. “Your boss didn't sound happy about your taking off the rest of the week. He said he might call Isabelle to start work earlier than planned. He seems to think she'll be a help.”

“She may turn out to be sharper than we think.” Paula blinked in the sunlight. A stout man limped toward them. Detective Novak, Vincelli's partner she hadn't seen since that day they interviewed her. She shook his hand. “I thought you were on sick leave.”

“I couldn't miss the endgame,” he said.

“Is this really the end?”

“For you it is. We've got to collect the evidence for the trial. That's a massive job. You should stop by the station, some time. We'll show you the ropes.”

“I'd like that.”

Novak looked at her cut-off pants and bandaged calf. He patted his thigh. “You and I have something in common, except my injury was caused by a skittish horse; yours was in the line of duty.”

“Do I get a medal or commendation?”

“We're working on it.”

Novak went to speak with the officers at the site. Vincelli led her to his sedan. They drove to the bridge and crossed the river to downtown. Vincelli sped through the light mid-morning traffic. With his dark hair growing in and rough stubble shaved, he was a handsome young man. Too bad she wasn't twenty years younger, not for him but for an organization like the cops. Grueling and frustrating as it was, it must feel like meaningful work. Fifty-two was too old to join the force. At Vincelli's age, she wouldn't have dreamed of it. If she could go back . . . well, she couldn't go back and ought to be grateful she came through this experience alive.

High-rise towers merged into the gray zone. Vincelli steered onto 9th Avenue. They passed her office building, where Nils would be slogging through claim files.

“It will be hard to return to my dull insurance job,” she said.

“What I've seen of insurance isn't dull,” he said. “Arson. Break and enter. I investigated a hit-and-run that turned out to be homicide in disguise. That's what inspired me to apply to Major Crimes.”

“I've got a hit-and-run to tackle tomorrow. I doubt it will turn out to be as exciting as yours.”

“The adjuster in that homicide-hit-and-run wasn't too swift off the mark. A brighter light on the insurance investigation side would have helped.”

They crossed the Elbow River Bridge, turned onto 8th Street and stopped behind the line of cars waiting for the train to pass.

Vincelli turned toward her. “The next insurance-related case that comes up in Major Crimes, I'll get the company to transfer the adjusting to you.”

“They won't do that for a case that's already assigned.”

“They will when I explain your help would boost our chance of proving crime or fraud that saves them from paying a million bucks. One thing I know about insurance firms: they think with their wallets.”

“A few claims like that might boost my spirit for the job.” Once word got around that she had expertly settled a few, intriguing work might pour into Nils's little adjusting firm. A niche like this would give them a chance against giants.

“Besides,” Vincelli said. “How could your work be boring with Isabelle around?”

The train chugged to a stop and began to reverse.

Vincelli drummed the steering wheel. “Do you realize your neighborhood is almost surrounded by railroad tracks?”

“That's how we like it,” she said. “Keeps out the riff-raff.” For all she knew, one of the homeless men she saw regularly on this street had been the person who witnessed Anne leaving the murder site. She would rather live here than in an enclave protected from city life.

The barriers lifted. They bumped over the tracks to the Elbow pathway entrance bathed in sun. Would she ever pass this spot without thinking of Callie's death? They turned onto her street and parked in front of Walter's now infamous pickup truck. He waved from his front porch.

“I'll walk you to your door,” Vincelli said.

“Now that the bad guy's in jail, I can walk there alone.”

“I thought you might like protection from your neighbor.”

Walter was making his way down the stairs. She said good-bye to Vincelli, whom she should really start thinking of as Mike, and joined Walter on the sidewalk.

“Was that the cop in the car?” he said. “What happened after they dragged me to the station? They took my fingerprints.” He held up his boney hands.

He just wanted a little excitement, like her. From Anne's and Vincelli's perspectives, Paula had been as meddling as Walter. She would probably find him an irritation tomorrow, but why not go with the mellow mood?

“It's supposed to stay warm this afternoon,” she said. “I need a nap first, but how about around three o'clock, we break open some cold ones on the porch and I'll tell you all about it.”

“Sure thing.” He winked at her. “Which of the fellows are you going with? Your old boyfriend or Sam?”

Irritation might return before tomorrow. She opened her gate and crunched over leaves up the stairs. The newspaper lodged between her front doors forecast arctic air moving in. Inside, she pulled off Callie's running shoes. Something felt missing. She sniffed. No fresh paint smell. Her next moving-in task would be to shop for paintings that would turn this place into her home. Also missing were Isabelle's clothes and
CD
s scattered throughout her house. Sam must have already brought her by to collect them on their way to Erin's house. Well, he did have a motive to get that done, since Paula had asked him to spend the night.

While the coffee brewed, she slumped in her kitchen chair. The sun was passing to the front of the house, but remnants of light shone on her crabapple tree, naked aside from the bitter fruit the birds and squirrels would peck on during the winter. The phone rang. She jumped to answer, wincing from the pressure on her leg.

It was wonderful to hear her daughter Leah's voice. “Isabelle, Erin, and I were thinking of taking you out to dinner tonight.”

“That's really thoughtful of you all.”

“We want to get the whole dirt.”

Paula suggested they arrive at six o'clock to watch the news, giving them plenty of time for dinner before Sam arrived.

He was waiting
when Leah pulled the car to a stop at the Elbow pathway entrance now shadowed by dark gray sky. Paula introduced Sam to her daughters and left them to chat while she opened the trunk. She took out the cheese plate she had got from the restaurant and the box of Callie's ashes.

“Can't I go with you to scatter them?” Isabelle said.

“You're doing your scattering with Dimitri on the mountain top. One per person is enough.” Kenneth would bury his share of the cremains in the ground. Callie's daughter would toss her fifth to the sky. Callie's son would sculpt his into art. It was a bit weird, but Paula thought Callie would like it.

Sam, Leah, and Erin were laughing.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing,” they said.

She hugged her three girls good-bye. “I love you,” she told each one.

“Even me?” Isabelle beamed.

“Even you.”

Isabelle and Erin hopped into the car. Leah halted at the driver's door, glanced at Sam and gave Paula a thumbs-up.

“What was the joke?” Paula asked Sam as they entered the trail.

“I'm not telling,” he said. “No way am I getting in the middle of three women.”

“Did you bring everything?”

He held up his shopping bag.

The trees on the pathway still held onto their leaves. Their silhouettes swayed above the gorge. Twenty feet below the river rushed over rocks. Paula and Sam stopped by the slope where Callie's body was found.

“It's flat at the top,” Sam said.

They walked up the hill and smoothed the blanket he had brought on the grass beside the trail. Paula set the cheese plate and wine glasses on it.

Sam took out the crystal candlestick. “Why did you want this?”

“Its mate saved my life. If I hadn't been crawling back to reach it you'd have driven right into me.”

“I remembered a candle.” He wedged it into the candlestick.

In the dark, the box containing Callie's ashes looked like it was painted shades of gray, not green and blue. Paula carried it to the ledge. “Should we say something?”

“Your call.” Sam echoed his words from the coin toss.

Their scheme had worked out, just not exactly as planned. She hadn't planned for this moment, either. A gust cooled her arms. In the morning, frost would coat the grass, but this evening was balmy enough for their little wake.

Staring at the box, she cleared her throat. “Callie, I hope you're at rest. I hope I did right by you in the end. I hope—” Her voice cracked.

Sam's shoulder brushed against hers. Candle light flickered across his face. He was far away, immersed in his own thoughts. The box squeaked as she opened the lid. A warm breeze caressed her cheek. Strange, changing weather they were having this night.

Paula held the box out to the gorge. She turned it upside down. Callie's ashes swirled into a cloud falling into the river. A breeze blew some particles back. The candle flame sucked them in. They shimmered pink, gold, red, mauve. Colors danced in the flame. They faded and were gone.

Twenty years ago I took up writing. Many people contributed to this journey to publication. I thank you all. I especially thank:

Jean Humphreys, Stephen Humphreys, Shaun Hunter, Marilyn Letts, Steven Owad, and Bernice Pyke, who read drafts of the manuscript and provided thoughtful comments and encouragement for the book.

Lawrence Hill and the Booming Ground online mentorship program, for taking the story to another level.

My writing communities at the Alexandra Writers' Centre Society, Mystery Writers
INK
, and the Writers Guild of Alberta;
AWCS
instructors Eileen Coughlan and Fred Stenson; Steven Galloway and the Sage Hill Writing Experience.

The Calgary Police Service Citizens' Police Academy and
RCMP
Sergeant Patrick Webb, for advice on crime and police procedure. Any errors are mine.

Ruth Linka and TouchWood Editions, for giving me this chance.

My editor, Frances Thorsen, owner of Chronicles of Crime bookstore in Victoria,
BC
, and a great person to work with. My copy editor Lenore Hietkamp. Promotion experts Tara Saracuse at TouchWood and Susan Toy in Alberta.

Leslie Gavel, Pamela McDowell, and Lianne DesBrisay, for helping me through the lean writing times, with laughs.

My parents, Murray and Emilie Calder. I wish you were still here. My siblings Moira, Lorna, Lynn, and Bruce.

Deborah Donnelly, for youthful adventures shared.

Finally, my three men: my husband, Will Arnold, and our sons, Dan and Matt, who lived with the quirks of a writer wife/mom and managed to thrive. Much love. You made the journey worthwhile.

SUSAN CALDER
is a member of Mystery Writers INK and the Writers Guild of Alberta. She has a degree in Urban Studies from Concordia University. Susan's poems and short stories have been published in
The Prairie Journal
,
Alberta Views
,
Other Voices
, and the
Silver Boomers Anthology
. She teaches writing at the Alexandra Writers' Centre in Calgary.
Deadly Fall
is her first novel.

D
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