Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  January Jack Pine swung the club again. The head struck Tilley’s right knee with a bone-shattering crack. Tilley shrieked and fell, clutching his ruined knee.

  Jack raised the club again, brought it down with a hard, meaty thud high on Tilley’s back. Tilley tried to roll away, but Jack swung again, struck Tilley a glancing blow on the side of the head. Tilley fell onto his back, arms raised to protect himself.

  Jack raised the club again.

  “Jack, that’s enough,” Shoe said sharply.

  With a grunt, Jack slowly lowered the club to his side.

  Tilley tried to get up. Blood streamed down his face and neck, dripped onto the hardwood floor.

  “No,” Shoe said. “On your face. Lock your fingers behind your neck.” Tilley’s yellow eyes glowered. “Do it,” Shoe barked.

  Jack prodded Tilley with the bloody head of the golf club. He complied.

  Shoe limped to Muriel and, using a kitchen knife, cut her free. She stood unsteadily, clutching at him to pull herself upright.

  “Are you all right?” he said, holding her.

  “I—I think so. What happened to your face?”

  “I’ll tell you later. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I was going to surprise you,” she said.

  “You succeeded,” Shoe replied.

  With a knee on Tilley’s spine, Shoe used more duct tape to secure Tilley’s hands behind his back, while Muriel called 911. Then she went to Jack.

  “I thought you were dead,” she said.

  He spoke in a harsh, grating whisper. “I ain’t as easy to kill as that.”

  The paramedics and the uniformed cops had gone. Tilley had been given his rights and handcuffed, his head bandaged, shattered knee splinted, and pain dulled by a shot of morphine. He had gone quietly, to be transported under police guard to the emergency room at the Vancouver General Hospital. January Jack had initially refused to let the paramedics take him to the hospital, insisting he was all right, notwithstanding that his arm was almost certainly broken. But after some firm persuasion by Detective Constable Worth, he had agreed. Muriel was scraped and bruised, but otherwise unhurt. Nevertheless, the paramedics had suggested she be examined by her own doctor. They had also told Shoe to get himself to the emergency room as soon as possible to have his knee, hip, and bruised ribs looked at. Shoe couldn’t recall being struck in the ribs. Muriel had assured them she would make sure he went.

  Matthias and Worth were the last to leave. It was almost midnight. Both looked tired.

  “Just so I’ve got this straight,” Matthias said. “Tilley thinks Mrs. O’Neill is William Hammond’s daughter, and he killed Hammond because he and Mrs. O’Neill used to be lovers.”

  “Evidently,” Shoe replied.

  “Is she Hammond’s daughter?”

  “She’s the right age to be the baby girl that Hammond helped his former lover put up for adoption,” Shoe said. “But she’s never indicated to me that she was adopted. Of course, both her parents died when she was relatively young, so she may not know. If she is his daughter, though, it might explain a couple of things.”

  “Such as?” Worth asked.

  “For one thing,” Shoe said, “the way Hammond and Victoria met. He literally picked her off the street and offered her a job, ostensibly because she reminded him of someone he used to know.”

  “Her alleged mother,” Matthias said. “Or his own. What else?”

  “His guilt over their physical relationship,” Shoe said.

  Constable Worth slowly shook her head, an oddly judgemental gesture from a police officer, Shoe thought.

  “On the other hand,” he said, “Hammond may have been attracted to Victoria simply because of her strong resemblance to his mother.”

  “To quote my boss,” Matthias said. “‘The simplest explanation is usually the right one.’ Nevertheless, it might be a good idea to give Mrs. O’Neill a heads-up. The press is all over Hammond’s murder and Tilley is bound to want his fifteen minutes.” Matthias was silent for a moment, then said, “He’ll be an old, old man before he gets out of prison, if ever. Two homicides and—what?—four attempted homicides.” Matthias looked at Shoe. “Sure we can’t make it three homicides?”

  “I can’t be certain Tilley didn’t kill Patrick,” Shoe said. “But under the circumstances, he had no reason to lie about it.”

  After Matthias and Worth left, Muriel said, “Get your coat. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  chapter fourteen

  Thursday, December 23

  “They’re all over the damned place,” Ed Davage said, showing Shoe a black object about the size of a golf ball with an inch or two of black coaxial cable attached to it. He dropped it into a cardboard box that contained a collection of identical devices. “And the phones were all wired,” he added.

  It was a little after ten in the morning. Shoe and Muriel had arrived to find Charles Merigold and Ed Davage supervising a maintenance worker in baggy blue overalls on a stepladder, head and shoulders inserted into the false ceiling over Muriel’s desk. Sandra St. Johns and a dozen other employees stood around watching.

  “They found one in my office,” Sandra St. Johns said. “In Patrick’s and Charles’s too.” She shuddered. “Ugh.”

  “Heads up,” the maintenance person on the ladder said. It was a woman’s voice, light and clear. She dropped another of the tiny cameras into Davage’s waiting hand, then closed the ceiling panel and descended the ladder. She was a sturdy young woman with short dark hair. “That’s the last of them,” she said as she closed the stepladder.

  Davage added the camera to the collection in the box.

  Muriel looked at Sandra St. Johns and the others milling around in the reception area. She took a deep breath and said, “I suppose you all know by now that Mr. Hammond is dead.” There was a murmur of acknowledgement. “He was killed by Del Tilley, who is now in custody. Tilley also attempted to kill Mrs. Hammond.”

  More murmurs and expressions of shock and concern.

  Muriel looked at Charles Merigold. “I guess you’re in charge for now.”

  Merigold drew a deep, noisy breath. “Why don’t we send everyone home,” he said, voice hoarse and sinuses clogged. He turned to the others. “Unless there’s something that absolutely won’t keep, you might as well take the rest of the week off. Come back in the new year. And please, out of respect for the family, don’t speak to the press.”

  After the staff had dispersed, Shoe lowered himself stiffly into the chair at Muriel’s desk. He ached from head to toe. In addition to the various burns and contusions he’d suffered, his right knee felt as though it had been clamped between the steel jaws of a leg-hold trap. His ribs hurt with each breath and his left hip was bruised and sore, but there was nothing broken, no permanent damage. He picked up the telephone and dialled Victoria’s number. She answered quickly.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “More to the point, how are you? The police told me what happened. Is Muriel okay?”

  “We’re both a little battered,” Shoe said. “But otherwise fine. Are you going to be home? There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  Leaving the closing of the office to Charles Merigold, Shoe and Muriel drove to the British Properties. Victoria let them in, hugged Muriel carefully, then led Shoe and Muriel into the living room.

  “It looks like Del Tilley is off the hook for Patrick’s death,” Shoe told her. “In fact, he may have believed I killed him.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would he think that?”

  “For the same reason I thought he had when I saw the tapes. To get Patrick out of the way so I could have you.”

  She grunted. “God, why would you want me?” she said. “For as long as you’ve known me, all I’ve done is give you grief.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “So it was Bill after all.”

  Shoe shook his head. “I don’t
think so.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know,” Shoe replied.

  He and Muriel exchanged looks.

  “What is it?” Victoria asked.

  Shoe took a breath. “Is it possible you were adopted?”

  Victoria’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. “What?” she said. “No, of course not. What are you talking about?”

  “Del Tilley got it into his head that you were Bill’s daughter.”

  “Excuse me?” she said dubiously.

  Shoe handed her the photograph. She took it hesitantly. “That’s apparently Bill’s mother,” he said. “There’s quite a strong resemblance.”

  Victoria shook her head. “If there is, I don’t see it.” She handed the photograph back to Shoe. “But even if I were a dead ringer for the woman in that photo, what on earth gave Tilley the idea that Bill had a daughter at all?”

  “Thirty-six years ago,” Shoe said, “Hammond and a woman named Barbara Reese began an affair that lasted, on and off, for fifteen years. Early in the relationship she got pregnant and gave birth to a daughter. She was certain the child was Bill’s, but he coerced her into marrying her boyfriend, Randy Jenks, to avoid a scandal.”

  “Randy Jenks?” Victoria said. “The man you—Is that why he attacked Bill, because Bill was having an affair with his wife?”

  “It looks that way,” Shoe said. “In any case, Jenks was a violent, abusive drunk. Whether he was jealous of the baby or didn’t believe it was his, when the baby was four months old he forced Barbara to give her up for adoption. Bill helped her arrange it, even though he didn’t believe the child was his.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Bill,” Victoria said. “If he didn’t believe the child was his, he’d’ve had the tests to prove it.”

  “Could you have been adopted?” Muriel asked. “Is it possible your parents died before they had a chance to tell you?”

  “No,” Victoria insisted. “My parents wouldn’t have kept that kind of thing from me. My aunt Jane...” She shook her head violently. “Does this Barbara Reese person think I’m her daughter?”

  “She doesn’t know anything about you,” Shoe said.

  “Well, I’m not her daughter. Or Bill Hammond’s. God, the idea that—” She shivered and hugged herself. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  When Shoe and Muriel got back to Shoe’s house, Jack was sitting at the kitchen table, his packed duffle bag on the floor at his feet. His left arm was encased in a plaster cast. His face was swollen and discoloured and a line of stitches marched across his brow where his right eyebrow had been shaved off. There was a big white bandage on the side of his head, over his left ear.

  “Going somewhere?” Shoe asked him.

  “Was plannin’ on movin’ back to my houseboat today,” he said. “Don’t see any reason why not to.”

  “Are you sure you can manage on your own?” Shoe asked. “You’re welcome to stay.”

  “I need to get back to my place.”

  Muriel hugged him and stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, making him blush darkly.

  “At least let us drive you,” Shoe said.

  “Isabel’s comin’ by.”

  “Isabel?” Shoe said. No sooner had he spoken than the doorbell rang.

  “That’ll be her,” Jack said.

  Shoe carried Jack’s duffle bag to the door. When he opened the door, a woman was standing on the porch. She was dressed in old jeans, western boots, and a sheepskin-lined denim jacket. It took Shoe a moment to realize that it was Detective Constable Worth. A dirty Jeep Cherokee stood at the curb.

  “Was it this Tilley killed your friend?” Jack asked as Shoe carried his bag to the Jeep.

  “No,” Shoe replied.

  “Guess you’re gonna have t’ keep lookin’ then.”

  “I suppose I am,” Shoe said.

  After Jack and Isabel Worth had left, Muriel said to Shoe, “Under the circumstances, I guess it’s reasonable to assume that your retirement is on hold. As is mine. Abby will probably need help sorting things out. By the way,” she added, “thank you for saving my life.”

  “You’re welcome,” Shoe said. “I’m sorry it was necessary.”

  They made tomato and cheese sandwiches for lunch and ate them at the kitchen table. Afterwards, Shoe gave Muriel the twenty-five-cent tour. She hadn’t seen much of the house the night before. The tour ended in the master bedroom, where they spent a couple of hours expanding their carnal knowledge base, mindful of each other’s injuries but not letting them get in the way.

  “I give up,” Muriel said later. “If Del Tilley didn’t do it, and Bill didn’t do it, who did kill Patrick?”

  “You got me,” Shoe replied.

  “Are you going to keep looking?”

  “Yes,” Shoe said.

  Sean Rémillard was standing in the door of his West End apartment when Shoe got off the elevator. They shook hands and Rémillard invited him in. Noticing Shoe’s limp and the burns on his face, he said, “Did you have an accident?”

  “You could say that,” Shoe said. Rémillard took Shoe’s coat and draped it across a table in the hall. “Thank you for seeing me,” Shoe said.

  “No problem,” Rémillard replied. “Would you like a drink?” he asked as they went into the small living room.

  “No, thank you,” Shoe replied. “Is your wife here?” Rémillard shook his head. “No. She’s having dinner with her parents in Lions Bay.” He gestured for Shoe to sit. “What’s this all about?”

  Shoe eased himself into the chair. “Tell me about your cousin Mary’s death.”

  “Mary?” Rémillard said. “I don’t understand. What has her death to do with Pat’s murder?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Shoe agreed. “Tell me about it anyway.”

  Rémillard sat down. “There’s not much to tell. She drowned in a sailing accident.”

  “According to Patrick,” Shoe said, “she was an excellent sailor.”

  “Even good sailors make mistakes,” Rémillard said. “There’s a saying boat people have, ‘Alcohol and water don’t mix.’”

  “She was drunk.”

  “The autopsy found a fair bit of alcohol in her system,” Rémillard said. “Traces of marijuana as well. But her death was attributed to a combination of poor judgement, alcohol, faulty equipment, and misfortune. But I don’t see how Mary’s death and Pat’s murder could be connected.”

  “Patrick told me that when he was clearing out Mary’s father’s house in Montreal this summer, he found all of Mary’s belongings packed away in the basement.”

  “Yes,” Rémillard said.

  “I think he may have found something that suggested Mary’s death may not have been an accident. Letters, perhaps. Patrick’s mother told me that your uncle Albert and his wife were estranged at the time of Mary’s death. Maybe Mary wrote to her mother and the letters contain a clue to why or by whom she was killed.”

  “Except that the coroner ruled her death an accident,” Rémillard insisted.

  “Perhaps the coroner was wrong,” Shoe said. “It happens.”

  “All right,” Rémillard said. “Let’s say Pat found something he believed suggested that Mary’s death wasn’t an accident. Where is it now?”

  “I’m guessing you destroyed it.”

  Rémillard’s eyes widened in genuine astonishment. “Me?”

  “Patrick was waiting for someone at the restaurant,” Shoe said, feeling his theory crumbling, but pressing on regardless. “I think he was waiting for you.”

  “I was in Victoria.”

  “So you hired someone,” Shoe said.

  “I’d’ve had to, wouldn’t I?” Rémillard said. “But I didn’t. Look, you might be right about Pat finding something. Who knows, maybe you’re even right about Mary’s death. But I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re implying. Or Pat.”

  “Perhaps Patrick wanted to warn you before he went to the police. What would being implicated in Mar
y’s death do to your political aspirations?”

  “Send them straight down the crapper,” Rémillard replied. “But let me tell you something, my friend. If I believed for an instant that Mary was murdered, I’d pull the flusher myself to see her killer caught and punished. Pat’s too. If Mary was murdered, it certainly wasn’t by me.”

  “Were you and Mary lovers?” Shoe asked.

  “We were first cousins,” Rémillard replied indignantly.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Shoe said. “Patrick said that you and Mary were closer than first cousins were supposed to be. Were you lovers?”

  Rémillard hesitated, his open, Irish face clearly registering his uncertainty. Finally, he heaved a sigh. “Yes, we were,” he said. “But for god’s sake,” he added, “keep it to yourself. Charlotte doesn’t know. And if the media ever got hold of it...” He shook his head.

  “You have my word,” Shoe said. “It won’t leave this room.”

  “Mary and I had been intimate for about six months when she died,” Rémillard said. “I was—or at least I thought I was—genuinely in love with her. And I think she was in love with me, too. In retrospect, it may have just been hormones run amok, but we used to talk about running away together. I wish to god we had.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Shoe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rémillard replied. He shrugged. “We had nowhere to go?” Inflection made it a question, not a statement. “It was probably just adolescent foolishness, anyway. My father had been dead for years, but I was having trouble accepting that there was another man in my mother’s life. And things weren’t going very well for Mary at home. My uncle Albert and aunt Kathleen were separated. Albert’s business wasn’t doing very well, either. So he didn’t have much time for Mary, which is probably why she was a little out of control.”