Innocent Murderer (22 page)

I looked at the hammock, which just cleared one of her two comfy chairs and then soared over the tiny din
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ing table and a standing plant beyond it.

“Just use the chair to get in and you won't get any bro
–
ken bones,” said Martha as she headed into the bathroom.

I stood there, gazing at my accommodation and mar
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velling that Martha didn't seem to feel as though it was an intrusion of any kind. Had the roles been reversed I would have been in quiet conniptions.

The next morning I was standing at the sink washing the little bowl I'd used for some Rice Krispies when Mar
–
tha emerged from her bedroom, all set for a jog, and mumbled good morning. I was suddenly reminded of what stood between us and wondered when she would talk to me.

There was no room for both of us in the kitchen so I sidled out and let her in to check out the contents of the fridge. One night and my back was killing me from my tumultuous sleep in the hammock. I knew I'd have to find other accommodations or make a back specialist a very happy woman. I also couldn't understand why Martha hadn't told me about the job. Maybe because she hadn't decided yet, but still — I was a good friend.

“Cordi?”

Here it comes, I thought. She's taken the job. Why did I always seem to be waiting for people I cared about to take jobs that would take them away from me? Well, okay, Martha would just be down two flights, but Pat
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rick would be across an ocean.

“This is a royal mess up,” she said.

I waited.

“I mean, why would Sally pretend to be someone else?”

I let out a big breath.

“She didn't have anything on the horizon that would require practising for such a part. I mean, maybe it's why she's dead?”

“You mean the part called for her to jump in and res
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cue Terry?” I asked.

Martha shot me a venomous look. “No, of course not, but now we know it wasn't suicide,” — she paused — “although I guess it still could be.” She scratched her chin.

“Could be a murder-suicide. But why would she kill Terry?”

“Arthur and Terry were together a lot. Maybe they were an item and Sally couldn't take it. She killed the woman who had stolen her lover and then killed herself.”

“According to Sandy the police like that version of it.”

“Yeah, nice and neat. Case closed.” I picked up a magazine that had fallen on the floor and put it on the dining room table. “But suppose someone else murdered Terry? In that case it would make more sense to just throw her overboard. Why use the bathtub?”

“It must have been a spur of the moment thing. The murderer had to get rid of the body,” said Martha.

“And then had the bad luck to be interrupted by Sally before they could dump the body into the sea. They were forced to dump the body in the pool. But Sally must have seen them and they drowned her.”

“But what about the suicide note?”

“Right. Okay. To make us believe Sally killed herself and Terry tried to save her and drowned.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't work with the autopsy results and the fresh water.”

“Exactly, which means whoever killed Terry and Sally couldn't have known that the pool was salt water. Why would you, unless you'd actually been in it?” I remem
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bered again how itchy it was.

“But the suicide note was genuine.”

“That's trickier. I don't know how someone could force Sally to write a suicide note.”

“Okay, if we set the suicide note aside for the time being that means we're dealing with a double murder.” We looked at each other. “By the same person?”

We looked at each other some more and then I said, “Okay. Suppose someone else murdered Terry, or mur
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dered both of them, and somehow managed to get Sally to write a suicide note. I figure it makes sense that it was someone from the creative writing group since they all knew her and I can't believe this was some random act.”

“Or Jason.”

“Right. Or Jason. Or Peter. Or even Arthur for that matter.” I remembered how Jason and Terry had fought on the bridge and then the tears — what had they been all about? Sally? Couldn't be. He didn't even know Sally. And Peter and his outburst. Where had that come from?

“Or anybody else she knew who we didn't know she knew, and that maybe she didn't know she knew.”

“Oh for heaven's sake, Martha. We have to start some
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where, so we pick the answer with the highest percentage of possibilities. That leaves the writing group.”

“And Jason.”

“And Peter.”

“And Arthur.”

And the entire rest of the ship, if I wanted to depress myself, which I didn't.

After getting into work I spent an hour up with my animals, checking on the tape recording equipment I was using to record their song. I went back to my office and was sitting at my desk trying to do statistical analysis on some of my data. I heard footsteps in my outer office. I glanced up and there was Duncan, holding a large plastic pet cage and looking around with interest. He'd never been to my office before. I came out to greet him and got a big bear hug.

“Cordi, Cordi. Rescue me from this damn cat.”

The cage was bouncing around, but when I looked through the slats Paulie stopped moving and eyed me calmly. “Well that's a good omen, Cordi! She usually hisses at anybody new.”

“Maybe it's because Cordi and Paulie already know each other,” said Martha as she waltzed in the door and gave Duncan a big hug. “Paulie and Cordi spent a bit of time in the woods together before they found Jake Dia
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mond's body last summer, remember?”

Martha picked up the cage. “I'm going to take her up to the lab where she'll be more comfortable until you can take her home.”

I nodded. Duncan waited until Martha's footsteps were a distant thump. “You've got a real hellion on your hands. I had to stop off in Shawville and get some
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thing from the vet to calm her down. She goes wild in the car.”

Shawville is a little town northwest of Ottawa, on the Quebec side. It has the best little café in the area, where you can get delicious and imaginative meals. I sort of suspected that that was the real reason Duncan had stopped in Shawville.

“I've come to take you out for lunch!”

I looked at the clock: 11:30. Guess I was wrong about Shawville.

“Oh, I know it's early but I simply could not spend any more time with that cat. I know the perfect restaurant.”

I was flattered and suggested we invite Martha along as well, but he shook his head and said, “No, I think I want you all to myself.”

I tidied up a few loose ends and we left the building. I wondered what restaurant he had in mind so I was a little surprised when he walked me three blocks to an outdoor vending cart and said magnanimously, “Have anything you want; it's on me. This guy makes the best damned sausages in the world.” Which meant I was duty bound to order a sausage.

Once we had our drinks, sausages, fries, and nap
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kins I looked around for a place to sit. There wasn't any
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where. We were going to have to eat standing up, which would be a real juggling act. I must say I was surprised at Duncan's choice. He paid for the food, then took my arm and steered me half a block down the street to a three-storey building where he opened the door for me. I was very curious by the time we took the elevator up and walked out into a very nicely appointed sports club, with tables of four and two lined up behind six glass-backed squash courts.

“You'll have to excuse me, my dear, but I'm a real fan of squash and there's a match today that I just can't miss. He led me to a table near the first court and we sat down facing the empty court. We spread out our food and began to eat the incredibly messy but remarkably tasty sausages. I waited for Duncan to make the first con
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versational salvo, wondering about what he might have to tell me. I should have known.

“Have you thought anymore about doing some forensic entomology for me?”

After Jake Diamond was discovered, Duncan had asked me to be a consultant forensic entomologist on any cases where he might need help from someone with a background in entomology. Someone like me. I'd never really answered him because I was torn.

“I wasn't too thrilled with how I reacted to finding Jake Diamond's body,” I said. I'd thrown up and felt like the mass of maggots on his body had somehow jumped to mine. It was a feeling I didn't ever want to have again.

“You get used to it.”

“I don't think so. And I'm not sure I want to.” I remembered the lifeless forms of Sally and Terry. But at least there had been no maggots. That was what really grossed me out — a dead body writhing with maggots.

I shivered.

“What's the difference between setting out dead pigs and porcupines and raccoons for your students, and eye
–
balling human remains?”

“Imagination.”

“I don't understand.”

“I can't imagine myself as a raccoon, but I can imag
–
ine myself being infested with maggots if they're on a human body.”

“I'm not going to take this as a no.”

I marvelled at his optimism, but then, stranger things have happened. You never knew what my life might bring.

Duncan wiped his mouth with his napkin, then scrunched up his sausage wrapper and threw it at the garbage can. To both our surprise it went in.

“Have you phoned Dr. McKinnon yet?” he asked out of the blue.

I watched as two men entered the squash court and Duncan's head swivelled to watch them too. But then he turned back and stared at me.

I was squirming in my chair and said nothing.

“I'll take that as a no,” he said, and we sat in silence watching the two men bash the ball around the court. He tried another tact. “Martha told me about your house fire. I'm really sorry.”

I grunted.

“She says a pot of oil was left on the burner.”

I said nothing.

“She also said you never deep-fry anything.”

I sighed, waiting for him to say I was delusional.

Instead he said, “That's one too many coincidences for me.”

“What happened to my being delusional?”

He sighed. “Martha thinks your attacker could be real and I believe that while you have a problem with depression, I may have jumped the gun on thinking you were delusional. It's just that they are such fantastical stories — likely a series of unfortunate accidents — and knowing your history I thought it was possible you were in the manic phase of bipolar.”

“I'm not bipolar.”

“But you are something, Cordi. Maybe SAD.”

Such an apt acronym for a real mouthful — Seasonal Affective Disorder. The winter blues with a bite.

“I'm managing just fine with my life.” A defensive tone had snuck into my voice.

“But are you managing it? Martha says you're pretty bad in the winter. There are medications that can help you, Cordi, turn the dark to light. Just call the doctor.

See what she has to say. For your own sake. It can't hurt.”

One of the men in the squash court smashed into the back wall and made me jump. I felt trapped sitting there, trapped by Duncan, trapped by myself. I just wanted to get out. Duncan must have seen the panic slowly clos
–
ing over me because he leaned forward and abruptly changed the subject. “I hear you're losing Martha.”

From the frying pan into the fire. He must have seen the confusion on my face because he covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh no. You don't know.”

“I know she's thinking of leaving, but so far she's said nothing to me.” But she had confided in Duncan.

Were they that close? I thought about the ship and all the times I'd come across them together. I thought about how she never invited me back to her cabin. And the penny dropped.

“I'm so sorry, Cordi. I thought you knew.”

I ignored what he said and confronted him. “You and Martha are seeing each other.”

He broke into a broad grin. “We wondered when you'd cotton on.”

“And that's why she confided in you about her job.”

He nodded. “But now I've mucked it up.” He looked at me questioningly.

“Don't worry, Duncan. I'll keep it to myself until she tells me.” I felt drained and wanted to get back to my office and drown myself in work. It was a good remedy for too many stray thoughts.

Back at the office I compiled a list of all the people who could have murdered Terry. I closed my eyes and plonked my finger down on one of them: Elizabeth. No. I didn't want to call her first for some reason. Instead I picked up the phone and asked for directory assistance for Tracey Dunne. As I figured out what my story would be I lis
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tened to the phone ringing, either in an empty house or someone was taking their own sweet time answering.

“Hello?” The voice was breathless, low, male.

“Could I speak to Tracey, please?” I heard the phone clattering on something that sounded like a marble surface.

“Hello?” The voice this time was high, tentative.

I reintroduced myself and was relieved that she remembered who I was. I let her talk about my lecture until it got too embarrassing. I interrupted her and asked if we could meet somewhere, I needed to talk to her about something.

She was immediately wary. When I told her it was about Sally she started making backing away noises and I thought I'd lost her.

“I'm just trying to piece things together for her sister, Sandy.” Silence. “She deserves that much.”

“Sandy's her sister?” She didn't wait for an answer.

Instead she lowered her voice and said, “You can't come here. I'll meet you at Canal Ritz. Do you know that restaurant?”