The Ice Storm Murders

by Virginia Winters

  David clattered down the stairs, rubbed Andy's head and sat at the table with the others. Calmer, Anne thought. He was resilient; he'd cope.

  "Why did you bring them in here, Trevor? They stink," said Brad.

  "Don't you start. And the dogs smell clean from the snow to me. Where did you want them to go, back out into the storm?" said David, rubbing the poodle's ears.

  "I'll take them up with me. There is a fire in the playroom," said Eloise.

  She gathered up the children and called the dogs who climbed the stairs with her, Andy ahead and Max plodding behind.

  "A nice woman," said Trevor.

  "What do you mean nice? That little witch wants the children," said Andrea. "Who knows what she would do to get them?"

  "What are you talking about?" said David. "She's paid to look after them. Perhaps you should take your mother into the living room, Brad."

  "Cold in there."

  "So, build a fire."

  Brad helped Andrea up and dragged her with him through the swinging doors.

  David and Mike bundled into their clothes and went back out to bring in more wood. Trevor left, saying he wanted to check on Carmel.

  "Getting restless," said Thomas.

  "Me, or the natives?"

  "The natives. And I don't like it."

  "You think the killer's not finished?"

  "Yes."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brad settled Andrea onto the sofa near the fireplace. The cold of the room swallowed most of the heat from the flames, but enough reached them to warm them. Andrea shivered and hugged her arms to her body. She was old, he thought. When did she become so old?

  "I want a glass of brandy. "I've got a chill."

  "I'm sure. What were you thinking, trying to run away?"

  He poured two fingers of amber cognac into a snifter and carried it back to her.

  "I had to save him from David. You said—"

  "I didn't. All I said was that we didn't know why he wanted the kids. Now you've done it. We can never adopt Hamish after you endangered him. And while you're still drinking."

  "There's been a murder. I'm frightened, Brad. Who did it? Did you?"

  He jerked back from her and swore. "Now what's got into your gin-soaked brain? No, I didn't kill her. Why would I do that?"

  "I don't drink gin. To take Hamish. Maybe without her, the courts won't—"

  "You are nuts. When we're out of here, you're going to Homewood."

  "Homewood?"

  "A place to dry out."

  "You can't put me away."

  Her voice rose into a scream, and the kitchen door swung open.

  "What's going on?" said Thomas.

  "Nothing," said Brad. "She's a little upset."

  Thomas returned to the kitchen.

  "Who is he?" said Andrea. "Why is he in charge?"

  "Busybodies, the pair of them," said Brad. "I won't put up with them investigating us."

  "Why would—"

  "Because of what you just did."

  Andrea sank back against the cushions. Her face, usually pale, flamed scarlet and she shook.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I don't feel well."

  "Going to be sick?"

  "No, like I have a fever and—

  A coughing spasm interrupted her speech. She leaned forward, her face purpled, and she clutched at Brad's hand. Her blue-tinged fingernails dug into his palm, and he shook her off.

  "I need the doctor."

  "Anne?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll take you upstairs and talk to her."

  Eloise sorted the children's clothes into piles of clean and dirty. The clean piles got smaller every day, she thought. When would they ever go back home? She and the children and David lived in a rambling old house in Toronto's Rosedale neighbourhood, with an expansive garden for the children to play in and central heating. It was home to her, but should she stay? She had planned to hand in her notice when David married Vanessa, but now? Hamish stirred in his crib but lay quietly. Across the room, Olivia sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose.

  "Olivia, use a tissue."

  "My nose is dripping too fast."

  "Viens-ci."

  Olivia trod over to her, trailing her pink security blanket behind her. Eloise touched her forehead. No fever. She helped the little girl blow her nose and crossed to the crib to check on Hamish.

  He lay on his back watching the mobile of farm animals rotate above him. Was he breathing too quickly? A coughing spasm racked his body and he struggled to sit up. She reached for him and held him against her. This one had a fever. She found her thermometer in the children's bathroom, inserted it in his ear. Thirty-nine degrees Celsius. Too high.

  She said to Olivia, "Go find Doctor McPhail for me."

  "Who?"

  "Anne. Go find Anne. Hamish is sick."

  Olivia dashed down the stairs to the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Anne's legs. Anne patted her hair while the little girl gasped out her message.

  "Anne, Anne. Eloise says to come right away. Hamish is sick. His face is all red, and he is breathing like the dogs."

  "I'm coming. Thomas, tell David when he comes in. What do you mean, breathing like the dogs?"

  Olivia opened her mouth and took rapid short breathes.

  "Panting."

  Upstairs, she told Olivia to go back. "Tell Eloise I'm coming. I'm going for my bag."

  In moments, she was kneeling beside the rocking chair. “Did you give him anything for fever?"

  "Not yet."

  Anne took a bottle of children's Advil, poured a dose and fed it to Hamish. She listened to his chest. The sibilant wheeze and rapid breathing told her he likely had bronchiolitis or respiratory syncytial virus. Or worse, influenza. And she had no resources here if he should worsen. "Is he fully immunized?"

  "Yes."

  "What about the flu shot?"

  "Next week."

  "I have a Ventolin puffer. Do you know how to use them?"

  "Yes but he has his own and a mask. He's asthmatic."

  "Okay. Give him two puffs now and then one puff as needed, up to every hour.”

  "Does he need an antibiotic? Does he have pneumonia?"

  Eloise smoothed the child's hair, her eyes filled with worry. "No to both."

  David rushed into the room and knelt beside the rocking chair. "What's wrong with him? Why didn't you call me, Eloise?"

  He held one chubby hand in his long fingers. The child's breathing eased, and he struggled to take off the mask.

  "A little while longer, Hamish. We need to keep the mask on till the medicine's all gone. He was fine when I put him down for his nap. He woke up with this."

  "That's the way it starts," said Anne. "This virus hits fast, but we'll get ahead of it."

  David sank into a chair, Olivia climbed into his lap and patted his face. "Don't worry, Uncle David. Eloise will look after us."

  He looked at Eloise and managed a smile. Her lovely mouth curled upwards in response.

  Anne gathered up her bag and left, closing the door behind her. Thomas met her in the hallway. "Everything okay?"

  "Hamish has bronchiolitis."

  "You're needed to see Andrea. She's pretty bad."

  Brad settled his mother in her room, ignored her pleas for him to stay with her and slammed the connecting door to his single room. Worst room in the house, he thought. The little witch had her own and a private bath while he had to share with his mother. What man wants to share a bathroom with his mother? He stoked the fire and poured himself a scotch from the bottle he'd liberated from the dining room. David wouldn't miss it. His father left him a piss-potful of money but his? Not so much.

  He answered a knock at the door with a snarled who is it?

  "Beth."

  "What the hell do you want?"

  "We have to talk."

  "We've nothing to say to each other."

  "Open the door, Brad."

  He turned the knob and
his back and stalked across the room to where a pot-bellied stove let off a little heat into the room. "What?"

  Beth settled herself into the one comfortable chair, leaving him with the straight-backed oak one at the desk. "Mom."

  "What about her?"

  "She's getting worse with the drinking."

  "She's under a pile of stress here."

  Beth shook her head. "She and the child could have died out there. She has no judgement, no sense when she's drinking, and she's always drinking. And you, filling her head with lies. All because—"

  Her upper lip rose in disgust.

  "All because?"

  "Greed. You want to control Hamish's trust. We know it, David knows it, and it's not going to happen."

  "Carmel—"

  "You don't care about Carmel or the kids, or Mom for that matter."

  He took a step towards her, his fists curled at his side.

  "Don't even think about it. Kevin would take you apart."

  Her eyes swept over him. God, she had cold eyes. He'd never noticed.

  "Did you kill her?"

  "Kill who? Vanessa? Are you nuts? Why would I—"

  "Easier to make a claim for Hamish."

  What was she thinking? What the hell? Who had she said that to?

  "Beth, don't say stuff like that to those two "investigators". Of course, I didn't kill her. I couldn't kill anybody."

  "Did Mom?"

  "What's the matter with you? You know us. We're not killers. I made a stupid mistake and then Mom did."

  She nodded. "Then what are we going to do about Mom and the drinking? She needs to dry out. Can you arrange that when we get out of here?"

  "Perhaps."

  "She's going to kill herself or someone else if you don't."

  She stood, stared down at him for a moment, and stalked out the door.

  Christ. Did the others suspect him? What was he going to do?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Trevor found Carmel in the bathroom attached to their bedroom. She stood naked, pinching the loose skin on her abdomen. "It's worse, Trevor. It's worse. See how much fat there is."

  "No, sweetheart. No. Come away from the mirror. You have no fat. That's skin. Just skin."

  "They'll never let us adopt Hamish if I'm fat. You know that. The social workers hate fat people."

  "They don't. They can't discriminate like that, and you're not fat. You're too thin, and as long as you are dieting, those workers won't give us a baby, any baby."

  He'd never said that to her. The psychiatrist said not to confront her, that they would do it. What the hell. They weren't here, trapped with two crazy women. But Carmel wouldn't be crazy if she had Hamish to care for. He knew she would be back to her old self then.

  "They don't want me to diet?"

  "No, they don't. Will you try to eat? Come and lie down for a little while."

  She let him take her hand and lead her back to the bed. He tucked a quilt around her and piled two blankets on top. Cold ashes filled the fireplace. "I'm going to get some more wood. You sleep, and I'll bring you something to eat after."

  "Yes, after."

  Her words slurred, and she drifted off.

  The only way to help was to adopt Hamish. The only way. What was he going to do?

  Anne rushed along the hallway to Andrea's bedside. "How long have you been sick," she asked.

  "Just an hour or so. I thought I had a chill from being outside."

  Anne counted her respirations at eighteen breaths a minute. High for an adult. Her temperature sat at thirty-nine degrees Celsius. Her mute stare, from weepy blue eyes surrounded by pale flesh, pleaded for help.

  "Help me sit her up."

  She listened to the ageing heart and to the shallow breaths, punctuated by sibilant wheezes and the underneath rattle of fluid bubbling through air. She tucked an extra pillow at Andrea's back and lowered her. Andrea's face paled with the effort, and she closed her eyes.

  "Andrea, you have pneumonia. Have you been diagnosed with chronic lung disease?"

  Her eyelids opened, and she nodded.

  "Do you use puffers?"

  Andrea struggled to force the words out between gasps.

  "Medicine chest."

  In the bathroom, Anne found a bronchodilator and inhaled steroid and took them back to the bedside. From her bag, she took out a vial of medication.

  "Do you have allergies to any antibiotic?"

  She shook her head.

  "I'll give you this in your bottom," Anne said, drawing up the liquid into a syringe.

  Andrea recoiled back into her and cast a frantic glance at Brad.

  "Find Eloise for me," Anne said, "And stay outside for a few minutes."

  Eloise helped her give Andrea a shot of antibiotic and administer the puffers. After, Eloise wiped down Andrea's face and changed her nightgown. Andrea patted her hand. "Good girl. Thank you."

  When her patient's breathing eased, Anne talked to Brad in the hall. "You stay with her for a few hours and call me if she seems worse in between my visits."

  "Eloise—"

  "No, Hamish is also ill, and Eloise must stay with him. I'll come by every hour but call me if there is any change."

  "I will. Foolish old woman. This happened because she went outside."

  "That didn't help, but she was afraid, and that's on you. Watch her."

  Brad's pale face with its bulbous nose crumpled and he cried.

  "Stop that. Your mother needs you. Go back in and try to be cheerful in front of her."

  He passed his hand across his eyes, straightened, and walked back into his mother's room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mike confronted the killer standing in the bow window at one end of the long living room. Outside, the wind howled, and the pines at the edge of the lawn bowed towards the house. The wind direction had shifted again, Mike thought. Would the storm never end? Meanwhile, time to establish the rules with this guy.

  "You know that I'm going to want some money."

  "Don't have any here," the killer said.

  "Why not?"

  "Why would I bring money to a friend's place for a weekend. Free food, free booze, free toys. A wedding, I thought. No need for cash. David's rich as hell."

  "Why did you try to kill him?"

  "Who says I did?"

  "You killed Vanessa."

  "Try and prove it."

  "So that's your game."

  "We'll see what the cops have to say to your so-called evidence."

  "You thought you hid your clothes, but you didn't, and now your shirt and your ass are mine."

  The killer stalked down the room and through the door to the kitchen, his back stiff.

  That went okay, thought Mike. The guy was scared but not too scared.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the kitchen, Anne poured boiling water into the fat brown teapot and set her phone's timer for four minutes. Thomas placed cups and a package of ginger cookies on the table.

  "A few minutes of peace. Can we talk?"

  "About us? Not yet, Thomas. We have so much else. I'm worried about Andrea. She's older, and she's an alcoholic. That may mean her immune system is compromised. She got ill so quickly."

  "So did Hamish."

  "That's normal for his age, and he's not too bad. I only hope he doesn't have influenza A or B and that he has enough left in his puffers. Is there any other way we can send a message out of here? Could someone take a snowmobile?"

  "Too much risk, I think. Snow's heavy and there's a thick layer of ice underneath it. A machine would get stuck or go across water without knowing it. The ice is not deep enough in the creeks and rivers to hold it up."

  Anne passed a weary hand across her eyes.

  "You've not been sleeping well. Have I put too much pressure on you?"

  He reached for her hand across the table. How loving he is, she thought. And how foolish she was. She opened her mouth to speak when Trevor crashed through the door to the kitchen.
r />   "What's up?" said Thomas.

  Trevor leaned on the table. "Between my wife and all this other drama and a murder, how can you ask what's up? Can you visit Carmel?" he said, turning to Anne.

  "Why?"

  "She can't or won't leave her bed. I...it might be my fault. I told her they wouldn't let us adopt a baby as long as she was not eating."

  "What did her psychiatrist advise?"

  "That I shouldn't challenge her. But nothing is working. Nothing."

  Anne's gaze met Thomas's. "I'll come up."

  In Carmel's room, thick green drapes blocked the faint winter light, leaving a pool of yellow splashing over the bedside table from a frivolous French lamp. Carmel lay flat on her back, her eyes focussed on the ceiling. Restless fingers plucked at the bedspread. Anne opened the drapes and raised the window, releasing a rush of fresh winter air into the room.

  Carmel's querulous voice reached her. "Why did you do that?"

  "The air was stale and lying in the dark does you no good."

  "Who—"

  "Anne. Trevor asked me to come to you—"

  "Don't you think you should keep her calm?" Trevor asked.

  "I think you should wait outside."

  "But—"

  "She needs privacy to speak to a doctor."

  "I always—"

  "Not this time."

  He hesitated but left, and Anne drew a chair up to the bed. “Do you want me to help you, Carmel?"

  Carmel's face, filled with despair and something else—anger, perhaps—swung towards her. Her sunken eyes, ringed with dark circles, flashed with a sudden brilliance but faded into despair. "Can you find me a baby? No, I thought so. Doctors never help."

  "You can have your own baby if you recover from this anorexia."

  "I'm too fat. That's why I can't get pregnant."

  The disordered thinking of those who suffered from this awful illness appalled Anne. How could she reach Carmel and help her? "That's what you think, but I imagine your gynaecologist said the opposite."

  "Maybe."

  "Trevor wanted to stay here. Why?"

  "He loves me and wants the best for me."