A Chill Rain in January by LR Wright Page A

she said, and stood up. Automatically, Alberg stood up, too. She was about the same height as Cassandra, he thought. No, shorter, because she was wearing high heels. “I’ll show you,” said Zoe, and he followed her out of the kitchen.
    In the living room, she pointed to a black leather chair. “He was sitting there. I was on the sofa, there. He said he wanted to catch the three-thirty ferry, but I told him he was too drunk and that he’d better stay and have dinner with me.” She looked toward Alberg, standing next to the archway leading to the hall. “He didn’t get drunk here, Staff Sergeant. He was drunk when he arrived.” She waited while Alberg scribbled dutifully in his notebook.
    â€œI hadn’t done my shopping for the week, though,” she went on. “I told Benjamin to lie down and sleep while I went out to get something for us to eat.” She sat on the sofa, resting her left arm along its low back and crossing her legs. “He agreed. But first, he said, he’d go downstairs and fetch a bottle of wine to have with dinner.” She shrugged. “There’s no point arguing with people when they’re in that condition. So I just sat here and waited for him to come back. A few minutes later, I heard a yelp, and a crash.”
    She got up and walked toward Alberg. “I went to the basement door,” she said, passing him, going along the hall. “It was open, just as you see it now.” She stood in the doorway, looking down. “I think I called him a couple of times. It was very dark down there. I switched on the light, and, there he was.” She turned to Alberg with a smile. “And there he still is,” she said, gesturing.
    Alberg peered into the basement.
    â€œPoor Benjamin,” said Zoe.
    â€œWhy had he come to see you?”
    â€œTo borrow money,” she said, continuing to gaze down the stairs.
    â€œA lot of money?”
    â€œI have no idea.” She leaned against the doorframe, looking up at Alberg. “There wasn’t any point in discussing how much he wanted, when I wasn’t about to give him anything at all.”
    â€œWas he in some kind of trouble?”
    â€œI don’t think so. He didn’t have enough money, that’s all. Benjamin never had enough money.”
    â€œDid he have a job?”
    She sighed and went back down the hall toward the kitchen, talking to Alberg over her shoulder. “Apparently he did, yes. I don’t know where. As I told you, we weren’t close, Benjamin and I. The only times I saw him were when he needed money.” She took a coffee canister from the cupboard. “I don’t know why he kept trying. I never gave him anything, and he must have known that I never would.”
    â€œDr. Gillingham’s here,” said Sanducci from the doorway.
    â€œWhy don’t you stay here, Miss Strachan,” said Alberg.
    â€œYes,” said Zoe, smiling. She gestured with the canister. “I’ll make some coffee.”
    Alberg found the doctor at the bottom of the basement stairs, black bag in hand, gazing with satisfaction upon the inert form of Benjamin Henry Strachan. “Here’s another one that age’ll never wither, then,” he said approvingly.
    â€œGood Christ, Alex, keep your voice down,” said Alberg. “His sister’s upstairs.”
    The doctor, a swarthy man in his fifties, tried to squat down next to the corpse. “Shit, forgot the damn knee,” he said. “Bring me a damn chair, will you?”
    Alberg looked around the basement. He saw three doors, all closed, and opened the first one; the small room that was revealed apparently functioned as a wine cellar. In the corner was a small stool. He carried it over to Alex Gillingham. “What’s wrong with your knee?”
    â€œI twisted it. Mountain climbing.”
    â€œChrist,” said Alberg.
    â€œYou oughtn’t to scoff,” said