A Chill Rain in January (5 page)

“I don't know. She made me angry.”

Her mother turned around so that her back was to Zoe, and then she turned the rest of the way around, so that she was looking straight at her again. “Didn't you hear it screech? Don't you know how much it must hurt?”

“But—it wasn't me,” said Zoe.

“But you just said—you just said, I heard you, ‘I put Myrtle in the fire.' You just told me that.”

“Yes,” said Zoe. “I mean, it wasn't me that hurt.”

R
AMONA
was numb with cold, dizzy with tiredness, as she stumbled the last mile or so to her house. Her mind had gone away somewhere. It was her body that remembered the way, and her body, too, that remembered where the key was. She floundered through the gate and was about to ask herself for the fiftieth time, where did I leave that key, when all of a sudden she was bending over and scrabbling in the dirt under the big mossy rock that stood beneath the bedroom window. And there it was.

Once inside, she collapsed on the sofa and just sat there for a while, she didn't know how long, being glad she wasn't walking any longer, wishing she had a cup of coffee, looking out the living room window toward the promontory on the other side of the little bay; there weren't any lights on at the Strachan woman's house. She probably didn't get up this early.

Ramona wanted to stay there indefinitely, gathering her strength, but pretty soon she had to go to the bathroom.

And besides, she knew she had to hide herself, because they'd be trying to find her, and this house was the first place they'd think to look.

The house was cold. As soon as they'd come and gone, she'd turn on the heater.

Meanwhile, though, she'd make herself a cup of instant coffee, and she'd be sure to snatch the kettle off the burner before it started to whistle, in case the sound carried next door.

But she couldn't find her whistling kettle. There was an electric one on the counter, so she used that.

She poked around the house, looking for a good hiding place. Sometimes she stopped and rubbed her head, trying to remember why it was that she needed to hide. But she continued to feel very urgent about it, so she kept on looking, and thinking, and finally she decided on the closet. There were a lot of clothes hanging in there, and some of them went right to the floor. So she moved these out from the wall and in behind them she stacked the quilt from the double bed, and two extra blankets and a pillow that she found in the linen closet.

She was still very cold, so she took off her coat and put on three of the sweaters that hung in the closet, and struggled back into her coat, which she then couldn't get buttoned up.

Ramona settled herself in her nest to drink her coffee. And after a while, slowly, gradually, things cleared, like a wind blowing away clouds, and she remembered that Marcia and Robbie Litwin lived in her house now and that they were on a holiday somewhere, and that's why she'd decided to come here.

“Well, that's a relief,” she said out loud; it was a good feeling, having a mind that was crisp and definite again.

She put it to work on the question of supplies. She had seen a few things in the freezer compartment of the fridge, and some cans in the cupboard, and she knew that out in the toolshed were boxes of potatoes and carrots and onions Marcia had grown last summer. But she ought to have fruit, and juice, and vitamins. And of course some gin; Marcia and Robbie didn't seem to have anything at all in the way of alcoholic beverages.

But she knew the neighbors to the left, the Ferrises, they liked a drink from time to time. She'd have to keep an eagle eye open, and as soon as they drove off somewhere she'd see if she could find a way in. They wouldn't begrudge her a bit of gin. They had a dog, a small one with big ears and a lot of white hair tied up on top of its head with a ribbon. She wouldn't have to worry about the dog, though, because everywhere the Ferrises went, that dog went, too.

Ramona stopped breathing, the mug of coffee halfway to her mouth. A car had stopped in front of the house, which was only about four feet from the road.

She heard the door open, and somebody got out and came lumbering around the side of the house.

My God, she thought. What did I do with my shopping bag?

“O
KAY
,” said Sid Sokolowski, lowering himself into the extra chair in Alberg's office. Isabella was standing by the door, clutching her elbows. “Here's the story.” He picked up one foot and then the other, pulling at the pantlegs that weren't quite big enough to comfortably accommodate his huge thighs. “She's gone, all right. Not a sign of her. Those nurses are in what you might call disarray, since she isn't one of their regular escapees.” The sergeant shook his head disapprovingly. “Hard to figure how those old folks can just sashay out of there without anybody noticing.”

“My feelings exactly,” said Isabella, nodding vigorously.

“You'd rather the place had bars?” said Alberg.

Sokolowski decided to ignore this. “Anyways, Isabella got them to file a missing persons report.”

“Because I figured the sooner you get going on this, the sooner you're going to find her,” said Isabella.

“Which they were willing to do,” said Sokolowski patiently, “on account of like I said, she's never done this before.” He looked down at his notes. “She went missing sometime between two and eight in the morning. That's as close as they can figure it.”

“The night nurse makes the rounds at two,” Isabella put in, “and then nobody would be looking in on her again until the shift changed at eight.” She rubbed her hands. “Oh dear, oh dear. Poor Ramona.”

“Is she wandering around town in a hospital gown, or what?” said Alberg.

“They wear their own clothes,” said Isabella.

“Isabella. Let's hear what the sergeant has to say. Sid? What's she wearing?”

“Yeah, they wear their own clothes,” said Sokolowski. “But the nurses don't know all what's supposed to be in her room, so they can't tell us what she put on. Except her coat's missing. Which is good.” He licked the end of his finger and turned a page in his notebook.

“Have you been to her house?” said Isabella. “She loved that house. It's the first place she'd go.”

Sokolowski looked plaintively at Alberg.

“Isabella,” said Alberg. “Stop interrupting, or leave. Okay?”

“Understood,” said Isabella, hugging herself.

“Yeah, she owns a house,” said Sokolowski. “She's got it rented out. I went over there. The place is all shut up, nobody home. Talked to the neighbors. The tenants, they're a young couple, kinda hard up, they won some kind of drugstore contest or something, they're off to Hawaii for three weeks.” He looked up from his notebook. “You notice it's always the ones on welfare enter the contests? How do you figure it, Karl?”

“Why not? They've got nothing to lose, right? Anything else?”

“Yeah, I found out it's Gillingham who's her doctor, God help the poor lady,” said Sokolowski fervently. “I talked to him. Has she got any money, who are her friends, where's she likely to go—that's what I asked him. He wasn't much help, which doesn't surprise me. The guy's a flake.”

“Sid.”

“Yeah. Well, he doesn't know much about her finances. I've gotta go see her lawyer about that. Gillingham gave me a list of people who visit her there in the hospital. She's got two kids; he told me how to get in touch with them.” He looked up again, his forehead furrowed. “Don't want to do that just yet, though, Karl. They're not locals. And she's not gonna be hard to find. Don't want to worry her kids just yet.”

“Put her on the computer anyway, in case she's on her way to them. Where do they live?”

“Cache Creek and Regina,” said Isabella. “She wouldn't go to them. Oh dear, oh dear,” she said, wringing her hands again. “I wish she'd come to me.”

“Maybe she will, Isabella,” said Alberg. “But whether she does or not, we'll find her.”

The sergeant nodded. “Before the day's out. I'd bet on it. Jesus, Isabella, she's an old lady, got a mind that wanders, no pennies in her jeans—we'll find her, all right.”

“She won't be wearing jeans,” said Isabella. “You can count on that.”

“Well, whatever,” said Sokolowski. “Anyway, you get my drift.”

“Okay, go see her lawyer,” said Alberg. “Find out if she's got access to any cash. Isabella, are you up to helping out?”

“Well of course I am.”

“Phone around to people she knew and liked, places she went to regularly. Tell them to keep their eyes open for her.”

“Yes. That's a good idea. I will. Right away,” said Isabella, and she left the room.

“At least it's not too bad out there,” said Sokolowski, peering through the slats of the venetian blind at the gray, drizzly day. He glanced at his watch. “I better get over to the lawyer. I'll keep you posted.”

When he'd left, Alberg sat there thinking about the filmmaker in Quebec who'd had Alzheimer's disease. He'd disappeared, in winter, too, just like Ramona Orlitzki. And when he'd turned up, he was floating in the river.

He'd had lots of people who cared about him, Alberg remembered. Just like Ramona Orlitzki.

He gazed at the photograph of his daughters that hung on the wall next to him, and thought about the graduation presents he'd bought for them. Maybe he should have phoned Maura, asked her advice. After all, he thought gloomily, he didn't get to see his daughters all that often. What made him think he could choose extra-special presents for them without help?

A little later, Isabella tapped at his door and immediately opened it, looking harassed. “I've made four phone calls so far. Nobody's seen her yet. The librarian's here.”

“Don't worry, Isabella. We'll find her. Show Cassandra in, will you? In a minute,” he called out, as Isabella retreated into the hall. “Give me a minute, first.”

He piled the papers that littered his desk into several neat stacks. Hung up his jacket. Hauled the venetian blinds right to the top of the window. He was fervently grateful, for once, for Isabella; there was no dust in his office, no grungy circles on his desk, no cigarette butts in the ashtray on the coffee table.

He ran his hands over his blond hair, straightened up, and pulled in his stomach. Then, what the hell, he thought, and let it out again.

There was a knock, and the door opened. “Right in there,” said Isabella, from the hall.

“Thank you,” said Cassandra Mitchell, and stepped inside.

Alberg looked at her for a long time, smiling. She smiled back, and he thought she blushed.

“Well for heaven's sake,” she said. “Hello.”

“You look so damn good,” said Alberg. He walked toward her, trying not to think about anything, and put his arms around her.

Cassandra closed her eyes and let her cheek rest against his chest. She could feel or hear his heart beating, and then he pressed her hard against him and she felt her own heartbeat, too, and she couldn't tell which was which. One was beating much faster than the other; that one's mine, she thought. She lifted her head, eyes still closed. Delicately her fingers touched the nape of his neck, and slowly she pulled his face toward hers. She had been waiting for this for months and months, a kiss from Karl Alberg with no Roger in the way, no Roger in her heart; Roger was gone, all right, she thought, tasting Alberg, losing herself in this, a sweet, clean kiss, with power in it…

She pulled away but held on to his shoulders. She was glad he was big. A substantial man, she thought fondly. His face looked a little older than when they had first met, his hair was a little thinner, he was still enigmatic—until he smiled. She remembered the first time he'd kissed her—in her kitchen, in the dark, while outside the moon flirted with clouds and shone when it could upon the water. He'd been cockier then; more certain of himself. Or brash, and only pretending certainty. She touched his face with her fingertips and remembered being afraid to go to bed with him then because she thought she would tell him anything, there; but was there anything, now, that she wouldn't want him to know?

“Let's go have some lunch,” she said, smiling up at him.

Alberg linked his arms around her waist. “Let's go to Victoria.”

“Victoria?” said Cassandra, laughing. “For lunch?”

“Not today. Friday. For the weekend.”

Cassandra shook her head. “That's moving a little fast, don't you think?”

“Fast, hell.” Gently, he pulled her closer. “You like flowers, right? I happen to know that in Victoria there are all kinds of flowers blooming.”

“Pansies,” said Cassandra. She leaned against him.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Primroses. Bergenia. Broom.”

He pushed her away, so as to look at her. “There, see?” said Alberg, beaming.

“How did you know?”

“Sid Sokolowski was over there the other day. He takes an interest in plants and things.”

“But there's no need to go all the way to Victoria,” said Cassandra. She put her arms around him. “The periwinkle in my rock garden is already out.”

“And if the sun shines,” Alberg went on, his cheek resting on the top of her head, “the ocean in Victoria will be extremely blue.”

“I don't know,” said Cassandra.

She heard Alberg sigh.

Cassandra smiled, holding him close.

“I'd pay,” he said hopefully.

“Oh, well then,” said Cassandra. “Why didn't you say so?”

“D
EATH
. And diaries. And money,” Benjamin repeated. “That's what we've got to talk about.”

A winter rain was falling on the Sunshine Coast, and the breeze from the ocean was cold and damp. Leaves from the arbutus trees blew across the patio, making scouring sounds, like a coarse broom scraping a concrete floor. Every so often the wind sent a spray of sea water over the barrier made of rock, right onto the patio, and some of the spray struck the window with a sizzling sound, as though the ocean water were hot instead of cold.