by Susan Calder
Florence tapped the marker on her chin, leaving a black dot. “Work takes my mind off it.”
“Why do you think he’s in trouble?”
“Don’t I know my own son?” Florence grabbed a plaid skirt.
“My police contact is doing a search of Johnny’s truck licence. He’ll let me know right away if anything turns up.”
Florence examined the skirt. Her fingers gripped the hem too tightly. “This needs mending.” She tossed the skirt to the pile to her left.
“I came to tell you I’ll draw up a contract tonight for you to clean up Caspar’s apartment. I’ll leave the amounts flexible, but it will stipulate we both must be fully satisfied on all accounts before you receive any payment.”
“I’m glad you’ve finally seen reason over that.”
Paula had no further excuse to be here. Her gaze travelled across the living room to the staircase door. She had noticed Johnny’s helmet on the utility room washing machine.
“Johnny took his pickup,” she said. “It’s a long shot, but what if he drove down to the lane to clear out large items from Caspar’s house and ran into trouble? Maybe he fell while lifting something or—”
“I didn’t think of that.” Florence dropped the coat to the floor. “If he parked in the lane, we wouldn’t see his truck behind the fence.”
“He didn’t take his helmet for going into Caspar’s.”
Florence bolted to her feet. “He only used that to mock me.” She barrelled past Paula, yanked open the staircase door and flicked on the light switch. “Are you coming with me or not?”
Was she actually invited? Paula gripped the railing and followed Florence down the steep, dimly lit stairs. At Brendan’s landing, Florence raced through his apartment, a shortcut to the side yard. At the fence, Paula fished through her purse for the padlock combination.
Florence crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “If you don’t hurry, I’m climbing over—”
“Found it.” Paula opened the padlock.
Florence tore down the hill. She stopped at the van and peered into the cab. Was she worried Johnny might be slumped inside? She yanked the rear cargo door handles.
Paula opened the padlock on the gate to the lane. Florence pushed by her and gasped. Paula bumped into Florence’s shoulder. Down the lane was a silver sedan, the sole vehicle in sight.
Florence kicked gravel at the garage door. “That idiot. Why did he put me through this? If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him.”
“Why are you so sure he’s dead?”
“Not Johnny, you fool.”
Florence was through the gate, back into the yard. Paula locked the padlock behind them. Florence eyed the garage.
“The air’s decent in there,” she said. “He could be hiding out.”
“What about his truck?”
“Parked it elsewhere to confuse the issue.” Florence went over to the garage and turned the door handle. “It’s open.” She disappeared inside.
Paula peered in. The garage didn’t smell smoky or damp but had a stale odour. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Columns rose from the floor. She picked out cookstoves, tents, backpacks, lamps.
“Owww,” Florence said from the garage interior.
“What?”
“Goddamned camp pots fell off and almost brained me. Caspar was always picking up gear he thought I’d like.”
Paula listened to Florence’s footsteps approach.
“He’s not here,” Florence said. “No space, and I’d know if he was.” Outside, she stopped to look at Caspar’s apartment.
“It’s too toxic for a hideout,” Paula said.
“Even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to spend long in there.”
Shoulders hunched, Florence slouched toward the van and sunk to the ground. Paula sat down beside her.
“I’ll see if Brendan has the keys to the van and check the cargo hold,” Florence said.
“I doubt he’s in there,” Paula said. “Johnny’s a grown man who’s only been missing a little over a day.”
Florence leaned her head back against the dirty van.
“What did you mean by Johnny confusing the issue?” Paula asked. “What issue?”
Florence closed her eyes.
“When you blamed someone for putting you through this, did you mean Caspar? How is Johnny’s disappearance his fault?”
Her eyes still closed, Florence turned her face toward the sky.
“Fine,” Paula said. “You don’t want my help, even though Johnny thinks, for some reason, I’m on his side. After he took off yesterday, he left a message with Cynthia to call me.”
Florence’s eyes shot open. “About what?”
“I suspect you know more about that than I do. What did you expect to find in that envelope Brendan discovered in the wardrobe?”
“Caspar’s will was news to me.”
“What were you afraid—?”
“The blasted will has caused all this trouble.”
“Why did Caspar leave the property to you?”
“We weren’t having an affair, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I wasn’t,” Paula said. “I think he revised his will because he trusted you to do the right thing for his family.”
Florence stared ahead, at the fence lined with broken plant pots.
Paula focussed on the older woman’s turned-up nose. “It could be a simple matter of trusting you not to sell his parents’ home, while Cynthia, Johnny and Brendan would want to get the money for it. Or it could be you know something they don’t, something—”
“What does the will have to do with my missing son?”
“You’re the one who made the connection.”
“When?”
“You said the will had caused all this trouble.”
“I wasn’t referring to that.”
“What were you—?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Forget it.” Paula hoisted herself to her feet and brushed off the seat of her pants, which were probably grass stained. “I have to go see a claimant, one who might cooperate with me.”
She marched up the stairs, resisting a backward glance, and left the gate open for Florence.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Paula arrived home from her claimant meeting to find her mother with Walter in his front yard. The saskatoon berry pie Walter held made Paula hungry for dinner.
“Did you see a black pickup truck on the street yesterday or today?” she asked him. “Not one belonging to any of our neighbours.”
Walter squeezed the pie box in apparent reflection. “I didn’t notice.”
Paula and her mother left him with his pie.
“What was that about?” her mother said.
“Nothing particular. I gather you had a blast at Gary’s pancake breakfast.”
“I was so full from all the food I didn’t mind waiting to eat with you.”
Over couscous, her mother mentioned that Erin had invited her to stay over tomorrow night.
“Would you prefer that to going to Edmonton?” Paula asked.
“It will be my last chance to spend time with Erin and her friends before I go home.”
With her mother happily occupied, there was no reason for Paula not to drive up to Edmonton. She called Sam to say she’d meet him there at the barbecue.
“Terrific,” he said. “A night away together, alone.”
Paula hoped the change of scene would free her mind for the romance Sam anticipated. She put the berry pie in the oven to warm up for Mike’s arrival.
“I’ll watch my show while you two talk business,” her mother said.
“I wish your visit here had turned out better.”
“I’ve enjoyed it more this way.”
Paula looked up from organizing glasses and plates in the dishwasher. Was her mother gearing up to confide her feelings about David?
“I’ve come to know the people in your life,” her mother said. “Leah and E
rin, or course, Isabelle, Habib, Gary—he’s still in your life, whether you want him or not. Sam, Walter, who showed me the Stampede grounds in a different way from Mike and those, ah, active children.”
“Don’t forget David and the cherry jam.”
“We can drop off his pie tomorrow on the way to Erin’s.”
“Are you and David friends or more than that?”
Her mother fiddled with the napkin holder on the table. “Your brother called today. A couple who came back to see my house a second time has made an offer.”
“Already? The house has only been on the market a week. Mum, that’s great.”
“It makes me think we priced it too low. They’ve offered ten thousand dollars less than the list price.”
“People always negotiate.”
“I told Ron I wouldn’t drop the price by more than five hundred dollars. I’m not giving the house away. It’s the one you grew up in, Paula.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“If one buyer has turned up this soon, there will be others next week. I’m not desperate.”
Paula checked her e-mail and wasn’t surprised to find a message from her brother, saying their mother was being unreasonable, but what could he do but authorize her counteroffer and hope the young couple wanted the place enough.
Mike arrived at precisely eight, dressed in jeans and a navy blue shirt. At the sight of the saskatoon berry pie, he flashed a rare grin. Paula’s mother cut him a generous slice. Mike asked if she was still enjoying her trip.
“I’m having such a wonderful time that I dread going back to deal with my problems.” Her mother interpreted Mike’s silence as an invitation to detail her uncertainties about selling the home she had lived in most of her adult life and moving to a seniors’ condominium apartment. “I’m dealing with an offer right now, although the buyers don’t appear to be serious.”
“Mum, ten thousand less than list—”
“If they come back with a higher figure, I’ll tell my son to stand firm on my counteroffer, that is considerably lower than our original listing.”
“I’m with you, Theda,” Mike said. “I hate haggling over dollars and cents. When we sell our house, my sister’s handling it all.”
“My son tends to give in too easily.”
“Ron?” Paula said. “Mum, he’s spent the past forty years selling furniture and cars. You couldn’t have anyone slicker than him in charge.”
“Can I tempt you with another piece of pie, Mike?” her mother asked.
“Tempt away.” He patted his abdomen. “Listen to your gut in this matter, Theda. Whatever choice it makes will be right.”
Leaving Mike with his fresh piece of pie, Paula settled her mother on the sofa and started the recording of Coronation Street. Over tea, Mike told her that Johnny Becker’s vehicle licence hadn’t turned up in any accidents or reports of abandoned trucks, nor had Johnny or the vehicle crossed the border to the United States.
“Since he lives there most of the year, it occurred to me he might have gone home,” Mike said.
The police had visited his two known friends, the buddy who’d shared the stunt at the Stampede parade and the one who owned the ranch. Telephone records showed a call from Florence’s apartment to Cynthia’s house went through at 3:23 p.m. Cynthia confirmed this was a message from Johnny asking her to phone him at Paula’s.
“You are taking his disappearance seriously,” Paula said.
“Perhaps I trust Florence’s gut. When I phoned her to ask about the call, she barked that she didn’t consider Johnny missing since he was a grown man who didn’t answer to his mother and lived his own life. ‘Crash’ went the receiver in my ear. That’s some kind of denial, if you ask me, given your report of Florence’s concern.”
“She was so frantic this afternoon that she dragged me along for support when she normally can’t stand me intruding.” Paula described the search in Caspar’s yard, lane and garage for Johnny. “I’ve no doubt she’s already checked the inside of the van and, perhaps, even gone into Caspar’s apartment.”
“Most likely the obvious will turn out to be true in this case.”
“Which is?”
“Johnny Becker is a thoughtless man who has run off with no regard for the feelings of those he left behind.”
From what Paula had seen of Johnny, she couldn’t disagree. Her phone rang.
“It’s Leah,” she told Mike. “Next to Florence, she was the last person to see Johnny.”
Leah spoke against a backdrop of loud talking. “I saw your message hours ago, but—” Clanging dishes drowned the rest of Leah’s sentence. She raised her voice. “Jarrett came into the bar. At first I thought he’s here to meet me halfway. Then he jumps on the table, raises his hands and stamps his feet to get silence. Mom, you won’t believe what he did next.”
“Try me.” Paula glanced at Mike, who was studying her intently.
“Jarrett proposed. Got down on a knee, pulled out a little case with a ring. The works. He’d had a few drinks, but…the whole bar was laughing and cheering him on, like we’d planned this or they were sure I’d say yes. I told Jarrett to stop being an asshole and get off the table.”
“Did he?”
“How could Jarrett not understand me at all?” Leah said. “Anyway, Mom, you called about what Johnny and I discussed in the car. Like I told Brendan, Johnny got into telling me his dream of buying a ranch. I talked about wanting to start up a bar. Johnny listened, unlike Jarrett.”
“What time did you and Johnny get back to his house?”
“Around one, I guess. I’ve got to go now, Mom. I hope Johnny turns up. Brendan’s starting to worry.”
“When did you last hear from Brendan?”
“He texted a half-hour ago.”
“Honey, if you want to talk about Jarrett or anything, I’m here to listen.” Paula signed off. She told Mike about Leah’s conversation with Johnny. “His ranch dream might have inspired him to make an impromptu visit to the States through an illegal route. But why not go through an official border crossing?”
“The obvious would be that he killed his uncle, felt someone was close to figuring that out and decided to disappear.”
“Is homicide close?”
“Half our unit’s convinced Caspar died by accident from a careless cigarette. The other half can’t think beyond Stampede partying.”
“Where are you?”
“On the fence.”
She couldn’t picture Mike loosening up enough to party. “After Johnny returned Leah to Florence’s, he’d hung around for at least an hour and half before going out for cigarettes. Why didn’t he and Florence leave to price the jewellery right away? I’d love to know what they were doing during that time. If Caspar was murdered, she has the most obvious motive.”
“Florence is holding on to the original holograph will, but Brendan brought a copy of it and a sample of Caspar’s writing into headquarters.”
“He really has been busy.”
“Our handwriting expert believes the will is valid.”
“We expected that after Garner’s confirmation. Have you told Brendan?”
“He said the same as you; it’s what he expected. He sounded resigned. Of all the Beckers, Brendan’s the only one who’s cooperated and not become hostile.”
“He seems decent,” Paula said. If Leah remained angry and annoyed at Jarrett’s grand gesture, she could be living at Brendan’s for a long time.
* * *
While Paula was making final revisions to the cleaning contract for the Beckers, her cellphone rang. Robin, the jeweller. Calling after ten o-clock?
“I knew a fellow night owl would be up at this hour,” he said. “It’s about that brooch your claimant brought in.”
“The bucking horse? You were going to research it.”
“Before contacting him, I’d like to talk to you. Could you come by the shop tomorrow?”
“What did you find out? Is it worth—?”
/>
“My children are coming with the van at ten-thirty. Would ten o’clock work for you?”
“Can’t you tell me now?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Does this look like your claimants’ brooch?” Robin handed Paula a picture of a bucking horse in three-quarter view. Diamonds formed its body, a sapphire its single eye. The caption beneath the photo read ‘wild mare, circa 1950.’
“I didn’t see it close up,” Paula said. “Or for very long.”
Robin looked over her arm, at the paper he had printed from the Internet. “That’s the only reference to the brooch I found and, believe me, I pored over plenty of sites. There’s no account of the duchess ever wearing it in public. It didn’t show up at the auction of her jewellery after her death.”
“Duchess…?”
“Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor. Young as you are, you must have heard of our last century’s great romance. The Prince of Wales gave up his throne for her.”
“More than that, my claimants’ grandparents worked for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.”
“In England or France or—”
“Alberta. The prince owned a ranch south of Calgary.”
“Purchased in 1919. It’s all here.” Robin’s shaky hands picked up the pile of computer printout sheets from the table. “Part business, part Wild West fantasy, seems the ranch was the Duke’s escape from the official life he was none too enamoured with. At the ranch he used to strut around and play cowboy in boots and a ten-gallon hat.”
“If this brooch belonged to them—”
“It was his gift to the duchess on her second and last visit to the EP ranch, in 1950. I have a childhood memory of my father telling us a visiting royal had commissioned a brooch from a fellow jeweller and my mother asking, ‘Why does he get all the luck?’ ‘Connections,’ my father told me when I was older. This jeweller made a fine living creating custom jewellery for people in Calgary with money. No doubt they recommended him to the prince, who was friends with many in the elite, including one of the Big Four who founded the Stampede.”
