Innocent Murderer

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “What rumours?” she asked.

  “Take your pick. For example: you just lost a child in childbirth and are suffering from postpartum depression.”

  Sally gave a weak smile and shook her head.

  “How about: your business just went bankrupt and you are in debt over your earlobes?” Where did Martha find these metaphors?

  Sally slowly shook her head.

  “Okay then. You’re a murderer, intent on revenge.”

  Sally suddenly covered her face and shook her head.

  Sandy squeezed her on the shoulder, in an attempt to comfort her, but Sally shook her off.

  Martha caught my eye and knowing what she was about to do I began shaking my head, but she pretended not to see me. “Final scenario: Cordi here accidentally overheard your conversation with Arthur on the plane.

  He broke up with you.”

  Sally began sobbing then and Sandy gave us the hairy eyeball, but we stayed put.

  Eventually Sally choked out, “He said he loved me.”

  The words, though muffled and tear laden, were easy to hear — the universal story of love’s cruel side.

  “I don’t know how I can survive without him,” she said, then whimpered. “I don’t think I can.”

  We were saved from all the normal useless platitudes that accompany such a statement by the sauna door open–ing and two more women coming in. They were as close to Mutt and Jeff in size as any friends I’d ever seen. One was the woman who had tried to muzzle Peter, and had asked the question about how to get away with murder on the boat. She was very thin and at least six feet tall.

  She had short, wavy black hair and a no-nonsense sort of face with an aristocratic air to it.

  The other was the woman who Terry had skewered.

  She was nudging five feet on her tippy toes. She had really frizzy, grey streaked hair and watery grey eyes that matched her complexion. She was a woman of angles — everything sharp and pointy from the top of her head to her nose and chin to the hipbones sticking out through her bathing suit.

  I thought that Sally and Sandy might leave because they had been in longer than we had, but they stayed put. Martha introduced me to Elizabeth Goodal and Tracey Dunne, from the writing group. I was beginning to feel hemmed in, and where, I wondered, were all the men? This was a shared sauna after all, but it would be a hell of a lot nicer without bathing suits. Tracey had taken up a position beside me, making me feel like a giant.

  Elizabeth broke the awkward silence by saying to no one in particular, “I just came from the dining room and Terry was lacing into some poor guy, telling him he was incompetent and the cause of the Zodiac fiasco.” She looked at me with a deprecating smile and said, “Nice work by the way.”

  I opened and closed my return smile in a fraction of a second. “Is Terry always like this?”

  There was a long silence and then Martha asked, “Like what?” As if she didn’t know.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Arrogant, rude, demanding.”

  “Pretty much, yes,” said Elizabeth.

  “Why do you all put up with her?”

  I watched as the group looked at each other and liter–ally closed ranks, even Martha, who said, “She’s a really good teacher and she knows all the right people in the writing world.”

  “You mean she can get your book placed in the hands of the right agent?” I looked at them and they all nodded in unison like a bunch of synchronized swimmers. Is that really how it worked?

  “I’ve never heard of her,” I said, wondering how someone so abrasive could know all the right people.

  “She was in all the newspapers.” It was the first time that Tracey had spoken, even in greeting, and I was struck by the depth of negativity in her voice, like Eeyore in a bathing suit.

  “You mean her trial?”

  “Yes.” Tracey glanced at Elizabeth and Sally as if seeking corroboration.

  “She spent time in jail for a murder she didn’t com–mit. Right?”

  Tracey slowly nodded.

  “What happened to her? How did she get involved?”

  I looked around at the lot of them, but no one seemed to want to answer so I focused my gaze on Martha.

  “Just read the book she wrote about it, Cordi. It’s all in there.”

  “Yeah, but can’t you give me some more detail?”

  Duncan’s version had been sparse to say the least.

  Martha made a big show of letting out her breath.

  “Okay, here goes, but it’s really long and convoluted, and you should read the book to do it justice.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on a boat, Mar–tha. Where am I going to find her book?”

  “Ship, Cordi. As in umiajuaq.” I stared at her and she laughed. “The Inuit distinguish between them too.

  Umiaq is a boat, umiajuaq is a giant boat.” When I didn’t say anything she shrugged. “It’s a ship if it can carry a boat and it does have a library.”

  Yeah, right. As if it’ll be in the ship’s library, I thought.

  “One of the guys in Terry’s adult ed writing class, Michael,” said Martha, as she settled into her storytell–ing role, “was an archaeologist doing research on the Queen Charlottes….”

  The sauna seemed suddenly very quiet, except for a sudden muffled cough somewhere — probably Sally.

  Martha continued, “Terry thought it would be a good idea to tag along and write a book and Michael agreed.”

  “Reluctantly,” said Elizabeth.

  “They were in the western part of the Queen Char–lotte Islands on the west coast, with a group, camping out at the site. It was almost morn …”

  The door to the sauna suddenly flew open and in walked Terry, as naked as the day she was born with a white towel coolly slung over her shoulder.

  I don’t know who met her eyes but the atmosphere must have blazoned out, “We are talking about you,” because she went on the offensive right away.

  “Look at you sissies. All in bathing suits for god’s sake.”

  “I should point out to you,” said Martha, “that this is a coed sauna and nudity is not a bright idea.”

  Terry smirked at Martha. “Scared?”

  “You bet. In case you haven’t noticed I’m not thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed alright. But in case you haven’t noticed, it’s women’s night. Or hadn’t you wondered why there weren’t any men?”

  I think we all felt like taking off our suits then and there, but Terry’s smirk would have just got bigger and more carnivorous, so we didn’t.

  Terry snorted and moved over to take her place by Sally, who had to move over to make way. We were crammed like sardines and I was getting really hot. I couldn’t figure out how on earth Sally and Sandy could stand the sauna for so long. I was only staying out of curiosity. Maybe they were too.

  Terry sat on the top tier and scanned the room, look–ing at each of us in turn, as if we were insect specimens.

  As she got to Sally she suddenly recoiled. “Jesus, Sally.

  What the hell’s the matter with you?” We all looked at Sally who had managed to dry up her tears and was looking pretty normal. Sally frowned and said nothing.

  “Your necklace, girl. For god’s sake, can’t you feel it?”

  Sally looked down at the cross around her neck as if she had never seen it before. She picked it up and quickly dropped it, looking at her fingers in surprise. Sandy moved closer to Sally and amid some ouches and ows got the necklace off and unceremoniously dropped it on the cedar bench. There was a red cross on her skin and no one said anything, but you could feel the question on every lip: “Why didn’t you feel it?” Just showed how far gone she was over Arthur, I figured.

  “Jesus. What kind of a person wears a bloody neck–lace into a sauna?” asked Terry. No one said anything.

  “Talk about dumb.”

  In response Sally looked up in despair and said, “But it’s so hard to be Sally.
” She gulped, looking like she’d swallowed a big hunk of sorrow, or had quietly gone mad.

  “What I mean is it’s hard to be me, hard to be Sally when Arthur is gone. I don’t feel anything.” She looked around at the rest of us and made an effort to smile. “I just thought I’d found the right guy you know?”

  Elizabeth and Tracey exchanged glances and Terry rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord, stop crying over spilt milk.”

  Sally jerked her head up and whispered. “At least with spilt milk you can lap it up, so nothing’s wasted. This is not spilt milk.”

  “Okay, so it’s spilt milk on sand. What’s the difference? Your analogy stinks. If you think you’re unique, think again. We’ve all been through it.” Terry looked around at the rest of us but no one said anything, no one nodded either. It was as if we were isolating her by refusing to agree with what we all knew was the truth. I wondered why.

  Suddenly Sally stood up and lurched for the door. Terry smiled and caught her by the arm. I didn’t see what passed between them because Sandy suddenly stood up and blocked my vision.

  Martha grabbed my arm. Terry looked at Martha. “Is it possible that you have no idea what you look like in that thing?”

  Martha daintily opened the sauna door wider and gracefully walked out, calling over her shoulder, “Is it possible that you have no idea what you just said?”

  As I left I looked back at Terry, who languidly raised her hand as if giving me permission to leave. “I cannot believe that you are going to jump in the pool in your bathing suits,” she said. “Bunch of cowards.”

  “Now for the good part,” Martha said as we trooped out the changing room door in our bathing suits, down the hall, past two cabins, and out the aft door onto a metal catwalk.

  Somewhere along the way we lost Elizabeth and Tracey, but they must have gone into the showers rather than brave the Arctic wind. And the pool. It looked like something you’d see at a really old zoo. It was very small and completely square, enclosed by a seri–ous looking iron railing that came right down to the edge of the water. You certainly couldn’t swim lengths in this kid-sized pool, unless they were vertical. The water was very deep and very clear. I figured they must have used it to contain wild aquatic animals because it looked like a prison. And it sat half a deck below the top observation deck, which meant that anybody could come and watch us frolic in the icy cold waters, mak–ing fools of ourselves.

  As we skittered down the fire escape type stairs the cold Arctic wind was threatening to beat the pool to the punch. By the time we got down there and draped our towels over the railing I was feeling decidedly less hot and hoped the pool wasn’t as cold as it looked.

  Fat chance. The maniacal scream as Martha made the first leap was not reassuring. There are sauna-induced screams and then there are sauna-induced screams. The higher the pitch the greater the shock, and I think her scream would have broken a wineglass. If I had had any doubts they were all dispelled by Sandy’s high-pitched squeal and Sally’s awful, long, drawn out moan. I knew that I should have gone first. And then it was my turn but I had to fight my way to the jumping off spot as every–one raced to get out. Suddenly I stood alone, everyone chattering around me and draped in nice warm towels, feeling the rosy glow you get after you survive the breath stopping cold.

  “Go for it, Cordi,” called Martha. “It’ll fix your stomach for sure.”

  “Yeah, by killing it outright,” I replied.

  They all yelled their encouragement until finally I leapt. The cold nearly knocked me out, sucking away my breath like a siphon. I came up clawing for the ladder and grabbed something soft and warm instead. I looked up anxiously, wanting to get the hell out of the pool and there was Terry looking down at me, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, still without a stitch of clothing on her body.

  “This is how you’re supposed to do it, ladies.” She stood there for a while as if we were both enjoying a dip in the tropical south and then she suddenly let out an unholy bellow and jumped over my head into the water. I scampered out and Martha draped my towel over my shoulders as I began to shiver. We were all watching Terry as she dog-paddled to the ladder, got out, slipped on her slippers and wrapped her towel around herself.

  Something made me look up at the open deck imme–diately above the pool. Arthur was standing there, the fog swirling around him, making him look indistinct and wraithlike. He was dressed in a down jacket and watch cap, resting his arms on the railing, completely still, staring down at Terry. His face was expressionless, like a man staring at something he couldn’t see. His gaze flitted to me for a split second and then he slowly turned away and disappeared. He didn’t seem to care that I had seen him, which was very disquieting. Peeping Toms are usually secretive.

  Chapter Six

  Back in my cabin I opened the porthole and looked out at a swirl of fog and ragged masses of pack ice. What if we got caught in the ice, I wondered. The pack ice was fragmented — huge hunks of it were drifting about — but the winds could blow the separate floes together to form an impenetrable prison of ice. This was the land of Franklin’s ill-fated expedition in search of the Northwest Passage to the Orient. It wouldn’t be quite like Franklin because we had cell phones and GPS and helicopters and lifeboats, but I shuddered at the thought of the power of the ice creeping around the hull and squeezing until the rivets shot out and the water rushed in.

  I craned my neck down the length of the ship. I was really restless. It felt like about 8:00, but the clock by my bed said it was 1:30 in the morning. There’s some–thing about a ship at night — even in the land of the midnight sun — that is ghostlike. The ship lay at anchor near Baffin Island, where we were supposed to go ashore to see if we could find some polar bears to ogle, but we couldn’t because of the pack ice. I wondered when the captain would weigh anchor and move us out. Surely it wasn’t a good idea to stay here? I tried sleeping but it was so hard with the light streaming in the window. A couple of sleepless hours went by.

  Finally I got up, thinking I’d heard a knock on my door, but when I opened it there was no one there. The hallway was empty in both directions. I refrained from looking up, blocking out thoughts of a spider-like man clinging to the ceiling. As I stood there in the hallway the door at the aft end banged shut and then eased open and gathered for another bang. I smiled at my own jumpy nerves and went back into my cabin.

  I still couldn’t sleep so I kicked into my sweats and runners and looked around for my winter jacket. I couldn’t find it so I grabbed my rain jacket and toque and went up on deck, past the eerie and sombre orange hulls of the steel life rafts, and around to the port side where the gangway went down to the sea when an expe–dition was afoot.

  As I reached the railing I was surprised to see that the gangway was lowered. I looked out to sea, the wind buf–feting me. The fog was playing tricks with my mind but then I saw a shadow move out on the ice — a little white dog on white ice in a white fog. LuEllen’s little white dog; it had to be, there wasn’t any other little white dog on board. In fact, there were no other dogs on board.

  I’m a real sucker for animals so I left the observation deck to get a better look. I went down the stairs to the gangway where I stopped and surveyed the situation. The dog was about twenty-five feet from the gangway and was eating away at an unappetizing lump of stuff on the ice, which had moved in on the ship. Why hadn’t Jason moved away? It looked like the cook had just dumped a bunch of garbage there. Was that allowed? There was only a one foot gap between the platform and the pack ice and I realized I couldn’t just leave the dog there. The ship could leave him behind.

  I ran down the gangway, stepped onto the ice, and walked over to the dog, still gorging himself on the wind–fall. As I got closer he glanced up but went right back to eating. I approached slowly, so as not to frighten him, and wondered if he liked strangers. Martha had told me he was never out of LuEllen’s arms. Well, he sure was now. I reached down and grabbed him around his stomach; he was so small my fingers m
et. That’s not all they met. He wanted nothing to do with me and let me know by whip–ping his head around and sinking his teeth into my arm. Predictably, I threw him away from me. He landed in a puddle of ice-cold water and I watched as he struggled to regain his footing. I looked down at my arm and saw a row of indentations in my nice new rain jacket. Who’d have thought such a little dog could act like a pit bull. I looked back at the dog. He was standing now, looking uncertain and very stiff legged.

  As I approached the dog again I heard some piece of machinery, or maybe it was several, come alive in a gentle hum. He’d begun to shiver and this time he let me pick him up without a protest. He was whimpering now, trembling and wet, and I put him inside my jacket where he took up hardly any room, but he felt like a little ice ball next to my heart.

  I stood up and looked over the pack ice, wondering with a shiver what it must have been like to be Franklin, lost in this cruel white desert. That’s when I heard the drums begin to reel in the anchor. I wheeled to look at the ship, my heart and the dog’s wildly beating. I ran back toward the gangway and stared in horror at what I saw, or rather at what I did not see. The gangway was being raised. There was no way up and the pack ice and the ship had drifted away from each other.

  I began to yell, my voice sounding lonely and useless in the eerie dawnish light, the sun sending shafts of golden light across the ship. It must have been about 3:00 a.m.

  When would they notice I was gone? Maybe not until 9:00 a.m. It could be twelve hours before they doubled back along their course and found me — assuming they did find me. My piece of pack ice wasn’t standing still. It was drifting with the current. I weighed my options and eyed the watery distance between myself and the ship.

  Even if I could survive the cold of a five-foot swim, once I got to the ship there was nothing to hold onto.

  I yelled and yelled until my voice was hoarse. At one point I thought I saw someone looking my way, stand–ing partly in shadow near the controls for the gangway.

  I renewed my yelling, but I must have been mistaken because they seemed to melt away. I turned and watched the anchor line going up and thought, “Is this how I’m going to die?”