“No. You know I don’t need the money.”
“The notoriety?”
“Do you see a photo credit?”
There was not.
“Surely you know me well enough…”
Jamieson turned back to the photo. It had taken guts to take this shot. Especially in the state of shock Jamieson had found Hy that morning. It took a different kind of guts to pass it on to this rag that called itself a newspaper.
“And you?” Satisfied that Hy was telling the truth, Jamieson shifted her focus to Ian.
“Me? Of course not. I would never betray a trust in this way. I would never use the Internet for such purposes.”
Jamieson could read the offended honesty in his eyes. Then how? Someone must have hacked into police communications. She’d have to pursue it. But not now. Her first duty was to find out who had killed Lord – and she was very far from that. This photo in this unfortunate publication wasn’t her fault, but it wouldn’t look good on her. Not this – nor any of the other things that had happened. She’d wanted the case so much just yesterday. Now she wished her sister had married in some other country, far away from all this.
Even the corpse was a joke in the wig and the bandana, the dashiki and bell-bottoms.
“What’s this Jimi Hendrix obsession about?” Jamieson had been overwhelmed by Lord’s Hendrix collection, which included evidence on his computer that he’d taken the online Purple Haze solo guitar lesson.
Hy and Ian both shrugged.
“He’s a product of the sixties,” said Hy. She was, too, in a different way. Lord had been a precocious youngster when he first discovered hash, heroin, and Hendrix. Hy herself was the end product of a night of drugs and free love on the part of her flower child mother and draft dodger father.
“Awful music,” said Ian, shaking his head. “But not without merit. Hendrix pioneered the explosive possibilities of the guitar.”
Here he goes, thought Hy. He’d been googling it, she knew.
“He combined fuzz, feedback, and controlled distortion to create a new musical form.”
“Controlled?” Jamieson thought of the Hendrix CD she’d heard at Lord’s. She’d preferred the howling of the wind.
“Doesn’t sound controlled to me.” She closed the file and the gruesome photo of Lord disappeared.
“What about the wife?”
“Which wife?” Hy asked, a tiny lift at the corners of her mouth, a suppressed smile.
“I’ll get her,” said Ian, and went home to fetch Suki.
He wondered if she’d be out of the bathroom yet, where he’d left her an hour ago.
She still wasn’t ready when he got there.
“It used to take me ten minutes to put on my face,” Suki said, dabbing it with a cotton ball wet with some substance out of the fourteen jars cluttering Ian’s bathroom. He’d counted them.
“Now that I’m over fif…well, a certain age, it takes longer.”
Ian didn’t know he was supposed to protest her statement.
“Whenever you’re ready.” He left the room.
She stuck her tongue out at him and pouted.
Alyssa got to the Hall first.
She was all floating chiffon, slipping into the room.
A vision, thought Hy.
A vision that stepped over the threshold, retreated a few steps, and did it all again twice more. She was so focused on what she was doing, she didn’t notice Hy staring at her and squinting. Odd. Very odd.
Alyssa moved with barely a sound across the room, so soft was her tread, her blouse and skirt a diaphanous gauze, swathed around a wraithlike body. An ethereal creature, so slight she almost wasn’t there. Jamieson didn’t even look up.
“Name.” It was a command, not a question.
The vision’s voice had no more substance than the rest of her.
“Alyssa.”
The soft voice floated away on the air. She repeated it, holding on to the “s” and letting the final “a” out on a sigh of air.
“Alyssa…Lord.”
Jamieson looked up sharply at the last name.
“Relationship to the deceased?” Again, not a question, but to confirm, officially, what she already knew.
“Wife.”
Jamieson examined the woman in front of her. So this was the other wife. Up close the gauzy vision was gone, and with it, the loveliness. A mouse. A little mouse. That’s what Jamieson saw. Nothing more. Except for the hands encased in old-fashioned white lace gloves, peeking out from the swirl of chiffon around her wrists.
Hy’s eyes were fixed on Alyssa as well.
She had seen her flitting around the lanes, on the capes, down by the shore, but only from a distance. She had no substantial image of the woman, and now, close-up, she could see why. There wasn’t anything substantial about her.
What a difference from Suki of the generous breasts, bountiful Suki with her hearty laugh, loud voice, and healthy appetites. Here was this other wife, this scrap of a woman with a waif’s face, but not a waif’s big appealing eyes. Alyssa’s were small and pig-like, Hy thought.
There appeared to be two Alyssas. The one who had walked into the room had an aura, thought Hy, something otherworldly about her. Up close, nothing to her, nothing at all. No vibrancy, no glow, no visible reason why this woman would have attracted Lord.
A loud peeling laugh at the Hall door.
Suki.
She tumbling in, tickling Ian.
Ian, looking very flustered and unhappy, fended her off, trying to hang on to his dignity.
Serves him right, thought Hy. It was mean-spirited, but she didn’t care.
Jamieson scowled at the interruption. Looked at her watch. Well, they were on time. It was this one who wasn’t scheduled. Still, she was the more interesting at the moment.
What happened next, Jamieson found even more intriguing.
Seeing Alyssa, Suki stopped plaguing Ian. Her hands dropped to her side. She stood up straight, thrusting out her ample breast, and her mouth fell open. But she was silent.
Hearing the silence, following Jamieson’s and Hy’s glance, Alyssa turned around.
When she saw Suki, she squeaked.
Chapter Twenty
The police order that no one should leave The Shores had no effect on Moira’s ordered schedule. Changeover day was changeover day, and Moira’s on-screen calendar told her that’s what it was, whatever the police might think. It was the day to clean the rentals for the last time this season. There was only Ben and Annabelle’s left so she didn’t need to look it up, but looking at the computer calendar pleased her. It not only appealed to her organizational sense, it brought her closer to Ian.
He’d helped her buy the computer when she’d started her cleaning business in the spring. With lots carved up for development and new cottages built or planned, Moira saw an opportunity to supplement the meagre amount her father had left them from his wages as a garbage man. Moira referred to him as a waste management supervisor, the politically correct title he’d held by the time he retired.
She’d used some of her father’s savings to invest in the computer. She told herself it was a business decision, but it had more to do with getting closer to Ian. It had worked even better than she had hoped. They actually took a trip to town together, spent hours going from store to store to find the right unit at the right price. They had lunch.
Lunch. Something Moira had never had with a man.
For the entire half-hour they’d spent in the Zellers restaurant in Charlottetown, Moira had imagined that people must think they were a couple. She’d caught a group of teenagers looking at them and giggling. It had convinced her that it must be obvious she and Ian were together. They must think they were fiancés. Affianced. It had a nice ring to it. She’d covered her bare left hand. She didn’t know the te
ens were laughing at her old maid’s hair.
Ian had paid the bill. That hadn’t been lost on Moira. Ian was tight with his money, so she’d assumed the lunch must mean something to him, too. It had. He was like a cult leader when it came to computers, and loved luring people in and guiding them through the technological tangle. It was an outlet for his desire to teach, now that he was no longer at the high school.
She shut down the computer and dusted off the screen with the special cloth Ian insisted she buy, although the price was outrageous. For a duster! Ian wasn’t tidy in his home, but he was fastidious about his computer. If only he would realize how much they shared.
Then there had been their time setting up her new system, here in the back room by the kitchen, where both her mother and father had spent their last days dying, tended by their dutiful daughters. She looked with satisfaction at her office, and remembered with a flush of pleasure the hours she’d spent here with Ian.
Now his interest seemed to have waned. She could occasionally tempt him here to ask his advice, but she didn’t need it. Moira was a natural. She was proud of solving problems on her own, then detailing for Ian how she’d done it. He showed interest, sometimes admiration, but nothing more had come of it. And now here was that Suki woman.
Moira stood and went into the mud room to collect her cleaning supplies, stopping first to touch up her makeup in the mirror by the door.
The appearance of Suki on the scene had given Moira the gift of bright new looks. And one other satisfaction. Hy couldn’t be happy about Suki.
“You killed my husband.” Alyssa pointed a small accusing finger at Suki.
“Your husband?” Suki hurled back. She advanced a few steps into the room. Ian put a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“Your husband?” Suki repeated, louder this time, shaking Ian off.
Alyssa dropped her hand, but kept her composure.
“Yes, my husband.”
“Past history,” Suki spat out.
“And the future. You knew that. That’s why you killed him. You didn’t want me to have him back.”
“I don’t know why you would want him. Knowing what you must know about him. I assume you do know about him. You were married for years.”
“Yes, years.” There was a coy smile on Alyssa’s face. “Wonderful years.”
“Then why did you divorce him?”
Alyssa didn’t answer. She turned away and pointed at Jamieson, who didn’t like the gesture at all, nor Alyssa’s next words.
“You must arrest her. She killed Lance. I know she did.”
“It doesn’t work that way. I need to take statements, examine evidence…”
“Well, my statement is, she did it. She killed Lance. I know it.”
“Let’s just start with the facts you do know. Where were you on the night of the murder?”
“With Lance,” said Alyssa, oblivious to the shocked looks on the faces of the others in the room.
Moira let herself in the big double doors of Ben and Annabelle’s home, and headed with mop, bucket, and cleaning products straight for the second floor. It was Moira’s opinion that cleaning should start at the top, and all the dirt be sent down to the bottom. She headed down the long paneled hallway to begin with the bathroom, but a flash of red from the bedroom caught her eye. She peeked in.
She had never seen anything like it.
Red foil wrapped around Annabelle’s 1920s Waterfall vanity. Photographs of a fat oriental man, swathed in robes and garlands, national health glasses and a beatific smile on his face. Candles. An incense burner. Little cones of incense in a bowl.
Drugs? She’d never seen drugs, nor incense.
On the floor in front of the vanity was a prayer mat. Moira thought it was a yoga mat, like the ones she’d seen arriving at the Hall earlier in the week.
There were other photographs of other strange-looking men on the dresser, the bedside table, and the window seat.
She was appalled at the transformation of Annabelle’s bedroom.
Heathen, she thought.
Unholy.
She was so undone she never saw the jewellery scattered all over the floor.
She got out as fast as she could. Down the stairs, tumbling as she went, leaving mop and bucket and cleaning supplies behind. Across the front hall, and out the door, forgetting to close it behind her. She jumped into her twenty-year-old Toyota Corolla, sped home and got on the phone.
“Ummmm,” a sleepy voice responded. Annabelle was holding the receiver, her head tucked into Ben’s shoulder.
“Okay. Okay. Calm down.”
Annabelle sat up, and pulled the sheets over her.
Ben stirred.
“Trouble?” His voice was full of sleep, but his hands were exploring her.
Moira. Annabelle mouthed the name to Ben.
Suddenly he didn’t feel so aroused.
“Yes, I’ll go have a look. I don’t suppose it’s really any of our business. Fine. I understand. I’ll do the clean-up, if you want. No…no. Of course your work is fine.” She rolled her eyes at Ben. He had begun to plant wet kisses on her stomach, more to annoy her than to arouse her. But she was aroused.
“Look, Moira, this is not a good time. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” She reached over Ben to put down the phone. He held her there.
“What’s that all about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
His kisses had moved up from her stomach.
“Don’t stop.” She slipped back under the sheets.
Jamieson had a restored sense of command. It was the uniform. And her injury had provided an unexpected benefit. Since the crutches made it hard for her to get around, she’d instructed Murdo to summon the villagers, including Ed Bullock and Leone, to the Hall for questioning. She liked the idea of taking people out of their familiar environments. She thought it unsettled them, made them more vulnerable.
But Alyssa had powers of her own. Powers of deception. As Alyssa spoke, Jamieson watched carefully for signs that she was lying, and she found none. No averted eyes. No twitching. No nervous mannerisms at all. Just calm.
“Lance was always mine. We had reconciled. We were going to re-marry after he broke the news to Suki.”
“Was this part of it?” Jamieson pulled out Lord’s will, the document she had found partly charred in his woodstove. She pointed to the change in it, the addition of Alyssa’s name beside “my wife.”
Alyssa bowed her head, so Jamieson couldn’t see her eyes.
“Well, yes it was,” she said. “It was always meant to be me. Lance just forgot to put in my name, and corrected it.”
“Did he make the correction that night, the night when you visited?”
Alyssa lifted her head. “You mean the night he died?” Her forehead was smooth and unworried. “The night he was murdered?” Her eyes were untroubled. “Yes. It was he who brought it up, showed me the…”
“Change?”
“Not really a change.” A pause. “A correction.” There was satisfaction in her voice. “Fixing a mistake. He never meant to disinherit me, even when we divorced. I belonged to him, and he…,” she paused, her eyes glinting,“…belonged to me. Forever.”
“You have your forever now.” Jamieson’s tone was grim. “So, if you belonged together…”
“To each other. We belonged to each other.”
“Then why did you divorce?”
“A silly misunderstanding,” she said. “I was his true love.”
Whatever that means. Jamieson’s cynicism kicked in, but not without a nagging doubt. True love. Was there such a thing? She felt an ache, more piercing than her damaged ankle, an ache in a place she couldn’t identify. She set it aside, and got back to work.
“His true love – and was he yours?”
A hes
itation. A smile. “Of course.”
Jamieson flapped the document.
“How did it come to be burned?”
Alyssa shrugged. “Ask Suki.”
“Why do you say Suki killed him? Do you have any evidence?”
Alyssa pointed at the will. “That. Because of that.”
“It might just as easily have been you, for the same reason.”
“Do you think I cared about the things?”
“I just hope you didn’t kill him because of this.” Jamieson laid the document back on the table.
Alyssa’s face was blank, unreadable.
“Are you saying I killed him?”
Jamieson didn’t answer. Instead, she tapped a finger on the papers. “It’s not valid, you know.”
“No?”
“No. It would have been automatically revoked by his marriage to Suki – with or without your name in it.”
Did Alyssa pale? It was hard to say, she was so pale anyway.
“Meet me there,” Annabelle had left the message on Hy’s cell phone, telling her all about Moira’s call. Hy had checked her messages when Jamieson kicked her out of the Hall, and went straight to Annabelle’s.
Her friend was knocking on her own door just as Hy arrived. She tried the handle. Unlocked. Annabelle and Hy crept inside.
Moira had missed the changes to the living room, but they didn’t. Gauzy materials in greys and greens, like the fabrics Alyssa wore, were draped, tent-like, over Ben’s big armchair, held up by a sash looped through the plant holder in the ceiling.
“A throne,” said Hy.
“A harem,” said Annabelle.
“A spider’s nest,” said Hy, surprising herself.
“Why do you say that?”
Hy shook her head.
“I don’t know. It just came out. You’re right…it does look like a…a…harem.” She grinned. “But somehow I fancy it as a spider’s nest.”
“Do spiders have nests?
Hy shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask Ian.”
“Now he’s got a nest.” Annabelle blurted out, not thinking.
“You mean a love nest?”
Was Hy’s tone a bit arch?
Mind Over Mussels Page 16
