by Susan Calder
“Do you shop here often?” Paula asked when they left.
“Too expensive. These boxes cost me twice what I’d have paid at the supermarket.”
Would Florence change her frugal ways if and when she came into her inheritance? None of the Beckers lived like they’d fenced a million-dollar-plus brooch. If one of them had stolen from Caspar, he or she might be sitting on the item, waiting for the opportunity to sell, Johnny to buy his ranch, Cynthia to pay her debts, Brendan to start up his business, Florence…. What was her dream? If Florence was right that her ex-husband had stolen the brooch, had Brendan found it while clearing out the apartment where his father had lived? Was Brendan so industrious about the clean-up because his father had told him a treasure was buried in the place? It was easy to see Brendan pocketing the brooch without sharing, especially since the others weren’t offering to include him in the property inheritance. Or was it possible that Caspar, for some reason, copied the brooch and Johnny discovered the original during his search through Caspar’s premises? If so, was that related to Johnny’s disappearance?
“Why did Johnny find the fake brooch in Caspar’s apartment?” Paula asked when they turned onto the Beckers’ street. “You said Willie kept her jewellery in the sewing machine.”
“While she was alive,” Florence said. “After she died, Caspar took the pieces to his place.”
“Where in his apartment did he hide them?”
“Seems not where your crime scene people thought to look.”
“Didn’t Johnny say he found one of them on the floor? Was that the brooch?”
“I don’t remember him saying that.”
Paula was almost sure he had, and when Florence was present. Of all the Beckers, Florence had the easiest access to the jewellery. During her in-laws’ final, declining years, she had virtually lived in their apartment, and she took over the place after their deaths. All Paula had was Florence’s word the thefts stopped only when Brendan left for Queen’s. Caspar might have discovered one afterwards and confronted Florence about it, naively not recognizing the danger. Paula pictured him shaking the brooch at Florence, accusing her and dropping it on his apartment floor. What might Florence have done then? Grabbed a hammer from the den and whacked him? Paula glanced at the older woman’s arms carrying the grocery bags. Muscled and strong. Had Florence set the blaze, left Caspar unconscious and made it look like he had been smoking in bed? And mitigated the risk of Caspar waking up in time to escape by blocking his pathways with his own clutter?
Paula edged away from Florence, glad they were no longer on a hill that Florence might easily push her off. The plumber’s van was gone from the Beckers’ street. On the lawn, Brendan was adjusting a bike for a boy. He didn’t look up as Paula and Florence carried their shopping bags up the driveway. Isabelle still huddled with shoppers in the clothing racks.
“The kitchen’s a mess from my organizing it,” Florence said. “We’ll put the cereal in my bedroom for now. I might build pantry shelves in the utility room.”
They entered Florence’s ‘PRIVATE’ room, where Caspar’s research printouts were piled against the far wall. The gnome cookie jar sat on the dresser. Paula asked if she could photograph the brooch with her phone.
“As long as you honour our deal,” Florence said.
Paula snapped pictures. The wild mare’s sapphire-coloured eye seemed to be challenging her. But to do what? She had to leave in half an hour for Edmonton. She followed Florence into the living room. Cynthia sprawled on the love seat, a slice of takeout pizza in one hand, sheets of paper in the other. Behind her, several people debated the most efficient way to load a washer onto a dolly.
Cynthia pointed the pizza wedge at the utility room. “The plumber gave your machines the A-OK.”
“Is that Caspar’s research you’re reading?” Paula asked.
“I got bored sitting around doing nothing.”
“You could have busied yourself clearing out the kitchen cupboards,” Florence said.
“All you’d do is complain I didn’t do it right.” Cynthia lowered the papers.
Paula caught the title on the top page: Calgary, Summer, 1943. “What are you reading about?”
“Calgary during World War II. I’d never thought of this before, but it must have been hard for Oma and Opa to live here when they were, basically, the enemy. They got to Canada at the start of the war and never lost their German accents.”
Florence nodded. “Even years after the war, there were some that refused to hire them.”
“Pardon me.” A man leaned over the love seat. “I have some questions about those washers by the window.”
Cynthia dropped the papers to the cushions. “Oh, yeah, the plumber said he’d take any machines that are left over for parts. He won’t pay anything, but it would save us the cost of disposal. He said to call if you’re interested.”
“Put those papers away so they don’t get lost.” Florence left to deal with the customer.
Since Cynthia continued eating, Paula collected the papers. Cynthia followed her to Florence’s bedroom.
“Did Florence tell you that she and Brendan went to the jeweller yesterday?” Paula asked.
Cynthia swallowed the last of her pizza. “And found out the jewellery’s a bust, same as the paintings. None of the dealers would give us more for them than your appraiser offered.”
Outside, Paula scanned the lawn. Isabelle was brushing the back of a coat a customer had put on.
“Where’s Brendan?” Cynthia said. “It’s smart how he gets us all to work for him.”
“Don’t you get a third of these profits?” Paula said.
“Brendan’s the one who cares the most. I’m tired of him complaining this is all he’ll get from The House.”
“He seems to be adapting to losing out on his inheritance.” Was that because he’d found a piece of jewellery worth more this property? “I’m surprised you found time to come over this afternoon.”
“It takes my mind off of things, like Johnny.”
“Are you as worried as your mother—?”
“Shhhh.” Cynthia looked over her shoulder, as though Florence might be on the front porch. “Ma’s so out of her mind she can’t stand to hear a word about him. Normally she’s so unruffled about Johnny’s activities that her worrying now stirs me up. Johnny’s an idiot most of the time, but he and I grew up together. Who else do I have?”
“Your mother? Your kids?”
Cynthia’s brow knit. “Teenagers are more stress than anything.”
They wove by shoppers and furniture to the clothing racks. A woman who looked to be in her thirties held up a flapper-style dress and asked Isabelle if she could try it on. Paula had hoped for a quiet word with Isabelle on the off chance she’d picked up any information about the Beckers.
Paula turned to Cynthia. “Could you take her into the utility room to try on the dress?”
“Ma would have a bird if more people troop in,” Cynthia said. “It would be nice to rig up some kind of portable changing room.”
“I’ll see if Brendan has something.” Isabelle jogged off.
When Isabelle had finished with Brendan, Paula joined her at the sidewalk. “Has your spying paid off?”
“How did you know that’s why I’m helping?” Isabelle said. “I bought a pile of clothes. They’re so old they’re cool. I got a pair of cowboy boots for you.”
“No thanks.”
“They were only ten dollars and our exact size and comfy. They mould to your feet. I’d keep them myself, but I already have some.”
“So you haven’t learned anything?”
Isabelle touched Paula’s arm, edged her toward the neighbour’s grass and lowered her voice. “While you and Florence were away, Cynthia was constantly going in and out of the house, like she’s nervous about something. She thinks Johnny went on a mission that got him in trouble.”
“She told you this? What kind of mission?”
“She didn’t sa
y. I don’t know if he told her or it’s something she sensed.”
If Johnny had confided in Florence and she told Cynthia, that would explain their worries. Cynthia glided toward them, a feather boa draped around her neck, a hat with veil obscuring her eyes.
“You just missed Garner, you know, Caspar’s friend.” Isabelle’s voice rose to normal. “He dropped by to look for bargains.”
“He told me he might,” Paula said.
“I heard back from that neighbour in Cold Lake, who had the smoking contest with Caspar. He said the prize for the winner was a statue in Florence’s apartment.”
“Not that hideous thing in the alcove?” Cynthia said.
“He said it’s a Madonna and child.”
Now that Paula thought of it, the statue was holding something that might be a baby.
“Caspar had got it appraised at fourteen hundred dollars,” Isabelle said.
“You’re kidding,” Cynthia said.
“The deal was that if the neighbour smoked, he’d give Caspar double the amount. If Caspar smoked, he’d give the neighbour the statue for free. The neighbour said he guessed the statue was his. He typed a smiley face, then apologized for the bad joke.”
“There’s no proof Uncle Caspar was smoking the night of the fire.” Cynthia tossed the boa tail over her shoulder. “And who’s to say the neighbour didn’t sneak a smoke? If he wants the statue, he’s paying full price.”
Isabelle ran off to attend to a customer. Paula checked her watch. Should she phone Sam to let him know she might be a few minutes late for the barbecue?
Brendan sauntered over from the sidewalk. “Isabelle asked about a changing room.”
A woman interrupted to ask about the bedroom set she’d seen on the lawn this morning.
“It’s sold.” Brendan looked at Paula. “Garner bought it to refinish for his granddaughter.”
“About the changing room?” Cynthia said.
Brendan rubbed his curls, which were sticking to his forehead. “I think I saw a camp shower in the garage. It would work if it comes with curtains, but Florence doesn’t want us touching her stuff before she looks it over.”
“I’ll go ask her.” Cynthia padded toward the house.
“Leah called me from work to say she handed in her notice,” Brendan said. “Her boss offered her a raise to stay. She told him to shove it.”
“I hope she didn’t phrase it that way. She’ll need him for a reference.
“Leah won’t have trouble finding work. My pal at the Lonestar would hire her on the spot.”
“What about this plan to start her own business?”
“She’ll still want a job while it’s in the incubation stage,” Brendan said. “She also did the formal break-up with Jarrett. It went reasonably well. Those things are never easy.”
Paula wondered about Brendan’s relationship history. “Will she be staying in your apartment?”
“Why not, for now? After that, it depends on whether or not we go into business together. If we do, we think sharing a place will be too much togetherness.”
From the corner of her eye, Paula saw Cynthia emerge from the house.
“Ma’s fine with us using her shower stall,” Cynthia told them.
“If you look after things up here, I’ll go get it,” Brendan said.
“Thanks, Brendan.” Cynthia’s voice dripped sarcasm. “I think Paula and I can manage.” She led Paula to the side yard. “Don’t you hate male chauvinism? I’m raising my daughter to believe she’s as capable as any man.”
On the way down the stairs, Paula decided to wait to call Sam when she had a better idea of her Edmonton arrival time. They stopped at the fence. Paula opened the padlock. This was a chance to pump Cynthia about Johnny, but she couldn’t shake an image of Cynthia’s anorexic-looking child.
“How old is your daughter?” Paula said.
“Fourteen.”
“She looks younger.”
“It’s her thinness.” Cynthia closed the gate behind them. “I try to convince myself it’s normal for girls her age not to eat. My son, on the other hand, costs me a fortune in food.”
“Have you considered your mother’s idea of you moving into Caspar’s apartment to save money?”
“I can’t think that far ahead.”
They passed the van, which looked as dirty as ever.
“I hope the shower stall isn’t too awkward to carry,” Cynthia said.
“I wouldn’t have expected Florence to be into luxuries like a shower for her back-country camping trips. Did Caspar buy it for her at a garage sale?”
“Ma called it the most useless contraption in the world.” At the garage, Cynthia took out a set of keys from her purse.
“Isabelle told me you think Johnny’s on a mission,” Paula said. “What did you mean by that?”
Cynthia’s hand rested on the doorknob, the keys dangling. “You remember I told you about Adam, Uncle Caspar’s son, who was killed by a train when he and Johnny were playing on the tracks? Everyone blamed Johnny.”
“They held him responsible.”
“And accused him of worse.” Cynthia’s voice grew animated. “Johnny hides it, but I think he’s never forgiven himself for what happened. He wants to make it up to Uncle Caspar.”
“By finding out if Caspar was killed.”
“And making that person pay.”
“He’s on a vendetta? That’s—”
“Imbecilic.” Cynthia almost shouted. “How safe is it to chase a person who set a fire and left a helpless person to die?” She stabbed the key in the lock and struggled to turn it. “I’m sure this is the right key.” She jiggled it again. “I’m hopeless with these things.”
“Let me try.”
Cynthia stepped away. Paula gave the key a twist, and the door opened. She sniffed the stale air and tiptoed in, past columns of backpacks, tents and other camping and hiking gear. Farther back were the pots that had tumbled onto Florence. Beside a pile of sleeping bags was a large box with pictures of a shower head and a portable plastic cubicle.
“It’s here,” she called to Cynthia. “Help me carry it so I don’t knock something over.”
An odour poured into the garage. A gust of wind blowing from the house?
“Cynthia, I’m not doing this all myself.”
Not fire; this was a chemical smell. A neighbour spraying? What else could it be? From behind, a hand grabbed her arm. Another hand pressed a cloth to her face; an arm slid around her chest. She writhed against the pressure and pungent stench. Objects rattled around her; something crashed to the floor. She gulped in chemicals, couldn’t breathe, liquid stung her eyes. A strong arm crushed her chest. Her knees sank.
Chapter Thirty-one
A country song twanged through the ray of light that illuminated the dark room. Paula lay on her side, her hands bound behind her, a cloth pressed into her mouth. She tried to cough out the foul taste of chemicals and spit. Evidently, during the attack, the chemicals had knocked her unconscious.
Now her hands lodged against a padded wall. She wriggled her arms; couldn’t release them from the rope biting her wrists. The tips of her sandals nudged a second wall. The third wall she faced was a couple of feet away. She craned her head back, causing her forehead to hit the padding. This room, no larger than a double grave, smelled stale but was too uncluttered for Caspar’s garage.
Where was Cynthia? Had the attacker got to her first? And done what with her? The tomb vibrated, or was that Paula’s head spinning? Her eyes, nose and mouth burned. She attempted another cough.
The room jerked. The vibration increased. Outside the walls, something honked. A car horn. The room sped up. Sounds of traffic hummed on both sides. She was in a car, a van, its radio tuned to a country music station. The driver tapping the wheel to the song had assaulted her in Caspar’s garage. Camping equipment fell around her. Was this the van in Caspar’s yard? Or Brendan’s van? It rolled so briskly they must be on a highway. Where? Sam. He was expe
cting her in Edmonton. Why hadn’t she phoned him to say she was delayed at the Beckers’? If he called now and she didn’t reply, he’d assume she was on the road. She was, but the wrong one. Maybe Sam didn’t care enough about her to worry.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Of course Sam cared, but he wasn’t the sort to panic. He wouldn’t start to feel concerned until she didn’t show up at seven o’clock. What time was it now? Night or day? This van had no side windows, like Brendan’s. It must be the delivery van from Caspar’s yard.
Tap. Tap. Her attacker’s hands on the wheel.
Which highway were they on? The closest freeway to the Becker home was Deerfoot Trail.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Florence’s hands and arms were as strong as a man’s. Had she been the one who attacked? Florence gained the most from Caspar’s death. Her insistence she hadn’t known about his revised will could be a crock. The Beckers were all actors and fakers. Had she agreed to let Cynthia use the shower as a ploy to get Paula to the garage? Florence rarely agreed to anything. Was Cynthia involved in the scheme? She gained financially, indirectly, by shutting Brendan out of his third. For all Paula knew, after the dirt settled, Florence intended to pass the inheritance along to her two children. In the front yard, Cynthia had brushed off Brendan’s offer to get the shower stall. In fact, she might have manipulated him into suggesting the shower and then conscripted Paula to go with her to the garage. Had Cynthia pretended to fiddle with the key so Paula would open the door and enter the garage, where Florence waited?
The radio blasted a commercial for—the driver lowered the volume. An announcer babbled about the weather and—the radio surfed through channels to a plaintiff melody.
Tap. Tap.
Acrid odour drifted from the front of the van. A line of smoke streamed through the shaft of smoky light. Johnny smoked, the only living Becker who did. Paula strained her neck back. She saw no head poking above the passenger’s seat and she hadn’t heard talking up front. She stretched her neck forward as far as she could. A hat curved over the driver’s seat. A cowboy hat. The rope binding her hands to the side of the van gave way a little. She wrestled to free her wrists. The rope loosened. The cloth slipped to her chin and bare neck. Johnny had gagged her with her own bandana. He and a friend had abducted a woman in the United States, and now Paula. Why? She was nowhere near finding evidence against him or any Becker. The van slowed, maintained a gentler pace. They rounded a curve. Traffic whooshed by the side she faced. If they were in Calgary, had they turned off Deerfoot to a city neighbourhood of grid and curving streets? The country music flicked off. Silence. Outside a dog barked. Her hands struggled against the knot so that when he hauled her out, she could take him by surprise.
