A Chill Rain in January (6 page)

Benjamin was sitting in Zoe's black leather chair, waiting for her to say something. His head rested against the backrest, his ugly hands rested on the arms, and his eyes were closed. But Zoe knew that his body was rigid with the strain of apprehension. She heard in his breathing a struggle not to gasp.

She had known instantly what he was talking about. And she had instantly believed him; Benjamin, preposterous as it seemed, was in possession of something that could just possibly harm her.

She gazed at him dispassionately, thinking.

She thought she might decide to sit there, quietly, silently, for a long time, until he was compelled to burst from the chair, crouched and cornered, panting like an animal.

She had underestimated him, she thought, noting that perspiration had appeared on his forehead, gleaming.

More information was required.

“Imagine that,” she said aloud. “You've had them all this time,” said Zoe, “and you never said a word.”

“I was saving it.” Benjamin cleared his throat.

“I guess it's your last card.” She studied him thoughtfully. “You must need money very badly.”

“All I want from you is the Great North stock,” said Benjamin doggedly. “Which is rightfully mine anyway.”

Zoe shook her head. “Not anymore it isn't. I paid you for it. More than it was worth, as a matter of fact.”

“But I was right, wasn't I,” said Benjamin quickly. “It's tripled in value. Just like I told you it would. You owe me something for that, surely.”

“No.” Zoe looked away from him, out the window. She couldn't see the horizon. Too much rain was falling into the ocean. Everything was gray and blurry. “No,” she said. “I don't owe you anything at all.”

“I'd only sell half,” said Benjamin. He was begging, Zoe noticed with interest. That was pleasant. “I'd keep the other half,” he said. “It would stay in the family, if that's what you're worried about.”

Zoe laughed. “I want it to stay with me, Benjamin. That's what I want.”

“I get the shares,” he said, “and you get your diaries. It's a fair exchange.”

“They aren't diaries,” said Zoe. “They're scribblers. Books I scribbled in from time to time. That's all they are.”

Benjamin leaned toward her. “But you know what's in them. In one of them.”

She didn't answer.

“It's all down there,” he said in a low voice.

“Don't be melodramatic,” said Zoe.

“Every detail,” said Benjamin, in a whisper.

He sounded almost excited, thought Zoe. Probably because he had the notion he was about to be rich again.

“I am certainly annoyed that you have my scribblers,” she said. “But I am not nearly annoyed enough to hand over to you half a million dollars' worth of stock. I'm amazed that you thought I'd even consider doing such a thing.” She stood up, exasperated, tired of sitting still. Hands on her hips, she stared out the window. “What do you think you can do to me? It's such a waste of time, listening to your twaddle.”

“I can take your diary to the police. It's the RCMP, in Sechelt, isn't it? I'll take it to the Mounties.”

Zoe whirled on him, and he flinched. She became still then, trying to control herself. “It is not a diary.” She was still angry; she could hear it in her voice. She longed to change her clothes and go for a run in the rain. She took a deep breath and squeezed her left hand with her right, five times. “They wouldn't do anything with it,” she went on, more calmly. “They would simply think you were mad, trying to peddle such a thing.”

“Not peddling it,” he said. “I'd be giving it to them.”

“They'd be awfully curious to know why you'd decided to take this action now,” said Zoe, “after hanging on to the silly thing for so many years.” She squeezed her right hand with her left, five times.

“I'll tell them I just found it,” he said. “In a trunk in the basement. While clearing away some old stuff.”

“They'd think you were disgusting to want to humiliate your own sister.” Zoe turned her back on him and looked out the window. “I was a mere child when it happened, for God's sake.”

“Zoe. You wouldn't just be humiliated. You'd be prosecuted. They'd send you to jail.”

“Oh, prosecuted—are you mad?” The wind was blowing harder now. Arbutus leaves clattered across the patio in a frenzy, chased by rain and seaspray. “I was a child,” said Zoe. She wanted to laugh, but she didn't. “Prosecuted. Don't be ridiculous.”

Benjamin got out of the chair and stood next to her. “Zoe. They'll check what you wrote in your diary—”

Zoe turned around. “I told you,” she said coldly. “It is not a diary. I have never in my life kept a diary. Keeping a diary is a weak and feeble enterprise.”

Benjamin stepped back. But he went on talking. “Believe me, Zoe. It's very serious,” he said, stammering a little, as Zoe continued to stare at him. “You know it is. If I go to the police…” He took another step backward. “They'll investigate, all right. They will.”

I could move, thought Zoe, staring at him. Just pick up and move.

But she had thoroughly enjoyed living here, these seven years. She had had every intention of remaining here for the rest of her life.

Things simply cannot go on like this, she thought, with this idiot brother crawling out of the woodwork every time he goes broke or loses a spouse.

“I need some time,” she said. “I have to think about it.”

“There's really nothing to think about, though, Zoe, is there?” he said.

He was hanging on to the back of that damn chair, she noticed, for dear life. Did he think she was going to go berserk and attack him with her fingernails, for heaven's sake?

“Benjamin,” she said firmly, “you've had my scribblers for—what, twenty years? More. You've had more than twenty years to read them, pore over them, think about what's in them. Figure out how to use them.”

She walked out of the living room and waited for him in the foyer.

“I need some time,” she said, “to get used to this.” She opened the front door. “Get out of here. Come back in two days. And not a moment sooner.”

L
ATE
the following morning Cassandra Mitchell heard a loud knocking on her front door. She was immediately awake. As she hurried to the door, tying her robe, she told herself that it couldn't be somebody from the hospital; they would phone if they needed to get in touch with her. But well-meaning people sometimes insisted on delivering bad news face to face, instead of impersonally over a telephone line, and when she pulled open the door she was praying that it wouldn't be Alex Gillingham standing there.

“Thank God,” she said, when it turned out to be Karl Alberg.

“I heard about your mother. How bad is it?”

“I don't know,” she said wearily. “I never know.”

“May I come in?”

She stood back, and when he'd stepped across the threshold she closed the door and leaned against it.

“I woke you up. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.” Cassandra combed her hair back from her forehead with her fingers. She couldn't remember if she'd taken off her mascara before going to bed. Oh God there's probably mascara all over my face, she thought, and then she remembered that of course she hadn't put any on, not to rush off to the hospital in the dead of night.

“How about if I make you some coffee,” said Alberg, taking off his jacket.

“I'd like that,” said Cassandra, feeling slightly cheered. Alberg took her by the elbow and led her into the living room.

“That smells nice,” she said, sniffing the air. “What is it?”

“Oh, it's something one of my kids gave me. Aftershave lotion or something. I don't know what the hell it is. You're probably allergic to it.” He sat her down on the white leather sofa.

“I'm not allergic to a single solitary thing,” said Cassandra. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

“Hey, did I tell you they're graduating? Next week. In Calgary. Mortarboards and everything. Shit, I can't believe it,” he said, smiling broadly. He glanced toward the end of the room, where sliding glass doors led to the patio. “Are those locked? I noticed your front door wasn't,” he said disapprovingly.

“Oh God, Karl,” she said. She wanted to laugh but felt too tired.

“Okay, okay. I hope you've got one of those drip things,” he said, going to the kitchen. “That's the only kind of coffeepot I know how to use.”

“Didn't Mountie school teach you anything, for heaven's sake? I thought for sure you'd have learned how to ride a horse. Skin a caribou. Trap a beaver. And make boiled coffee. Even I know how to make boiled coffee.”

He looked at her reproachfully through the doorway to the kitchen. “Of course I learned how to ride a horse. I got my training in the old days.” He disappeared again, and Cassandra heard him opening cupboards.

“It's the one to the left of the sink,” she told him.

Her feet were getting cold, so she got up from the sofa to fetch slippers from her bedroom. While she was in there she opened the curtains. She brushed her hair in front of the mirror, tied her robe more tightly around her, and turned to leave the room. Then she looked down at the unmade bed. Sheets, blankets, pillows, and bedspread sprawled there invitingly, warm and wanton. It was a queen-sized bed, which was good, she thought, because he was a big man. She flushed, staring at the bed.

“Have you got a tray somewhere?” he called out.

Quickly she left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Yes,” she said. “I'll get it.”

A few minutes later they sat side by side on the sofa, drinking coffee. “Have you found Ramona yet?” said Cassandra.

Alberg shook his head.

“Karl,” she said, turning to him. “My God. I was sure she'd have turned up by now. It's been a day and a night.”

“We've checked with everybody we can think of. Everybody Gillingham can think of. Everybody Isabella can think of. There's not a sign of her.”

“Well, but… What do you think?”

Alberg shrugged. “She could have wandered off into the bush, I guess. Or maybe she found a place to hole up. It depends on how alert she is.”

“She kind of drifts in and out, I think.”

“Yeah.”

“She's not in her house? I heard the tenants—”

“Yeah. Hawaii. No, we got a key and checked the place out, Sid Sokolowski did; nobody inside. So Christ knows where she is.”

“What do you do now?”

He put down his coffee cup and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “We do a full-scale search. And we've got a description out up and down the Coast. Eventually somebody will spot her. It's all we can do.”

She reached over to squeeze his hand. “This is good coffee.”

“Naturally it's good coffee.”

“Do you cook anything?”

“Of course I cook. How do you think I eat?”

“In restaurants.”

“Of course I cook. I've got some specialties that would make you drool.”

“Name one.”

“Meat loaf.”

“Meat loaf. Hmm. Do you want an ashtray?”

He gave her an injured look. “Don't you remember? I quit. Before you went away.”

“I remember. But I thought you might have started again.”

“Not this fella. Six months, it's been.”

“Good for you, Karl.”

“Now,” he said softly. “Tell me about your mother.”

Cassandra put down her cup. “She called me at two in the morning. She thought she was having a heart attack. I phoned for an ambulance, and it got to her house before I did. I followed them to the hospital and waited for a couple of hours. When they finally let me in to see her she was asleep.”

“Was it a heart attack?”

“Alex Gillingham says no.” She glanced up at Alberg. “It's happened before, Karl. But he says there's nothing actually wrong with her.”

“But every time it happens, you think this time it'll be different, it'll be serious.”

“Right,” said Cassandra. “Exactly. I go through the same crap, every time. I'm out of my mind with worry and at the same time I'm angry with her. I phone my brother in Edmonton and he says ‘Should I come out?' and I really want to say ‘Yes, yes, for God's sake,' but I don't, I say, ‘Let's wait and see,' and the next day or the day after that she's fine again and I call him and say ‘Stay home.'” There were tears in her eyes; she flicked them from her face. “I do love her, but she drives me crazy. I'm always gritting my teeth when I'm with her, and then something like this happens…”

Alberg pulled her close to him. “It's all right,” he said, and rocked her in his arms.

She felt comforted, and eventually she became drowsy. She thought she might fall asleep right there, cuddled against his chest.

But then a change occurred. There was an imperceptible alteration in the situation. And Cassandra was wide awake again, all five senses on the alert. She thought about her unmade bed. Maybe it still smelled of the honeysuckle bath powder she'd used before going to bed last night.

His hand moved inside her robe; his face was extremely near; his lips opened before he kissed her; and then the telephone rang.

“Shit,” said Alberg, and then, “Sorry,” because after all it could have been the hospital.

But it was Isabella.

“I just got back here from lunch,” she said. “There's still no news about Ramona. And then I find out you're late.”

“Late? What the hell am I late for?”

“For Bernie Peters. Do you want to find yourself a cleaning lady or don't you? She's here right now. Waiting. Been waiting for twenty minutes, she tells me. And she's got somebody to do for at eleven-thirty. Did anybody check with the liquor store?”