Murder Is Uncooperative (4 page)

“It's a beautiful day,” I answered. “Let's go and garden!”

Mariana showed me where the rakes and gardening equipment were stored. There was even a child-sized rake Ben could use. By the time we returned to the front yard, Dave and Ben were back. Both looked pretty subdued.

Dave muttered that he had to go get his colleague and went back inside the building. I introduced Mariana to my son. Ben looked down at the ground, a little shy with strangers.

“You look like a pretty strong guy,” Mariana said. “I bet we'll be able to get through the gardening in half the time, with you helping.”

“I help Mommy and Grandpa a lot,” Ben answered. “I am strong. You want to see my muscles?” Ben flexed his arm, showing off his biceps the way his father had shown him.

“Wow, you
are
strong. Well, let's put you to work.”

It was still early in the season, so there weren't a lot of fallen leaves. But we set to work with vigor.

Ben spent most of his time raking up small piles and scattering them again, but we soon managed to create a reasonable pile.

“You know what the reward is for guys who rake up piles of leaves?” Mariana asked my son, who shook his head. “They get to jump in the pile!”

She demonstrated, hopping onto the edge of the pile, scattering only a few of the leaves we'd gathered.

Ben was more enthusiastic, throwing himself in the center of the pile and tossing the leaves around him. He did that a couple of times. Mariana and I raked the pile back together after each of his jumps.

“You're pretty good with kids,” I said. “Do you have children?”

She smiled. “My son, and one grandson. But they're back east right now, near Ottawa. I don't get to see them as often as I'd like to but I'm hoping they'll move back to Vancouver soon.”

Ben was still jumping in the leaves. “Come on, Mom. You try it,” he was saying, when his father returned.

"Daddy!” Ben yelled. “We're raking leaves, and then we can jump in them. Want to watch me jump in the leaves? It's Mommy's turn now, but then you can try it!”

There was a woman with Dave. The colleague he had mentioned, I assumed. She was what my father would call a pocket Venus. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with soft waves of very light blond hair falling to below her shoulders. Her eyes were large and surprisingly dark, almost black, with delicate brows arching over them and thick eyelashes that surely couldn't be real.

She was simply dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but the jeans were obviously designer and fit her curves closely. She looked delicate, but her fitted T-shirt revealed deep cleavage and breasts anything but elfin. They looked as artificial as her eyelashes, I thought snidely.

I knew I was being catty. This woman made my own body—which I had considered slim, fit and not un-sexy up to that moment—look boyish and angular. I also felt huge, which was an unfamiliar experience.

I gave myself a mental shake and smiled a greeting at her.

“Bec, this is Cara,” Dave was saying. “Cara, Rebecca's my ex. She just moved into this building.”

Cara shook my hand, smiling prettily. “What a coincidence, you moving into my building. Dave's mentioned you, and he's certainly told me all about your big boy here.” She smiled at Ben, who ignored her. I guess her charms only worked on men once they reached puberty.

“Ben, say hello to Cara. She works with Daddy.”

I thought I saw a look of surprise on Cara's face, but I was focused on my son. Ben usually had pretty good manners. My father had taught him to shake hands, much to the amusement of some of his friends. But today he just muttered, “Hello,” over his shoulder and went back to raking leaves again.

Calling to his father to watch him, he took his small rake and industriously raked the pile back together quickly.

“This is Mariana, one of our new neighbors,” I told Dave. “I guess you already know her.” I said to Cara.

“Oh, yes, I know Mariana,” she said. I thought she started to frown, but then she dimpled again and waggled her fingers at her. “Hi. Sorry, I couldn't join the work party but, as you see, I had plans. Glad you've got some help.” She glanced across the lawn at the rusty motor home and then looked back at Mariana. “Why is that thing still here?” she asked, looking at the vehicle with distaste.

Mariana shrugged. Dry leaves were starting to pile on the roof of the vehicle, making it look like it was going to turn into compost, not drive away. “It's not supposed to be there. It's too big to park on the street. I guess Les will deal with it on Monday, if it's still there,” she said.

“How long have you been at the
Sun?'”
I asked Cara, referring to the paper where Dave worked. “You must have started after I left.”

I thought she was taking a long time to answer a straightforward question, but we were interrupted by Ben.

“Mommy, Daddy, you can jump now. I raked the leaves up again. I did a really good job!”

“I can see that. But we should get on our way,” Dave said. “See ya, Bec. Goodbye, my man,” he said, bending down to Ben's height. “We'll do something real cool next weekend, I promise.”

“Okay, Daddy,” he whispered, looking down. He went back to his raking.

“Umm . . . He was supposed to have Ben this weekend,” I explained to Mariana, “but he has to work.”

We went back to raking, but the mood was spoiled. We started to bag the leaves for the compost bins behind the building.

Dave and Cara headed to the black sports car he had bought when we split up. Ben chose that moment to burst into tears, and I bent to comfort him. Looking over his head, I noticed that Dave was rolling a bright pink suitcase with hard, shiny sides.

Dave might have been heading out of town to cover a tournament or an away game of a local hockey or football team. And maybe the paper would send two reporters, but it seemed unlikely. I suspected that Dave wasn't working at all this weekend.

We were divorced, and what Dave did didn't matter to me. But I would be angry if I found he was missing out on time with his son to spend the weekend with a woman.

Dave loaded the pink suitcase into the trunk and helped Cara into the car with care he had never shown me, even when we were first dating.

I leaned over to give my son a hug and didn't see Dave drive off. But I did hear the door of the motorhome slam back with a loud crash. I looked up to see a large man climbing down from inside and rushing towards us.

“Guess you didn't know I could hear you and that other bitch talking about my motorhome, eh?” he yelled. “I don't know why you people can't learn to mind your own business.”

He swung the toolkit he was carrying in a large arc, barely missing us. I jumped back, but Mariana didn't flinch. She answered him more calmly than I would have thought possible. “Now, Aaron, you should know why people are upset about it, but you can talk to Les or the board members, if you really don't understand.”

“Yeah, like that's gonna happen,” he snarled. But he did keep moving, storming past us and into the building.

“Who was that?” I asked, my voice trembling a little.

“Oh, Aaron. He lives in the co-op. And he owns the motorhome, as you can probably tell.”

"I thought he was going to hit you.”

“Oh, he mostly just yells,” she said, calmly. “He can make a lot of noise, but I've never seen him actually hit anyone. And he'll usually back down if anyone stands up to him. Notice he didn't come out while your husband was still around.”

She laughed, but when she turned to look at the motorhome parked on the street, her face turned white.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “That was upsetting. And it's getting hot out. Maybe it's time to go inside.”

“No, I'm fine. I just thought . . . But it's been . . .” She had been staring intently at the street, but she looked back at me and managed a faint smile. “Yes, you're right. Let's just take these bags around back. I think it's time to go in.”

On Monday, Dad was feeling well enough for a short walk and decided to check out one of the coffee shops on Commercial Drive. The street had been the center of Vancouver's Italian community and had been known as “Little Italy” for many years. Now it had a more eclectic ethnic mix, but it still boasted many Italian restaurants, delis, and coffee bars.

After Dad had headed off with his walker, I used his car to drop Ben off at the pre-school he attended three times a week. I decided to do some grocery shopping before going home. I'd avoided buying too many things before the move, so we wouldn't have so much to pack. Now we were running a bit low on essentials. It was time to stock our new cupboards.

With the car loaded with supplies, I thought I'd use the underground parking garage Les had mentioned. I hadn't bothered with it during the weekend but now I grabbed the remote door opener Les had given me. The door moved as smoothly and evenly as everything else in this well-run building. Les had assured me that the parking spot we'd been allocated was close to the elevator. I appreciated that. It would be easier for Dad. And, as the mother of a young son, I was often carrying a sleepy boy, bulky toys, or bags of groceries.

I was driving slowly, carefully looking at the numbered parking spots, when I suddenly realized I was heading directly toward the bumper of the rusty motor home I'd seen earlier on the street. It was filling a parking space, jutting out further than any
of the other vehicles in the parking garage. In fact, I was lucky there hadn't been another vehicle coming out because it would have been hard for two cars to pass in the space that was left.

The RV also spread out into the two spaces on either side, which were both vacant, either by design or because nothing larger than a bike could have squeezed in beside the motor home. I was driving past, still checking the numbers on the parking spots, when it dawned on me that one of the spots the motor home was occupying must be the one Les had assigned to me.

I climbed out of the car, peering under the bumper of the motor home to check the number painted on the floor of the garage. Sure enough, that was the one Les had written down for me. I checked the spot again. There was no way I could squeeze even our small Toyota into the space left by the motor home. The spot I had been given was right next to the elevator, which was great. But that meant that it had the cement wall of the elevator shaft on one side. Even though it was quite a wide space, designed so that a driver or passenger would have room to get out of the car and into a wheelchair, there was just no room for the car.

I headed back out to the street but wasn't lucky enough to find a space in front of the building again. I finally found a spot a block over and lugged my shopping bags up the street.

I was feeling the strain on my arms and vowing to work out more. When I reached the building, the office door was open. I stopped in the doorway to see if the staff were there. Ruth was slumped in front of her computer again, frowning at the screen. I set my bags down to rap on the open door to get her attention. She looked up and frowned at me the way she had looked at the computer.

“Yes,” she asked, “can I help you?” Her tone told me she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to, even if she could.

"It's the parking spot,” I said. “Les gave me the number of the spot but there seems to be a motor home taking up the space,” I said.

“There's a motor home in your parking spot?” She looked at me quizzically.

“Not in my spot, in the one next to it. But it's blocking my space.”

“Oh, well, if it's not in your space . . .”

“But I can't use my space,” I replied patiently. “Unless I got the number of the spot wrong. I just wanted to check.” Why was the co-op employing this woman? She always seemed completely clueless.

“Is there a problem, Ruthie?” Les's rubber-soled shoes were quiet, and I hadn't heard him coming into the office.

“She says there's a motor home in the way but it's not in her space. I don't know what she expects us to do.”

“I just wanted to check if I have the right parking spot—” I started to explain, when Les interrupted me.

“The motor home's in the parking garage again! He knows he can't do that.”

He was almost yelling, but I knew he wasn't mad at me.

He turned to Ruth. “Remember we talked about Aaron's motor home? I've told him he can't park here and Gwen's talked to him too. I'll write him an official notice, but can you put it on the agenda for the meeting tonight, Ruthie? We could probably use a refresher on the occupancy agreement. Everyone gets a copy of the rules, but they tend to ignore them if it's not convenient.”

“You got a reminder about the meeting, right?” he asked. “You should've received a printed notice, then a reminder by email.”

“I did get a printed notice, but I don't think I saw an email. But that's okay. I put it in my calendar.”

He turned back to his assistant. “Ruthie, didn't I ask you to add Rebecca to the co-op email list when she moved in?”

“Oh, sure.” She smiled, pulling out a blue file folder from her desk. I noticed the folder had a neat label with my name on it. “I have her address right here.”

“Did you add her to the list? It won't do much good in a folder on your desk.”

“Oh, okay. I'll add her to the list.” She turned back to her computer, putting the folder down and returning to what she'd been doing, not at all concerned that she had messed up in her job. It was no surprise that the members didn't attend meetings and work parties if they didn't get notices.

“Don't worry,” Les said, as if reading my thoughts. “I usually take care of that myself.”

“Well, thanks for clarifying about the motor home. So this is the right number of the parking spot?” I showed him the slip of paper he had given me last week.

“Oh, that's the right spot all right. Right beside the elevator. I wanted it to be convenient for you.” Les's normally cheerful face was grim. I wouldn't want to be the owner of the motor home.