Winter's Rage

By Susan Calder

A hit-and-run driver kills a pedestrian one cold winter’s night in Calgary, Alberta. The car’s owner insists he wasn’t driving. Insurance investigator Paula Savard sympathizes with the elderly man until she discovers his disturbing history and connection to the victim.

Paula unearths family secrets that go back thirty years. The elderly man blames the dead woman for tearing his family apart. But others had access to his car and reasons to wish the victim dead. Paula becomes convinced the hit and run was murder, but who was driving?

A startling confession leads the police to make an arrest. Paula fears they will convict an innocent person. She digs deeper, unaware she’s on a collision course with a desperate killer consumed with vengeance and rage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228617730

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Winter’s Rage

A Paula Savard Mystery

Susan Calder

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-1773-0

Kindle 978-0-2286-1774-7

PDF 978-0-2286-1775-4

Print ISBNs

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1776-1

BWL Print 978-0-2286-1777-8

LSI Print 978-0-2286-1778-5

Copyright 2021 by Susan Calder

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

For families

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Judith Pittman and BWL Publishing Inc. for your support of my Paula Savard mystery series and to the Alberta Foundation for the Arts for supporting this book. To my astute editors Nancy Bell, Erin Celovsky, and Rachel Small, and my thoughtful and encouraging manuscript readers Will Arnold, Maryann Breukelman, Deborah Donnelly, Pat Griffiths, Jean Humphreys, Bernice Pyke, and Alice Daneal Wilson.

Thanks to Joe Bellusci, Brad Moore, and Clive Don Zuber, for answering my questions about insurance claims adjusting. Any errors are mine.

Numerous sources helped me understand the recovered memory controversy of the early 1990s. These include books: The Courage to Heal by Ellen Bass and Laura Davis (originally published by Harper and Row, 1988), My Lie by Meredith Maran (Jossey-Bass, 2010) and Memory Warp by Mark Pendergrast (Upper Access Books, 2017); and magazine articles: The Nightmare (Canadian Living, March 1991), Child Abuse (Newsweek, April 19, 1993), Presumed Guilty (Changes, April, 1993), A Hint of Evil (The New Yorker, May 24, 1993) and Freud’s Final Seduction (Saturday Night, March 1994).

And my warmest thanks to my family: Will, Dan, Matt, Anne and Vivienne. I couldn’t do this without you.

Chapter One

January 2020

Paula Savard followed Mr. Odell down his front hall. He held on to the railing and paused to catch his breath. A crackling sound drew Paula’s gaze to the wood burning fireplace in the living room. She rubbed her cold hands together. The afghan draped over the back of the sofa looked similar to the one her mother knitted for her in the eighties. Paula had lost it in the move after her divorce five years ago. She turned toward the console table down the hall. In the painting above it, kids played hockey on a frozen river, a spaniel chased the puck, and a blue jay watched the game from a tree. If she had to describe the décor in one word, it would be homey.

Mr. Odell shuffled to the conversation nook in the living room. You caught me in the throes of dusting. Four framed photographs sat on the coffee table. He leaned over, picked up a rag and a bottle of glass cleaner, and sprayed the cloth. He exchanged the bottle for one of the photos.

His hands trembled as he angled the picture of two girls toward Paula. My daughters, at age ten, on a family vacation. They wore sundresses and held hands. One girl was a few inches taller.

They look happy, Paula said. The tall girl with the wider grin had her father’s long face and nose. You told the police your daughter Cheryl has been staying with you.

Off and on. She went to her own place Monday night. Without wiping the glass, he placed the photograph on the fireplace mantel, adjusting its position several times.

Monday, two days ago, around 7:45 p.m., a hit-and-run driver had struck two pedestrians, killing the woman and injuring her husband. The man phoned 911 and muttered the street name before falling unconscious. Yesterday, the police checked several home surveillance systems on the street. One camera picked up the licence plate number of a car driving by at the approximate time of the call. The vehicle’s registered owner was Francis Odell. When officers came to his house, they found his Subaru in the garage, the bumper, hood, and windshield damaged.

Do you want to sit at the dining table or here? Mr. Odell asked.

The fire was making Paula toasty. Here is good, she said, but he’d take forever to dust the photos. There’s plenty of space on the coffee table. No need to clear it.

He dropped to the recliner chair, as though grateful not to stand for another minute. According to his insurance agent, Francis Odell had undergone triple bypass surgery a few days before Christmas. He’d turned eighty-five yesterday. His cheekbones were gaunt, his skin pasty.

Paula settled on the plush sofa, facing the fireplace. She slid a few frames out of the way to make room for her papers. One of the black-and-white photos showed a couple in profile, cutting a wedding cake, the man presumably Francis Odell. Young Francis had sideburns and wore his hair combed up in waves like Elvis Presley. At well over six feet tall, he towered above his petite wife. His youthful pompadour was now shrivelled to white threads; his lean physique had fleshed out. He wore sweatpants, which didn’t conceal his paunch. His insurance agent, who’d assigned Paula the claim, didn’t know if he was a widower or divorced.

From her briefcase, Paula took out Mr. Odell’s initial report to the agent, the police report, and her notes from her conversation with the traffic officer in charge of the case. She set them beside her phone on the coffee table.

Do you mind if I record our conversation, Mr. Odell?

Go ahead, he said. Call me Francis. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.

Paula.

I can’t tell you more than what I told the police. Them showing up at my door yesterday was the first I’d heard of anything.

Our insurance perspective is different from that of the police. She then repeated what she’d told him over the phone, that she was the independent adjuster representing his automobile insurance company.

He leaned forward; his thick eyebrows raised. Paula, when they talked about my car being in an accident, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I haven’t driven for two months. Doctor’s orders. He rapped his chest with his gnarled hand. I was sitting right here, reading, that whole evening until I went to bed.

Paula looked at the slim book on the table beside his chair. What time was that?

About nine-thirty, my usual these days.

I’m told you went out to the garage with the police to examine the car.

I insisted on seeing for myself, he said. They took the car for forensics.

She nodded. That’s right. It will be some time before the police share the results with your insurance company—and longer until they release the car for repairs.

No matter, since I don’t drive. He slumped back into his chair. Light from the fire flickered across his face.

Your garage is detached from the house? she said.

He pointed behind her, his finger shaking. It’s in the backyard and opens to the lane.

Do you keep all the entries to it locked?

There’s a combination on the garage door. Easier than taking out the remote each time.

Who else knows the combination?

It’s an easy one to guess, Cheryl says. My daughters’ birth date and month, 2411. She’s always after me to come up with different and complicated numbers for my passwords and codes, but how would I remember them all?

Paula smiled. Her mother had the same complaint. She used her birth year, 1937, for everything. According to the reports, Cheryl, Francis’ daughter, was sixty years old and staying with her father part of the time.

Why didn’t Cheryl come to your place Monday night? Paula said. She told the police she went directly from her work at the South Hospital to her own home.

She’s getting her house ready for sale and had started sorting some boxes on the weekend. She wanted to finish them.

This jibed with Cheryl’s statement. Her father had called her at work yesterday about the officers’ visit, prompting Cheryl to stop at the police station on her way to his house. The police had also spoken with Francis’ tenant, who rented a basement suite in his bungalow. The tenant said he was home alone on Monday night, watching TV, and heard no sounds from upstairs or outside.

Has Cheryl ever driven your car?

Now and then, to take things to places like Goodwill. She finds the hatchback handy. That’s why we didn’t cancel my liability and collision insurance when I took sick last fall.

Paula glanced at her notes. Your tenant stated he takes you to appointments. Does he use your car?

He prefers his own for easier parking. The last time he drove mine was to pick up a recliner chair he bought on sale after Christmas. Francis gripped the chair’s armrests. Excuse me. I forgot my manners. Can I offer you a drink?

She’d had enough coffee that morning. The fire was making her throat dry, but getting a glass of water would disrupt her questioning. She shook her head. Where do you keep your car keys?

In the kitchen, on a hook by the side door. I forget to lock the door sometimes. That’s why I think the culprit was a teenager who snuck in. My neighbour’s son took his parents’ car for a joyride last summer without permission. His father grounded him for a week.

Borrowing a family car without consent was a long way from doing this with a neighbour’s vehicle. Since Cheryl had driven his car in the past and had access to the keys, she’d be considered to have his implied consent to drive and be covered under his policy. The tenant might have this too. He and Cheryl both denied they were driving that night.

Francis hoisted himself up and edged toward the fireplace. He took a poker from the tool rack.

Paula looked at the photo of the girls on the mantel. Does your other daughter live in Calgary?

Gloria? He poked the fire. She lives not far from where the accident took place.

Has she driven your car?

A few times, over the years, for the same reasons as the others. Once to take her grandchildren and their playmates to the science centre.

A third person who possibly had implied consent. Paula’s information didn’t include a statement from Gloria. The logs in the fireplace sparked and flared. Francis returned the poker to the rack, juggling the piece to get it in place.

Cheryl and I looked at a map last night on the computer, he said. We realized that Gloria used to live on the street where the accident happened. We hadn’t recognized the street name from the news. Cheryl and I both got there by landmarks. This was in the nineties.

He turned away from Paula, his hand resting on top of the poker. She moved to the next cushion for a better view of his expression but only glimpsed his profile, his long nose with a bulb at the end, thin lips turned down.

He let go of the poker. I wondered if Gloria knew the people who were hit, but today’s paper says their names are being withheld pending notice of next of kin.

Yes, Paula said. Although, the traffic officer had given her their names, so she could contact the husband. Their daughter was an archaeologist at a site in South America with no cell phone or internet service. The police were trying to reach her through an emergency contact number supplied by a family friend.

I feel bad for that couple, Francis said. They say the man’s in intensive care. Is he expected to recover?

He’s doing reasonably well and might be released from hospital as early as this weekend.

Francis nodded. That part is good. The paper also mentioned a dog. Is that why they were out walking on that miserable night?

The dog was found nestled under the man, where it had buried itself for warmth. The vet managed to save its sprained leg. Paula coughed to moisten her dry throat. Now, about the insurance, I can explain how it works in cases like this.

We’ll need fortification before grappling with these intricacies. Francis looked down at her from across the coffee table. His eyes crinkled. Care to join me in a mug of hot chocolate?

Paula’s mouth watered. The rest of her morning was clear, and she might learn a relevant thing or two from the extra time with Francis. That would be delightful. She closed the recorder app on her phone. The recording would provide enough detail for the office administrator to draft a statement for Francis to sign.

He lumbered to the far end of the conversation nook. It would take a while for him to reach the kitchen.

I’ll check my messages and catch up with you. Paula picked up her phone and found a text from Sam. Client cancelled meeting. Leaving work early. I’ll start supper. She typed Fabulous in reply and then texted her late-afternoon whiplash claimant to confirm their meeting, hoping he’d also cancel so she and Sam could both get home early. How often did that happen? The claimant replied instantly, OK.

She sighed. So much to do this coming week. The recent snowy and icy roads had resulted in abundant collisions, which increased her workload right before her brother’s visit. He’d arrive tomorrow from Montreal, and she hoped to take time off work to show him Calgary.

She tucked her phone into her purse and joined Francis in the kitchen. The room startled her with its greenery. Pots of ferns dangled from ceiling hooks in front of the bow window. African violets, spider plants, and a poinsettia sprouted on the window ledge, along with glasses of water nursing baby spider shoots. A grow lamp shone down on the indoor garden, radiating light to an orchid blooming on the counter beside the sink.

A birthday present from my daughter, Francis said, following her gaze.

Your plants really cheer things up.

Especially in the dead of winter. He looked at the window. This north spot doesn’t get any sun, but the lamp does miracles. Can I tempt you with a piece of birthday cake? We celebrated on the weekend. Half a chocolate cake sat next to the orchid. The red letters thday Dad remained on the icing.

Thanks, but I’m already ruining my diet with the hot chocolate.

At my age, it’s too late to fret about weight. He grabbed a knife from the butcher block, cut a large square of cake, and set it on a plate.

Can I help?

He held up the knife. You can wash and dry this right away. The blade could slice through steel but rusts quicker than me these days.

Paula smiled. She took the dishcloth draped over the faucet and cleaned the knife. Outside the window, the snow fell lightly, as it had for days, almost continuously. The garage stood at the rear of the lawn. Anyone could have come in from the lane and taken Francis’ car without him seeing from here.

He bent to take a pot from a lower cupboard. Beyond him, she noticed the rack of keys by the side door, the exit to the backyard and garage. She offered to get the milk from the fridge.

Good thinking, he said. Those jugs are heavy. I’m forbidden to lift more than ten pounds.

She took out the half-full jug and scanned the containers of leftovers in the fridge and the crispers full of vegetables and fruits. Francis was eating healthily. An open bottle of wine and a case of beer sat on a shelf. Drivers often fled accident scenes to escape a breathalyzer test. Francis shouldn’t be drinking, but people didn’t always follow doctor’s orders, and the liquor could be Cheryl’s.

Is your daughter staying here tonight? Paula asked.

She won’t leave me alone with this ruckus going on. He placed the pot on the stove, got two mugs from an upper cupboard and held one out to Paula. You pour, to measure the right amount.

She tipped the jug, filled the mug twice and added a quarter cup. For good luck, my father used to say. Where do you keep the chocolate?

In the pantry, on your right. The tray’s underneath. Don’t forget the marshmallows.

Paula opened the door to the pantry, which also served as a mudroom and broom closet. Jackets, boots, and a pair of snowshoes were nestled along the left wall; cleaning supplies were stacked at the end. She found the can of chocolate powder, the marshmallows, and a tray, and carried them to the counter.

Francis shook some powder into the milk, turned on the burner and stirred. This could be her with her father, Paula thought, if he had lived this long. He’d died fifteen years ago, when she was forty. No one suspected his coronary artery blockage until her mother found him in his garage workshop, slumped over his worktable, dead. At the funeral, Paula had brooded on his doctor’s suggestion that her dad had probably had symptoms he dismissed, but she’d come to accept this was part of his optimistic and easy-going nature that she loved.

Francis stirred until the mixture produced a bubble. He raised the wooden spoon to test the milk’s temperature. Perfect. Unless you like scalding.

You can’t beat perfect. She set the mugs on the tray and decided to let Francis do the pouring, if he wanted. Her mother hated people babying her.

Francis clutched the pot handle with shaking hands. Paula held her breath while he filled the mugs with hot liquid. Drops spilled onto the tray, and Paula wiped them with the dishcloth. While returning it to the faucet, she looked outside at the garage again and hoped it was teens who’d taken Francis’ car and not someone who’d betrayed his trust—a daughter or his tenant. And that Francis wasn’t lying.

He dropped a marshmallow into each mug. Dementia was a possibility. He could have driven his car and had no subsequent recollection. So far, though, he’d struck Paula as mentally adept.

I’ll carry the tray, she said. You’re forbidden to lift more than ten pounds. This drink will add that much to my waistline.

Francis chuckled at her joke. He led her out of the kitchen to the passageway between the dining table and china cabinet. His glacial pace allowed her to take in the items behind the cabinet’s glass, a Royal Albert dinner set, Bohemian crystal wine and whisky glasses, several Royal Doulton figurines. A laptop sat open on the dining table, which was otherwise clear aside from two placemats. Paintings of farms flanked the window behind the dining table. Shelves along the wall below the window were filled with board games and photos of children of various ages. In the conversation nook, Francis sank to his armchair.

Paula noted the book on his side table was Hamlet. I had to read the play in high school. All I remember are a few famous lines and that everyone died by the end.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy, he quoted a line she’d forgotten until now.

While physical effort seemed to exhaust Francis, it spoke well for his mind that he could read Shakespeare. She moved her papers to the sofa and set the tray on the coffee table. The fire had burned down to an orange glow, making her glad she’d kept on her sweater. She resettled on the sofa. Both picked up their mugs of hot chocolate.

About your insurance, she said, the police investigation will determine if your vehicle was stolen or borrowed without your consent. In the latter case, we would settle it as a collision, with a higher deductible. She waited for him to question why it wasn’t necessarily theft if a person drove a car without express permission.

Francis leaned his head back for a long drink and then lowered the mug to his lap. His features looked softer now, perhaps due to the shadows from the fading fire. My deductible is small potatoes in the grand scheme, he said. I’d like my insurance company to provide for the woman who died through no fault of her own.

Unfortunately for the victim, that wasn’t his call. We’ll see what the police find.

I know it won’t make up for losing her, but it might ease her husband’s expenses.

The husband could have greater expenses of his own if his injuries disabled him for a long time. Francis’ insurance company was more concerned about Kevin Eddison’s potential claim for loss of income and pain and suffering than they were about their payment for Denise Young’s death.

Paula turned toward a rustling noise at the front entrance. The door shot open, and a woman wearing an ankle-length overcoat strode in.

Francis craned his neck toward the entry. Cheryl, he said, what are you doing home?

I arranged to have someone take over my work. Cheryl looked over the railing at Paula. Who’s your company? I saw the car parked out front.

Paula rose. I’m your father’s automobile insurance adjuster.

Cheryl knit her brow. She stamped her boots to get rid of the snow, pulled off her gloves, and unzipped her coat. As Paula downed the last of her warm drink, Francis set his mug on the coffee table and pushed himself up. He started for the hall. When he reached the end of the railing, he swayed sideways.

Dad, Cheryl said.

Paula dashed to catch him, but Cheryl got there first. She seized his arms.

He struggled to shrug her off. I’m fine, he said. A momentary drop in blood pressure.

Cheryl held on. Are you sure you’re okay?

Tired, that’s all, from this blasted ordeal.

Cheryl let go of his arms. He gripped the railing but looked steady.

We’ve covered all that’s needed for now, Paula told them both. I’ll be in touch with the next step. Could you give me your email address?

I don’t use it much, Francis said.

I’ll give you mine, Cheryl said. Dad, why don’t you go lie down? I’ll see the adjuster out.

Francis looked at Paula, his face pale. We’re good?

Yes. She glanced at Cheryl, who nodded. Cheryl’s ash blond hair was matted from the falling snow. Her pageboy haircut and scooped-neck shirt accented her long neck. She had her father’s bulb-tipped nose like the taller sister in the mantel photograph. Paula estimated she was about five foot eleven.

Paula returned to the sofa to collect her briefcase and purse.

Cheryl followed her. He likes to be independent, she said. It can be a problem. I told him to arrange his car insurance meeting for a time I could be here.

I suggested that when I called this morning to make an appointment. He said he wanted to handle it on his own.

See what I mean about independent? Cheryl smiled wanly. She supplied her email address.

Paula added it to her phone. I could go over the basics with you now.

All right, but I need to grab a bite first. With the rush today, I skipped breakfast.

The granola bars Paula kept in her car would have to tide her through her first afternoon meeting.

Cheryl looked down the hall, toward her father’s bedroom. Since I’ve got you alone, there’s something I’d like to explain. It will take a little time. If you’re ready for lunch, we have plenty of food here.

An odd invitation from a claimant, but Paula saw no reason not to combine insurance talk with lunch. The police had already questioned Cheryl. Listening to what she had to say shouldn’t compromise their investigation.

Chapter Two

January 1990

Gloria Wilson usually relaxed a few minutes into her therapy session, but this afternoon she couldn’t sit still. She shifted in her chair, which was angled toward her psychologist. Their knees were inches apart. Dr. Denise Young leaned forward, waiting for Gloria to speak, encouraging, not pushy or impatient. Gloria stifled an urge to fill the silence with babble. She dropped her gaze to Denise’s pantsuit trousers, the creases ironed with precision.

At her first two sessions, Gloria had so much to say that she’d hated when the fifty minutes drew to a close. Now, she couldn’t think of where to start, but didn’t want to waste the time. She launched into describing her progress since the previous week. Denise nodded approval at Gloria’s report that the nightmares which had plagued her for over a year, continued to diminish in frequency and intensity. Three straight nights of dreamless sleep had left her hoping she was cured.

Until the dream last night.

Gloria brushed away the thought and said that improved sleep made her energy during the day amazing. She enjoyed her accounting work again. For the first time in months, the Saturday board games with her daughters and husband were fun, not a chore.

She stared at Denise. You’re a genius.

You’re the one who did the work.

Gloria rubbed the patch of dry skin on her hand. She couldn’t skirt the awful dream. At their initial meeting, Denise had said the work depended on Gloria being honest with herself.

I was sure I was past the worst. Gloria stopped herself from scratching her hand. Then a setback. Another nightmare, different from the rest, and more terrible.

Denise’s face darkened with concern. Gloria looked away at the window behind Denise’s desk. Outside, the snowfall was getting heavy. Calgary’s roads would be slick on the drive home. Gloria’s older daughter would be leaving school now for daycare. Melissa had turned seven last month and insisted she could walk the two blocks alone. But what if this snow turned into a blizzard?

In what way was it different? Denise said.

Goosebumps prickled under Gloria’s sweater. It’s cold in here.

I’d thought we cranked up the furnace too high.

Gloria raked hair from her damp forehead. Last night, she’d woken from the dream shivering and drenched in sweat. Her husband snored beside her in the darkness. Rather than disturb him, she’d slipped into the spare bedroom and left the light on until morning.

She readjusted her position in the chair. Had Denise replaced the softer chairs from the first sessions, their comfort a gimmick to ease people into treatment?

I told you before about my nightmare phase when I was five or six years old, Gloria said. I asked my mother about it this week, and she said I also had a fear of the dark. I don’t remember that, specifically, but I do recall my little night-light, a plug-in Cinderella princess. My sister, Cheryl, used to tease me about needing one.

Gloria remembered the nightmares mainly from family lore—her parents’ references to her waking from bad dreams when she started school and got her own bedroom.

Her arms were warm now. Blood bubbled on the skin she’d evidently scratched. She dropped her hands to her thighs. My mother said, in hindsight they should have left Cheryl and me together at night for a longer time. But Mom had to share a bedroom with her sister all her life, and she wanted us to have our own space even though we were twins. She didn’t dress us alike either. We don’t look alike. Gloria’s voice cracked. She wished Denise kept a jug of water on the desk in addition to the box of tissues.

Does this mean you’ve told your mother you’ve started therapy?

Gloria shook her head. It would worry her if she thought I was unhappy. I brought it up as a general conversation about nightmares and kids. She coughed to clear her throat. Her husband was the only person she’d told about Denise, so he could claim the expense through his insurance. Otherwise, Gloria would have said she went shopping on Tuesdays after she finished work. Arthur was supportive, but he questioned her need for help when her problem, in his view, was due to their babies growing up and Gloria’s taking on more clients. She knew it was more than that but couldn’t explain what or why.

Trust your feelings, Denise had advised. Gloria rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. The room was steamy now. Denise had been right about the furnace.

Gloria squirmed in the rock-hard chair and looked out the window again. The snow blew sideways. Melissa should be safely at daycare, playing with her younger sister. Or had the daycare owner been trying to phone Gloria? From here, she could get to the daycare in fifteen minutes, even on icy roads. Gloria had chosen Denise randomly from the phone book because the office was nearby. It was even closer to Gloria’s parents’ house—the home she’d grown up in. Cool, she’d thought, when she discovered that Denise operated out of a bungalow instead of a commercial building. The former living room was the reception area. The senior psychologist used the master bedroom as his office. Denise’s smaller office was roughly the size of Gloria’s childhood bedroom.

Focus, Gloria reminded herself. Stop digressing, evading. Where had she left off? The nightmares, childhood fears of the dark. Denise had asked how the last nightmare was different.

Gloria noticed her sweater sleeve had slipped