“Do you think he was in some kind of trouble?” Muriel asked.
“If he was, he hid it well.”
“Too well,” she said.
They talked about nothing of consequence for a few minutes—Muriel’s townhouse in New Westminster, Shoe’s ramshackle house and the work he was doing on it, January Jack Pine and his makeshift houseboat—and then lapsed into a comfortable silence until the server had cleared the table. Neither wanted coffee.
“Under the circumstances this may seem trivial,” Muriel said as they waited for the check, “but what are your plans for the holidays?”
Last year Shoe had spent the holidays with his family in Toronto, for the first time in years. Generally, though, he didn’t celebrate Christmas, spending his time off catching up on his reading or just puttering about. As a rule, he turned down invitations to Christmas dinner; however, the year before last he had had Christmas dinner with Patrick and Victoria, Muriel and her not-yet-former fiancé, and another couple. After dinner Patrick had distributed song sheets and insisted on singing carols.
“The usual, I suppose,” he told Muriel. “How about you?”
“This will be my parents’ first Christmas since my grandfather died,” she said. “They’ve booked a tour to Las Vegas to gamble away my inheritance, so I’ll be on my own. Maybe we could spend some time together.”
“I could use some help painting my house,” Shoe said.
“Gosh, what a treat,” she said with a smile.
No matter how hard she tried—and for Patrick’s sake she had tried—Victoria found it impossible to like Sean Rémillard. Sean was Patrick’s first cousin, the only child of Patrick’s mother’s younger sister. Patrick and Sean had pretty much grown up together after the death of Sean’s father in a car accident. While Victoria was sure the voters would love him, for her liking his smile was too wide, his hair was too carefully arranged, and his easy French-Irish charm was too contrived. He did, however, appear to be genuinely distraught over Patrick’s death.
“Jesus, Victoria,” he said as he embraced her. “I can’t believe this. Stuff like this just isn’t supposed to happen. God, I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.”
“Thank you, Sean,” she said as he released her. With a grunt, he dropped limply onto the sofa.
Charlotte took Victoria’s hand and held it as she kissed her coolly on the cheek. Charlotte Privett Rémillard was not a hugger. “My father sends his condolences,” she said softly. She let go of Victoria’s hand and patted her hair, although not a single silvery-blond strand was out of place.
“Thank you,” Victoria said again.
Charlotte lowered herself onto the sofa beside her husband, carefully adjusting the skirt of her Versace suit, perfectly cut to make the best of her slightly too thick figure. She sat with her back straight, shoulders square, and plump knees together.
“Can I get either of you anything?” Victoria asked. “A drink? Coffee?”
“What?” Sean said. “No. No, thanks.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Nothing, thank you,” she said, adjusting the overlap of her suit jacket, as if she were concerned about the amount of cleavage showing, which was none at all.
She flinched as Sean lunged to his feet and went to the big window overlooking English Bay a thousand feet below. He stood with his back to Victoria and Charlotte for a few seconds, shoulders slumped, before he turned and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Have the police released Patrick’s body yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Victoria said. “Probably by Friday, though.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“The coroner’s office is busy this time of year, apparently,” she said. “And evidently short-staffed due to a flu bug that’s going around.”
Sean nodded. “Have you spoken to his mother?”
“Yesterday.”
“She wanted him buried in Montreal, of course.”
“Actually, no,” Victoria said. “He’s to be buried here. This is his home.”
“Of course,” Sean said. He looked at Charlotte, then back to Victoria. “Money is a bit tight these days,” he said. “What with campaign expenses and all.” He glanced at Charlotte again. “But I’ll find a way to pay her way out for the funeral,” he said. Charlotte’s heart-shaped face remained expressionless, except for a bit of tightness around her small, cupid’s-bow mouth. “His brothers, too.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Victoria said. “It’s been taken care of.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sean said.
“Patrick’s former employer has agreed to cover the cost,” she replied.
“The least we can do is spring for the hotel.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
The interchange lagged.
“How’s the campaign going?” Victoria asked.
“What? Oh, fine. Ah, maybe I’ll have that drink now after all. Scotch-rocks?”
“Certainly. Charlotte?”
“Nothing for me,” Charlotte replied.
Victoria went into the kitchen to make Sean’s drink, leaving him standing at the living room window, staring out over the rooftops toward the grey expanse of English Bay, and Charlotte watching him, a little cow-eyed, Victoria thought, from the sofa. He was still standing there when Victoria returned with a Scotch on the rocks for him and a glass of white wine for herself.
He took the drink from her. “I remember when Pat first brought me up here and told me he was going to build a house here one day. It was just a few weeks after we’d arrived in Vancouver. I didn’t think the old Volvo we’d driven from Montreal would make it, but it did. Damned near killed ourselves going back down, though, when the brakes gave out.
Good thing for us it had a standard transmission or we’d’ve ended up in the bay.” He looked at the drink in his hand. “Damn,” he said thickly and gulped at it. Ice rattled against his teeth.
Sean no longer seemed quite so slick and superficial. His smile was crooked, his hair was mussed, and his salon tan had turned waxy. Victoria placed a hand on his arm.
“I’m so sorry, Sean.”
“There’s only me left,” he said.
“Pardon me?”
“There used to be three of us,” Sean said. “Mary and Patrick and me. Mary drowned, you know?”
“Yes, I know,” Victoria said. She glanced at Charlotte. Her eyes were closed and her round cheeks were mottled, embarrassed, perhaps, by Sean’s public display of emotion.
“Her little boat turned over and she drowned,” Sean said. “And now Patrick’s gone. So there’s only me.” He put his half-finished drink down on the coffee table. “We have to go,” he said suddenly.
Charlotte stood and adjusted the fall of her skirt, the drape of her jacket.
Sean took a deep breath, smoothed his hair with the palms of his hands. “You’ll call if you need anything.”
“Yes, of course,” Victoria said.
She saw them to the door, where Sean held her by the shoulders, kissed her on both