Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  “Yes, I know,” Victoria said. She glanced at Charlotte. Her eyes were closed and her round cheeks were mottled, embarrassed, perhaps, by Sean’s public display of emotion.

  “Her little boat turned over and she drowned,” Sean said. “And now Patrick’s gone. So there’s only me.” He put his half-finished drink down on the coffee table. “We have to go,” he said suddenly.

  Charlotte stood and adjusted the fall of her skirt, the drape of her jacket.

  Sean took a deep breath, smoothed his hair with the palms of his hands. “You’ll call if you need anything.”

  “Yes, of course,” Victoria said.

  She saw them to the door, where Sean held her by the shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks, and said goodbye. Charlotte murmured and kissed her on the cheek again, barely making contact. As Victoria closed the door behind them, the phone rang. She let Consuela answer it and went back into the living room.

  Consuela came out of the kitchen carrying the cordless phone. “Mr. Shoe,” she announced. Victoria took the phone.

  “How are you?” Joe Shoe asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Are you getting any rest?”

  “I seem to be sleeping all the time,” she said. “But I wake up even more tired than before.”

  “Are you up to a visitor?”

  She wanted to say no, but she said, “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll see you in half an hour then,” Shoe said.

  She hung up. She had just enough time to take a bath.

  Shoe told Muriel where he would be if anything came up, then drove across the Lions Gate Bridge, taking Taylor Way up into the British Properties. The sun was trying to break through the cloud cover. He parked in the steep, cobbled drive in front of the house. A battered Mazda station wagon, which belonged to the housekeeper, was tucked discreetly into a narrow space between the twocar garage and a high retaining wall.

  He rang the doorbell, still unable to name the tune it played. Victoria answered. She looked tired but was freshly made up and smelled faintly of floral soap. Her pale hair was tied back, emphasizing the sharpness of her cheekbones.

  “Before you go,” she said as she stood aside to let him in, “you’ve got to help me find that fucking doorbell and kill it.”

  He left his coat and hat on a chair in the hall and followed her into the kitchen, where she offered to make herbal tea. He declined.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please don’t go to any trouble,” he said.

  “I won’t,” she said. “Consuela makes the coffee around here. Mine is undrinkable.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks,” Shoe said.

  They went into the living room. He noted the half-empty glass of white wine on the coffee table. Victoria picked it up.

  “Would you like a drink? No, of course you would-n’t. What was I thinking?” He smiled. “You’re so god-damned pure,” she said, almost resentfully. “Have you learned to swear yet? Say ‘fuck,’ Joe.”

  “Fuck,” he said.

  She grunted and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “Profanity doesn’t offend me,” he said. “I just never got into the habit of using it in conversation. And I do drink on occasion.”

  “How’s your sex life?” Victoria said.

  “Not open for discussion,” he replied.

  “That bad, eh? What happened to what’s-her-name, the woman who operated the charter fishing boat? Gabriella something?”

  “That ended over a year ago,” he said.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She raised her glass. “Well, cheers,” she said, and drank.

  The sun broke through a gap in the clouds and bathed the room in green and yellow light. Victoria stood in the window and looked out. English Bay was like beaten silver beneath the broken cloud deck. Shoe stood beside her. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face.

  “I’m going to miss this view,” Victoria said.

  “You’re going to sell the house?”

  “God, yes,” she said. “I hate it.”

  “Did Patrick know how you felt?”

  “No. He was so damned proud of it. Our dream house, he called it. His dream house,” she added, voice fading to a whisper. “My prison.”

  “A very comfortable prison,” Shoe said, “for which you had the keys and from which you could have walked away at any time.”

  “But a prison nonetheless,” she said. She drained the wine from her glass. “Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about?” she asked.

  He told her what Bill Hammond had asked him to do.

  “You can’t save us all, Joe,” she said. “You have nothing to atone for.”

  “It’s not atonement,” he said. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling that if he had been a better friend he might have seen that Patrick was in trouble, of his or someone else’s making. It was a form of survivor guilt, of course, the same guilt that the family and friends of suicide victims felt because they failed to see the signs of pain or depression or unhappiness that drove them to take their own lives. Assuming that such signs existed. Patrick may have simply stumbled unwittingly into whatever circumstance it was that had got him killed. But Shoe didn’t think so. “I want to know why he was killed,” he said.

  The housekeeper came into the living room from the kitchen, wearing a navy peacoat a few sizes too big for her, a large purse slung over her shoulder.

  “I do chopping now, Miss Victoria?” she said.

  “Yes, fine,” Victoria said.

  The housekeeper returned to the kitchen.

  “The police came to see me yesterday,” Victoria said. “A pair of Vancouver detectives named Matthias and Worth.”

  “I’ve met them,” Shoe said.

  “They think Patrick was involved in some kind of criminal activity and that his murder was a falling out among thieves. A ‘settling of accounts’ they called it.” She raised her glass as if to drink, but it was empty. “I’m going to get some more wine,” she said. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “I’m sure, thanks,” he said.

  Victoria went into the kitchen. She returned a moment later carrying a terra cotta cooler with a bottle of white wine in it. Putting the cooler on the coffee table, she refilled her glass and sat down on the long sofa, glass in her hand.

  “Do you have any idea who Patrick was meeting at the restaurant?” Shoe asked, sitting on the sofa but keeping a distance between them.

  “No,” Victoria replied. “The police asked me that too. He had this silly little electronic agenda thing he kept his appointments in. I guess they can’t find it. Or he didn’t make a note of it.”

  “What else did the police ask you?”

  “They asked if Patrick had any enemies. It sounds so melodramatic, like a bad television show. Men like Patrick don’t make enemies, I told them. Men like Bill Hammond do, but not men like Patrick. I’m sure there were people who didn’t like him. Sometimes I didn’t like him very much myself. But, to the best of my knowledge, as they say, there was no one who disliked him enough to kill him.”

  “When he left the house on Monday morning,” Shoe said, “did he seem upset or worried about anything?”

  “No,” Victoria said again. Then she shook her head. “Actually, I didn’t see him that morning.” Her eyes closed and the pain of whatever she was recalling was evident on her face. She opened her eyes and sighed heavily. “We’d had an argument Sunday night,” she said, then paused, mouth a grim line. “Over his resignation. He expected me to just go along with whatever he decided, like the good little wife that I am.” She looked stricken, shocked by the bitterness in her voice. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said. “I’m not good with change. It scares me.”

  “Everything’s okay financially? No money problems?”

  “No,” she replied. “There’s five or six thousand dollars in the joint account, no outstanding bills, and the mortgage is up to date.” Shoe didn’t want to t
hink about what the mortgage payments were on a house like this. “Patrick didn’t gamble, he didn’t even buy lottery tickets, and his investment strategy was fairly conservative. He was very good at managing his money. Almost obsessive. And he didn’t have extravagant tastes. Except for this house, of course,” she added as an afterthought.

  “How about you?” Shoe asked. “You haven’t developed any bad habits, have you?”

  Her smile was thin. “New ones, you mean?” He returned her smile. “No,” she said. “I don’t buy lottery tickets either, my wardrobe is hopelessly dull, and my car’s eight years old.” Patrick had given her the BMW as a wedding present. “I’m not even carrying a balance on my credit cards. Patrick may have been careful with his money, but he was generous, too. I haven’t had to touch the trust fund that my aunt Jane set up from my father’s life insurance and the settlement from the ferry company.”

  “You’ve probably been through this with the police,” Shoe said, “but what did Patrick do on the weekend? Did he meet with anyone?”

  “He spent Saturday morning in his home office, playing with his new computer. I think he was surfing the Internet.”

  “The Internet. Patrick?” Patrick had known even less about computers and the Internet than Shoe did, which was next to nothing.

  “It had to do with a business he was thinking of investing in, I think,” Victoria said. “After lunch he worked for a while longer, then went out. He got his hair cut, had his car washed, and ran some errands. After dinner he spent more time in his office and came to bed around eleven. On Sunday he played with his computer some more, then went to see Sean to tell him he wasn’t interested in working on his campaign.” She took a breath. “On Sunday night we argued about his leaving his job.”

  “Was Sean upset that Patrick didn’t join his campaign?”

  “No, I’m sure he wasn’t. In fact, I think he would have been surprised if Patrick had actually agreed.”

  The telephone rang. Victoria excused herself and went into the kitchen to answer it. Shoe heard her say, “Hi, Kit,” then, “Can I call you back?” After a lengthy pause, she said, “Sure. That sounds fine. See you later.” She came back into the living room. “Kit,” she said as she sat down again. “She worries about me.”

  Shoe hesitated, then said, “Pardon me for asking you this, but are you and Kit, well, involved?”

  Victoria’s hazel eyes blazed. “Having an affair, you mean? No, we’re not having an affair. Not that it’s anyone’s goddamned business.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” Shoe said. “The police can’t afford to have much regard for privacy, not in a murder investigation.”

  “Well, then it’s none of your goddamned business.” She picked up her wineglass, then put it down again. “Did—did Patrick say anything to you?”

  “Only that he thought she was gay,” Shoe said. “Why? Did he think you were having an affair with her?”

  “He may have,” Victoria replied. She sighed heavily. “I’m pretty sure Kit’s in love with me, but we’re not having an affair. Even if we were, she wouldn’t have to kill Patrick to get him out of the way, if that’s what you’re driving at. If he’d found out I was having an affair with her, he’d have thrown me out the door faster than you could say Billy Jean King.” She shook her head. “No,” she amended. “He wouldn’t have thrown me out. He would have politely asked me to leave. And I’d’ve left, too. I could easily live on my trust fund.”

  “Maybe your trust fund isn’t enough,” Shoe suggested. “Patrick had a pretty hefty life insurance policy and the mortgage on the house was undoubtedly insured. You stand to come into a sizable chunk of money.”

  “Which would make me the prime suspect, wouldn’t it?” she said. “I killed Patrick so I could have the money and my lesbian lover both.”

  “That works too,” Shoe said.

  Victoria’s brief smile was sour. “Let me ask you a question,” she said.

  “Sure,” Shoe said.

  “Was Patrick having an affair with Sandra St. Johns?”

  “What do you think?” Shoe replied.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I couldn’t blame him if he was. We haven’t been very close lately.” She shook her head, ponytail swishing from side to side. “No, I don’t think he was. Patrick was never very good at deception. He was a terrible liar and an awful poker player.”

  Shoe hoped she was right, but he didn’t think she was. Sandra St. Johns wasn’t a very good liar either, and Patrick may have been a better one than Victoria thought.

  “Can I take a look at Patrick’s home office?” Shoe asked.

  “Sure,” Victoria said, standing. “It’s upstairs.”

  Patrick’s home office was a small bright room at the rear of the house. It was neat and well organized, but there wasn’t much in it. A new Apple iMac computer sat on the desk, a small printer beside it, a flatbed scanner beside that. The shipping boxes still stood against the wall by the door. The furniture also looked new. The two-drawer filing cabinet was wood-grained, matching the desk. A bookcase, also matching, contained mostly software packages, some still shrink-wrapped, and a couple of black and yellow “For Dummies” books on computers and the Internet.

  “He’d only had the computer a few days,” Victoria said. “The police looked at it but said there was nothing on it but the stuff that came with it. They checked the Internet browser history, but they said he visited mostly e-commerce sites. They seemed disappointed that he wasn’t surfing kiddie porn sites,” she added with a flicker of a smile.

  Shoe opened the drawers of the desk and filing cabinet. The desk contained nothing of interest—hardly anything at all—and all he found in the filing cabinet were a few files pertaining to the purchase of the computer and the office furnishings. A small paper shredder stood beside the desk, similar to the one in his Hammond Industries office. Shoe examined the mound of colourful strips in the collector bin. It appeared that Patrick had tested the shredder by shredding printouts from the printer: computer spec sheets and photographic quality prints of tropical birds and beaches.

  Shoe drove back across the Lions Gate Bridge and downtown. Leaving his car in the underground garage of the Hammond Building, he walked the few blocks to the restaurant near the Waterfront SkyTrain station. He didn’t expect to learn anything helpful from a visit to the scene of Patrick’s murder, nor did he. The manager refused to speak about the incident and none of the staff on duty had been working on Monday. As he emerged from the restaurant, though, Sergeant Matthias and Detective Constable Worth were waiting for him on the sidewalk, leaning against the front fender of a blue Ford Taurus.

  “We need to talk,” Matthias said.

  “All right,” Shoe replied.

  “Let’s get some coffee somewhere.”

  “As long as it’s not this place,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the entrance to the restaurant in which Patrick had died.

  “Not a problem,” Matthias said.

  They got takeout coffees, Matthias’ treat, and took them out onto the Canada Place promenade overlooking the harbour, where they found an unoccupied bench. Matthias and Shoe sat on the bench while Worth leaned against the railing.

  Mathias prised the lid from his coffee cup, saying, “You want to tell me what the hell you think you’re up to?”

  “I’m conducting an internal investigation into Patrick O’Neill’s murder,” Shoe said. “At Mr. Hammond’s request.”

  “Oh, swell,” Matthias said. Then he said, “Wait a minute, I thought you’d been fired.”

  “I’ve been temporarily reinstated,” Shoe explained.

  “And O’Neill? He’d resigned too, hadn’t he?”

  “He had,” Shoe said. “But Mr. Hammond hadn’t accepted his resignation, so technically he was still an employee of the company when he died.”

  “You know you’re a goddamned suspect, don’t you?”

  Detective Constable Worth raised a finely shaped eyebrow at her p
artner’s language.

  “Yes, of course,” Shoe said agreeably. “What’s my motive again?”

  “The wife, naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “We did some checking on you,” Matthias said. Shoe waited, blowing on the coffee, sipping the hot brew carefully. “You remember a cop named Henry Trumbull?”

  Yes, I remember him,” Shoe replied. He and Hank Trumbull had graduated from the academy together and, for a time, had worked out of the same downtown Toronto station.

  “He’s an inspector now,” Matthias said. He took a mouthful of coffee, seeming oblivious to the temperature. “When we interviewed you,” he said, “you told us that you’d been discharged from the Toronto police service for striking a superior office. In actual fact, you resigned after your partner, one Ronald Mackie, assaulted you in the locker room with his nightstick and you fractured his cervical vertebrae taking it away from him.” Shoe sipped his coffee and waited for the other coin to drop. “He claimed you were sleeping with his wife.”

  “Former wife,” Shoe corrected him. “I knew her as Sara Rosen. When I met her, she and Mackie had been divorced for a year and a half.”

  “She was a cop too?”

  “That’s right,” Shoe said.

  Shoe had met Sara at someone’s retirement party, he didn’t remember whose. She’d been twenty-seven then, three years older than Shoe. She worked out of another station, and they’d been seeing each other for a month before Shoe had learned that she was Mackie’s ex-wife. Over the years, Shoe had asked himself many times if he’d have gone out with her that first time if he’d known. The answer was usually yes, despite the fact that Mackie had talked incessantly about “his ex,” certain they’d eventually get back together. According to Sara, though, there was no chance of that. Mackie knew Sara was seeing someone, he’d told Shoe, another cop. He didn’t know who, some suit, probably, he’d said. He’d find out soon enough, though, and when he did, the guy had better watch out.

  “What else did Trumbull tell you?” Shoe asked.