in her ravaged voice. She reached out and snatched the cellphone from Tilley’s hand. Caught off guard, Tilley looked surprised, then took a step toward her. She backed out of range. “One more step, buster, and I’ll take those piss yellow eyes right out of your head.”
Shoe had to admire her spunk, if not her judgement.
“Kit, please,” Victoria said. She looked at Shoe, hazel eyes pleading.
Shoe had known Victoria O’Neill for a dozen years. She had changed in that time, evolving from an awkward, scraggly girl to a graceful, elegant woman. He was not sure how deep those changes went, though. She seemed to be coping well enough, showing a lot more strength than he would have expected from her under the circumstances. But he was afraid that beneath the veneer of strength she was still the same fragile and vulnerable girl he’d first seen panhandling for spare change on the lawn of the Vancouver Art Gallery, twenty-two but looking eighteen with her long pale hair and Black Sabbath T-shirt.
Shoe took Hammond by the arm. The old man felt as frail as a bird in his hand. “This isn’t doing anyone any good,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Hammond bristled. “Take your goddamned hand off my arm,” he said. He struggled weakly in Shoe’s massive grasp. “Let go of me.”
“Schumacher,” Tilley said, tension emanating from him like the electrical field around a high-tension line. “Let him go.”
Shoe ignored him.
Hammond’s face reddened. “Goddamnit,” he growled. “Don’t make me fire you. I’ll do it, believe me.”
“You’ll leave?” Shoe said.
Hammond tried to wrest his arm from Shoe’s grip, but to no avail. “I’ll leave,” he said. “But as of now, you son of a bitch, you no longer work for me.”
“As long as you agree to leave,” Shoe said. “Otherwise,” he added, “since I no longer work for you, I’ll have to drag you out of here.”
Hammond went limp in Shoe’s grasp. “Let me go,” he said quietly.
Shoe released him.
Hammond rubbed his arm and turned to Victoria. “My sincerest condolences,” he said stiffly, bowing slightly. “If there’s anything I can do, call me. Naturally, the company will cover all funeral costs.” He turned and stalked toward the front door.
“Sorry for your loss,” Tilley mumbled and followed him.
“Call me if you need anything,” Shoe said. “Thank you,” Victoria said.
He nodded to Kit Parsons, who nodded back, and left the house.
Victoria and Kit sat facing each other across the round table in the breakfast alcove. The curtains of the bow window were drawn against the night. Kit was speaking, but Victoria couldn’t seem to make out what she was saying. It was as if she were speaking gibberish, or in tongues, like someone in the throes of religious hysteria.
“I’m sorry,” Victoria said. “What did you say?”
“I said, did the police say anything about a suspect or a motive?”
Only by focusing her concentration on each word as it emerged from Kit’s mouth was Victoria able to comprehend her reply.
Victoria shook her head. “No. All they said was that it appeared to be a contract killing. From the description witnesses gave, the killer was dressed like a street person, but the police are certain it was a disguise. They asked me if I could think of a business associate who would benefit from Patrick’s death or if he was involved with drugs. I told them it must be a mistake.” Victoria took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unevenly. Kit took her hands. Tears welled in her cool blue-green eyes. She held Victoria’s hands for a moment, then let go. Victoria said, “The police told me that because Patrick was murdered, it might be a few days before they can release the body.”
“An autopsy is mandatory in murder cases,” Kit said. She smiled weakly. “I dated a cop for a while.”
“The detectives said they would contact the Montreal police to inform Patrick’s mother,” Victoria said. “But I should call her. What time is it in Montreal?” she asked.
Kit looked at her watch. “About eleven-twenty,” she said.
“Is it too late?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”
“God, what will I say?”
Kit didn’t answer. Victoria made no move toward the phone. She had met Patrick’s mother (Patrick’s father had died when Patrick was eighteen) all of three times: first when Patrick had taken her to Montreal to introduce her to his family, at their wedding in Vancouver, and most recently four years ago when Patrick had paid his moth-er’s way out to Vancouver again to celebrate Christmas. Patrick had two older brothers as well, Kevin and Brian, both of whom still lived within blocks of the tenement in the working-class district of Montreal where they had grown up, and both of whom had seemed to resent Patrick for escaping and making something of himself.
After a minute or two had passed in silence, Victoria stood suddenly, almost knocking her chair over. “I’m going to make some tea.”
Kit started to get up. “I’ll make it.”
“No,” Victoria said, putting her hand on Kit’s shoulder, pressing her back down onto her chair. “I’ll do it. I can’t just sit here, I’ve got to do something.”
Kit sat down. Victoria filled an enamelled kettle at the sink and put it on the gas range.
The telephone rang, making them both jump.
Victoria lifted the cordless handset from the base station on the kitchen wall, squinted at the call display. She didn’t recognize the number, but it had a 514 area code. Montreal. “Oh, Christ,” she said. “It’s Patrick’s mother.” The phone continued to ring in her hand.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Kit asked.
“Do I have to? I barely know the woman.”
“I think you do,” Kit said.
“Yes, of course,” Victoria said, but as she reached to press the answer button, the phone stopped ringing. Praying for a busy signal, she pressed the button that dialled the most recent incoming call. No such luck; the call was answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” Eileen O’Neill said tentatively, as if unsure the call was for her.
“Mrs. O’Neill,” Victoria said. “It’s Victoria.” She almost added, “Patrick’s wife.”
“Oh,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “I just tried to call you.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Is it true? My Patrick’s dead? Murdered?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“No. No, of course you don’t.”
“Mrs. O’Neill. Eileen. You’re not alone, are you? Is there someone with you? A friend, a neighbour, one of Patrick’s brothers?”
“What? No, there’s no one here.”
“Perhaps you could call someone?”
The kettle began to sing. Kit got up, turned off the gas, and resumed her seat. Victoria smiled wanly at her and she smiled back.
“I’m all right, dear,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “Don’t you worry about me. What about yourself? Are you alone?”
“No,” Victoria said, looking at Kit. “I’m not alone. I have a friend with me.”