Deadly Fall (5 page)

Vincelli asked when she moved to Calgary.

“1996,” she said. Most people assumed they had moved to escape the sour mood that permeated English Quebec after the 1995 independence referendum. The move was more to rejuvenate their personal lives. She was tired of working for a large insurance firm. Gary, her husband, was tired of being a small insurance agent, but couldn't find anything better due to his lack of fluency in French. Most of their friends had already left Montreal. They decided to hopscotch Ontario and try Calgary. They liked its gung-ho atmosphere. Callie was here; Gary got along with her then husband, Kenneth.

The water jug was empty. She got up to refill it, glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs. With the sun's movement to the front of the house, the kitchen had grown cool and dark. The unstated reason, even at the time, for her and Gary's move to Calgary was a hope that the change would boost their stagnant marriage.

Vincelli asked if the move rekindled her friendship with Callie. For a few years, it did. They met as couples at each others' homes for dinners, board games, and cards. Callie convinced her to join her fitness center, where they met several times a week for exercise and chat. Callie drifted away when she started university; she found it more convenient to work out at the school's facilities.

“She completed her degree last spring,” Vincelli said.

“And was so excited about starting her master's this fall,” Paula said. “It's ironic and sad. She can't have attended more than a few classes before she died.”

The men exchanged glances.

“What's wrong?” she said.

Vincelli's eyes looked puzzled. “What makes you think she went on to her master's degree?”

“She told me all about it last spring. She'd been accepted and was definitely going.”

“To the University of Calgary?”

“Where else? Surely Sam, her husband, mentioned this.”

Vincelli made a note. “We'll question him again and check the university records.”

She crossed her arms. “I can't believe Callie would change her mind. She was thrilled about going. She said she needed the higher degree to pursue a teaching or performing career.”

Novak flipped through his notebook. “You say Callie left an answering machine message on Monday. Did you happen to save it?”

“I can play it right now.” Grateful for another chance to get up, she walked to the telephone cabinet. “Callie's tone was casual and breezy, so I didn't feel any pressure to return the message. When I replay it, I notice she asks if I'm free this week and says call me tomorrow. You say she phoned from the trail?”

Why would Callie have wanted to talk to her now, after ignoring her calls all summer? Was it about something urgent, maybe related to the murder? Did anyone know Callie was coming here?

“Could we hear the phone message?” Novak said.

She pressed the play button.
Monday, 2:45
PM
.
The metallic male machine voice was followed by the girlish one.
Hi Paula, it's Callie. Long time since we've had lunch. Are you free this week? I want to hear all about your move to Ramsay. There are some new restaurants near there that might be fun to try. Give me a call tomorrow.

Novak asked her to replay the message so he could copy it verbatim.

“We'll have a technician make a copy,” Vincelli said.

“It isn't digital,” Paula said. “You can take the tape, as long as you return it.”

Vincelli pushed back his chair. “Do they still make them with tapes?”

He pushed all the buttons, seemingly intrigued by the antique. After the replay, he dropped the mini-cassette into a belt pouch. They resettled on their seats.

“One last thing,” Vincelli said. “Where were you Thursday, September 23, between 6:00 and 7:00
AM
?”

She scraped her chair back. He was asking for her alibi. She looked from him to Novak. How had she missed seeing this from their perspective as investigators? She did this every day when adjusting insurance claims: string together facts to reach a logical conclusion. Two phone calls were placed to her house. For all the cops knew, she received them, had argued with Callie and dashed out to intercept her on the trail. The murder site was a ten minute walk, tops.

She squinted at Vincelli. “My neighbor will confirm I wasn't home yesterday morning.”

His dark eyes didn't waver. “He stated your car wasn't parked on the street when he went to bed at midnight and when he looked out at 8:30
AM
. You might have returned between those hours or parked in the rear.”

“I never use my garage. It's full of boxes. I brought them with me when I moved in and plan to sort through them. Have a look, if you don't believe me.”

“There's space to park in the back lane.”

They had looked, had probably peered into her garage window, and must be noticing her fidgety hands. She grabbed a sprig of grapes. “Yesterday, between 6:00 and 7:00
AM
, I was at my office.”

“Do you always go into work that early?” Vincelli said.

“My hours are flexible. I'm there at six o'clock, maybe once a month.” Less often. Had she ever got in quite that early?

“Who was with you?”

“No one. Nils, my boss, usually arrives between seven and eight o'clock, the secretary at eight thirty. It's a small company, I told you. That's our entire staff.”

“Who else was in the building?”

“It's a small building. The only other tenant is a jeweler. He's never there before ten o'clock.” It all sounded so lame.

He asked for the jeweler's name and her office address and phone number. This was crazy. She had no motive for murder, although they could probably extrapolate one from her ramblings. Jealousy? Pettiness? Childish anger at a friend who broke an imagined bond? You didn't kill for that. Did you?

Vincelli took a sip of water. He pulled the grape bowl closer and broke off his first stalk. “What time did you leave your house yesterday morning?”

“I didn't. I spent Wednesday night with a friend. He's a lawyer and had to be in his office by six o'clock. I figured I might as well catch up on paperwork.”

“Did this friend drop you off at work or vice versa?”

“We drove in separate cars.”

“Did you stop to pick up a coffee or anything along the way?”

“I brought a thermos from Hayden's. This is ridiculous. You can't seriously think I would kill her.”

Vincelli requested Hayden's home and office phone numbers and addresses.

“I know that firm,” Novak said. “I've dealt with some of their criminal lawyers.”

“He does civil litigation.”

Novak tapped his leg. “I should sue my horse.”

She scowled at his attempt at playing the nice cop. Her grape stem was shredded. Ripping it apart had, no doubt, made her look guilty. She dropped the shreds to her plate.

“What reason could I possibly have for murder?” she said.

Vincelli plucked a grape. “You tell me.”

Hayden looked up from his desk. “First the police; now you. Two surprises in one day.”

“They didn't waste time checking my alibi.” Paula sank into the visitor's chair. She had given the detectives a few hours to get here and had decided not to warn Hayden they might show up. If he acted too prepared, it might increase their suspicions.

“I was just about to call you.” He closed the file he had been reviewing when she came in and placed it on the stack to his left. “Why on earth would they think you did it?”

She explained about Callie's cell phone calls sent from the trail. The file on top of the stack teetered; it tilted more and more and finally spewed its papers onto his blotting pad. Every surface of his desk was covered with folders, paper and pens. By all accounts he was a competent lawyer. She didn't know how he kept on top of his work.

“What kinds of questions did they ask you?” she said.

He stuffed the papers back into the file. “They were here a good half hour and caused quite a stir in this place. I'm sure some of my co-workers were hoping to see me hauled out in handcuffs.”

She reached under a folder for the music box, the only personal item in his office aside from photographs. For the second time today, she missed smoking for how it occupied her hands.

“They asked how long I've known you,” he said, “how long we've been dating, if I'd seen or talked to Callie. They wanted details of your movements yesterday. I may not have helped when I said you were a bit of a night owl and I'd never known you to go to the office at that hour in the morning. It slipped out . . .”

“Thanks a lot, especially since it was your fault I went in early.”

“If it's any consolation, they also wanted details about me, in case we're in cahoots.” He got up to close his window blind against the setting sun that blurred the Rocky Mountains zigzagging along the horizon. The mountains looked their best in the morning splashed with eastern light and would be spectacular in a couple of weeks, after a dump of snow.

He returned to his desk. His surroundings were messy, but his person couldn't be more proper and neat. Clean shaven, short dark hair parted to the side with patches of gray above the ears, he wore a business suit, pale blue shirt, and conservative blue and gray tie. The detectives would have to be impressed with the company she kept.

“I wouldn't worry about it,” he said. “The police aren't going to impulsively arrest the wrong person.”

“You know that's not true. Don't try to make me feel better.” She shifted the holograph picture on the music box lid so the trumpet player's cheeks puffed out and in. “I suppose I'm keeping you from work.”

“I do have a trial coming up in a couple of weeks.”

“Callie's funeral is Monday morning. Can you get the time off?”

“I have a meeting with my client. If you want me to go, I might be able to reschedule—”

“Don't you want to be there for yourself?”

“I only knew Callie in passing, through her husband, Kenneth. I saw her, maybe, twice in the past thirty years. Will your ex be going?”

Was he worried about meeting Gary? About his position in the legal community, if he was connected to her, a potential suspect? “I talked to Gary this afternoon. He's leaving Sunday on a cruise, with his girlfriend.

“Your daughters?”

“Leah might want to go. She used to be close to Skye and Callie. Although Leah always says she's against formal rituals.”

“That figures.” Hayden glanced at his cluttered desk. He didn't want to rearrange his life to attend the funeral of someone he barely knew, but would do it if she asked.

“Do you realize,” she said. “If it weren't for Callie, you and I wouldn't have met?”

He and his nephew had attended Skye's play. Paula had gone with Callie and Leah. Hayden recognized Callie from a charity event she had attended years ago with Kenneth and came up to them during the first intermission.

“I couldn't tell who your nephew was flirting with more,” Paula said. “Callie or Leah.”

“Either way, he kept them occupied so you and I could get acquainted.”

Hayden left the second intermission with her phone number.

“I still can't believe she's dead,” Paula said. “Evidently, it happened sometime before 7:00
AM
.”

“Six forty-eight, to be precise.”

“How do you know?”

“A witness heard the gunshot.”

“Did the detectives tell you that?”

“It's in the
Sun.
”

“You read a tabloid?”

“One of my co-workers does.”

He fumbled beneath the files and dug out the newspaper. His telephone rang. While he talked to his client, she studied the tabloid's full front-page picture of the yellow tape running across the entrance to the trail. Superimposed were Callie's photograph and a quote from her husband, Sam: “I didn't know she was there.”

She scanned the inside page. Two nearby residents heard a sound . . . initially dismissed as a backfiring car . . . dog walker recognized Callie from the news report. For the past month . . . he passed her daily at that hour on the trail. Police conclude . . . jogged to Ramsay and back at a set time.

But yesterday morning, for some reason, Callie had placed two calls. Was she planning to change her routine and continue to Paula's house?

Paula returned to the article. The murder weapon wasn't found at the site. So, the police couldn't trace it, if it was registered.

Hayden's conversation wound down. He hung up the phone.

She closed the newspaper. “I wish I'd been home to answer her calls, but what difference would it have made? I would have put on a pot of coffee and waited for her to never show up.” Her voice broke. She blinked back tears.

Hayden's face softened in sympathy. “It should be over soon. They usually arrest the culprit within a week.”

“You know what I hate most about this?”

“You getting arrested and going to jail?”

“Very funny.”

“Me going to jail?”

“I hate that all the murder talk, including suspicions against you and me, prevents me from properly thinking about her and grieving. Can't you beg off work tonight?”

He cast another glance at his clutter. “I'd still have to come in tomorrow morning. You don't like me waking you up early on Saturday.”

He didn't sleep well in her bed, yet. Nights before work were always spent at his place.

“I'm sure I can wrap it all up by tomorrow noon,” he said. “Then, we'll unwind with tennis, cook a great dinner, rent a movie, drink wine, et cetera.”

“I can't wait, especially for the et cetera.” After last night's restlessness, she could use a good dose of sex. Hopefully, it would send her sailing to sleep.