about. Not since I helped him sell the Hunter.”
“He was murdered on Monday.”
“Damn.”
Patsy looked up from the keyboard of her computer.
“As I recall,” Shoe said, “the fellow who bought Patrick’s boat tried to renege on the sale, didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” Jimmy said. “He claimed Patrick mis-represented the condition of the boat. He didn’t, though. He provided an inspection report and a complete maintenance history, including the repairs from the argument with the dock. The guy was just tryin’ to weasel out of the deal because his wife was divorcing him and he needed the cash. Patrick was willing to give him his money back and pay my commission out of his pocket, but I told him, don’t be an idiot. The guy ended up havin’ to sell her at a loss—the Hunter, not his wife—and split the proceeds with his ex. It wasn’t him that killed Patrick, was it?”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t,” Shoe said. He was snatching at straws.
Jack wasn’t in when Shoe got home. It appeared that he’d finished painting the living room, though. The paint-spattered plastic drop cloths were neatly folded by the back door and the empty paint cans were stacked nearby. The brushes and rollers were drying on newspaper on the kitchen counter. There was a scrawled sticky-note on the kitchen table: “Out of paint.”
Shoe made a ham and cheese sandwich, opened a bottle of mineral water, and ate at the kitchen table. After he cleaned up, he went upstairs, took a shower, shaved so he wouldn’t have to do it in the morning (his much-diluted Native ancestry had blessed him with a slow-growing beard), put Henryk Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3 on the stereo, and tried to read. He couldn’t concentrate. His attention kept sliding away from the words on the page. Putting the book aside, he closed his eyes and let himself be drawn into Dawn Upshaw’s haunting vocals. He woke up at nine-thirty to the sound of the front door closing, without any memory of having fallen asleep. A few seconds later January Jack Pine loomed in the doorway of his room and tapped on the doorframe.
“You get my note?”
“Yes,” Shoe said. “I’ll arrange a line of credit at the hardware store so you can pick up more paint, but I won’t be able to help much with the actual painting.”
“’S’all right,” Jack said. “You change your mind about takin’ retirement?”
“Not exactly. I’m just tying up some loose ends until the new year.”
“Better ’n trippin’ over ’em. See you in the morning.”
“Good night,” Shoe said as Jack went off down the hall.
Shoe managed to read a few more paragraphs, then turned out the light and lay in the dark for a long time without sleeping.
chapter six
Friday, December 17
The Municipality of Delta was an irregular pancake of land south of the main channel of the Fraser River. Largely farmland, and some of the most fertile in the province, it had been reclaimed from forest and marshland and was, as Bill Hammond was wont to say, “flat as piss on a plate.” Which was not surprising, since Delta was just that, an accumulation of millennia of silt in the mouth of the Fraser River.
Ramona Ross lived on 53rd Street, just north of Ladner Trunk Road. Shoe had no trouble finding the address, a three-storey, wood-frame condominium apartment building in the traditional angular West Coast style of Arthur Erickson. He parked in one of the spaces designated for visitors and went into the vestibule. He keyed in the door code for R. Ross.
“You’re early,” a woman answered sharply. “I’m not ready.”
“Ramona Ross?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Joseph Schumacher. I—”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were the taxi. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to you about Patrick O’Neill.”
“Patrick O’Neill? In what regard?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Shoe said, “but he’s dead.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m leaving for the airport as soon as my taxi arrives.”
“This will only take a minute,” Shoe said.
“All right,” she said. “You’d better come up. Suite three on the second floor.” The door release hummed.
Ramona Ross met him at the door of her apartment. She was a handsome, robust woman who looked to be in her late fifties but who, according to Sandra St. Johns’ printout, was sixty-eight. She had a smooth brow, high cheekbones, and sharp blue eyes behind a pair of slightly tinted wire-frame granny glasses. Her auburn-dyed hair was short and simply cut. Her handshake was firm and warm. She invited him in. A two-piece set of matching luggage stood in the small foyer and she was dressed for travelling in loose-fitting pleated trousers and a lightweight hiking jacket with a multitude of pockets. On her feet were sturdy Salomon trail shoes.
“How awful about Mr. O’Neill,” she said. She spoke softly and with slightly rounded vowels. “He was such a nice young man. Was it an automobile accident?”
“No, ma’am,” Shoe said. “He was the victim of a violent crime.”
“He was murdered, you mean?”
“Yes, ma’am. Shot.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Miss Ross—”
“It’s Mrs. Ross,” she said.
“Mrs. Ross,” Shoe said. “You and Patrick spent some time together last month, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. He took me to lunch on a couple of occasions when he and Ms. St. Johns were closing the plant where I worked. He also came to see me earlier this month. He was interested in the old days. Excuse me, are you with the police? Shouldn’t you show me your badge?”
“I’m not the police,” Shoe replied. “I’m employed by Hammond Industries.”
“Oh.”
“What did you mean, he was interested in the old days?”
“I used to know William Hammond, you see, a long time ago. Well, actually, it was Claire Powkowski I knew. She was Mr. Hammond’s business partner in the late forties and fifties. Before he married Elizabeth Lindell and merged his company with her father’s. She—”
The telephone warbled, two short rings.
“Oh, dear, that will be the taxi.” She picked up the telephone. “I’ll be right down,” she said. She hung up and turned to Shoe. “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t have any more time to talk now.”
“Can I help you with your luggage?”
“That’s very kind of you.”
As he carried her suitcases down the stairs, Ramona Ross asked, “When is the funeral?” Shoe said he wasn’t sure, Monday, probably, or Tuesday at the latest. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I shan’t be able to make it. It’s my mother’s ninetieth birthday and we’re taking her camping in Olympic National Park.”
“I would like to know more about Claire Powkowski and ‘the old days’ myself,” Shoe said. “Perhaps I could drive you to the airport.” But the cabbie was already stowing her luggage in the trunk of the cab.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she got into the cab.
“May I call you next week?”
“Yes, certainly,” Mrs. Ross said from the back seat of the cab.