Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  “Did Patrick have the diary with him in the restaurant?”

  She shook her head. “He gave it to me when we had brunch on Sunday.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I burned it. And the photographs.”

  Charlotte picked up her dinner fork and began poking at the food on her plate. She speared a small piece of chicken, put it into her mouth, and made a face. “My dinner’s cold,” she said. “Mother?” she called. “My dinner’s cold.”

  Rémillard came around the table to where Shoe stood next to Allan Privett’s chair. Privett seemed to have lapsed into a state of catatonia.

  Shoe held out Sergeant Matthias’ card. Hesitantly, Rémillard took it, looked at it, then looked at Shoe. His face was pale and his eyes were haunted.

  “I think you’d better call the police,” Shoe said.

  Rémillard looked at the card again. “What will I tell them?”

  “Whatever you want,” Shoe said. He turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home,” he said.

  Friday, December 31

  At 11:50 p.m. on the last day of the year, Shoe and Muriel were snuggling in front of the small gas fire in the living room of her New Westminster townhouse. The screen of her small television flickered mutely, rerunning an ageless Dick Clark in Times Square, where midnight had been three hours ago. They were halfway through a bottle of champagne.

  “At least you won’t have to testify,” Muriel said. “No,” Shoe replied.

  “Not in the foreseeable future anyway.” He’d just told her that Greg Matthias had called earlier that day to tell him that Charlotte had had a complete breakdown and had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital. The preliminary assessment was that she might never be well enough to stand trial for Mary’s or Patrick’s murder.

  “Is she insane?” Muriel asked.

  “What double murderer isn’t?” Shoe replied.

  Another minute ticked by on the televised clock.

  “I had a long talk with Victoria yesterday,” Muriel said. “She still isn’t willing to meet with Barbara Reese or submit samples for a DNA test. I think she’s afraid it might prove Bill was in fact her father. At least now she can go on believing he wasn’t. She’s thinking of taking an extended vacation, to Europe or Australia, someplace far away.”

  “Has she ever been to Europe or Australia?” Shoe asked.

  “No. In fact, she’s never even been out of the country. The furthest she’s ever been from home is Montreal with Patrick. She’d like to go to Europe, but the thought of going alone terrifies her. She considered asking Kit to go, but she doesn’t think that would be a very good idea. She asked me if I was interested in going with her. She offered to pay all expenses.”

  “That’s very generous of her,” Shoe said, trying to ignore a sudden emptiness in his chest. “I’ll miss you.”

  She kissed him. “I’d rather sail the South Seas with you,” she said. “Anyway, whatever we do will depend on what happens with Hammond Industries.”

  Shoe nodded. The reading of Bill Hammond’s will would take place the first week of the new year. Muriel and Shoe had been invited to attend. So had Victoria.

  “And what about you?” Muriel asked. “Are you going to accept Charles Merigold’s offer?”

  “No,” Shoe said. Merigold had offered Shoe the directorship of his choice of any of Hammond Industries’ holdings.

  “You might find retirement a little dull after recent events,” Muriel said with a smile.

  “I have a little money,” he said, “and Charles said he would honour my agreement with Bill. I might look around for a small business of my own to buy into, something to do with boats, a marina or a charter. To keep myself occupied until you’re ready to retire. Then we can buy that sailboat we’ve been talking about.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  “It does indeed,” he said. He noticed that the Times Square ball had fallen, and that the new year was already a minute old. He leaned over and kissed her. “Happy New Year.”

  “You bet.”

  acknowledgements

  I am deeply grateful to a number of people for their unselfish contribution to this book. Without their advice and support, it might never have seen the light of day. In no particular order they are Alan Annand, J. D. (David) Carpenter, Aleli Balagtas, Stuart Ramsey, David Hanley, Erik Adler, Jeffrey Flegg, Bruce Brink, and Det. Steve Pranzl. Thanks also to Barry Jowett, Jennifer Scott, Jennifer Bergeron, and the staff at Dundurn. And, of course, to Pamela Hilliard for her love and endless patience.