Deadly Fall (14 page)

“My daughters played ringette,” Paula said. “I coached a few years.” And spent umpteen motherhood hours in arenas watching games.

Paula stayed for the ringette demonstration, while Sam went out to buy them each a second beer. In the old days, Leah used to fly across the ice, scoring goals. When Paula called her this afternoon, Leah described Skye's memorial service for Callie as weird. The urn was placed on the coffee table that a dozen or so of them grouped around, snacking on hors d'oeuvres and acting like it was a party. Aside from Cameron, Skye's brother, none of the others knew Callie. Most of the talk was about theater.

Sam returned with two plastic cups of beer. She expected him to start into small talk. Instead, he picked up on her earlier question.

“Callie and I . . .” he said. “Our marriage, essentially, ended ten months ago. There was no more than casual friendship between us since Christmas.”

No sex. “You'd barely returned from your honeymoon.”

“It was a classic case. Anyone, except the people involved, could have predicted it. The minute we had it all, we didn't want it any more. Instead of exploding, our romance fizzled, which was lucky in the sense that it allowed us to live together until we figured out what to do.”

He was looking straight at her, his expression obscured by the darkness of the arena. Clearly, he wanted her to know this and may have rehearsed his explanation while getting the beers. His hand minus its wedding ring rested on her sweater. He was interested. She ought to shake his hand off, but letting it linger might encourage him to tell her more.

“We were also lucky to have a big house,” he said. “I set up residence in the basement. There's a bedroom, bathroom, microwave, fridge, den. Sometimes I joined her for meals upstairs. We got along okay. We even shared some laughs now and then.”

Last Friday, when Paula walked to his house and met him and Isabelle, Sam had come up from showering in the basement. When Callie was murdered, he had been exercising down there. If they were, effectively, living separate lives, it would explain why he didn't know where she went in the mornings. Their passion had been strong enough to break up Callie's twenty-eight-year marriage. It may have been the excitement of the forbidden, but what were the odds such passion would mutually fizzle into easy friendship? Isabelle lived with them the last four months. She must have witnessed things.

“Was Isabelle aware of your situation?” she said.

“She couldn't have missed it. Callie was glad to have her move in last spring. She liked the company. In her weird way, Isabelle fit right in.”

“With Callie, or you?”

His eyes narrowed and, to her surprise, crinkled in amusement. “I'm not suicidal. Isabelle's high maintenance. She also has a father who would take out my liver if I laid a hand on her.” He stared directly into her eyes. “Besides, I'm not interested. For all my faults, I prefer women my own age.”

She looked away and let go of the pendant she had, apparently, being toying with. They stood to let a group returning from the intermission squeeze by. The second period began. The action on the ice was too slow for even Sam's attention.

“Are the police aware of your living arrangement?” she said.

“They looked through the house. I knew it would have been obvious from her bedroom and other stuff, so I leveled with them. I think they're satisfied I didn't kill her in a passionate rage.”

“You said you were the prime suspect.”

The collective murmur in the arena rose. Sam turned his gaze to the fight on the ice. The referees pulled two players off each other. The police must figure Sam's motive was money. He would inherit the house Callie had bought. A million dollars was a lot of money, even for someone with his income. And he could have debts, a gambling addiction . . . The cops would be checking every cranny of his life. It was strange that Sam didn't deny he had killed Callie. Maybe he felt there was no point in denying, since he would claim innocence whether he did it or not. Likewise, he would say he wasn't involved with Isabelle and, in Paula's view, that was still the most likely problem Callie had wanted to discuss with her. Something immediate might have happened to make Callie call on impulse from the trail. Isabelle pregnant?

The crowd cheered and groaned at a near goal. The ice action died down again. Sam asked about her daughters, switching the conversation to her. She passed it back to him and found out he had offered to marry Anne those thirty-one years ago when she told him she was pregnant. She turned him down because “She knew I wasn't marriage material.” Dimitri was born two months after Sam's mother died. That's what he had meant by timing. He didn't expect to become involved with the baby, but guessed he wanted something to hang onto. Anne chose the name, Dimitri, because it was different. She baptized him with her surname. When he was ten, she married and asked Dimitri if he wanted to remain a Hawthorn or take his father's name. She had meant his stepfather, and was “a little pissed” when he opted for Sam's surname.

Sam chuckled. “Anne couldn't go back on it, since she gave him the choice and wanted him to accept her marriage. Doug's been a real father to him. I'm somewhere between a father and friend.”

“Anne's told me many times how much she appreciated your help with Dimitri all these years,” Paula said. “She says you gave up a job in the States to move closer to him.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was also a handy excuse to escape a woman I was living with at the time.” In response to her probing, he confessed to having lived with four, no five, women in his life. The longest arrangement had lasted three years.

The hockey game second period ended. The intermission entertainment would be a wild chicken run. People in chicken costumes slid onto the ice. Men set up barrels. Rather than watch the chickens chase around, Paula chose to walk in the concourse with Sam. He bought a third beer; she'd had enough. As they were leaving the concession stand, Sam was hailed by a client. He introduced him to Paula. She recognized the name as one of the city's construction giants.

The man expressed his condolences to Sam. “Glad to see you're not letting it get you down.” He shot a questioning glance at Paula. “I mean, naturally, you're . . .” His voice trailed. He said good-bye and returned to the arena.

“That was a bit awkward,” Sam said.

His suppressed smile made her think he was glad to have been noticed in public with her.

Sam steered the
Acura onto her quiet, dark street. The timer light glowed from Paula's living room, making the place look occupied. That wouldn't ensure her safety, if the danger was in this car. She had learned quite a bit about Sam tonight, but nothing that brought her closer to knowing whether or not he had murdered Callie. He parked in front of Walter's pickup. Light from the street lamp flickered across Sam's face as he said how much he had enjoyed the evening. “Even though we talked about the murder, it felt like a break.”

Paula thanked him for inviting her to the game. “I'd forgotten how much I like them.” Not that she had absorbed more than a few minutes of the play.

“We should do it again sometime.”

“I don't think so.”

His forehead creased. She touched the door handle, preparing to leave. Hayden was right. From now on, she would leave the detecting to the detectives. Did Sam know she was seeing someone? She hadn't once mentioned Hayden's name. That was equivalent to his removing his wedding ring.

He rested his hands on the steering wheel. “Felix and I are planning a hike in Kananaskis this Saturday. It would be another break, a real getaway. He and Callie were good friends. I think he's more broken up about this than I am. It would be more fun if you came along.”

Felix again. If Paula spent a whole day with him and Sam, she could learn a lot. What was the matter with her? Hadn't she just decided she would let the police do the figuring out? Hayden wouldn't tolerate being dropped a second time for Sam. “I can't.”

“You don't have to decide right away,” he said. “I'll call you later this week.”

Sam had been Callie's husband, albeit estranged, according to him, and Callie, her friend, had been dead less than week. Paula was committed to Hayden. Sam's attitude toward his father and the woman he dumped in the States was a warning flag. Romantic involvement with him was not an option.

The street light rippled across Sam's forehead lines. She could almost see his mind churning in thought. His lips tightened, apparently, in decision. She waited for the revelation.

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

That was it? “Don't bother.” That was sharp. Tough. He deserved it.

“You can leave the decision about Kananaskis to the last minute.”

“I've decided now.”

“A lot could happen between now and then.”

Despite her protests, he got out of the car. They passed through her gate on their way to the porch. In another life, she would have invited him in for coffee. Good chance they would have wound up in bed. But the complications were there. So were his lips and eyes framed by laugh wrinkles, his high cheekbones, and his solid chin. Under the porch light, he leaned toward her.

She drew back, her lips tingling, and banged her leg on the railing. She muttered good night. He said he'd call her Friday about Kananaskis and trotted down the stairs, seemingly undisturbed. She wished she'd given him a shove.

Without watching him drive off, she entered the house and closed the door to the sound of the revving of his car engine. The living room seemed unusually bright. She set her purse next to the box of candles he had brought, hung up her jacket and unlaced her sneakers. Light was shining into the room from the hall. Had she forgotten to turn that light off? Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Paula grabbed the candle box. The steps moved to the hall. She raised the box to hurl it. A figure entered the doorframe.

Paula gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you want popcorn?” Isabelle said. “I was putting a bag in the microwave when you came in.”

Paula realized she was still holding the candles. She placed the box on the console table, still shaken by the apparition in a fuchsia tank top and yoga pants. “How did you get in? I'm sure I locked the doors. I spent Saturday installing bars on my basement windows.”

“The man next door used his key.”

“Walter?”

“Whatever. He's old. He saw me ringing your bell and yelled from his porch.”

“Walter has a key?”

“He wasn't sure it would work. He thought you might have changed the locks after you moved in.” Isabelle brushed her blond hair behind her shoulders. “I'll make one bag of popcorn. We can always do more.”

Presumably, the previous owners had given her neighbor a key. Neither they, nor Walter, nor her realtor had mentioned that little fact. How many times had Walter offered to pick up her newspapers and mail when she was away? Never once had he said he had a key, or that he'd put the papers and mail in her house. He had kept this from her deliberately. She would give him shit about letting strangers in. Paula strode through the living room to the kitchen.

Isabelle was searching through the fridge. “Do you have any real Coke? I only see Diet.”

“You're out of luck.”

“I can drink Diet, then.”

“Why aren't you at Felix's place?”

Isabelle peered over the fridge door. She had the widest blue eyes. “I didn't feel like staying there overnight.”

“Why not?” Paula passed behind Isabelle to check the side door lock. Her business card lay on the kitchen table. She had given one to Isabelle today. “That's how you knew where I lived.”

“It took two buses to get here,” Isabelle said. “I could have walked as fast, but I had my bag and this area's kind of creepy after dark.”

“What time did you get here?”

“About nine o'clock. It was your card that convinced the man next door I was legit. You wouldn't give your card to everyone.”

“I do. I give it to everyone.”

“He said you'd gone out with a man in a red car. I told him that was Sam and explained I was Callie's niece. He knew all about her and you being friends. He said it was nice of you to ask me to move in with you after she died.”

“I did not ask you to move in. I said to call if you ran into trouble.”

“What good would calling do when you were out?”

“My cell number's on the card.”

Isabelle's eyelashes flickered. “I didn't think of that.”

Paula's heartbeat had returned to normal. So, Isabelle wanted to move in. Why? Had Felix done something? Paula couldn't seriously see Isabelle as a murderer, even though she was probably on the suspect list. “While I change, can you get a bottle of red wine from the basement? It's at the foot of the stairs, on the shelves to the right.”

“I had enough booze at Felix's,” Isabelle said.

“The wine's for me.” Paula opened the door for Isabelle. Even with the light on and the window bars, she didn't envy Isabelle's tread down that staircase tonight. And she herself wouldn't feel completely comfortable in this house, accessible to people like Isabelle and Sam, until the murder was solved.

In the bathroom, a pink comb trailed long, blond hairs onto the sink. More strands clung to the basin. Paula washed them down the drain. Isabelle's toothbrush nestled next to hers. This wasn't a two-person counter. Bath oils Paula didn't recognize lined the shelf by the claw foot tub. Isabelle had brought her essentials.

A tote bag spilled thongs, shorts, and
CD
s onto the den's single bed. A trio of pastel Beanie Babies perched on the pillow. Isabelle had helped herself to Paula's laptop and had, evidently, spent part of the past hour on
MSN
, chatting with friends in Montreal. Her last entry read,
My dad's been hassling me since I got here.
He might have good reason.