Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  He followed her to the False Creek Harbour Authority marina, where she went into the office. Tilley found a place to wait on the elevated pedestrian walk-way overlooking the marina parking lot and leaned on the railing, pretending to watch the boats coming and going from False Creek. Half an hour later, the woman came out of the office. She smiled at the grey-bearded man who had come out with her and shook his hand. The man went back into the office and the woman started walking back toward Granville Island.

  Patrick’s wake was over and most of the mourners had gone. Besides Shoe, only Victoria, Muriel, and Patrick’s mother remained. Patrick’s brothers had got bored and left early, presumably to return to their hotel. Victoria and Muriel were in the kitchen, helping Consuela clean up and put away leftovers. Mrs. O’Neill, red-faced from too many glasses of wine, sat on the sofa. She seemed to have folded in on herself.

  Shoe pulled a straight chair around and sat facing her.

  “May I speak with you for a minute?” he asked. “About Patrick.”

  “You aren’t the police, are you?” she said. “The police have already talked to us.”

  “No, I’m conducting a private inquiry into your son’s death.”

  “Are you a private detective?”

  “I was Patrick’s friend,” he said. “I worked with him. I’d just like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I guess it’s all right,” she said.

  “Did you see him the last time he was in Montreal?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. O’Neill said in a soft, tentative voice.

  “When was that?” Shoe asked.

  “August. He came to help move the last of the furniture out of my brother Albert’s house. He’s in a nursing home. He has Alzheimer’s disease. But he called every week. He was a good boy. He wouldn’t be involved in anything crooked like the police think. Not Patrick.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about business?” Shoe asked.

  She shook her head. “Only to say that he was busy or tired of travelling. He travelled a lot. Mostly we talked about family. Especially after clearing out Albert’s house. It brought back a lot of memories.”

  A lock of lank grey hair fell in front of her eyes. She used both hands to pin it back into place.

  “Did he give you any reason to believe that he might be in some kind of trouble? Did he seem nervous or upset about anything?”

  “No,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “Although he was upset at Sean for not helping him with Albert.”

  “How did Patrick and Sean get along?”

  “Sean?” Mrs. O’Neill said. “They were like brothers, him and Patrick. Patrick was the youngest of my boys. He didn’t get on very well with Kevin and Brian. Sean was my sister’s only and lived with us for a time after his father died. He was a bit wild, maybe, and not always a good influence on Patrick, but Patrick was a sensible boy and had as much influence on Sean as Sean had on him.”

  She paused. Shoe waited for her to continue.

  “Sean was awfully upset,” she said. “Patrick dying like that. Poor Sean. First Mary, now Patrick.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know about Mary?”

  “Yes,” Shoe replied.

  “Patrick and Sean were seventeen when she died,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “It was very hard on them, they were all so close. It almost killed Albert too, it did, but it brought him and his wife back together again at least. She’d run off to New York six months before.” She reached down and lifted a big purse at her feet. “I have a picture,” she said, opening the purse and taking out a small photo album, the kind photo finishers give away.

  Mrs. O’Neill opened the album and handed it to Shoe. The photograph, the colours of which had begun to fade and shift with age, showed two tanned teenaged boys in baggy bathing trunks flanking a ripe-figured girl in a skimpy two-piece. The youthful trio was standing on a wooden dock by a lake surrounded by dark pine woods. The boys, grinning broadly, had their arms around the girl’s narrow waist and she, smiling without showing her teeth, had her arms around them. Shoe recognized Patrick as the boy on the girl’s left.

  “That was taken the summer before Mary drowned,” Mrs. O’Neill said.

  He handed the album back to her and she looked at the photo for a few seconds, lost in time and space, before closing the album and putting it back into her purse.

  “Sean’s wife’s family, the Privetts, had a house on the lake, too,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “Across from my brother’s.”

  The lock of hair came loose again. She pinned it up. Tears gathered on the rims of her eyes.

  Shoe stood. “Thank you for talking to me,” he said. “Again, please accept my deepest condolences.”

  At six o’clock that evening, Shoe parked his car near the public market on Granville Island, then took one of the tubby little ferries across False Creek. Disembarking at the foot of Hornby Street, he walked north along the sea-wall past the aquatic centre, then along the Sunset Beach bike path. The warmth of the day had lingered into the evening, and by the time he arrived at Sean Rémillard’s condominium his shirt was sticking to his back. He keyed Rémillard’s code into the house phone as the doorman glared at him from beneath scarred brows.

  “Yes?” Sean Rémillard’s voice answered. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Joe Schumacher,” Shoe said.

  “Oh,” Rémillard said. “I thought you were going to call first. Well, come up.”

  The door release buzzed. The doorman scowled dis-approvingly as Shoe pulled the door open and entered the inner foyer.

  Rémillard’s apartment was on the eighth floor, at the northeast corner of the building, with a pretty decent view of English Bay through the gap between a pair of condominiums on Beach. The view didn’t quite make up for the small size of the apartment, however.

  “Mr. Schumacher,” Rémillard said as they shook hands at the door. “I wasn’t trying to duck you at the funeral. I hope you understand. I had an appointment I couldn’t break.” Inside, he said, “Sit, please. Can I offer you anything to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Shoe said. The decor was sparse and aggressively masculine, wood and leather and chrome. What art there was on the walls was anonymously post-modern and looked as though it had been selected to match the decor. “Is Mrs. Rémillard here?”

  “No,” Rémillard said. “She should be back soon, though. Sit, please. You’re sure I can’t get you anything to drink?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Rémillard went to a small black-lacquer cabinet and poured himself a drink. Shoe recognized the smoke and seaweed aroma of Scotch. Rémillard excused himself and ducked into the kitchen. Shoe heard the crunch and rattle of ice being scooped out of a bin and dropped into a glass, followed by the thud of the refrigerator door. Rémillard returned to the living room.

  “So,” he said as he lowered himself into the deep, forest green leather sofa. “How can I help you?”

  “You and Patrick were close when you were growing up,” Shoe said. “Did you still see a lot of each other?”

  “We came to Vancouver right after graduating from McGill in Montreal,” Rémillard said, “but went our own ways afterwards. Pat got his MBA at Simon Fraser. I went into law at UBC. Yes,” he added with a self-deprecating grin, “just another lawyer-turned-politician. A short step up the food chain, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor, but a step nonetheless.”

  “How did you feel about Patrick not wanting to work on your campaign?”

  “I was disappointed. He was a whiz at fundraising in university and could have helped a lot with the financing. But,” he added with a small shake of his head, “I never really expected him to say yes. He never did have much use for politics—or politicians, for that matter.”

  “His mother told me he was upset with you because you didn’t help him move your uncle into the nursing home.”

  Rémillard looked at the drink in his hand, started to raise it to his mouth, then lowered it. “Not just me. No one in the family was
any help with Uncle Al, Eileen—Patrick’s mother—and those waste-of-space brothers of his included. They live in Montreal, for god’s sake, but Pat had to go down there and take care of Al himself.” He raised his drink and gulped at it, ice rattling in the glass.

  “Do you have any ideas about who could be responsible for Patrick’s death?” Shoe asked.

  “No, I don’t. From what the police told me, it’s pretty clear it was a hired killing, but if Pat was involved with the kind of people who settle their differences that way, I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “So you don’t believe Patrick was involved in anything illegal?”

  “Not for a minute,” Rémillard replied. “Not knowingly, anyway. He was so upright it made my back ache.”

  “Could he have unwittingly got himself involved in something?”

  Rémillard said, “It’s possible, but I doubt it. He could be a bit naive sometimes, but he was pretty sharp.” He stood, went to the cabinet and added Scotch to the ice in his glass. When he returned to the sofa, he said, “You’ve known—sorry—you knew Pat for ten years, is that right?” Shoe said it was. “You probably saw more of him in that time than I did. If there was something bothering him or if he was in some kind of trouble, wouldn’t you have noticed?”

  “I’d like to think so,” Shoe replied. “But I didn’t.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Rémillard said. “Even when we were kids, he never let much show.”

  “Did Patrick ever talk to you about Bill Hammond?”

  “He told me they’d argued about the direction the company should take and that he was thinking about quitting, which was when I suggested he work for me. Otherwise, I think he pretty much left work at the office.”

  They both turned toward the sound of a key in the front door lock.

  “That’ll be Charlotte,” Rémillard said, standing up.

  Charlotte Rémillard’s bright blue eyes narrowed warily when she came into the living room and saw Shoe, but her mouth stretched in an automatic smile.

  “You remember Mr. Schumacher from the funeral,” Rémillard said to her as he helped her off with her coat.

  “Of course,” she replied. They shook hands.

  She wore a bulky, roll-collar sweater and long, heavy wool skirt. Unlike the tailored jacket and skirt she’d worn to the funeral, this outfit was not flattering to her figure.

  “We were talking about Pat,” Rémillard told her as he draped her coat over a chair.

  “Were you?” she said coolly. “Are you a policeman, Mr. Schumacher?” She walked to the cabinet and poured herself a glass of dark sherry.

  “No,” Shoe said.

  “Mr. Schumacher is employed by the same company Pat worked for,” Rémillard said. “He is conducting a private inquiry.”

  “Indeed,” she said, lowering herself into the armchair Shoe had vacated. Shoe chose another seat.

  “When was the last time you saw Patrick?”

  Charlotte frowned in concentration, blue eyes narrowed and small mouth pinched. “Sunday, wasn’t it?” she said, looking at her husband. He nodded and she looked back at Shoe. “I had tea with him while Sean was meeting with my father. I thought I could get him to change his mind about working on Sean’s campaign.”

  “Where did you meet?” Shoe asked.

  “At the Sylvia Hotel,” she replied. “Just around the corner on Beach,” she added.

  “And you noticed nothing out of the ordinary about him or his behaviour. He didn’t seem worried about anything?”

  Charlotte said, “No, he was fine. A little distracted, perhaps. I don’t think things were going very well between him and his wife.”

  “How well do you know Victoria?”

  “Not very well at all,” she said. She tossed back her sherry and stood up. Shoe and Rémillard stood too. “If there’s nothing else,” she said, “I’m going to have a bath.” She refilled her glass, said, “Good evening, Mr. Schumacher,” and left the room.

  “Is there anything else?” Rémillard asked with a wry smile.

  “Not for the moment,” Shoe said.

  Rémillard held Shoe’s coat. “I wish we could have been more help,” he said.

  “So do I,” Shoe said.

  When Shoe got home, the message light on his answering machine was blinking. He pressed the “Play” button.

  “Um, hello? Mr. Schumacher? Joe?” It was Barbara Reese, voice hesitant, flustered by the absence of an outgoing message. “Oh, I hope you get this message. I’m calling to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. Mr. Young is very nice and I start at the marina on Wednesday. Um, I know this is a little, ah, bold of me, but I was wondering if I could show my appreciation by making you a home-cooked meal. Please say yes.” She paused, then continued. “Um, I got some extra money from Mr. Seropian today, so I bought one of those little prepaid cellphones, so you can call me if you like.”

  She recited the number, flubbing it once before finally getting it right. Shoe wrote it on the pad by the answering machine.

  “I’ll be home all evening and tomorrow,” she added, then said, “Um, well, goodbye.” There was short delay before she disconnected.

  Shoe dialled her number. It rang four times before she answered.

  “Barbara, it’s Joe Schumacher.”

  “Oh, hello. Can you hear me all right?”

  “I hear you fine,” he said.

  “This is the first call I’ve gotten on this phone. The man in the store showed me how to use it, but it’s so little. It doesn’t even have a mouthpiece.”

  “Barbara, I’m happy things worked out at the marina, but it isn’t necessary for you to do anything to thank me.”

  “But I want to,” she said. “Please say yes.”

  “Well, all right,” he replied.

  “Tomorrow night? At six?”

  “That would be fine,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “See you tomorrow night then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Shoe said.

  chapter eleven

  Tuesday, December 21

  With a curse, William Hammond flung down the report. The paper-clipped pages fluttered out of the file folder, separated, and some slid off the slick surface of his desk onto the floor. He stabbed the button on his telephone that speed-dialled Muriel’s extension. The phone rang half a dozen times before she answered.

  “Yes, sir?” She seemed slightly out of breath.

  “Get Charlie Merigold in here,” he snapped.

  “He called in sick this morning,” she said.

  Hammond swore and mashed the disconnect button. A moment later, the door opened and Muriel came into the office.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Hammond swept the file folder and the remaining sheets of the report off his desk onto the floor. “Stupid bastards,” he said. “They don’t think we’re moving fast enough to replace the old air-conditioning system so they try to burn the goddamned warehouse down. Half a million dollars’ damage to the building alone, for crissake.”

  Muriel stooped to pick up the scattered pages.

  “Charlie should have seen this coming,” Hammond grumbled.

  “Yes, sir,” Muriel said. She clipped the pages together and slipped them into the folder.

  “I’m surrounded by fucking incompetents,” Hammond ranted.

  “Yes, sir,” she said agreeably.

  He dismissed her with a contemptuous wave. “Call Merigold,” he said. “Tell him to get his ass in here on the double.”

  “He sounded awful on the phone,” she said. “I know this is serious, but couldn’t it wait till he’s feeling better?”

  “I don’t care if he’s in a fucking iron lung!” Hammond shouted, face growing red. “I want this handled now. And keep your goddamned opinions to yourself. Things are bad enough around here without some slant-eyed tramp sticking her—” He caught himself, jaw clamping shut on the word
s. But it was too late.

  Muriel stared at him, colour rising in her cheeks, black eyes smouldering. He waited for the explosion. He knew he should apologize, but anger seethed in him and he could not bring himself to say the words.

  Muriel carefully placed the file folder on the edge of his desk. Her face was pale now, but her eyes had not cooled. “I’ve taken a lot of abuse from you over the years,” she said, so quietly that he could barely hear her, “but you’ve gone too far this time. I’ll stay till the end of the month. I’ll try to find a replacement in that time. But I won’t be coming back to work for you in the new year.” Then she turned and walked out of his office, hands clenched at her sides, her back stiff.

  Five minutes later, his telephone rang.

  “What?” he barked.

  “Mr. Merigold is on his way,” Muriel said, voice cool. “And there’s a woman named Barbara Reese on line two. She would like to speak to you. Shall I put her through?”

  “No,” Hammond snapped.

  “Very well.”

  “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll speak to her,” he said.

  There was a muted beep, then Muriel said, “Miss Reese, Mr. Hammond is on the line.”

  “Thank you. Uh, hello. Bill? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” he said gruffly.

  There was a prolonged silence. He could hear the sound of breathing. Finally, she said, “It’s been a long time, Bill. How are you?”

  “I’m just fine,” he said. Her voice was different, deeper than he remembered. Rougher. But, still, he would have recognized it.

  “You sound angry,” she said. “I haven’t called at a bad time, have I?”

  “What do you want?” he demanded impatiently. There was no reply. “You want money, is that it?”