Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  “How out of control?”

  “Besides drinking, smoking dope, and having sex with a first cousin?” he said grimly. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he added. “It goes to motive, as they say. But even before our relationship began Mary had been seeing someone else. An older man. Married, I think. She seldom spoke about it. She wanted to end it, though, but didn’t know how. And, no, I have no idea who it was.”

  “Did your respective families know about your relationship?”

  “God, no. Can you imagine? They’d have had fits. Pat knew, of course. He was our chaperone, or was supposed to be, but he spent most of the time he wasn’t working at the country club hanging around the camp where Charlotte was a counsellor. Mary’s father may have suspected something, but he was too preoccupied with his own problems.”

  “What about Mary’s other lover? Could he have known about her relationship with you?”

  “I have no idea,” Rémillard said.

  “Did you tell the police about her lover?” “No. But, look, this is all moot. Mary’s death must have been an accident. She was alone in the boat when it capsized. And probably drunk or stoned. She must have struck her head as she went into the water and slipped out of her life jacket. The club jackets never fit very well, if she was wearing one at all.”

  “What time of day did the accident occur?”

  “About nine, nine-thirty in the evening,” Rémillard said.

  “She was sailing after dark?”

  “She often did. It wasn’t a large lake, and she knew it well.”

  “Who was the last person to see her alive?” Shoe asked.

  “Me, probably. I don’t really recall the details. I pretty much went to pieces afterwards.”

  “Do you remember who found her?” Shoe asked.

  “Yes,” Rémillard said. “It was Charlotte.”

  Allan Privett’s house in Lions Bay was a big redwood structure on a large rocky lot at the end of a steep, tree-lined street whose residents all seemed to own luxury sport-utility vehicles. It was just after six o’clock when Shoe turned into the driveway and parked behind a towering black Lincoln Navigator. Beside the Lincoln was a smaller Honda CR-V 4x4.

  “That’s Charlotte’s car,” Sean Rémillard said.

  When Shoe had told Rémillard that he wanted to speak to Charlotte, he’d expected Rémillard to object, to argue that Shoe had no official standing, but he hadn’t. He had, however, insisted on going with him. He’d wanted to call ahead, too, but had acquiesced when Shoe had asked him not to.

  A tall, corpulent man answered the door. He was in his late sixties, dressed in voluminous grey flannel slacks and a green wool cardigan over a white dress shirt. His tie was loose and the collar of the shirt was unfastened. His face was flushed and he breathed hard through his small mouth. He had a blue linen napkin in his hand, with which he rubbed his red, fleshy lips.

  “Allan,” Sean Rémillard said. “Sorry to disturb you at dinnertime, but this gentleman would like a few words with Charlotte. Joseph Schumacher, Allan Privett.”

  “What do you wish to speak to my daughter about, Mr. Schumacher?” Allan Privett asked without preamble. He made no offer to shake hands, nor did he invite them into the house. “Are you a policeman?”

  “No, sir,” Shoe replied. “I was a friend of Patrick O’Neill.”

  “He wants to talk to Charlotte about Mary,” Rémillard said.

  Allan Privett hesitated, blinking. He looked puzzled, but Shoe felt that there was something false about his manner. “Mary?” he said.

  Sean Rémillard’s brows knit. “Mary Quinn,” he said. “My cousin Mary.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Allan Privett said. “Mary.”

  Again, Shoe sensed Privett’s disingenuousness. So did Rémillard, Shoe thought.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Schumacher, but I fail to see what speaking to my daughter about Mary Quinn’s tragic death has to do with Patrick O’Neill. I assume you’re here in connection with his murder.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

  A woman as thin and pale as Allan Privett was stout and florid came into the entrance hall. “Allan, what is it?” she asked. “Your supper is getting cold. Oh, hello, Sean.”

  “Good evening, Judith,” Sean Rémillard said. “I apologize for the intrusion.”

  “Go back to the table,” Allan Privett said abruptly. “I won’t be long.” Without another word the woman turned and left. “Well, sir?” Privett said to Shoe. “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

  “I need to ask your daughter some questions about Mary’s death,” Shoe said.

  “What sort of questions?” Privett asked.

  “Some information has come to light that suggests there may indeed be a link between Mary Quinn’s and Patrick O’Neill’s deaths.”

  “I still do not see why you need to speak with my daughter.”

  “If I could just have a few words with her,” Shoe said.

  He shook his head. His jowls and chins jiggled like poorly set jelly. “I don’t think I am going to permit that.”

  “It’s either me or the police,” Shoe said.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it any way you wish,” Shoe said.

  Sean Rémillard interceded. “Allan, Pat may have uncovered evidence that Mary’s death was not accidental.”

  “What? That’s preposterous. Of course it was accidental. No, this is ridiculous,” he added. “Sean, take your friend and go.”

  Sean Rémillard looked at the big old man for a second, then simply pushed by him into the house. He went along the hall down which Privett’s wife had retreated. Allan Privett’s fleshy mouth worked and his face grew redder. Wheezing, he lumbered after Rémillard. Shoe followed, closing the door behind him.

  The dining room was high-ceilinged and panelled in dark wood. Judith Privett and Charlotte sat on opposite sides of a big Victorian dining table, heavy and ornate. There was a third place setting at the far end of the table. Dinner was an almost monochromatic meal of roast chicken with stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, and carrots.

  “Sean?” Charlotte said, bright blue eyes flashing. “What’s he doing here?”

  “We’d like to speak with you for a few minutes,” Rémillard said.

  “We?” Charlotte said. Her small mouth was pinched.

  “Mr. Schumacher and I would like to ask you about Mary’s death.”

  “Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Father?”

  “If you don’t leave immediately,” Allan Privett said, “I shall call the police.”

  Shoe took Sergeant Matthias’ card out of his pocket and held it out to Allan Privett. “This is the telephone number of the detective in charge of the investigation into Patrick O’Neill’s murder,” he said. Privett blustered but did not take the card. Shoe had called his bluff. He was relieved Privett hadn’t called his.

  “Sean,” Charlotte said, “I don’t find this at all amusing.”

  “It’s not meant to be amusing, Charlotte,” Sean said. “If we could just go into Allan’s study—”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “I’m not going anywhere. Nor will I answer any of your ridiculous questions. Father, do something.”

  “Allan,” Judith Privett said, “what is this all about?”

  “Can’t you see you’re upsetting everyone?” Privett said.

  “I’m sorry,” Shoe said. “If you would just give me a few minutes of your time and answer a few questions, I’m sure we can clear this up quickly. Then I’ll be on my way and you can get on with your dinner.”

  “I am going to call the police,” Allan Privett said.

  “Allan, for god’s sake,” Sean said. “I don’t believe any more than you do that Mary’s death wasn’t accidental. Just let the man ask his questions.”

  “No,” Privett said. “I won’t permit it. I want you to both leave this house immediately. Sean, you are treading on very thin ice here.”
<
br />   “Allan,” Sean Rémillard said in a hard voice, “don’t threaten me. And stop behaving like a fucking jackass.”

  “Sean,” Judith Privett gasped, hand to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Judith.” He turned to Shoe. “Ask your questions.”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “I won’t be subject to interrogation.” She stood up.

  “Charlotte,” Rémillard said sternly. “Sit down. Please.”

  “Father?” Charlotte implored.

  Allan Privett opened his mouth to speak, but Rémillard said sharply, “Shut up, Allan.” He looked at Charlotte. She sat down with a thump. Rémillard had probably ended his political career and perhaps even his marriage in the space of a few seconds, but Shoe had the distinct impression that he didn’t care. “Ask your questions,” Rémillard said.

  “Charlotte,” Shoe said, speaking gently, hoping to soothe the troubled waters, “I understand it was you who found Mary’s body.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

  “Charlotte,” Rémillard said, “don’t be childish.”

  Her head snapped toward him and she stabbed him with her eyes. “Sean Rémillard, don’t you dare take that tone of voice with me,” she said sharply.

  “Then stop behaving like a child and answer Mr. Schumacher’s questions. You were the one who found Mary’s body.”

  “Yes,” she said petulantly.

  “Were you searching for her?” Shoe asked. “Or did you just happen across her?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Had she been reported missing?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Rémillard said, “As I recall, Albert had reported Mary missing the night before, so you must have been searching for her.”

  “If you say so. Look, this is stupid. It was more than twenty years ago.”

  “Were you and Mary friends?” Shoe asked.

  “Friends?” Charlotte said. “No, not really. We were acquaintances, but not friends. She didn’t like me.”

  “Charlotte,” Rémillard said, “of course Mary liked you. You were just younger, that’s all.”

  Charlotte picked up her dinner fork and began absently moving the food about on her plate.

  “Do you know if Mary had a lover?” Shoe said. “A married man, perhaps.”

  Charlotte’s bright blue eyes shifted from Shoe to her husband and back. “Maybe she did,” she said. She looked down at her plate again.

  “Do you know who it was?” Rémillard asked.

  “Maybe,” she replied without looking up.

  Allan Privett said, “Now, look—”

  Rémillard held up his hand, cutting him off. “Who was it?” he said to Charlotte.

  She rotated her head slowly from side to side, then looked at Rémillard. “If you loved me,” she said, “you wouldn’t do this to me.”

  “This has gone far enough,” Allan Privett said. “Sean, I must insist that you and Mr. Schumacher leave this house immediately. As for you, Sean, first thing in the morning I am going to call a press conference and announce that I am withdrawing my support for your nomination.”

  “You know, Allan,” Rémillard said. “I’ve just realized that there are more important things in life than your precious politics or my petty ambition. If Mary was murdered—”

  Charlotte leapt to her feet, chair crashing against the sideboard with a rattle of china and glassware. “Why don’t you just all fuck the hell off!” she screamed.

  “Charlotte!” her mother admonished. “How many times have I told you I won’t tolerate that kind of language in this house?”

  “But you’ll let this bastard accuse me of murder, won’t you? You’ll tolerate that. Well, I won’t.”

  “Charlotte,” Sean Rémillard said, “no one’s accusing you of anything.” He turned to Shoe.

  “Certainly not,” Shoe said.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” Charlotte shouted. “I’m not stupid. You’re all a bunch of fucking hypocrites, the lot of you. You make me sick. Mary, Mary, Mary. You’d think she was a fucking princess, with her perfect hair and perfect tits and perfect cunt.” Mrs. Privett gasped and turned pale. “Well, she wasn’t a princess,” Charlotte went on. “She was a slut.” She turned on Sean. “And don’t give me that look, Sean. I know about you and her. I saw you together. I watched you doing it. God, it made me sick, the way she had you twisted around her little finger. You thought you were so much in love with her just because she let you fuck her. Well, you weren’t the only one she let fuck her.”

  “Charlotte,” her father said. “That’s enough.”

  “Oh, is it? And why is that, Daddy dearest? Are you afraid I’m going to—”

  For a fat man, he moved remarkably quickly. He got to Charlotte before Shoe could stop him. The sound of his open hand across her face was like a pistol shot. And Charlotte went down as though she’d been shot, tumbling over the fallen chair and sprawling onto the carpet.

  Rémillard rushed to his wife and helped her to her feet while Shoe pulled Allan Privett back. Privett’s face was beet red and his breathing was rapid and ragged. Judith Privett sat like a stone in her chair, back rigid and thin face frozen in a mixture of horror and shock. Shoe walked Privett to the armchair at the head of the table and pressed him down into it. It creaked under his weight.

  “Were you Mary’s lover?” Shoe asked him.

  “What? No, I—”

  “Don’t lie, you bastard,” Charlotte screeched, lunging toward her father. Sean held her by the arms, restraining her. The left side of her face was red and already beginning to swell. Her mother stood and left the dining room.

  “Were you?” Shoe asked him again.

  He sagged and seemed to settle further into the chair. The folds of fat on his face and neck glistened with perspiration and he exuded a sour smell that clung to Shoe’s nasal passages.

  “Yes,” he said in a defeated voice.

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No, no. It really was an accident,” he said. “Poor Mary—”

  “Poor Mary!” Charlotte shrieked. Her face was ugly with anger and loathing. “Poor Mary! You disgusting pathetic bastard. Poor Mary! You think she fucked you because she liked you? She did it because you gave her money and presents and it made her feel important to suck on a rich man’s dick.”

  Judith Privett returned with an icepack. She tried to place it against Charlotte’s cheek, but Charlotte knocked her hand away, sending the icepack flying. Without a word, Mrs. Privett picked it up, placed it on the table, and left the room again. She did not look at her husband.

  “You’re all bloody pathetic,” Charlotte said.

  “Charlotte,” Shoe said. “You killed her, didn’t you?”

  She laughed mockingly. “Oh, you think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you? Of course I killed her.”

  Allan Privett moaned and put his face in his hands.

  Charlotte glared at him, her face a grotesque mask of contempt. “It was so easy,” she said. “She would sail across the lake in her stupid little boat to do it with him, then sail home again when they were finished. All I had to do was paddle an air mattress out into the middle of the lake and wait for her. When she came close, I called out to her, pretending I’d fallen asleep. When I got into the boat, I hit her on the head with a paddle, capsized the boat, and held her underwater till she was dead. Even though I was younger, I was bigger and stronger. Then I paddled the air mattress back to shore.”

  “For god’s sake, Charlotte,” Sean Rémillard said. “Why?”

  She didn’t answer, simply stared at him with the same contemptuous expression with which she’d looked at her father.

  “Were you jealous of Mary’s relationship with your father?” Shoe asked. “Is that why you killed her?”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Charlotte replied scornfully. “I couldn’t understand how she could even touch him.”

  “Then why?” Rémillard asked.


  “She was going to ruin everything,” Charlotte said. “I overheard you and her talking about going away. I couldn’t let that happen. Don’t you see?”

  Rémillard shook his head slowly. Shoe didn’t think he did see.

  Shoe said, “Patrick found something when he was clearing out his uncle Albert’s house, didn’t he? Something that implicated you in Mary’s death. That’s why you hired someone to kill him.”

  “I didn’t hire anyone,” she said. “I did it myself. I got dressed up like a homeless person and put on a fake moustache and walked right into the restaurant and shot him.” She laughed. “You should have seen the look on his face when he realized it was me. But you’re not so smart, after all,” she went on. “Patrick didn’t think it was me who killed Mary. He thought it was Daddy dearest.”

  Allan Privett groaned into his hands.

  “Why?” Shoe asked.

  “He found her diary,” Charlotte said. Allan Privett sobbed and Charlotte looked at him with an expression of utter loathing. “She’d written that she wanted to end it with Daddy dearest and go away with Sean, but that Daddy dearest had threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave him. There were pictures, too, Polaroids of her and him. She was—”

  “Stop!” Allan Privett cried. “For god’s sake, Charlotte. Stop.” He tried to push himself up out of the chair, but with a low moan he sank back down and buried his face in his hands again.

  “Why did Patrick show you the diary?” Rémillard asked.

  “He wanted me to help him decide what to do. He knew that if Daddy dearest was involved in a scandal, it would destroy any chance you had to win the nomination, but he couldn’t let Mary’s murderer go unpunished.”

  “So you killed him,” Rémillard said, horror and dis-belief stretching his voice thin.

  “I did it to protect you, Sean.”

  “He was waiting for you at the restaurant?” Shoe said.

  “He thought he was waiting for Daddy dearest.”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “It was his,” she said, thrusting her chin toward her father. “I found it a long time ago in an old trunk in the attic.”