Innocent Murderer

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “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.

  I’m not sure what woke me, but it woke me with such suddenness that for a moment I was disoriented. Some–thing wasn’t right. I looked out the window and against the light of the moon saw swirls of smoke sending their tendrils across my room. I was out of bed in a flash, the smoke already beginning to sting my nostrils. I ran out through my open door into the hall where the smoke was thicker. I looked down the stairs and saw the blurred lights of flames dancing like maniacs on my living room wall.

  The kitchen. It was in the kitchen. I raced downstairs, but the smoke got thicker as I ran. I stood on the land–ing and watched as a plume of black smoke whooshed out of the kitchen. That’s when I ran. I stumbled up the stairs, holding my pajama top against my nose. Some of the killer black smoke had already reached the hallway.

  I looked up at the smoke detector, wondering why it hadn’t gone off. The batteries were brand new — I’d struggled on the stepladder on my tippy toes to put the damn things in so I knew it was working. Not anymore — the plastic protector was dangling from the ceiling and I felt my mind shudder. The battery was gone, which could mean only one thing: He was back. Or was it a she?

  I ran back into my bedroom and shut the door. My cell phone was somewhere and I flung clothes and bags everywhere until I found it. I dialed Ryan because I knew 911 would need help finding me on a rural route. I was on a cell phone and I’d have no time to talk.

  His sleepy voice came over the phone as the black smoke entered my bedroom.

  “Ryan! My house is on fire. Call 911.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer, couldn’t wait. I ran to my window and hauled up on it but it wouldn’t budge.

  I checked the latches to make sure it was unlocked and tried again. Nothing. I looked around the room for something to break the window with and spied my favourite oak chair — I really loved that chair. I looked for something else but there was nothing, so I picked it up, held it over my head, and advanced on the window, coughing like crazy. I heaved the chair at the window and nothing happened. They made it look so easy in the movies. It took two tries to break the heavy glass and then another couple to make a hole big enough for me to get out. I was coughing hard now as I crawled out the window onto the roof of the porch. I skidded to the edge of the roof and looked down. A twenty-foot jump onto the steeply sloping part of my front lawn. Ankle break–ing country.

  “Cordi!” I heard Ryan screaming my name and looked over and saw him racing around from the kitchen door to the front door.

  “Ryan, NO! I’m up here,” I screamed, but he didn’t hear me and he disappeared under the porch roof.

  Two fire trucks finally arrived and I jumped up and down and waved my arms. At any other time I would have thought it pretty impressive for the trucks to arrive so fast, since we live in the country, but all I could think of was why didn’t you get here sooner? One of the fire–men saw me and I watched as he ran around, released a ladder, and hurried over to me.

  I looked back. Behind me the smoke was billowing out the window, but all I could think of was Ryan. I stood helpless on that roof waiting for the firemen to come. When they did I yelled, “My brother! He’s inside!”

  I could see two firemen hauling out the hose and aiming it through the kitchen window, while another two firemen went in through the front door with their oxygen masks and tanks. A fifth fireman rescued me on the ladder.

  I sat on
my front lawn, a blanket over my shoulders, watching the front door until I heard a woman’s voice. “Cordi? Where’s Cordi?” It was Rose. I could see a fire–man pointing me out to her and she came running over.

  “Oh my god, Cordi. Are you all right? Ryan came to help.”

  “Rose, look, Ryan is …”

  Before I could finish my sentence two blackened fire–men burst out the front door carrying my unrecogniz–able soot soaked brother between them. I felt like I was going to be sick. He was limp. No movement. No move–ment at all.

  Confused, Rose had turned to look at the doorway as I stood up. “Dear god, Cordi. Who is it?” she cried.

  I looked at her in total terror. “Ryan,” I said. “It’s Ryan.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I watched as they loaded Ryan into the ambulance and Rose got in beside him, calling out last minute instruc–tions for their children. All I wanted to do was get in that ambulance too. But of course I didn’t.

  The firemen and the police questioned me briefly. A burner on the stove had been left on and there was a charred pot on it. Had I left a burner on? Something sim–mering? Like a pot of oil perhaps? Why had I taken the battery out of the smoke detector? I was too traumatized to answer.

  When they were done I started back down the farm road to my brother’s house, dragging my eyes away from my own tattered home, the white doors and win–dows now soot grey. I could just see the blackened frame of the kitchen door and the firemen making double sure the fire was out.

  I should have felt glad that I still had my home, damaged but still standing. Instead I was angry and frightened; for Ryan, for myself. The dangling plas–tic cover and the empty space where I had put a bat–tery haunted me. And the strange phone call. Suddenly it made sense. Someone had wanted to be sure I would be home tonight. Were they just trying to scare me or did they want me dead? Was it the same person as on the ship? If they did want me dead they were really bad at it. Except that each incident easily could have ended in my death. So what was it? Why were they trying to scare me? I’d only just started doing some snooping. Did they know I might be helping Sandy?

  I trudged down the darkness of the pockmarked road to the farmhouse. There was a light on in every room of the house, but that’s not what I saw. Sitting on the porch, all by herself, grasping her knees and look–ing vulnerable and forlorn, was four-year-old Annie. As soon as she saw me she got uncertainly to her feet and hesitated on the stoop as if about to run away, then she started backing up. Suddenly I realized what she must be seeing — a soot-covered figure, wrapped in a dark blan–ket, looking like some evil creature come for her from out of the darkness of the night.

  I called out gently, “Annie, it’s me — Cordi.”

  She stopped then, still not sure. “Cordi?” she asked, hesitantly.

  “Yes.”

  She ran down the porch and threw her arms around me. A string of rushed words came out of her mouth. “The phone rang and I woke up, and Daddy said it was you and your house was on fire and he had to go and help, and then there were all kinds of siren sounds and an ambulance, and then Mac came to look after us and Mummy went to help Daddy, and I’m scared.”

  I waved at Mac, our ageless farmhand, who had come out onto the porch. Annie was latched onto me like a limpet. I tried to soothe her as best I could as I braced myself for the inevitable questions.

  “Where’re Daddy and Mummy?” she asked, gazing up at me.

  I bent down and lifted her into my arms and started up the porch stairs. “Daddy had to go to the hospital for a while,” I said, looking at Mac.

  “Did Daddy get hurt?” She looked as though she was going to cry.

  “Yes. But Mummy has gone with him to look after him.”

  She seemed to rally at that. “You’re really dirty, Cordi.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I need a bath,” I said, wishing that was all I needed.

  I got Annie back into bed and then went and checked on Davy. I was grateful that he’d slept through the whole thing. Mac was pretty upset when I told him Ryan had been hurt, but there was nothing either of us could do, so he gave me a hug and left.

  I had a shower and scrubbed the soot from my body, borrowed some of Rose’s clothes, and then phoned her. There was no word yet and she promised to phone as soon as there was. God, how I wanted to be there with her.

  The phone call came while it was still dark, while imagi–nations were at their peak. I was afraid to answer the phone, afraid of the news at the other end. But then I remembered Annie being awakened by the phone. I snatched it up and gripped it so hard my nails dug into my palms.

  “Cordi, he’s going to be okay.”

  Every muscle in my body suddenly went slack, like an elastic band that had been stretched and suddenly let go.

  “He inhaled a lot of that black gunk and they had to put a tube down his throat to keep his airway from clos–ing in case there was swelling.

  We didn’t talk long. She told me her mother was coming at 8:00 to look after the kids and I thanked her for thinking of that. Then I rang off and stared into the night until it softened into dawn. I called Rose again at about 7:30, but she said there was no change.

  I told her I’d be down as soon as her mother came but she said, “No point. He’s not allowed visitors.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Not even me, Cordi,” she said. Was I that trans–parent?When Rose’s mother came I didn’t stick around. I practically ran along the road to my house, phoning Pat–rick as I hustled along. But I don’t think his cell phone was working and I didn’t leave a message because what would I say? I hung up as I came around the corner — then stopped and stared.

  The logs were darker now, parts of the white porch were streaked with soot and so were one or two win–dows. Except for the change in colour scheme, the house looked pretty much the same. All the hoses that had snaked across the lawn and all the trucks were gone now.

  A house is such a material thing. Just logs and plaster and glass, just a container for people who make it more than what it really is.

  I walked around the whole house looking for struc–tural damage. I didn’t see any, except for the kitchen, which was a charred mess. And the little attached shed out back. It was gone and so were all the wonderful things in it. My two canoes, my kayak, my woodworking tools, my lawnmower — all gone.

  When I finally picked my way inside the house it reeked of smoke and there was soot everywhere. I won–dered how much of this damage would be covered by my insurance policy. I covered my nose with Rose’s T-shirt, walked in the front door, and was initially surprised by all the damage in areas where the fire hadn’t reached.

  Everything was soaked and covered in soot. Some of my glass animal figurines were smashed on the floor, fur–niture was shifted around. I tried to imagine what it would have been like in here last night after I left. Black, dark, with firemen carrying hoses in a house they did not know trying to find a man. My brother. And that’s when the anger really surged through me. That’s when Sandy got an ally.

  I phoned her on my hands-free cell phone as I was driving in to work two hours later. Sandy answered on the eighth ring and I could hear all the kids yelling and laughing in the background. I didn’t know how she did it, but at least the ones who weren’t her own went home every day and she had a chance to recuperate.

  I told her I’d help her, but not why. We arranged to meet at her house at 7:30, a bit late, but maybe that’s when the last kid got picked up. Then I called my insur–ance company and they told me to put in a claim for damages and have a copy of the police report.

  “I hope you didn’t lose anything that is excluded from your policy,” the agent said, just as I was about to disconnect. “Like an ATV for instance. You may have a rider on ATVs, boats, stuff like that. I’ll check.”

  I disconnected and gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. The insurance company wasn’t going to rec–ognize ANY of my claim, I just knew it. The police rep
ort would indicate my smoke detectors were not working, or some other little loophole written in min–iscule print on the backside of my policy would void it because I’d done something wrong. If I told the police why the fire had happened to me they would think I was nuts. Plus everyone thought it was my pot of oil on the stove. I had no proof, just like all the other times. I worried about what to do about my insurance and the police the rest of the way into work, where I arrived frazzled, worried, and scared. In the parking lot I raised Rose, but she said nothing had changed and she’d call.

  I almost took the elevator because I was feeling so lousy. The five flights didn’t help much. As I was walk–ing down the hall I suddenly realized I had forgotten to phone Martha and let her know about the fire. Had I missed any appointments? I turned into my office and

  Martha was seated at her desk, doodling on her pad and staring into space, the phone cradled by one ear.

  She glanced up when she heard my footfall and said, “I’ve been on hold for ten minutes.” Then she looked at me again. “Lord, Cordi. What train ran over you?”

  “Ryan’s in hospital. They say he’s going to be okay.”

  Martha hung up. “What happened?”

  “My house burned down.”

  Martha brought her hand to her mouth. “All of it?”

  “Well, no, just the kitchen. But the house is unlivable.”

  “And Ryan?”

  “He tried to save me. Thought I was still inside.”

  Martha got up and gave me a big hug. “Do they know how it happened?”

  “They suspect I left a pot of oil on the stove.”