A Chill Rain in January by LR Wright

the harbor. But the most important thing about windows was that they let in light. He couldn’t imagine living in a house that didn’t let in any light down one whole side of it.
    Zoe Strachan was waiting patiently, expecting more questions.
    â€œDid he live here? On the peninsula?”
    â€œHe lived in West Vancouver.”
    â€œWas he married? Did he have a family?”
    â€œHe used to be married. Twice. The first one divorced him. The second one died.”
    â€œAny children?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShe’s his only living relative, Staff,” said Sanducci. Alberg jumped slightly; he’d forgotten the corporal was there.
    Zoe raised her eyes to Sanducci and gave him a tremulous smile. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I am.”
    â€œCorporal,” said Alberg. “Let me know when Dr. Gillingham gets here.” He waited until Sanducci had left the room. “Your parents are dead?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat happened to them?”
    She looked annoyed. Alberg didn’t blame her. What the hell difference did it make, what had happened to her parents? “My father died of a heart attack,” she said, “when I was twenty-three. My mother got cancer seven years later. She was ill for a year or so and then died.”
    â€œWere you and your brother close?”
    â€œHeavens no. We had nothing in common. Absolutely nothing at all.”
    â€œExcept your parents,” said Alberg.
    She looked at him straight on then, and he realized that she hadn’t done so before. Her head had always been turned away, or at least slightly averted. He didn’t think he’d been consciously aware of that. Until now. Her gaze struck him with an almost physical force.
    â€œDo you want to see him?” she said. “My brother?”
    â€œUh, yes,” said Alberg. “In a minute.”
    â€œWe can’t just leave him there,” she said thoughtfully.
    â€œNo. When the doctor’s been here, your brother will be taken to—well, he’ll be taken wherever you like.”
    He thought she smiled a little.
    â€œI guess a funeral home,” she said.
    He glanced around the kitchen. In the corner, a television set sat on a small table. A large number of electric appliances were lined up, gleaming, on the countertops. An unopened bottle of red wine sat next to a toaster oven. The room was meticulously clean. Even the stainless-steel sink shone.
    Zoe Strachan swiveled around on her chair and crossed her legs. Alberg couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that sound: the slithery, silken sound of stockinged legs, stroking. Women hardly ever wore stockings anymore. Even when they did, it wasn’t stockings they wore but pantyhose. They hardly ever wore skirts anymore, for that matter. And they practically never wore suits. It was possible, he thought, that since she was wearing a skirt, a whole suit, in fact, and stockings, too, that possibly, just possibly, they were real stockings, not pantyhose, which meant that she’d be wearing something to hold them up, too, something like a black garter belt, maybe.
    He cleared his throat and fumbled with his notebook, attempting to turn the page. His pen fell to the floor. Zoe Strachan didn’t move when he reached down to retrieve it, even though it had landed right next to her foot. Alberg felt the smooth leather of her black shoe against the side of his hand as he picked up the pen.
    She was looking at him curiously. He had absolutely no idea how old she was. He could see, now, that there were shimmerings of silver in her black hair. But her face was unlined, and her body was slim, even athletic.
    â€œCorporal Sanducci suggested that your brother might have been drinking,” he said.
    â€œI’m afraid he was,” said Zoe. “I think that Benjamin probably drank rather a lot.”
    â€œTell me what happened.”
    â€œWe were in the living room,”