house was a monstrous grey pile that had been imported stone by stone from England in the early 1900s by an expatriate American railway magnate with more money than good sense. The only one of its kind in Shaughnessy, it sat in the middle of an acre of manicured lawn, surrounded by gloomy pines, high hedges, and grotesque topiary. Shoe parked in the wide, curving driveway in front of the coach house–like detached garage over which he’d lived for a few months after being released from the hospital following Randy Jenks’ death. As he climbed the wide flagstone steps to the front door, the wet wind plucked at his hat. He rang the doorbell. A minute later Mrs. Rodriguez, the Hammonds’ tubby little housekeeper, answered the door. She took his coat and hat, then escorted him through the kitchen to the solarium at the back of the house.
The solarium was too warm and Shoe started to perspire almost immediately. Bill Hammond slouched in one of a set of four upholstered wicker chairs a few feet from the edge of the pool. Mrs. Rodriguez retreated and Hammond gestured to one of the other chairs. Shoe sat down, the wicker creaking alarmingly under his weight.
“You took your goddamned time getting here,” Hammond grumbled.
“I had some errands to run,” Shoe said. “In any event, I don’t work for you any more, do I?”
“Humph,” Hammond responded. “Can you think of any reason why I should change my mind about firing you?” he asked.
“Not a one,” Shoe answered.
“Me either.”
“Good,” Shoe said, standing up with a groan of wicker. “Now that that’s settled, I can get on with my retirement.”
“Oh, for crissake, sit down,” Hammond said. Shoe stared down at him. “Please,” Hammond added sourly. Shoe sat again. “I suppose you think I should apologize,” Hammond said.
“Not to me,” Shoe said. “But you owe Victoria an apology.”
“Why the hell should I apologize to her? If anyone should apologize, it’s her. I’ve never treated her with anything but respect. Christ, where would she be if it hadn’t been for me? I’ll tell you. She’d be living in a god-damned cardboard box, or selling herself on the street, if she wasn’t dead of AIDS. Is it expecting too much to ask for a little respect in return?”
“Are you sure it’s her respect you want?” Shoe asked.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted from her,” Hammond said.
Changing the subject, Shoe asked him, “Have the police talked to you?”
“Yes,” Hammond said. “A sergeant named Matthias and a woman who dressed like a man. Have they talked to you?”
Shoe nodded. “Same two,” he said.
“I got the feeling they considered me a suspect.”
“We’re all suspects,” Shoe said.
Hammond grunted and fell silent.
They sat in the noisy wicker chairs, not talking, watching the shimmering green-blue water of the pool. Shoe was about to ask why he’d been summoned when Hammond spoke.
“I used to swim almost every day,” he said. “Still do from time to time, but lately I just don’t seem to have the energy. Besides, Abby likes the water too goddamned warm. It’s like swimming in piss.”
After another minute or two of silence, during which Shoe entertained himself with the absurd fantasy of sailing around the world in the company of Muriel Yee, Bill Hammond said, “Do you want your job back or don’t you?”
“No,” Shoe said. “I don’t think I do.”
“It’s customary to give notice when you resign.”
“I didn’t resign,” Shoe pointed out.
Hammond waved the distinction aside.
“What are you getting at?” Shoe asked.
“I want you to find out what Patrick was up to that got him killed.”
“What makes you so sure he was ‘up to’ anything?” Shoe said.
“I’m not sure,” Hammond replied. “But if he was, I want to know what it was.”
“Leave it to the police,” Shoe said.
“You obviously have more faith in their abilities or motivation than I do. Look, I’ll make it worth your while. How’s a year’s salary sound? I’m sure Charlie can set it up so you don’t have to pay tax.”
“It’s a very generous offer.”
“But you’re not interested, is that what you’re saying?”
“The police don’t appreciate civilians treading on their turf,” Shoe said.
“So what? In any case, you’re not a civilian. You’re an employee of Hammond Industries. We’re simply conducting our own internal investigation.”
“Nevertheless,” Shoe said, “I’m not really comfortable with the idea.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to know who was responsible for Patrick’s death?”
“Of course I do.”
“So what’s the problem?” When Shoe didn’t answer, Hammond said, “You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?”
“You and Victoria were lovers before she and Patrick were married,” Shoe said. “That makes you a prime suspect.”
Hammond harrumphed, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand. He struggled out of the chair, glaring at Shoe when he seemed about to lend an assist. He made himself a drink at the portable bar and returned to his chair, the wicker complaining as he sat down.
“Will you do it or not?”
“I’ll do it,” Shoe said. “But you’d better be sure you’re willing to see it through.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I weren’t.”
“I won’t hold out on the police, either,” Shoe added. “If I come up with anything I think will help them identify the person responsible for Patrick’s murder, I’ll give it to them. No matter what it is. Just so you understand.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Hammond said.
Shoe found his own way back to the front door. As he waited for Mrs. Rodriguez to retrieve his coat and hat, Abby Hammond came down the stairs. She was wearing a simple black dress with a short skirt that clung to her thighs as she walked. She was carrying a fur coat and holding a clutch purse.
“Hello, Joe,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine, Abby. Thanks.”
“It’s so awful about Patrick,” she said. “How is Victoria doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” Shoe said.
“I should call her.”
“She’d appreciate it,” he said.
Abby nodded absently, then said, “I’m worried about Bill. He’s taking it very hard. I haven’t seen him this upset since, well, since Elizabeth died.”
Elizabeth, Bill Hammond’s first wife, had died five years ago of liver cancer, the result of years of alcohol abuse. He’d married Abby four years ago, but she’d been his mistress for four years before that. They’d met when he’d briefly considered selling the house. She was the broker he’d contacted, mainly, he’d said, because he’d seen her photograph on signs in the neighbourhood and had thought she was attractive. “I don’t know who seduced who,” he’d told Shoe, “but getting her into bed wasn’t hard. She’d’ve fucked a leper for an exclusive listing.”
Mrs. Rodriguez brought Shoe’s coat