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. “I’ll be back early Tuesday afternoon. I’m sorry I have to rush off like this,” she said as the cab pulled away.
Victoria parked her red BMW convertible in the underground parking space that still bore Patrick’s nameplate, slung her backpack-like purse over her shoulder, and rode the elevator up to the 23rd floor. She was wearing a beige Donna Karan suit, a belted Burberry jacket, and a red tam set at a jaunty angle. She didn’t feel the least bit jaunty.
“Victoria,” Muriel said, coming around the desk, putting her arms around Victoria’s shoulders, kissing her on the cheek. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Victoria replied automatically. “Thank you for the flowers,” she added. “They’re beautiful. I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls, Mu, but—I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” Muriel said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I need to see Bill,” Victoria said.
“Bill?” Muriel said, black eyes wide with surprise.
“Yes,” Victoria replied. “And, no,” she added with a quick smile, “I don’t have a gun in my purse.”
“Sorry,” Muriel said. “It’s just that, well, I—” She faltered, blushing.
“It’s all right,” Victoria said.
“He’s in a meeting right now,” Muriel said, regaining her composure. “With Charles Merigold,” she added, “so he’ll probably be grateful for an excuse to cut it short. But you should have called.”
“I’m sorry, I w-w-was—” Victoria stammered, paused and regrouped, then started again. “It was all I could do to bring myself to come here,” she said. “I didn’t want to give him any warning, time to prepare his lies. Or slip out the back door.”
Muriel gestured toward an arrangement of easy chairs and low tables, softly lighted and surrounded by tall tropical plants. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Victoria sat stiffly on the edge of a chair while Muriel went back to her desk and picked up the telephone. Something that sounded like Mozart played softly over the muted drone of voices, the electronic hum of office equipment, and the distant sigh of air-conditioning. A plump young man in an expensive suit held open the door to the reception area for a thin-legged girl pushing a mail cart. Both of them smiled at Victoria. Muriel hung up and returned to the waiting area.
“He won’t be long,” she said.
The door to Hammond’s office opened and Charles Merigold emerged. When he saw Victoria, he smiled sympathetically.
“Victoria,” he said, offering his hand. “Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss. If there’s anything I or Evelyn can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you, Charles,” Victoria replied, shaking his hand.
He nodded, smile wavering. “Well, good,” he said awkwardly. “Do, please.” He turned and went into his office.
Victoria picked up her purse and stood. She kissed Muriel’s cheek. “Wish me luck, Mu,” she said. Muriel opened the door to Hammond’s office. Victoria took a deep breath and went in.
He was standing by his broad desk. She was shocked by how dry and withered he looked, almost frail. He hadn’t seemed so frail the other day.
“My dear,” he said, coming toward her. “How good to see you.”
“Hello,” she said, hoping the coldness in her voice would stop his advance. It didn’t. She almost flinched when he took her arm.
He led her to the seating arrangement by the tall window overlooking the harbour and the white, stylized sails of Canada Place. She sat on the edge of a sofa, back rigid, hands clasped in her lap.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea? A drink, perhaps?” She shook her head. “Are you hungry? I can order something sent up if you wish.”
“No, I don’t want anything,” she replied.
He lowered himself into a chair facing her. “What is it you wished to see me about?” he asked.
She looked him in the eye. It wasn’t as hard as she’d thought it would be. “I want to know why Patrick was killed,” she said.
“Yes, of course. As do I.”
“I think you do know. I think it had something to do with Hammond Industries. With you.”
“It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume,” Hammond said, “that his murder is somehow connected with his job or possibly even with me, but I certainly don’t know what that connection could be.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie to you?” he said. He leaned toward her. “I’ve never lied to you.”
“You’ve only ever told the truth when it suited you.”
He shrugged, hands held palms up before him, a gesture of helplessness that she knew was completely false. “If you believe that, what’s the point?” he said. “Or is it that you just don’t want to believe me. You want someone to blame for Patrick’s death. It might as well be me.”
Victoria turned her head from side to side, savagely, as if to shake loose an unwanted thought.
“My dear,” Hammond said, leaning close again. “Instead of mistrusting each other, we should be trying to help each other. Surely we can put the past behind us.”
“If
