Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  Shoe wasn’t accustomed to looking up at people, especially women, most especially women as small as Kit Parsons. It was a bit disconcerting. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said.

  She shrugged, turning her head and blowing smoke from the side of her mouth, more or less away from him. “I called Victoria,” she said. “She told me you’re looking into Patrick’s murder. For your boss. But like I told you on the phone, I don’t know anything about it. You’re wasting your time. And mine.”

  “You’ve known Victoria for about four months, is that right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice, thickened by smoke, was wary.

  “How well did you know Patrick?”

  “I only met him a few times,” she replied. “I made him nervous.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” “Two months ago, maybe. I was having lunch with Victoria one Sunday when he came home from playing golf or something.”

  It must have been “or something,” Shoe thought; Patrick had considered golf a silly way to waste time.

  “Victoria told me that Patrick might have suspected you and she of having an affair.”

  Kit’s eyes flashed. “If he did, he was wrong,” she said, smoke spilling from her mouth. “But even if we were, so what?”

  “The police might consider it a motive,” Shoe said.

  “Let them.” She took another hard pull on the cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs before expelling it through her nose. Shoe’s eyes burned and he suppressed the urge to cough.

  “Did Victoria ever talk to you about her relationship with Patrick?” he asked.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’m not asking these questions to intrude on your privacy,” Shoe said. “Or Victoria’s. I’m trying to find out why Patrick was killed.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill him,” she said. “And I didn’t hire anyone to do it.” After a brief moment of silence, she added, “And neither did Victoria.”

  “Had you ever spoken to him on your own, outside of Victoria’s presence?”

  “I saw him once the Park Royal Shopping Centre, but he either didn’t recognize me or ignored me. Probably the latter. And one night as I was leaving the house after having supper with Victoria we passed each other in the driveway, but other than ‘good evening,’ we didn’t speak then, either.”

  “Do you think he suspected you and Victoria of having an affair?”

  “He might have,” she said, crushing out the remains of her cigarette in an ashtray on the drafting table. “In fact...” She paused, as if having second thoughts about what she was going to say.

  “What?” Shoe prompted.

  “Well,” she said hesitantly, “I think he might have hired a private detective. A couple of weeks ago there was a woman at the health club who seemed to be watching us all the time. Then we saw her again later at lunch. I can’t be sure she was following us, but she certainly seemed interested. When she realized we’d noticed her, she left.”

  “Victoria didn’t say anything to me about this,” Shoe said.

  “She thought it was my imagination,” Kit replied. She smiled thinly. “She told me it was probably just another dyke.” She lit a cigarette, drawing smoke deep into her lungs.

  Shoe stood up. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said.

  William Hammond hated parties. Especially Christmas parties. Most especially his wife’s Christmas parties. Not only did they cost him a fortune, they were excruciatingly boring to boot.

  “Merry Christmas,” a woman said to him. She was wearing a low-cut sequined gown and appeared to have spilled red wine between her plumped up, powdered breasts.

  “Yes, Merry Christmas,” seconded her companion, who had something green lodged between his front teeth and couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from wandering to the woman’s cleavage. “Lovely party.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” William Hammond said wearily. The woman’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then she and her companion beat a hasty retreat toward the bar at the far end of the room.

  “Be nice,” Abby Hammond said, coming up behind him.

  Hammond turned. Abby’s rust-coloured hair was lacquered to the shape of her skull in the semblance of an ancient war helmet, complete with ear- and neckpieces, and dusted with silver and gold metallic sparkles.

  “It’s enough that I let you throw these things,” he grumbled. “I don’t have to be polite to your friends.”

  “They’re your friends too.”

  “Humph.”

  “You just hate the idea of having fun.”

  An artificially tanned man and a tall, pasty-faced woman nodded and smiled as they manoeuvred past on their way toward the buffet that ran along one long wall of the room, attended by men and women in gleaming white aprons and mushroom-shaped chef’s hats. The man was careful not to let his gaze linger too long on Abby’s breasts. They were high and round beneath the fabric of her dress, which fit her from throat to pelvis like a coating of thin black oil, mostly transparent except for strategically placed areas of more opaque material. The narrow, ankle-length skirt was split up the centre to within two inches of her crotch. Her muscular legs were sheathed in pearly iridescent hose, and her slippers matched her hair.

  “You’re dressed like a goddamned whore,” Hammond told her.

  “The whore who could afford this dress,” Abby said with a smile, “would be an exceptionally fine fuck indeed.”

  “I need another drink,” Hammond growled and headed toward the bar, waving away one of the half-dozen white-aproned young men and women who moved through the room carrying trays of canapés and hors d’oeuvres.

  The bartender was a tall black woman dressed like a man in a shirt and tie and black vest. She was about thirty, not even remotely attractive, but she made a damned good Bloody Caesar. He was working on his fourth.

  Abby might be dressed like a whore, Hammond thought, sipping his drink and watching his wife as she sashayed through the room, basking in the surreptitious glances of most of the men and the resentful glares of many of the women, but she wasn’t half stupid or greedy enough. Besides, Abby gave it away quite freely, and no self-respecting whore did that. With a whore you always paid, sooner or later, one way or another, so you might as well get your money’s worth. Claire Powkowski had taught him that.

  This was the first time Del Tilley had been inside the Hammond home and he was exploring. A month ago, when Hammond had asked him to handle security for his wife’s Christmas party, Tilley had wanted to inspect the house and grounds for weak points, but Hammond had said, “Just bring a couple of your goons to make sure no one steals the silverware or gets drunk and falls into the pool.” So far, no one had done either.

  Tilley’s nose twitched as he entered the solarium. He’d always hated the smell of indoor swimming pools, and the stink of the plants, like rotting garbage, made it worse. He pressed his left forefinger against the tiny earphone in his left ear and spoke into the microphone clipped inside the right cuff of his rented tuxedo jacket. “Davage, Henderson, report.”

  There was no reply.

  “Davage, Henderson, what’s going on? Report.”

  A tinny voice buzzed in his ear. “Um, nothing much to report, Mr. Tilley.”

  “Who is this?” Tilley hissed as he skirted the edge of the pool. “Identify yourself.”

  “Um, Davage,” the voice said again.

  “Henderson here,” another voice said. “Everybody seems to be having a good time.”

  “Where are you, damnit?”

  “I’m in the front hall,” one of them replied. “Where you left me. Ah, sorry. Henderson reporting.”

  “Davage. I’m in the living room.” Lowering his voice, Davage added, “Um, Mrs. Merigold just poked her husband in the ribs for staring at Mrs. Hammond’s, ah, equipment too long.”

  Henderson chuckled lewdly. “Man, I could—”

  “Can it,” Tilley snapped into his sleeve. “Observe communications protocol.”


  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right.”

  Bloody amateurs, Tilley grumbled to himself as he went into the dressing room at the far end of the pool. Maybe he would get lucky and catch a couple of the guests doing it in the sauna. He pulled open the thick wood-panelled door. No such luck. Likewise, the toilet and the shower stall were also empty. He checked his watch as he went back out into the solarium. Nine o’clock. As good a time as any to check out the alarm system.

  The system had been installed a few months ago by an outside security firm. It had pissed Tilley off that Hammond hadn’t asked him to install it, but it didn’t really matter. He was certain it wouldn’t give him any trouble. How complicated could it be? Besides, most people wrote the password code down and hid it under a desk calendar or disguised it as a phone number or a birthday.

  He also hoped he had time to locate the safe in Hammond’s study. He was certain there was one. He didn’t know where it was, exactly, but it wouldn’t be too hard to find. They never were.

  Another hour and another drink later William Hammond was about to make good his escape—two hours of this was quite enough—when he saw Abby come into the crowded living room from the front hall. She began working her way toward him, walking with the exaggerated control of someone who’d had more than a few too many. Hammond turned, seeking another avenue of escape, and found himself face to face with Mrs. Charles Merigold.

  If Abby was dressed like a whore, Evelyn Merigold was dressed like a circus clown. Her hair was pale pink, her cheeks were rouged, and her gown was bright green satin splashed with red sequins. Her “Mrs. Claus” outfit, she called it, which she wore every year. All she needed to complete the effect was a red bulb nose and big clown shoes.

  “Abby seems to be enjoying herself,” Evelyn Merigold said. As Abby hove to, Evelyn smiled and said, “I must say, Abby, that’s a very striking gown.”

  Abby performed an unsteady pirouette. “Thank you, Evelyn. I like it too.” She leaned close and whispered loudly, “Only I can’t wear panties or anything with it.” She giggled and hiked up the split of her skirt a little, showing the tops of her hose. “I have to keep my stockings up with invisible tape.” She released the skirt and thrust out her chest. Her nipples were like oil-coated pebbles beneath the thin fabric. “I had these little Band-Aid things to flatten my nipples, but they hurt, so I took them off.”

  Charles Merigold joined them, carrying two glasses of white wine. He handed one to his wife. Abby reached out and plucked the other from his hand.

  “Why, thank you, Charles,” she said cheerfully. She sipped deeply.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, studiously avoiding looking at her breasts. “Bill,” he said, “may I have a word with you?”

  Hammond had been ducking him all evening. “Abby doesn’t permit shop talk at her parties,” he said.

  “It concerns Joe Schumacher’s investigation,” Merigold said.

  “What about it?”

  “He’s been asking questions about a woman named Claire Powkowski,” Merigold said.

  “Who’s Claire Powkowski?” Abby Hammond asked.

  “Never mind,” Hammond said. “Excuse us a minute.” He took Merigold’s arm and led him toward the bar. “What did he want to know?” Hammond asked, keeping his voice low.

  “He wanted to know if I knew who she was,” Merigold replied. “I’ve never heard of her. Schumacher said she used to be your business partner.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “When Patrick was shutting down Royal Gasket, the office manager, a woman named Ramona Ross, told him she knew you and Claire Powkowski in the forties and fifties. Evidently Patrick became quite interested and spent a lot of time with her. Schumacher talked to her briefly yesterday and is supposed to talk to her again next week. Who is Claire Powkowski?” Merigold asked again.

  “Nobody,” Hammond replied.

  chapter nine

  Sunday, December 19

  It had been a fine party, what she remembered of it, and she remembered most of it. The important bits, anyway. Bill had buggered off after talking with Charles Merigold about some woman whose name she couldn’t remember, locking himself in his study, leaving Abby free to enjoy herself. The best looking and most athletic of the young men from the catering company had turned out to be gay, but her second choice had been more than up to the challenge. A bottle of champagne and most of a box of condoms later, she’d had four or five orgasms before he’d begun to beg for mercy. She hadn’t shown him any.

  “Can you spell nymphomaniac?” Abby said to herself, chuckling.

  She was paying for her fun this morning, though. Her stomach was queasy and her head throbbed from too much booze, her labia were red and chafed, and the hinges of her jaw ached from using her mouth to get him hard the last couple of times. She felt somewhat better after half an hour in the sauna, though.

  When she emerged naked from the sauna, smouldering with residual heat, body steaming in the relatively cooler air of the solarium, Bill was ensconced in a wicker armchair, watching her, bleary-eyed and pale, and shakily raising a Bloody Caesar.

  “Put some clothes on, for crissake.”

  “I’m going to swim,” she said. Without breaking stride, she dove off the edge of the pool deck, slicing into the cool, clear water. She swam lengths, switching strokes every second length, but the night before had taken its toll, and fifteen minutes later, when she lifted herself up onto the pool deck, her breathing was ragged and her arms were leaden. Wrapping herself in a beach robe, she poured herself a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and took it to the chaise longue by the edge of the pool. Bill was asleep in his chair, mouth hanging open, snoring noisily. Face pale and sagging, he looked a hundred years old.

  Poor Bill, she thought. How he hated growing old. Not that she was keen on the idea herself. Like many of her baby boomer contemporaries, she spent a lot of time and effort and money—too much money, Bill had said many times—to stave off the inevitable physical deterioration. But for Bill, it was the business that kept him young. His life was the company, always had been, and now it was slipping away from him. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to stay in control, he’d told her recently, including accepting Patrick O’Neill’s resignation rather than agreeing to go public.

  Abby got up and draped a blanket around her husband’s shoulders.

  Patrick. The surrogate son. Probably the only person Bill Hammond had ever really truly loved in his life. When he’d died, so had a little of Bill. Maybe too much.

  A few minutes after four on Sunday afternoon, Shoe parked beside Abby Hammond’s little yellow Audi TT roadster and shut off the engine. He sat for moment, listening to the ticking of the cooling engine and the ping of rainwater dripping from the trees onto the roof of the car. Hammond had called an hour ago, asking to see him. He had a pretty good idea why Hammond wanted to see him, but he had no wish to hurry things. Finally, however, he got out of the car and climbed the flagstone steps.

  Abby answered the door. She wore a black turtleneck sweater that emphasized the width of her shoulders and faded Levis, snug and low on her hips. Her rust-coloured hair was gelled and slicked straight back from her face. She looked a little haggard, Shoe thought, with dark rings around her eyes that makeup couldn’t conceal.

  “Joe,” she said with a wobbly smile. “Come in.”

  Shoe went in and waited as she closed the door behind him. She took his coat and hat and laid them on the bench in the vestibule, then led him into the hall.

  “He’s in his study,” she said. She put her hand on his arm. “Be careful. He’s not in a very good mood today.” She removed her hand and went down the hall toward the kitchen, favouring him with a brief smile over her shoulder and a twitch of her denim-clad rump.

  Letting out his breath, Shoe knocked on the study door. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder.

  “What is it?” Bill Hammond demanded as he jerked the door open. “Oh, it�
�s you,” he said. “Come in.” Hammond stepped back, motioned for Shoe to enter, and closed the door behind him. His breath was sour and the flesh around his eyes was puffy and dark.

  Hammond’s study was large and square and gloomy, with a high, intricately moulded ceiling and tall mullioned windows in two walls, heavy curtains partly drawn. The walls were lined with crowded floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The books, old and musty, were in sets with matching bindings and likely had never been opened, let alone read. A rolling stepladder to reach the higher shelves was parked, unused, in a corner. A massive blond oak partners’ desk squatted in the middle of the room.

  “Sit,” Hammond said.

  Shoe sat in one of a pair of comfortable red leather club chairs arranged on either side of a table with an inset ivory chessboard, unoccupied. Hammond lowered himself into the other chair. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up a glass of ice water that left a wet ring on the chessboard.

  “I think you’ve wasted enough time on your investigation into Patrick’s death,” he said without preamble.

  “If you don’t mind,” Shoe said, “I’d like to stay with it a while longer.”

  “Are you any closer to knowing why Patrick was killed?”

  Shoe shook his head. “No, not really.”

  “Then you might as well get started on your retirement.”

  “There are a few more people I’d like to talk to,” Shoe said.

  “Like who?” Hammond said. He shook his head. “Never mind. If it’s the money you’re worried about, I’ll keep our agreement.”

  “It’s not that,” Shoe replied.

  “What then?”

  “Does the name Ramona Ross mean anything to you?”

  Hammond’s eyes narrowed. “Should it?”

  “She worked for one of your companies, the gasket factory in Surrey that Patrick and Sandra St. Johns shut down last month. Patrick was interested in what she could tell him about ‘the old days,’ as she put it. She was a friend of Claire Powkowski’s. You recognize that name, don’t you?”