“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 by that you mean forgive and forget,” Victoria said, “I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”
“It was you who seduced me, if you will recall.”
Victoria’s laugh was bitter. “How can you call it seduction? I was just another one of your whores. Bought and paid for.”
“I never thought of you as a whore,” he said. “But is that why you’re here, to pick the scabs off old sores? What’s done is done. We can’t change the past.”
“I came here to tell you that if you’re responsible for Patrick’s death, even indirectly, I’ll see to it that you pay for it. One way or another.”
The colour drained from his face. “I don’t think that’s why you’re here at all,” he said, voice brittle. “You’re here because with Patrick gone there’s no one left to take care of you. And you need someone to take care of you, don’t you? You always have.” He reached out to touch her. She drew back. “I will take care of you, you know.”
Biting down on her sudden nausea, she stood. “I’d live on the street first,” she said, and walked out of his office.
Muriel stood and came around her desk. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Victoria took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“God, you’re trembling like a leaf.”
“I’m fine, Mu. Really.” She took Muriel’s hand and squeezed gently. “Thank you,” she said. Muriel walked her to the elevators. “I’ll call you,” Victoria said.
She was still shaking when she got down to the parking level, so she sat in her car, breathing deeply through her nose, until the tremors subsided. When she finally turned the key in the ignition, the car wouldn’t start. The engine turned over and over and over, as if to mock her. She laid her forehead on the top of the steering wheel and closed her eyes.
Just what she needed, she thought wearily, eyes burning with tears of frustration. Goddamn Patrick and his fucking BMWs. She felt an immediate stab of guilt. She’d loved this car from the moment Patrick had given it to her. Right now, though, she’d have gladly traded it for her old Toyota. Until she’d wrecked it, the Toyota had never given her a bit of trouble. Of course, it had barely made it up the hills on the Sea to Sky Highway to Whistler. She twisted the key and tried again, but the car still refused to start. Despite the night course in auto mechanics Patrick had insisted she take, she didn’t have a clue what might be wrong.
She almost jumped out of her skin when someone rapped at the driver’s