A Chill Rain in January (21 page)

“Did he fall on his way down?” he said.

“He certainly didn't fall up the stairs, Staff Sergeant.”

“I mean,” said Alberg, “did he fall when he was going down, or when he was coming up?”

“I haven't the faintest idea.”

“Think about it,” he said. “How much time elapsed? He left the living room, you heard a yell; how much time passed in between?”

She stalked over to the window and stood with her back to him, looking out at the gray, drizzly day. “I do not understand why you insist on making things difficult for me.”

“There was a bottle of wine on your kitchen counter,” said Alberg.

There. He'd said it.

“Why was there a bottle of wine in your kitchen?” he said gently.

She turned to face him, taking her time. She tilted her head and looked quizzical. He couldn't tell. He didn't have a bloody clue what was going on in her head.

“I don't understand the question,” she said.

“Your brother went down into the basement to get some wine.” He wasn't going to get a damn thing from her. “But there was a bottle already up here, in your kitchen.”

“Was there?” She walked past him, back to the black leather chair. She walked so close to him that he felt the air stir.

He nodded. “Unless that was the bottle he went down to get.” He watched her thinking about this. He felt boundlessly patient. “But that wouldn't make sense, would it?” She just looked at him, still thinking. “If he fell on his way down, he wouldn't have had a bottle.” Zoe nodded, slowly. “If he fell on his way up, the bottle would surely have broken.” She nodded again. “So you see my problem.”

“Oh, I don't think it's a problem, Staff Sergeant,” she said. “There's a very simple explanation, actually.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I forgot, that's all. I forgot there was a bottle in the kitchen.” She pushed her hair away from her temples. “I am a forgetful person. From time to time.”

Alberg looked into her face and saw blue eyes and pale smooth skin and a luscious mouth, and he knew that she was lying. He was filled with relief. He gave her a sunny smile. “I'd like to see Kenny now, please.”

Zoe clasped her hands in front of her and called, loudly, “Kenny.” She watched Alberg closely, curiously, while they waited for the boy.

He stood up when Kenny sidled into the room, and held out his hand. “Hi, Kenny,” he said. The child hesitated, then awkwardly shook hands. “Sit down.” The boy sat on the edge of the wing chair near the doorway to the hall. “Do you think we could have some coffee?” Alberg asked Zoe.

“This isn't a social occasion,” she snapped. “And I'm not anybody's waitress.”

This won't do, thought Zoe, horrified. Where was her self-control? She couldn't afford to lose control.

She inhaled, slowly, deeply, and told her body to relax. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “That wasn't very hospitable.”

Alberg smiled at her. She let his smile penetrate her skin. “It's all right,” he said. “I drink too much coffee anyway.”

He moved to the end of the sofa so as to be closer to the boy. “I want to ask you some questions, Kenny. Okay?”

“About my dad?” The boy's glance flickered around the room; Zoe felt it bounce off her face like a bird against a windowpane. “People don't know he's dead yet, do they?” he said.

“What do you mean?” said Alberg.

“Roddy doesn't know it. Roddy's my best friend.” He was picking at the fabric of the chair with thin, nervous fingers. “I could stay with him, I bet. He probably wonders where I am.”

“Maybe you could phone him,” said Alberg.

“She doesn't have a phone,” said Kenny. “And I don't think Grandma and Grandpa know, either,” he said, picking away.

Zoe bit the inside of her mouth to prevent herself from telling him to leave the damn chair alone. It was exceedingly difficult to concentrate on the policeman with this wretched child in the room.

“Your grandma and grandpa—where do they live?” said Alberg, getting a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.

“In Winnipeg,” said Kenny. He tucked his hands into his armpits. “We went to see them once. But usually they come to see us.”

“What's their last name, Kenny, do you know?”

“Sure I know. It's Quenneville. Grandpa's first name is Peter, and Grandma's first name is…I forget.”

“I'll phone them from the police station,” said Alberg. “I'll phone Roddy, too, if you like.”

“Yeah, that'd be good. I know his number. I phone him all the time.”

Alberg wrote down the number in his notebook. “I'll do it right away,” he said. “And I'll come back tomorrow to give you a report.”

Kenny stood up. “I could go and stay with him. Maybe his dad would come and get me.”

“Maybe you can do that after the funeral,” said Zoe. She turned to Alberg and offered him a faint smile—but she felt awkward, uncertain; she was furious with the boy for somehow robbing her of grace and confidence.

“Flora,” said Kenny. “Grandma's name is Flora.”

“Okay,” said Alberg. “Got it.” He stood up to leave.

“Can I come with you?” said the boy.

“You'd better stay with me, I think,” said Zoe, making her voice soft, “until your grandparents come for you.” She got up and went over to stand behind him, one hand on his head in what she hoped looked like a gesture of affection. “I'm quite sure they'll come for you, once the staff sergeant has spoken to them. Aren't you, Staff Sergeant?”

His face was suddenly closed to her. She felt a spasm of irritation. Then he winked, and she was dumbfounded, then furious.

“I'll be back,” he said to the boy. “Tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” said Alberg, his eyes on Zoe.

A
LBERG
returned to the detachment, to find the place reeking of vinegar and the waiting room choked with elderly persons, some of whom appeared hostile.

“You should use the back door sometimes,” said Isabella.

“What the hell's all this?” muttered Alberg. “Who're these people?”

“They're here to see you. If you'd use the back door sometimes,” she said again, as a few of the visitors began ominously shuffling their feet, “I could deal with this kind of thing better.”

“Where's Sid?” said Alberg. “I can't handle this now. I've got to make a phone call.”

“One of them is Horace Orlitzki,” said Isabella. “Ramona's boy. Come all the way from Cache Creek.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Excuse me, sir.” A man of about seventy-five approached the counter. He was white-haired and elegant, and reminded Alberg of the late Duke of Windsor. “These ladies and gentlemen are a delegation from the Seniors. I'm their spokesman. Bernard Rundle.” He held out his hand. “It's about Mrs. Orlitzki.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Rundle,” said. Alberg, shaking hands. “Excuse me for a minute. Isabella?”

She followed him into his office.

“Isabella. Dammit. You're supposed to have gone home by now. Instead of that, you've been doing the damn blinds again. The whole place stinks of vinegar.”

“That's right. And the windows. I also gave your desk a good polish.”

“But we have somebody else to do the cleaning around here. You weren't hired as a damn cleaning lady.”

“It seems to me,” she said sharply, “you ought to put your mind to those folks out there, instead of to who's a cleaning lady and who's not. They're worried about Ramona, just like I am. So they come to find out from you what's going on. What do you plan to tell them, anyway?”

“I told you, for God's sake, I can't deal with this now. I've got to make a phone call.”

Isabella hesitated. “It's better when I'm here,” she said quietly. “Right on top of things. Keeping myself busy.”

Alberg sighed. “I know, Isabella. I know. How long have they been waiting?”

“The old people just got here not ten minutes ago. Horace Orlitzki's been in and out for the past hour.”

“Okay. Send him in. And then Mr. Rundle. If Sid shows up, I want to see him, too.”

Horace Orlitzki was a tall, balding man in his early forties, with a cherubic face and soft, puffy hands. He wore a plaid blazer over navy-blue trousers.

“My sister Martha and I, we're going to hire us a PI,” he told Alberg.

“A what?”

“A PI. Private investigator. We want to get this thing settled, once and for all.”

“What thing is that, Mr. Orlitzki?”

“It's my understanding, a body could be swept away by the tide, buried by a mudslide, any number of things, you're not going to come across it in the normal course of events.”

“Excuse me. Are you talking about your mother?”

Orlitzki nodded. “She can't be declared legally dead, it's my understanding, until a certain amount of time has passed.”

“Right.”

“So we're going to hire us a PI, and he's going to find the body. Put our minds to rest. Who can you recommend?”

“Who can I recommend?”

“Money. It'll cost us. We know that.”

“Let me get this straight. You want to hire a private cop to find your mother's body.”

“That's it. You got it.”

“What if he finds her alive?”

“Pardon?”

“What if she isn't dead?”

Orlitzki shook his head. “I don't follow you.”

Alberg stood up, went to his door, and opened it.

“Isabella!” he hollered. He turned to Horace Orlitzki. “I don't know any PIs,” he said. “Try the Vancouver yellow pages.”

“But—”

“Mr. Orlitzki. You look for your mother dead. We'll go on looking for her alive. Isabella!”

Orlitzki scooted off, muttering imprecations, and Isabella appeared, with Bernard Rundle in tow and Sid Sokolowski trundling along behind.

“Sid,” said Alberg. “Good. Mr. Rundle, I tell you what, you'll be better off talking to Sergeant Sokolowski, here. He's in charge of the case. Sid, this is Mr. Rundle. He represents some of Ramona's friends. They're anxious to know how things are progressing. Would you fill him in?”

Alone in his office, he closed the door and called Gillingham.

“Those wounds on Strachan,” he said to the doctor. “The head, the gut. Could either of them have been inflicted by a bottle? A wine bottle?”

“I
'VE
got some business to do today,” his dad had told him, “and I might be late getting home.”

“Is it your new job?” said Kenny.

His dad put on that big smile that Kenny loved. “No,” he said, reaching over to mess up Kenny's hair. “It's something else.”

His dad had said he'd be back by dinnertime, and he was.

He was feeling really good when he got home, too. For supper he made Kenny's favorite thing, macaroni and cheese, and a salad, and he sent Kenny to the store on his bike to get some buns.

His dad got kind of drunk on the wine he drank with his dinner, but not a lot drunk, and he stayed happy and boisterous, which made Kenny feel good.

After Kenny had been in bed for a while he heard a tap on his door. It opened a little bit, and his dad said, “Ken? You awake?” He came in and sat on the edge of Kenny's bed.

“Things are going to be a lot better from now on,” he said, pulling awkwardly at the comforter, trying to get it up over Kenny's shoulders. “I've been worried about money, you know?”

Kenny nodded. He knew, all right.

“But everything's going to be okay now.” His dad patted Kenny's cheek. “We're going to be rich again.” He got up and sort of staggered, and held on to the edge of the doorway and laughed. “Been too deep into the old vino,” he said. “But that's going to be okay, too, Ken,” he said, sounding serious, churchlike. He put his finger across his lips. “Shhh. I want to show you something. Don't go away.” He went down the hall toward his bedroom.

Kenny put his hands behind his head and waited.

After a while his dad came back, and he was carrying something. He sat down on Kenny's bed again. “See these?” Kenny watched his dad pull three small, dog-eared exercise books, one yellow, and one red, and one blue, out of a brown envelope. The covers had faded, and the corners were scrunched.

“They don't look like much,” said his dad, “but they're worth a lot of money, Ken. A whole lot of money.” He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and his mouth, too, and his whole body shook for a while, trying to hold in his laughter. After a minute he kind of relaxed, and sighed, and opened his eyes. “I want you to look after them for me for a while. A few days.” He stood up, groping for the wall. He leaned against it and looked around Kenny's room. “Where's a good hiding place, Ken?”

“Why do you need to hide them?” said Kenny.

His dad frowned up at the ceiling. “I probably don't. But I'm going to do it anyway. So where's a good place?”

Kenny had shown him the hole in his closet where the wall was a little bit bashed in. His dad put the exercise books back in the brown envelope and put the envelope in the hole.

“Good,” he'd said, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. “Good.” He took Kenny by the shoulders. “Don't tell anybody they're in there,” he said, sounding solemn and mysterious. “Not anybody. Promise?” And Kenny had promised.

Two days later his dad went away on business again. This time he didn't get home for supper. Kenny waited and waited. He waited all night long. And into the next day. And his dad didn't come home, and he didn't phone, nobody phoned, and Kenny was scared to use the telephone, in case his dad tried to call, and he was scared to leave the house, and scared to stay, but he stayed anyway, waiting for his dad, and his dad didn't come but then his Aunt Zoe did, and she told him that his dad was dead.