“A pot of oil?” Martha looked confused.
“There was a charred pot on the stove, which was on. They figure the fire started there and then spread, although they won’t be sure until they do a proper inves–tigation.”“A pot of oil? Why would you have a pot of oil on the stove?”
“To make deep-fried stuff.”
“But you don’t make deep-fried stuff.”
“I know.”
“What am I missing here, Cordi?”
I told her then about the phone call and the empty smoke detector. When I was done she was quiet.
“I think he’s back, Martha.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know for sure it was a pot of oil on the stove. In the heat of the moment the firemen just suggested it. You must have left the stove on by mis–take. Maybe left a wooden spoon on the burner.”
I felt discouraged. Once again my word against the evidence. I walked past Martha into my office.
“But just suppose you are right,” said Martha and I popped my head back out. “I’m not saying you are, mind you, but if you are you’re in danger. Where were you going to stay tonight?”
“At Ryan’s.”
“That’s the first place they’ll look. Anywhere else?” she asked.
I thought a bit and then said, “Well, I could stay at Patrick’s. He’s in London, but I have a key.”
“Uh uh,” she said. “You can’t be alone.”
“I can’t sleep on the streets either,” I quipped and popped my head back into my office.
“Come stay with me.”
I walked back out and looked at her.
“My place isn’t big, but there is room — just.”
My knee jerk reaction was to say no, but then I reconsidered. I couldn’t endanger Rose and the kids by staying there and I didn’t relish the thought of living alone in Patrick’s apartment with all the memories, per–haps with no more to come.
I said yes.
I was gazing out my office window when I suddenly remembered Paulie. I put a phone call through to Dun–can and was relieved to get his answering machine. Then I felt guilty about being relieved. I told him what had happened and that I wouldn’t be able to pick Paulie up for a few more days.
I spent the afternoon working on the logistics of a possible new experiment with cricket song; how the males stake out their little territories waiting for the females to answer their call. When I couldn’t get my head around it I changed tacks and scanned the phone book looking for a private investigator. The one with the little eye looking out of a keyhole hooked me. I dialed and was put through to Derek. He seemed professional enough so I asked him if he could dig up all the information on the Terry Spen–cer case. I wanted to know more about it besides what I’d read in her book. There might be some clue in her past that could shed light on the deaths of these two women. I was encouraged that Derek had heard about the case and I hung up feeling satisfied that I was doing something to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
Martha’s incredibly sensitive hearing had her stand–ing in my doorway as soon as I hung up. “What was that all about?”
“I’ve read Terry’s book, but it’s all from her angle and she uses pseudonyms. I realized I needed an unbiased view of things.”
“You think that trial has something to do with her murder?”
“Could be.”
I liked that Martha was talking murder. It made it seem that she was coming around to my viewpoint. Of course, the police thought it was murder too.
At 6:00 Martha poked her head around the corner.
“I’m about to leave. If you want you can follow me.”
I told her about Sandy so she scribbled her address down on a sheet of paper and left.
Half an hour later she was back. “My car won’t start. Can I get a drive back with you and deal with it tomorrow?”
“If you don’t mind going to Manotick first.”
Half an hour later we were wending our way to Manotick, and I filled Martha in on everything Sandy had told me at our first meeting. We arrived at the front door just as it opened and four little kids came running out, the last one toddling. They stopped in surprise when they saw us and the biggest little boy ran back inside followed by all the rest. We could hear him yelling, “Mummy, it’s not Daddy.”
Shortly after, as we politely waited by the open door, Sandy appeared.
After Martha and Sandy got reacquainted, Sandy led us to the living room and sat down. Before the kids could interrupt I asked gently, “Did anybody else know that Sally was playing a part?”
“Nobody else knew except …” she paused as one of the kids yelped.
“Except?”
“Arthur.”
“Arthur?” I asked, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that.
“Yeah, they really were going out together until he dumped her on the plane. I can’t believe he did that. Poor Sally. Such a cruel place to say goodbye. And he had the nerve to come to her funeral all teary eyed.”
“I don’t understand. They were going out together but they didn’t share a cabin?”
“Sure they did, but Sally moved in with me when they broke up, so it was lucky she’d invited me along or she’d have had to stay with him.”
“How long had they been together?”
“A year maybe.”
“Was there anything you noticed that was different about Sally on that trip?”
“You mean, besides her acting like a shy recluse?”
I nodded.
Sandy sighed. “Yes. But you have to understand that nobody but a sister would have picked up on it.”
I nodded my encouragement.
“I told you she was holding something back from me.
I could sense it.” She looked from me to Martha and asked, “Do you have sisters?”
When we both shook our heads she sighed again.
“Sally was guarded, as if she was keeping a big secret. She used to act that way whenever she was hiding something, even as an adult. She was lousy at keeping things to her–self — usually spilled everything within a day — but when she didn’t, when the secret was so important it had to be kept, she was guarded. That’s what I saw. That, and some–thing else that puzzled me.”
“What was that?”
“Fear.”
Just then the front door banged open and the chil–dren, in unison, charged the front door, all of them yelling, “Daddy!” or at least all of them who could talk and walk.
I stared, mesmerized, at the tangle of twenty-eight little arms and legs all reaching up to a tall dark haired man who was smiling at his children. No daycare.
Martha pulled me out of my trance by saying, “Did Sally live near you?”
Sandy was smiling at her family but turned and nodded. “Yes.”
“Could we see her place?”
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“I suppose that would be okay. The police are fin–ished with it. I’ll just get my purse and we can go now. You might as well follow me.”
We followed Sally back through downtown Manotick, and turned off on a side road near the centre of town. Sally pulled her car up in a weed infested, crumbling asphalt parking lot that had seen better days. It seemed to be attached to a utilitarian two-storey building, the first floor of which was a tool depot. I could see two rust-red fire escapes climbing up the side of the wall run–ning along beside the parking lot. Sandy led us to the one closest to the street. When she got to the top she fumbled for the keys and then we were in. It was hot and stuffy, and very messy. Sandy went over and pulled the curtains and opened a window, then turned to look at the room.
“Sally would have hated this. She was so neat. Why did the police have to be so boisterous about their search?”
She ran a hand along a sofa and then pushed it sev–eral inches westward to fit into the marks its feet had left from standing so long in one place. She sat down in an old corduroy chair with most of the corduroy gone.
/> The shabbiness of the place stood in sharp contrast to Sandy’s. I could see Martha poking about, trying not to look like a snoop and failing miserably.
I went over to the phone and flipped through the pages of an address book, but nothing stood out. It was difficult for anything to stand out since I didn’t know what I was looking for.
On impulse I turned to Sandy and asked her if she had the addresses of the writing group. She shook her head, but Martha piped up, “Cordi, don’t you ever read anything? The expedition group sent us each a ship’s log last week and everybody’s particulars are in it. Besides, I’m in the writing group, remember?”
Jesus. How could I have forgotten? Something dawned on me. “Was Sally acting her part at all the writ–ing lectures?”
“Yeah, she was. Pretty good actor too. I never cot–toned on,” said Martha. So the acting had preceded the ship and she’d stayed in role. I asked Sandy if she had the name of Sally’s agent.
“Oh sure. She’s great. I’ve got it right here on my PalmPilot. She’s actually a friend of mine.”
She tapped away at her Palm and came up with the number. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. “What’s her name?” I asked quickly, as someone picked up.
“Carol Stimpson.”
When I got through to Carol I introduced myself and told her I wanted to talk to her about Sally. She didn’t sound too enthusiastic until I told her I had Sandy in the room with me. I handed the phone over and the two talked for a while about who I was and then Sandy handed the phone back to me. “Sandy tells me Sally was working on a role as a shy reclusive woman.”
Carol said nothing.
“She said she had a recall audition for the part when she got back from the ship.”
“Impossible,” said Carol. “There was no recall audi–tion.”“How do you know?”
“Because I know all the auditions she takes. I’m her sole agent.”
“So what you’re saying is …”
“There was no audition. There was no shy, reclusive woman. Sally was having a hard time getting any role at all.”
“Could she have been operating on her own?”
“Not without breaking her contract with me.”
We rang off and I told Sandy and Martha what she had said.
“I knew she was hiding something,” said Sandy. “Stu–pid lovable fool. What was she hiding?”
What indeed.
Chapter Seventeen
I could not believe that I had forgotten that Martha was part of the writing group. I turned to look at her sitting beside me in the car.
“Was Sally putting on a front the whole time?” I asked again.
“You mean acting shy and timid? Yeah, I never saw her as anything but. I can’t imagine how hard that would be to play your exact opposite three hours a week and then on the ship for eighteen hours a day. It would be so easy to forget, especially if you were outgoing.”
“So why the hell would she do that? There was no audition. What was she up to?”
Martha grunted and shook her head. “Maybe she was just keeping her hand in.”
“How did the writing group work?” I asked, chang–ing course.
She swivelled in her seat to look at me. “We met every Thursday night from seven to ten.”
“How many were you?”
“Twenty-four, I think. Only eight of us went on the trip Terry had advertised. I guess the others had business or couldn’t afford it.”
“Was the trip part of the course?”
“Yes and no. It was advertised months in advance, probably as an enticement for the course, but of course the trip was very expensive.”
“And Sally, who doesn’t appear to be very wealthy, pays for herself, offers to pay for her sister, and then plays at being someone else. It doesn’t make sense.”
My cell phone went off then. Rose. If I hurried I could see Ryan for a few minutes before visiting hours were over. I dropped Martha at the bus stop and headed to Gatineau. My stomach was in knots because I didn’t know what to expect.
He was lying in bed with his hands spread out on the sheets and Rose sitting beside him. When he saw me he rallied up a little smile and I smiled back. He had no ban–dages, so he hadn’t been burned. It had been the smoke. We sat and talked for about five minutes, or at least I talked and he listened. His voice was pretty much shot. But when the nurse came in to tell us we had to leave he pulled me down to ear level and whispered, “I saw a pot on the stove, all in flames.”
I stood back and searched his face. Was he blam–ing me?
He pulled me down again. “I heard the firemen say it was full of oil. You never deep-fry.”
I stood up.
He mouthed, “What have you got yourself into this time?”
We know each other so well, my brother and I. I knew he was worried about me, but he was worried about Rose too.
“I’ll be staying at Martha’s for awhile,” I said, and thought I saw the relief in his face. I gave him a hug, waved to Rose, and left them alone.
I’d never been to Martha’s apartment before, but it turned out to be a twenty-four-storey affair, complete with gym and pool, and a doorman who directed me to apartment 1202. I knocked on the door and Mar–tha opened it almost instantly. She was all sweaty and looked like she’d just run the marathon. I’d never seen her sweaty.
“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know,” she said. But then immediately added, “I needed groceries so I walked to the store. How’s Ryan?”
We had walked down a miniature hallway and entered a room that doubled as a living and dining room. If you blinked you’d miss the kitchen. Nervously I looked around for where I might be staying, but all I saw was one small bedroom with a single bed and the bathroom.
Martha must have been watching my face because she said, “Don’t worry, Cordi. I’ve got it all worked out.”
And indeed she had. Sort of. I watched in amaze–ment as she unrolled some gaily coloured material, took hold of the ring at one end and hooked it over a ring in the doorway that held one of those spider plants that was spilling little spiders all over the place. She went over and retrieved the second ring, and hung it from another hook just outside the bathroom. She stood back with a pleased expression on her face and waved at the ham–mock. “Welcome to my guestroom.”
I looked at the hammock, which just cleared one of her two comfy chairs and then soared over the tiny din–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–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–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 practisin
g 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–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–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–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.”
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