by Susan Calder
“Pardon?”
“I’ll be free by one or two o’clock,” he said. “Do you want to meet at my bar on 17th, the Lonestar Saloon?”
Paula had a lunch date with her mother and daughter tomorrow. “Could you make it later?”
Sirens blasted through Brendan’s words. Paula said she’d get back to him and returned to the preparade. Her mother’s delight at a clown twirling a lasso made Paula glad she had dragged them both here two hours ago to get spots in the front row. Half of Calgary, or so it seemed, lined the parade route downtown. She reached into her backpack and took out their water bottles. Above them the sky was crystal blue. ‘The weather gods always shine on the parade’ was a myth that was almost true. Since moving to Calgary twenty years ago, she could recall only one parade under cloud and threatened drizzle.
A child pushed between their chairs. He ran onto the street to a character in a green dinosaur costume. Three girls darted after him.
“Kids, get back here,” a woman called.
“We can’t see anything,” one of the girls said.
Behind Paula people stood two rows thick, with stragglers in the back.
“They can sit in front of us,” her mother said. “On the curb.”
Paula agreed that moving a few inches back wouldn’t diminish their view. She helped the young woman settle the children on their blankets with their snacks and juice boxes. The woman explained she was their aunt.
“They’re adorable,” Paula’s mother said.
They did look remarkably cute in their western gear. One of the girls was all in pink: pink hat, cowboy boots, miniskirt, leggings, checked shirt and bandana. The others had on buckskin jackets and sheriffs’ badges. They all gazed up at a chorus of cowgirls on the street, lip-syncing a country tune. Behind them a policeman patrolled the parade. Tall. Broad frame. Early thirties.
“There’s Mike,” Paula said.
“Who?” her mother asked.
“Detective Mike Vincelli, the one I’m working with on this suspicious fire claim.”
“I don’t like you doing that dangerous work.”
“He told me he’d get himself assigned to crowd control on the block where we’d be sitting. I’m surprised we haven’t seen him until now.” Paula didn’t know which was more startling, Mike taking an interest in frivolity like the Stampede or in her personal life. “It’s weird for me to see him in uniform. He’s always worn a suit when we met before.”
Mike in a black cowboy hat was extra weird. He looked relaxed and uncharacteristically smiley as he chatted with a colleague on bike patrol. A pair of motorcycle cops zoomed in front of them. The cowgirls made way for a group of line dancers, who skilfully shuffled their boot-clad feet.
“If you moved west, Mum, you could take up line dancing,” Paula joked.
“They offer it at the seniors’ centre.”
“You’ll have time for that when you sell your house.”
Her mother’s lips tightened. She’d spent the winter clearing out her Montreal home and had seemed eager to downsize to a condominium. Now she was waffling about the move. Paula hoped the trip to Calgary and change of air would help her mother decide.
Mike wove around the line dancers. The little girl in pink jumped up from the curb to greet him. Mike handed the children yellow stickers with black lettering that read: Look both ways before you cross—
“Do you want one?” He held a sticker up to Paula.
“I always look before I leap.”
“Not in my experience.” Mike grinned and turned to her mother. “You must be Mrs. Savard.” He leaned over to shake her hand. “How are you enjoying our spectacle?”
“It’s splendid.”
They watched the line dancers sashay away.
“I can’t get over seeing you here,” Paula told Mike.
“I always volunteer when homicide is relatively quiet.”
“What about the Becker case?”
“I agreed to this gig before it came up.” Mike motioned Paula onto the street. He lowered his voice. “You’re doing better with the Beckers than homicide is. We still can’t get any of them to return a call or be home when we show up.”
“I heard back from Brendan this morning.” She had sent Mike a summary of her meeting with Johnny.
“Evidently they’re more interested in the insurance than in helping the police.”
“We come with the promise of money.” She smiled.
“One of our guys talked to a neighbour, who says that a few days before the fire he saw Caspar, the victim, arguing with the man who lived upstairs. Johnny told you he hadn’t talked to his uncle this summer.”
“Aside from inconsequential patter.”
“Paula, watch out,” her mother said.
From the west a man barrelled down the street toward them. He drew closer and closer, but, rather than veer away from the crowd, he took a flying jump over the children. His leg bumped Paula. She toppled into Mike, who grabbed her arm. From behind she felt the man’s hands on her hips. He swivelled her sideways, trying to hide from another cowboy chasing him.
“What are you doing?” Mike bellowed at the man over her shoulder.
The hands let go. Paula spun around to a snub nose and mustache. She jerked back into Mike.
“That’s him,” she said.
Johnny bolted to the centre of the street. He stopped, did a jig on the spot, raised his hands to his ears and flapped his fingers mockingly at his pursuer. A few spectators chuckled.
“Johnny Becker.” Paula started toward him.
Mike yanked her arm. She struggled against him. Like yesterday, Johnny wore black, from hat to boots. His pursuer, in a white shirt and cowboy hat, stalked him, aiming a gun. Good guy and bad guy.
“A stupid prank.” Paula stooped to retrieve the little girl’s pink hat, which Johnny’s foot had knocked off. The girl was so glued to the stunt she hadn’t noticed.
“That was reckless,” Paula’s mother said.
The aunt asked the children if any of them were hurt. All four ignored her. Johnny, the bad guy, dashed around in figure eights, the good guy on his tail.
“Catch him, catch him,” people chanted and clapped.
“He said nothing about this to me,” Paula told Mike. “Don’t you have to apply to be in the preparade? Is this official? I—”
A gun blasted. People gasped. Mike’s hand shot to his belt. A second blast. Johnny clutched his chest and staggered toward Paula. Mike stepped in front of her.
“He’s shot,” someone said. “That was too loud for a dummy bullet.”
Smoke spewed from the muzzle of the good guy’s gun. Johnny fell into Mike, whose bulk pushed Johnny backward. He tumbled into a roll on the street. Paula’s mother cried out.
“It’s fake, Mum.” Legs wobbly, Paula sank to her chair.
Mike was still on alert, his hand on his gun. Paula gripped the armrests.
The man in white doffed his hat at the crowd, danced in victory and trotted down the street. Mike edged toward Johnny, sprawled on the pavement, one arm twisted awkwardly.
“What’s happening?” The children’s aunt leaned between Paula and her mother.
The crowd went eerily silent. Mike hovered above the fallen Johnny. Paula rose to go and help, but a cop blocked her. “Ma’am, you have to stay back.”
“I know him,” she said.
“Lady, sit down,” a man yelled at her. “You’re blocking the view.”
Two policemen ran to Johnny and Mike. Johnny sprang to his feet.
“Aww,” went the crowd.
Tentative claps rose to applause, cheers and whistles. The children jumped up and down in glee.
“I don’t find that funny,” Paula’s mother said.
Paula agreed. “They might have injured those kids.”
“Or you.”
“I’ve heard plenty of guns,” a man said. “That one sounded like the real deal.”
“There are ways to amp them up,” the childre
n’s aunt said.
“All I know is this was way better than the usual lame entertainment.”
On the street, the police huddled and talked into cellphones. Mike broke from the group to ask the spectators if everyone was okay. The children nodded vigorously.
“I ducked like this.” The tallest girl clutched her hands over the top of her cowboy hat, crouched and lowered her head.
“That was unconscionable,” Paula’s mother said. “I’ve a mind to write the Stampede organizers.”
Mike ushered Paula to the street. He kept his voice low. “Are you certain that was Johnny Becker?”
“I stared right into his face.”
“We’ve notified the patrol down the road to round up him and his pal.”
“Good. I think they crashed the parade.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’m afraid I inspired it,” she said. “Yesterday I let out I’d be here at this location. He seemed curious, maybe even probing. I bet he scouted me out here an hour or two ago. I wouldn’t have noticed him among all the hats. It’s creepy.”
Mike raised a brow. “You’re not being paranoid?”
“Mike, there are three hundred thousand people here. What are the odds he’d leap onto me?”
“Why you?”
“Good question.”
Sirens shrieked. A cheer rippled through the crowd. To the west a brigade of five police cars cruised down the street. Marching band rhythms beat in the distance. The huddled police officers moved aside. Mike left Paula to rejoin his colleagues. The children’s aunt squatted to adjust their blanket on the curb.
Paula stood on the street, her gaze fixed on the approaching parade. She had so wanted to forget about work, lose herself in the moment with her mother. Johnny Becker had ruined that. She returned to her seat and took out her cellphone. One missed message. Cynthia Hawryluk, who would be née Becker. Did she know about Johnny’s scheme? Paula returned her call.
“Can you come over today before two?” Cynthia said.
“I’m busy with my mother. Tomorrow morning?”
“I have to take my son to soccer and buy groceries.”
“Sunday?”
“I can’t hear. What’s all that noise on the line?”
“The Stampede parade,” Paula said. “I’m here with both of your brothers.”
“I wish I had time to goof off. It’s not fair you insurers keep us waiting until Monday. You’ve already delayed it a week.”
Paula longed to point out she hadn’t delayed a thing and Cynthia was delaying the police investigation by ignoring their calls. “I offered you tomorrow.”
“Afternoon’s okay.”
“Morning.”
“I’ll try to get back around lunchtime.”
“Morning,” Paula shouted above siren shrills.
“Oh, fine. I’ll figure out something for my son.”
Paula would figure out how to fit Brendan into the afternoon. She wanted to grill every Becker.
Chapter Four
“How was the parade?” Sam asked when he phoned.
“Mom loved it.” Paula told her boyfriend, or whatever you called him when you were fifty-three.
Beside her on the front porch, her mother dozed on the rocking chair, her head bent forward, helmet hair flattened in the back. Had her forehead wrinkles deepened since Paula visited her at Christmas?
“I’m still bogged down in this proposal,” Sam said. “It took me longer to—”
“Let me guess. You can’t make it for dinner.”
“Would you mind?”
His standing them up wouldn’t make a good first impression on her mother.
“I’ll come if you want,” Sam said.
“Mum and I will spend the whole meal dragging your thoughts from design concepts.”
He laughed. “Have you managed to free yours from insurance?”
“Not totally.” Not even close.
“I’ll make it up to you and your mum on the weekend.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Love you,” he said as they signed off.
She believed he did although his work would always come first. She accepted it most of the time. His passion for architecture was one thing she loved about him. For her, work was a job except when pursuing cases like the Becker one.
This reminded her to call her daughter about tomorrow’s lunch. If Leah would drive her grandmother home, Paula could meet Brendan at his bar.
“No worries.” Leah spoke above the barroom chatter. During the Stampede she put in gruelling hours as a server, working ten- to twelve-hour shifts every day. “Does your claimant own this bar?”
“I gather he’s a regular.”
“Which bar?”
“The Lonestar Saloon.”
“Cool. It’s one of the tops on my list.” Leah was looking for a new job right after Stampede. “Let’s eat there. I’ll check it out as a customer.”
Paula didn’t see a problem with this as long as her mother and Leah were gone before Brendan arrived at two o’clock. Leah agreed to noon on the patio. Paula called Brendan and left a message. Her mother’s head jerked forward and back. With a snort she returned to sleep. Paula realized that Johnny’s mother was the one Becker she hadn’t contacted yet. Ex-Becker, she supposed, since Florence was long divorced from Johnny’s father. As the upstairs tenant Florence would have a smoke damage claim.
A brisk recorded voice answered Paula’s ring. “I’m not here. Leave your number.”
While her phone was in hand, Paula called the smoke restoration company to confirm they had started the clean-up on the burnt apartment. The receptionist put her on hold. Paula closed her eyes to the sun, the country ballad lulling her toward sleep. She didn’t often relax on the front porch. When she had time for outdoors, she usually preferred activities like biking, walking—
“Seems your request got lost,” the receptionist said.
“You haven’t sent anyone?”
“We’ll get on it right away.”
“This afternoon?”
“It’s almost the weekend.”
“I’d like it tomorrow at the latest. Please.”
The receptionist promised to do her best. Paula could almost hear her chewing gum.
“What’s the problem?” her mother asked, her voice groggy from sleep.
“Lousy service.”
“I dreamed my garden was shrivelled and dry.”
“The warm sun must have inspired that. I’ll get us more iced tea.”
“I hope your brother remembers to water.”
“I’m sure he will,” Paula said.
“That’s what I’ll miss most about leaving the house. My flowers and fresh vegetables.”
“You can get a plot in the community garden.”
Her mother sniffed. “It would feel like tending a grave.”
“That’s morbid.”
“Have you seen the size of them? What is the purpose when you can’t look out the window at your geraniums?”
Was this normal nervousness about a step in life, or was her mother changing her mind about the move?
“Think of all you won’t have to bother with,” Paula said. “Hiring someone to shovel snow, imposing on Ron to mow and come over for minor repairs.”
“He enjoys doing them.”
Did he? Paula’s brother had told her he looked forward to not having to take care of their mother’s home in addition to his. Their mother had included not imposing on Ron as one of her motives for downsizing to a condominium.
“His coming over is our chance to spend time together,” her mother said.
“I’ll send him a reminder.” Paula texted her brother. Water garden or Mum will kill you. She made a mental note to tell him not to slack off on visits after their mother no longer needed his practical help. “You and Ron can do fun things, like drives to the country. In an adult condo you’ll make new friends and have lots of activities, like card groups—”
Her cellphone rang. Mike Vincelli.
“We got those two jokers to the station,” Mike told her. “Charged them with public mischief. Johnny Becker shrugged, laughed and declared it was worth the fine.”
“Did you interview him about the fire?”
“I’ll e-mail you the transcript when it’s ready.”
“Anything new or suspicious in it?”
“I don’t like him.”
“Johnny was horrible at the parade but not so bad when we talked on his deck,” Paula said. “At least he showed concern for his uncle during the fire by following him to the hospital.”
“It took him long enough to get there.”
“How long?”
“Hours.”
“Johnny implied the hospital gave him the runaround.”
“His uncle was in the burn unit. Where else would you look for a fire victim? Excuse me. I’ve got another call. Say howdy to your mother from me.”
“Howdy from Mike,” Paula told her mother.
“What a fine man,” her mother said. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Pity for you he isn’t twenty years older.”
“I have Sam.”
Her mother sniffed. She hadn’t met Sam yet but was prejudiced against him because he and Paula had started dating when he was a suspect in a murder case. Paula cursed herself for letting this slip to her mother after the case was solved. Her point that, in the end, Sam was as innocent as any of them didn’t change her mother’s mind.
As for Mike, during his dozens of conversations with Paula he had revealed little about his personal life. She deduced he lived in the city’s northeast but didn’t know in which neighbourhood. Did he rent or own a condo or house? Own, she guessed, given his police salary. Did he live alone or with a girlfriend or a friend or his parents? She was sure he wasn’t married.
“Hey, Theda,” Walter called from his yard next door. “Did you like the parade?”
Paula wasn’t surprised to see her neighbour clomp over to her yard. Walter had been outdoors yesterday when her mother arrived. He wore his same cowboy costume: boots, white hat, jeans, vest and blue checked shirt. Colourful bandanas were Paula’s one concession to Stampede wear. Today’s was green to match her polka-dot shirt. She rose to give Walter her chair and seize the chance to prepare dinner without her mother insisting on helping. Five hours of parade activity was enough daily action for a woman who had turned eighty last month. Paula went inside to get her mother and Walter iced teas. She returned to find them discussing his wife’s emphysema, which had caused her to miss the parade for the first time in years. Walter was taking her to the doctor next week and hoped he would order her an oxygen tank.
