Innocent Murderer (19 page)

The room I had just entered was enormous — about the size of half a football field, its ceiling three stories high.

It was all one post and beam room. I could see the kitchen, the dining room, the rec room, and the living rooms, all formed into little pods by the strategic placement of the furniture. Enormous picture windows brought light streaming in, and focused your eyes on the view of the Rideau River as it wound its way through tree-clad banks.

Incongruously, hanging from the wall between two of the picture windows, was the enormous head of a moose.

Someone had festooned its antlers with silver bangles. I idly wondered about the history of this quite magnificent beast, until my eyes lighted on the centrepiece of the living room: a large green bronze birdbath with a little bronze bluebird flicking water over its wings, and a huge eagle, life size, wings fully outstretched, talons forever open and reaching, ready to make the kill. Artistic license allowed lots of odd things to happen, I thought wryly.

When I'd finally finished surveying the room I noticed my little friend had disappeared, or rather had gone to join a group of noisy children in the rec room. It suddenly occurred to me that Sandy must run a daycare here. I counted the kids, seven plus Becky. She must be right on the limit of what's allowed.

She must love kids, I thought. She certainly didn't need the money.

I stood there for a long while, wondering if I should just go and sit in the living room, but afraid Sandy wouldn't notice me in this enormous place.

“Daniel!” I turned in the direction of the adult voice and saw Sandy with a baby riding her hip, entering the kitchen. “I asked you to take Dr. O'Callaghan to the living room.”

Daniel ignored his mother — he was too busy fitting an arrow to his bow.

Sandy came up, made some apologies, and led me to a sofa in the living room where a tray full of good
–
ies and ice-cold lemonade were already ensconced. Becky kept trying to snafu some of the goodies, so Sandy put her down on the floor and pretty much ignored her. I watched Becky crawl her way through the living room toward the kitchen.

“She'll be okay,” said Sandy. “This place is kid proof.”

I smiled. She turned and looked at me. Her eyes were red and swollen and her cheeks were puffy. Sally must have been quite a friend. I wondered how she ever found the privacy to cry — unless she cried in front of the kids, which seemed unlikely. That would just cause more problems.

“Thank you for coming.”

I nodded and waited.

“The police have been questioning me” she said, her voice tightly under control.

“That's a normal thing. Everybody involved in the deaths in any way has been questioned since we got back from the cruise.”

“Yes, but they say Sally committed suicide, which I told you is absolutely impossible.” She paused. “Sally was the most optimistic person I know.”

I let my mind wander back to Sally and her tear streaked face and her needy, clingy personality. “Are you saying she wasn't upset about splitting up with Arthur?”

“Of course she was upset, but Sally was biologically incapable of being depressed for long.”

Not the Sally I knew.

“Now the police are insinuating that she killed Terry.

That she drowned her in her bathtub, carried the body out, dumped it into the pool, and then killed herself.

Sally! As if she could do such a thing!” She fidgeted with her lemonade. “Sally could no more have murdered Terry than a baby could.”

I reached over and picked up a cookie from the tray, trying to find the right words. “Sandy, look. Your friend was very quiet and very secretive. It's possible she didn't tell you everything.”

“Sally was an outgoing extrovert who loved people and liked to tell everybody her stories; and she had some great ones.”

I choked on my cookie and stared at her. “Are we talking about the same Sally here?” I asked.

Sandy put her lemonade carefully on the tray. “Sally was an actor.”

I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the enor
–
mous room. Two of the kids were fighting over a piece of Lego. I digested this piece of information. “Meaning what exactly?” I asked.

“She was acting a part on board the ship,” Sandy said.

I could feel my jaw dropping and made a conscious effort to catch it before it fell too far. I thought back to the sauna — “It's hard to be Sally,” she'd said. “Hard to be the mouse.”

“She told me it could make her career. She told me she had a recall audition for a part in a play. She was to be a mousy, shy, and timid woman with low self-esteem — the exact opposite of Sally. She wanted to try and be this woman, live and breathe her while among strang
–
ers, and had settled for an Arctic cruise. She asked me to come along with her. It was a lot of juggling, what with the kids and all, but I said yes. She wanted me to come so much that she offered to pay for my ticket.”

“Why didn't she just go alone? There'd be no dis
–
tractions.”“Aw, you don't know Sally, not the real Sally. She can
–
not — could not — keep things to herself and she needed me to talk to at night so that she could play the mouse by day. She craved an audience, otherwise she would have blasted her secret to the rooftops. She was never very good at keeping secrets, but this meant so much to her.”

Sandy put her lemonade glass down on the table and turned to look at me. “There was something more than just the acting happening.”

I waited but she didn't go on. “You mean something with Sally?”

Sandy nodded. “She was a great actor, but every time she returned to our cabin where she could be herself she was on edge, almost fearful. When I asked her why, she was abrupt and clammed up.”

“I'm sure it was just a case of actor fatigue. Imagine having to act a part eighteen hours a day? It would be enough to put anybody on edge.”

When Sandy didn't say anything I said, “Why have you called me?”

“Because you were there, you found the bodies, and you've solved a murder before. Sally did not murder Terry.

The police think she did. I want you to clear her name.”

“Friends hide lots of things from each other,” I said gently. “How can you be so sure she isn't a murderer?”

Sandy smiled then and said, “Do you have any sib
–
lings?”What did that have to do with anything?

I nodded.

“How often have you been able to hide things from them?”

“Not often,” I admitted. Especially if it was as impor
–
tant as a murder, I thought.

“Now maybe you understand.”

I looked at her curiously.

“Sally was my sister.”

Chapter Fifteen

I
spent part of the drive home wondering why I was surprised that they were sisters. After all, why would they have thought it necessary to volunteer that infor
–
mation? Then I moved on to wonder about Sally's act
–
ing role and finally about how I had failed to say no to Sandy's request. I had told her that I was pretty busy with my job at the university, but she had refused to let me say no right then and there, which is what I wanted to do. I'm such a wimp. She had asked me to give it some thought before I made a decision. I had hesitated in the face of such determination, agreeing to think it over and get back to her. I had just delayed the inevitable and per
–
haps given her some false hope.

It was way too late to go back to work, and rush hour was over, so the ride home was easy. I rolled into the barn to see if Ryan was around. It was quiet — not yet milking time. I strolled over to our Olympic milk producer, Ethel, and gave her a pat on the schnozz. I checked the pens where the cows are kept, in case Ryan was in there, but he wasn't. I reached over one of the pens and let one of the little guys suck on my fingers. Being a steer is such a bummer. If your genes don't single you out for stud service your life is short. But at least you're well-fed.

I left the barn and walked around to the entrance to Ryan's studio. The red light outside the door was off — he wasn't in the darkroom. I wondered when he would change over to digital. It was a lot easier and surely the quality was good enough now? But I knew Ryan liked the peace and the quiet of the darkroom and the eerie red glow of the safe light. Life seems so far away when you're in there.

I opened the door and walked in. Ryan was over by the big bay window, looking at a fistful of prints.

“Hi, Cordi. What's up?”

I dawdled down his long table looking at the photos strewn all over it. He's a good photographer, my brother, and more and more magazines were after his services. One day he wouldn't have to be a farmer anymore, although I knew he would never give that up. It's in his blood, same as me. I looked at him and smiled. The sum
–
mer sun had created so many freckles on his face that they had practically merged. His thick blond hair always makes me wonder how we ever came from the same par
–
ents. My hair is as black as it comes and not one single freckle can be found on my face. There are other differ
–
ences too, of course, and no stranger had ever cottoned on to the fact that we were brother and sister.

“Spill it.”

“I think I just agreed to investigate another murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“The woman on the ship who I told you about.”

Ryan dropped his photos on a chair and waited.

I told him about the police deciding that Sally had murdered Terry — because of the salt water/fresh water evidence that pointed to Terry being murdered. I told him that they couldn't prove it and then I told him that Sandy wanted her sister's name cleared, that she believed Sally couldn't have done it.

“You've got to be kidding,” Ryan said, and I knew he was thinking of the bear ravaged body of my first murder case. He's as bad as I am with corpses. We want to be as far away from them as possible. You'd think a couple of farm kids who'd shot their share of groundhogs would be inured to dead bodies, but we weren't, at least, not dead human bodies.

“Why would you want to get mixed up in that stuff again?” asked Ryan.

“I'm not sure I do, but you have to admit it sounds intriguing.” I told him about Sandy's and Duncan's ver
–
sion of Sally attempting to rescue Terry.

“But I thought you said Terry drowned in fresh water?”

“Yeah, that's right, but Sandy believes Sally saw Ter
–
ry's body in the salt water pool and jumped in to rescue her without knowing she was already dead.”

“But by your description it was a tiny pool.”

“Sally was wearing winter clothing when she jumped in. A big ankle length wool coat that would have dragged her down.”

“Why on earth wouldn't she have taken it off?”

“I don't know.”

“And the suicide note?”

“That's a little tricky. Police say it's Sally's handwriting.”

“So whether you should help or not depends on how much you believe this Sandy.”

We bandied around some ideas for a while, and I told him what Sandy had said about Sally acting a part.

“That's one dedicated actress,” he said and I let his words sink in. It was always restful being around Ryan. He's seldom judgmental and solid as a rock.

When I finally turned to leave he said, “I was in your cabin delivering a parcel when the phone rang. I answered it thinking it might be Rose.”

“And?”

“It was somebody asking for you. Wanted to know if you would be in tonight so they could call you back. I told them yes. Hope that's okay.”

“Telemarketer?”

“No.” Why is it that telemarketers are so easy to spot?

Ryan could be exasperating sometimes, the way I had to crowbar information out of him. “Male? Female?”

“Couldn't tell. Whoever it was had laryngitis or something.”

I thanked him for bringing in the parcel.

“Watch your back. It's heavy,” he said, as I headed out the door.

I got in my car, drove past the farmhouse and waved to Rose, who was out playing baseball with the kids.

Ryan had dumped the box right in the middle of the hallway and I pushed it with my foot to move it. It was immovable. I bent over and looked at the label. No clue.

It looked as though someone had used about five miles of tape to seal it, and by the time I was through cut
–
ting it open I needed a shower. There was a covering of brown paper hiding the contents, which I pulled aside, and started to laugh. Inside was an enormous card with an elephant riding on the back of a mouse, blaring his love for me, and hiding twelve bottles of a good white wine. Each bottle had a little stickum on the neck with a corny little message meant only for me. No wonder he'd used so much tape. It felt good to be loved like this, and I resolutely refused to think about London and spoil it all, so I didn't try to phone him.

I took the shower I needed, spent a leisurely hour in the kitchen making dinner, popped the cork on one of the bottles of wine, and took my dinner outside to eat on the porch. Somewhere the moon was coming up because its light was glinting off the oak trees on my front lawn. The wine was light, fruity, and chased away all my nerves. After I'd finished dinner I sat for a while, contemplating life. Suddenly I remembered Ryan's mys
–
terious phone call. They hadn't called back. I got up and checked my messages. There weren't any. I scrolled back through the people who had called me today. I knew them all except one. It was a blocked number and I felt a twinge of annoyance, easily chased away by another sip of wine and the fact that I had once thought about block
–
ing my own number.

The wine made me sleepy and I headed for bed where romping dreams, surrealistic and disquieting, awaited me.