Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she got into the cab.

  “May I call you next week?”

  “Yes, certainly,” Mrs. Ross said from the back seat of the cab. “I’ll be back early Tuesday afternoon. I’m sorry I have to rush off like this,” she said as the cab pulled away.

  Victoria parked her red BMW convertible in the underground parking space that still bore Patrick’s nameplate, slung her backpack-like purse over her shoulder, and rode the elevator up to the 23rd floor. She was wearing a beige Donna Karan suit, a belted Burberry jacket, and a red tam set at a jaunty angle. She didn’t feel the least bit jaunty.

  “Victoria,” Muriel said, coming around the desk, putting her arms around Victoria’s shoulders, kissing her on the cheek. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Victoria replied automatically. “Thank you for the flowers,” she added. “They’re beautiful. I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls, Mu, but—I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” Muriel said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I need to see Bill,” Victoria said.

  “Bill?” Muriel said, black eyes wide with surprise.

  “Yes,” Victoria replied. “And, no,” she added with a quick smile, “I don’t have a gun in my purse.”

  “Sorry,” Muriel said. “It’s just that, well, I—” She faltered, blushing.

  “It’s all right,” Victoria said.

  “He’s in a meeting right now,” Muriel said, regaining her composure. “With Charles Merigold,” she added, “so he’ll probably be grateful for an excuse to cut it short. But you should have called.”

  “I’m sorry, I w-w-was—” Victoria stammered, paused and regrouped, then started again. “It was all I could do to bring myself to come here,” she said. “I didn’t want to give him any warning, time to prepare his lies. Or slip out the back door.”

  Muriel gestured toward an arrangement of easy chairs and low tables, softly lighted and surrounded by tall tropical plants. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Victoria sat stiffly on the edge of a chair while Muriel went back to her desk and picked up the telephone. Something that sounded like Mozart played softly over the muted drone of voices, the electronic hum of office equipment, and the distant sigh of air-conditioning. A plump young man in an expensive suit held open the door to the reception area for a thin-legged girl pushing a mail cart. Both of them smiled at Victoria. Muriel hung up and returned to the waiting area.

  “He won’t be long,” she said.

  The door to Hammond’s office opened and Charles Merigold emerged. When he saw Victoria, he smiled sympathetically.

  “Victoria,” he said, offering his hand. “Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss. If there’s anything I or Evelyn can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thank you, Charles,” Victoria replied, shaking his hand.

  He nodded, smile wavering. “Well, good,” he said awkwardly. “Do, please.” He turned and went into his office.

  Victoria picked up her purse and stood. She kissed Muriel’s cheek. “Wish me luck, Mu,” she said. Muriel opened the door to Hammond’s office. Victoria took a deep breath and went in.

  He was standing by his broad desk. She was shocked by how dry and withered he looked, almost frail. He hadn’t seemed so frail the other day.

  “My dear,” he said, coming toward her. “How good to see you.”

  “Hello,” she said, hoping the coldness in her voice would stop his advance. It didn’t. She almost flinched when he took her arm.

  He led her to the seating arrangement by the tall window overlooking the harbour and the white, stylized sails of Canada Place. She sat on the edge of a sofa, back rigid, hands clasped in her lap.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea? A drink, perhaps?” She shook her head. “Are you hungry? I can order something sent up if you wish.”

  “No, I don’t want anything,” she replied.

  He lowered himself into a chair facing her. “What is it you wished to see me about?” he asked.

  She looked him in the eye. It wasn’t as hard as she’d thought it would be. “I want to know why Patrick was killed,” she said.

  “Yes, of course. As do I.”

  “I think you do know. I think it had something to do with Hammond Industries. With you.”

  “It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume,” Hammond said, “that his murder is somehow connected with his job or possibly even with me, but I certainly don’t know what that connection could be.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I lie to you?” he said. He leaned toward her. “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “You’ve only ever told the truth when it suited you.”

  He shrugged, hands held palms up before him, a gesture of helplessness that she knew was completely false. “If you believe that, what’s the point?” he said. “Or is it that you just don’t want to believe me. You want someone to blame for Patrick’s death. It might as well be me.”

  Victoria turned her head from side to side, savagely, as if to shake loose an unwanted thought.

  “My dear,” Hammond said, leaning close again. “Instead of mistrusting each other, we should be trying to help each other. Surely we can put the past behind us.”

  “If by that you mean forgive and forget,” Victoria said, “I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

  “It was you who seduced me, if you will recall.”

  Victoria’s laugh was bitter. “How can you call it seduction? I was just another one of your whores. Bought and paid for.”

  “I never thought of you as a whore,” he said. “But is that why you’re here, to pick the scabs off old sores? What’s done is done. We can’t change the past.”

  “I came here to tell you that if you’re responsible for Patrick’s death, even indirectly, I’ll see to it that you pay for it. One way or another.”

  The colour drained from his face. “I don’t think that’s why you’re here at all,” he said, voice brittle. “You’re here because with Patrick gone there’s no one left to take care of you. And you need someone to take care of you, don’t you? You always have.” He reached out to touch her. She drew back. “I will take care of you, you know.”

  Biting down on her sudden nausea, she stood. “I’d live on the street first,” she said, and walked out of his office.

  Muriel stood and came around her desk. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Victoria took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “God, you’re trembling like a leaf.”

  “I’m fine, Mu. Really.” She took Muriel’s hand and squeezed gently. “Thank you,” she said. Muriel walked her to the elevators. “I’ll call you,” Victoria said.

  She was still shaking when she got down to the parking level, so she sat in her car, breathing deeply through her nose, until the tremors subsided. When she finally turned the key in the ignition, the car wouldn’t start. The engine turned over and over and over, as if to mock her. She laid her forehead on the top of the steering wheel and closed her eyes.

  Just what she needed, she thought wearily, eyes burning with tears of frustration. Goddamn Patrick and his fucking BMWs. She felt an immediate stab of guilt. She’d loved this car from the moment Patrick had given it to her. Right now, though, she’d have gladly traded it for her old Toyota. Until she’d wrecked it, the Toyota had never given her a bit of trouble. Of course, it had barely made it up the hills on the Sea to Sky Highway to Whistler. She twisted the key and tried again, but the car still refused to start. Despite the night course in auto mechanics Patrick had insisted she take, she didn’t have a clue what might be wrong.

  She almost jumped out of her skin when someone rapped at the driver’s side window.

  “Is everything all right?” a man asked.

  She stabbed at the door lock button on her door. The electromechanical deadbolts thudded
down.

  “It’s all right,” the man said, voice muffled. “It’s Del Tilley. You—I work for Mr. Hammond.”

  She tried again. “C’mon, you bitch,” she hissed through her teeth. She cranked the engine for longer than was recommended, but it did not start.

  “Be careful,” Del Tilley said. “You might flood it.”

  She turned the ignition key to “On” and powered the window down an inch. “It’s fuel-injected,” she said coldly, hoping she remembered correctly that fuel-injected engines did not flood.

  “Would you like me to try?” he asked.

  “I’m quite capable of starting a car, Mr. Tilley,” she said.

  “Yes, yes, of course you are. I’m sorry. I’m only trying to help.”

  She followed the recommended procedure, cranking for five or six seconds, then letting the battery rest for ten seconds, then cranking again. She repeated the process five times, to no avail. She raised the window, removed the key from the ignition, and opened the door. Tilley stepped back as she got out of the car. In her half heels she looked straight into his yellow eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tilley. I didn’t mean to be snappish. I—it’s been a trying day.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Do you have a phone?” she said. “I want to call the CAA.”

  He took a tiny cellphone out of his pocket, but he did not hand it to her.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said. “And if you’ll give me your keys, I’ll have one of my staff arrange for the CAA to take care of the car.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Please, Victoria,” he said. “Pardon me. Mrs. O’Neill. If Mr. Hammond was to learn I left you stranded down here, it would be my job.”

  “Mr. Tilley,” Victoria said firmly, “I don’t want to be rude. Either let me use your phone to call the CAA or let me pass.”

  He stared at her blankly for a second or two, then flipped the cellphone open. He pressed a button with his thumb. The phone beeped. He shook his head. “There’s no signal down here. You’ll have to call from the security office.”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll use the payphone in the lobby.”

  “You’ll have to meet the CAA truck down here,” he said reasonably. “It would make more sense for you to call from the security office.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s this way.” He took a step toward her, reaching out to take her arm.

  Victoria backed up a step. Her rump hit the side of the car. Tilley stared at her for a long moment, blinking slowly, lizard-like. He opened his mouth to saying something but was cut off by the sound of an approaching car. Mumbling unintelligibly, he turned abruptly on his heel and stalked away.

  As Shoe drove slowly along the row of parking spaces reserved for Hammond Industries’ employees, he saw Del Tilley striding toward him. As he drove past him, Tilley stopped and watched the car go by, head swivelling, eyes shadowed and unreadable. There was no mistaking the hostility he radiated. It had an almost visible aura. What’s eating him? Shoe wondered.

  When he pulled into his parking space, Victoria was standing beside her red BMW convertible, parked in Patrick’s spot. She had a brown leather knapsack slung over her shoulder. Her face was pale in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights.

  “My car won’t start,” she said as he got out of his car.

  “Do you want me to try?” he offered.

  “If you like,” she said. “But, as I told Del Tilley, I’m quite capable of starting a car.”

  “I’ll take your word for it then,” Shoe said.

  “Can I trouble you for a ride home? I’ll call the CAA from there.”

  “Of course,” Shoe said.

  In the car, Victoria said, “You haven’t asked me what I was doing there.”

  “No,” Shoe said.

  “I went to see Bill. I know you’ll probably think I’m being irrational, but I’m convinced he knows why Patrick was killed.”

  Shoe said, “Emotional, perhaps, but not irrational.”

  “Whatever,” Victoria said with a shrug. “One way or another, though, he’s responsible for Patrick’s death. I know he is.”

  There wasn’t anything to be gained by arguing with her, Shoe decided. Besides, he wasn’t sure she was wrong. They continued in silence until they reached the Lions Gate Bridge Causeway at the east entrance to Stanley Park.

  “I like the way you drive,” Victoria said. “It’s very relaxed, like you don’t have to think about it at all.”

  “I think about it,” he assured her.

  “Patrick was a terrible driver,” she went on. “Like most bad drivers, though, he didn’t know it. He prided himself on always buying cars with standard transmissions, but he didn’t know how to drive them properly. He shifted up too soon and didn’t downshift soon enough. He never had an accident, though, which is more than I can say. I totalled that Corolla I bought after I started working for Hammond Industries.”

  “I remember it,” Shoe said. “You called it Ethel.”

  “Oh, god, that’s right. You helped me buy it, didn’t you? I’d forgotten.”

  They were on the bridge now. She looked out over the wintry grey of Vancouver Harbour toward the high yellow mounds of sulphur at the bulk terminal on the north shore. Victoria might have forgotten, but Shoe remembered very clearly the day he took her shopping for a car. Her ponytails and exuberance had made her seem very young and the salesman had mistaken her for Shoe’s daughter, which had rankled. He was, after all, only fourteen years older than she. It didn’t seem like much of a difference now, but then it had been an insurmountable one.

  When he parked the car in front of the house, she said, “I’ve been thinking a lot in the last couple of days,” she said without looking at him. “Remembering things. Mostly about my life and the complete hash I’ve made of it.” She raised her head and smiled slightly. “I guess that’s not so unusual, under the circumstances, is it?”

  “No, I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Patrick’s funeral will be on Monday,” she said. “At Hollyburn Funeral Services on Marine Drive.”

  They discussed the schedule for a few minutes, then fell into an awkward silence.

  “Do you recall Patrick ever mentioning the name Claire Powkowski?” Shoe asked.

  “No. Who is she?”

  “Evidently,” Shoe said, “she was Bill’s business partner back in the fifties, before he married Elizabeth Lindell and merged his company with her father’s.”

  “How would Patrick know about her?” Victoria asked.

  Shoe told her about Ramona Ross.

  “I see,” Victoria said. She opened the car door. “Would you like to come in?” she asked. “Consuela called in sick today, but I might be able to manage to make some coffee.”

  “Thanks,” he said, “but there’s something I have to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the woman behind the teller’s window. “There are insufficient funds in that account.” Barbara stared at the teller as she slid Barbara’s paycheque back under the thick plastic barrier. “I’m sorry,” the woman said again.

  “But what will I do?” Barbara asked, stomach knotted and fingers trembling as she picked up the cheque.

  “I didn’t stamp it,” the teller said.

  Barbara didn’t know what she meant, but the man behind her in the queue was grumbling impatiently, so she put the cheque back in her purse and left the bank. She hadn’t had breakfast and her legs were rubbery. Her vision blurred at the edges. She sat on the bench at a bus stop and in a few minutes felt better. However, by the time she got home she wasn’t sure she could make it up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. She did, of course, but as she unlocked her apartment door, her heart was hammering furiously and her undergarments were soaked with perspiration.

  Taking off her shoes and hanging up her coat, she sat at the kitchen table and drank a cup of weak tea with sugar and milk made from pow
der because it was less expensive than fresh. Yesterday’s newspaper was on the table, open to the want ads, but most of the ads she’d circled now had lines drawn through them. Feeling better after she finished the tea, she put on her shoes, took her keys and some quarters from her purse, and went downstairs to the payphone in the lobby. She fed a quarter into the phone and called the dry cleaning store. Mr. Seropian’s wife answered.

  “Is your husband there?” Barbara asked.

  “Who is calling?” Mrs. Seropian asked. Barbara told her. “Not here,” the woman said and hung up.

  Barbara dropped another quarter into the phone. Mrs. Seropian answered again.

  “Let me speak with your husband,” Barbara said. “My paycheque bounced.”

  Mrs. Seropian hung up.

  Unwilling to waste another quarter, Barbara returned to her apartment. Her stomach ached with a mixture of anger and fear and hunger. She heated up leftover soup. She would have to go to the store in person, she knew. At least her bus pass was good until the end of the month. She also needed her pink slip so she could apply for unemployment. The thought of confronting Mrs. Seropian made her queasy, but it had to be done.

  Soup finished, she lay down on the bed, on top of the covers. Her doorbell rang, but she was too tired to get up to answer. A moment later, it rang a second time, but still she did not get up. It was probably just another tenant, too lazy to get out his keys, or someone calling on the drug dealer who lived on the first floor.

  Before returning to the office Shoe stopped by the dry cleaning store to speak to Barbara about the job at the marina. An overweight, black-eyed woman regarded him suspiciously from behind the counter.

  “Is Ms. Reese here?” Shoe asked.

  “You got cleaning?” the woman replied.

  “No, I would like to speak to Ms. Reese, please.”

  “She not work here,” the woman said.

  “She isn’t working today, you mean? Did she call in sick?”

  “Is filthy slut,” the woman said. “Whore. She not work here no more. Go away you, if you got no cleaning.”