“But Ms. Reese,” Mr. Saunders said, “the balance on your account was paid off in full yesterday.”
“I don’t understand. You’re sure it’s not a mistake?”
“No mistake,” Mr. Saunders said. “A gentleman came in yesterday.”
“What gentleman?” Barbara asked. “Who?”
“He asked that we not reveal his name,” Mr. Saunders said.
But Barbara knew who it had been. She just wished she knew what he wanted.
chapter seven
Shoe had tried calling Sean Rémillard at his downtown law office, at his home in Lions Bay, twenty kilometres up the Sea to Sky Highway from Horseshoe Bay, and at his pied-à-terre in the West End. He’d left half a dozen messages, none of which had been returned. In addition to the telephone numbers, Victoria had also given him the addresses, so at five o’clock on Friday, after being informed by the receptionist at Rémillard’s office that Mr. Rémillard had left for the day, Shoe decided to call on him in person.
He tried the condo in the West End first. It was a three-minute walk from Stanley Park, on Pendrell, one block north of Beach, a ten-storey building that was beginning to show signs of age and shoddy construction. Still, it had a doorman. In his mid-sixties, almost as tall as Shoe but gone to fat, he was blunt to the point of rudeness. He had the flattened nose and thickened brows of a boxer and his small eyes, surrounded by scar tissue, were bright and hard and suspicious. Shoe would have given odds that he was a former cop.
Shoe found Rémillard’s name on the legend next to the house phone. Under the baleful gaze of the doorman, he keyed Rémillard’s code into the phone.
“Yes,” a woman’s voice answered. “Who is it?”
Shoe introduced himself as a friend of the O’Neill family, then said, “Are you Mrs. Rémillard?”
“I am,” the woman replied. “But I prefer to be called Ms. Privett.” Her voice was pleasant, despite a slight nasal quality.
“Of course,” Shoe said. “Is your husband home?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Do you think I might have a word with you, then?”
“Concerning what?”
“Patrick O’Neill,” he said. “I won’t take much of your time.”
“We’ve already spoken to the police,” Charlotte Privett said.
“I just have a few questions.”
“I’m afraid this is not a good time.”
“When would be a more convenient time?” Shoe asked, but he was cut off by a hard click. The silence of the dead line hummed in his ear. The bellicose doorman smirked from behind his desk.
A few minutes before six, Shoe found a parking space three blocks from Barbara Reese’s apartment building. The weather had closed in again, but it was still above freezing and the Asian grocery store was open to the sidewalk, doing a brisk trade in smoked duck and packaged dumplings and fresh vegetables. He pressed the button above Barbara’s mail slot and waited. A half a minute later the door release chattered. Opening his coat and removing his hat, he started up the narrow, poorly lit stairs.
She was waiting on the top landing, dressed in much-washed, snug-fitting jeans and a man’s white shirt, sizes too large, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
“Oh,” she said when she saw him. “Hello.” She smiled and patted her dark hair into place, although it wasn’t mussed. “You caught me doing my cleaning.”
Behind her, an apartment door opened, spilling yellow light into the gloomy hallway. A tall, stooped old woman with a dandelion burst of thinning white hair stepped into the hall. “Barbara?” she called.
Barbara Reese turned and went to the woman. “It’s all right, Mrs. Weir. I’m just talking to a friend. Go back inside now.” The woman muttered unintelligibly as she disappeared into her apartment and closed the door. Barbara turned back to Shoe and said, “Come in, Mr.—? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Schumacher,” he said. “Joe Schumacher.”
She blinked. “Mr. Schumacher. Come in.”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I came by to tell you that I’ve spoken to a friend who manages a marina in False Creek. He’d like to meet you.”
She was quiet for a handful of heartbeats, expression unreadable. Then she said, “Come in,” and, without waiting for a response, turned and went into her apartment. Shoe followed.
The apartment was small and furnished in a grab bag of styles—Early Church Basement, his mother would have called it—but neat as a pin. The ceiling was water-stained, but the walls had been recently patched and painted. The kitchen was an alcove off the living room/dining room, and the linoleum, although worn, was scrubbed clean. Through an open doorway he could see a small bedroom and a carefully made double bed. A closed door next to the bedroom door likely led to the bathroom.
“Sit down,” she said, a trifle coolly, Shoe thought. She indicated a sagging, overstuffed sofa covered in a patterned bed sheet, freshly laundered and pressed. “Can I make you a cup of tea? I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to offer.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble,” Shoe said.
“It’s no trouble,” she said.
“Tea will be fine then,” he said, taking off his coat and laying it over the arm of the sofa.
She went into the kitchen area, cheap flat-soled sneakers padding softly on the worn linoleum.
“I went by the dry cleaning store,” Shoe said. “A woman told me you no longer worked there.”
“Mrs. Seropian,” Barbara said as she filled an electric kettle. A crack in the window over the sink had been repaired with clear packing tape. “Her husband told me he had to let me go because she wanted him to give her nephew a job, but I think it was because she didn’t like the way he looked at me.” She plugged the kettle in. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “while the kettle’s heating, I’d like to change. I won’t be a minute.”
“Please,” Shoe said. “Don’t change on my account.” He rather liked the way she looked in the snug jeans and oversized shirt. He took Jimmy Young’s card out of his pocket and handed it to her. She looked at it, then looked at him.
“It was you that paid off the funeral home, wasn’t it?”
Although he’d told the funeral director that he wished to remain anonymous, he’d known that as soon as Barbara learned someone had paid the outstanding balance she’d know he was responsible. However, he hadn’t expected her to find out so soon. “Yes,” he replied. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s very generous of you,” she said. “I’ll pay you back, of course, but...” Her voice trailed off.
“It isn’t necessary,” Shoe said.
“No, I can’t...” she began, but the colour drained suddenly from her face. Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled up. Shoe got to her barely in time to prevent her from falling. Supporting her with an arm around her waist, surprised by the solid muscularity of her, he lowered her gently onto the sofa. Her skin was clammy to the touch. He laid his hand on her back, pressed gently. She leaned forward and put her head between her knees.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded without raising her head. The kettle began to whistle. She started to sit up.
“Stay there,” he said. He went into the kitchen and unplugged the kettle. He then went into the bathroom, where he dampened a washcloth in cold water. When he returned to the living room, she was sitting up, but her face was still pale and her hands trembled slightly as she accepted the cloth.
“Thank you,” she said. She wiped her face and the back of her neck.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I feel like such a fool. I haven’t eaten much today.” She stood, a little unsteady on her feet, but determined. “I’ll make the tea.”
“Never mind the tea,” he said. “I’ll buy you dinner.”
She looked at him. Her colour was beginning to return, but the flesh around her eyes was still pale.
“I—I don’
t understand,” she said. “Why are you doing this? If—if it’s sex you want, you could do a lot better than someone like me.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve given you that impression,” he said, feeling the blood rush to his face. “I didn’t intend to. I’ll go if you like.”
“No, please,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just haven’t had very much experience with men being nice to me without wanting something in return.” She still had Jimmy Young’s card in her hand. “This is for real?” she said.
“Yes,” Shoe said. “It’s for real.”
Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked, and they overflowed. “Oh, crap,” she said, wiping her eyes with the washcloth. “See what you get for being nice to me?”
“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “I insist.”
“All right,” she said, adding with a weak smile, “If you insist. But I must look a mess. Come back in half an hour. Can you do that?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour then.”
Shoe waited in his car. When the half-hour was up, he drove around the block and double-parked in front of Barbara’s building. It had started to rain. She was waiting by the curb, wearing her long overcoat and holding the umbrella with the broken ribs. He got out of the car and opened the passenger door for her, taking the umbrella and holding her arm as she got in. Closing the door, he went around the car, folded the umbrella, and got in.
“Is there anywhere in particular you would like to go?” he asked her, putting the umbrella on the back seat.
“You choose,” she said.
She fastened her seat belt as he pulled out into the traffic. After they’d driven half a dozen blocks in silence, she said, “What was your first name again?”
“Joseph,” he said. “Joe.”
They continued in silence for a while longer, as the rain beat down and the single wiper swept back and forth. She shuddered and he turned up the heater.
“Have we ever met before?” she asked. “I mean, before you came to the store the other day?”
“I followed you to the North Burnaby Inn last week,” he said. “I went into the lounge, but I didn’t stay.”
She shook her head and did not speak again until he parked under the old freight crane in the parking lot next to the Granville Island Hotel. The rain fell straight and hard out of the dark winter sky.
“You’re Joe Shoe,” she said suddenly.
He looked at her. “Yes, I’m called that. But how—?”
“You’re the one who—the man who killed Randy,” she said.
“Yes,” Shoe said as he recalled once again the look in Randy Jenks’ eyes as the double wheels of the transport truck rolled across his chest, the look of horror and the absolute certainty of his own death. He felt a huge sense of relief, however, as though a massive weight had been removed from his back or gravity had been turned down a notch or two.
“God, I’m so stupid,” Barbara said. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re being nice to me because you feel guilty about Randy. God,” she said again. She laughed nervously. “And I thought—well, never mind what I thought.”
“Shall I take you home?” he asked, putting his hand on the ignition switch.
She shook her head. “No.” She took a breath, let it out. “No, you don’t have to do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. She reached toward him, but withdrew her hand before she had completed the gesture. “You promised me dinner.”
It was early and they had no trouble getting a table in the dining room of the Granville Island Hotel. The table was by the window overlooking the marina. Shoe saw January Jack Pine’s homemade houseboat, floating on an even keel, the polished stainless steel skin of the Airstream trailer gleaming in the rain under the marina lights.
“Would you like a drink?”he asked.
“I don’t usually drink,” she said, “but tonight I think I could use one.”
She ordered a rum and Coke and Shoe ordered a club soda. When the drinks arrived, she raised her glass and said, “Cheers.” She took a large swallow. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were the other day?” she asked.
“It didn’t seem right,” he said, “to simply walk up to you on the street and tell you I was the man who killed your husband.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I’m not sure. Tonight, perhaps, after dinner.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about it now, do you?”
“No,” he said. He sipped his club soda.
“And you don’t have to worry about me having a fit on you, either,” she said. “Randy and me, well, we’d been separated for a long time when he died.”
“I thought you’d recognize my name the other day,” he said. She shook her head. “How did you know I was called Joe Shoe?”
She carefully placed her glass in the centre of the paper coaster on the table in front of her. “We have met,” she said. “Sort of. It was a long time ago, before—before Randy died. I was thinner then and my hair was longer. You don’t remember.”
“No,” he said.
“The man you worked for, the man Randy attacked...” She paused.
“Bill Hammond,” Shoe supplied.
“I knew him,” she said. “That’s what he called you. Joe Shoe. I never knew your real name.”
“You knew Bill Hammond?” Shoe said. “How?”
“I was his—his mistress on and off for more than fifteen years. Till just after Randy died. Maybe mistress isn’t really the right word. I mean, he didn’t give me a mink coat or set me up in a nice apartment or anything. I never could think of myself as his girlfriend, though. I was just some stupid girl he took to his bed once in a while.”
Shoe stared at her in astonishment, stunned into silence.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re Miss Rose,” he said.
“Pardon me?”
“That’s what he called you. Miss Rose.” Shoe shook his head, unable to hold back a snort of humourless laughter. She looked hurt.
“Sorry,” he said. “When I tried to get in touch with you after your husband’s death, I asked Bill if he knew anything about the man who’d attacked him. I knew he had a mistress, of course, but it never occurred to me that his attacker was his mistress’s husband. He told me that your husband was just a disgruntled former employee who blamed Bill for his misfortune.”
“Disgruntled,” Barbara said. “I like that word. Randy was pretty disgruntled about a lot of things. And he did used to work for Bill’s company. So did I, till Randy and I got married. As for Bill being the cause of Randy’s bad luck, well, I’d have to take some of the blame for that.”
“How did you meet him?” Shoe asked.
“Randy? We started going steady in high school.”
“Bill.”
“Oh,” she said, flushing slightly. “Actually, it was because of Randy. After I graduated from secretarial school I got a job in Bill’s office, typing and filing. Randy worked for one of Bill’s companies too, driving a forklift in a warehouse, but a few months after I started he got fired for turning up for work drunk. He told me it was just a couple of beers at lunchtime, but to Randy a couple of beers was five or six. Anyway, he knew I worked in Bill’s office, so he wanted me to talk to him, try and get his job back. The next day, before I went home, I went to see him. I was terrified. I’d never spoken to him before. But he gave me a glass of sherry and said he’d look into Randy’s situation. He told me to come back the next day.”
“Did he give Randy his job back?” Shoe asked.
“Yes,” Barbara said. She hesitated, looking down at the tabletop, fiddling with the alignment of the cutlery.
“But he expected something in return,” Shoe said.
She raised her head. Her eyes were dramatically made up with mascara and kohl, but they were lo
vely nonetheless. “He told me he’d give Randy his job back if I slept with him. He just came right out and said it, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.” She shook her head. “I was so stupid,” she said. “He flattered me and told me I was pretty and it went straight to my head. Or maybe it was the sherry. The next day I could hardly believe what I’d done. I was just another silly girl who had too much to drink and let a man take down her drawers.”
The waiter came and they ordered. Barbara expressed alarm at the prices and was shy about ordering. Even though he told her to order whatever she wanted, she chose something at the lower end of the price range.
“Would you like wine?” he asked her.
“I wouldn’t know what to ask for,” she said. “I don’t know anything about wine.”
“Neither do I,” Shoe said. He handed the wine list to the waiter and told him to choose an appropriate, moderately priced wine.
While they waited for their food, Barbara told him that she’d been sure her tryst with Bill Hammond had been nothing more than a one-night stand. However, the following Friday her supervisor told her that Mr. Hammond wanted to see her before she went home. At five-thirty she knocked on his office door, so nervous and afraid that she thought she was going to throw up.
“Come in,” he called, and she went in. He told her to sit down and poured her a glass of sherry. Then he asked her if Randy had appreciated what she’d done for him.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“But you didn’t tell him everything you did, did you?” Hammond said.
“No, sir.”
“Was he grateful to you for getting his job back?”
“Yes, sir,” she’d replied.
“It wasn’t true, of course,” she said to Shoe. “Randy didn’t say a word. It’s a good thing, too, probably, because if he had, he’d’ve known right away from my face that I’d slept with Bill. He might’ve suspected something, but as long as we didn’t talk about it, it was okay.”
Hard Winter Rain Page 15
