Innocent Murderer

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “Martha says about eight weeks.”

  “I presume she was acting her part at all the writing lessons and not just on board the ship?”

  “Yes. Otherwise the writing group would have thought she had a split personality, shy and meek on the boat, outgoing and vivacious in Ottawa.”

  “Does it take that long to be recalled for an audition?

  Eight weeks?”

  I stared at Patrick and tried not to look shocked. I was annoyed that I hadn’t seen it. How had I missed it? Arthur had even alluded to it. I nodded slowly, pretend–ing to look wise. “She lied to him. It wasn’t a recall audi–tion at all,” I finally said.

  “Either that, or he lied to you.”

  Lots of people seemed to be lying. I chewed that over for a minute and then told him about what Jason had told me.

  “So Owen is a ghostwriter. How odd is that?” he said.

  “It’s what he said about Michael not being the only one that sent shivers down my spine.”

  “Did he mean she’s killed others in her sleep?”

  “No. He didn’t say that, but he intimated that there were others.”

  “Did he offer any proof?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “So maybe he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “But where would he come up with that kind of state–ment? It wouldn’t just crop up out of thin air. Something had to trigger it.”

  “Maybe he just couldn’t stand Terry and is spreading malicious gossip.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a while, eating our fish and chips. I took a sip of the Keith’s beer I’d ordered and broke the silence. “There’s something weird about the whole thing.”

  Patrick raised his marvelous eyebrows at me.

  “Four people on that ship had something to do with Terry’s trial. Owen is her brother, LuEllen was a juror until her timely accident, and Peter found Michael.”

  “That’s only three.”

  “Terry.”

  “Too much of a coincidence?”

  “Maybe not. Terry and Owen travelled everywhere together, and Peter had been hired to work on the ship as a naturalist ornithologist, so that just leaves the coincidence of LuEllen ending up on the same ship as the others.”

  “Said that way, it’s feasible.”

  “But they all have good reasons for wanting Terry dead. She murdered Peter’s best friend. LuEllen nearly died, maybe because she was on the jury; she thinks someone pushed her. And Owen? Jason says they were fighting over their parents’ estate, although Owen says he stood to gain nothing from Terry’s death, so some–one’s lying.”

  “Where does Jason fit into all this?”

  “He’s colour-blind and Terry knew.”

  Patrick choked on a piece of fish.

  “Colour-blind? Shit. He could be lying over the par–ents’ estate to take the heat off him.”

  “But why lie? It’s so easy to check that,” I said, think–ing of Derek.

  “Well, one of them is lying,” said Patrick.

  I made a mental note to ask Derek.

  “And then there’s Elizabeth.” I sighed. “She has no connection to the trial as far as I can find, but she’s a flight instructor and she has epilepsy. And Terry might have known.”

  “So any of them could have done it?”

  “Looks that way.”

  We lapsed into silence and when I next looked up he was looking at me with such sadness in his eyes. I could sense a farewell coming. “I’m sorry, Cordi. I have to take the job. They offered it to me today and it’s a big step up for me. I leave a week Thursday.” He looked as miserable as I felt. He reached out and took my hand.

  I didn’t trust my voice so I just nodded. It was a big step up for him.

  “You can come over and visit and I’ll come back as often as I can.”

  “For how long?”

  “For how long what?”

  “For how long could we keep that up?”

  We looked at each other and I wondered how two people in love can unintentionally hurt each other so much.

  “Come with me then,” he said softly.

  “My job,” I said. His job. Our jobs. It didn’t seem right that a job could ever dent something as amazing as love. But it could. And it did.

  The week passed quickly despite my battered heart. I was skimming through the newspapers again looking for something, anything at all, to distract me when I came across the article about Michael and his wife. I picked up the phone and called Derek. His secretary put me on hold for a long time and I almost hung up.

  When he finally picked up the phone and heard who was calling we chit-chatted for a bit, then I asked him to look into Owen and the fight over the family estate.

  “Don’t need to,” he said. “There was mention of it at the time Terry died. There was no fight that I know of. Just the usual red tape that goes along with family inheritances — probating the will, paying off debts, that sort of thing.”

  “Did Terry leave it all to her brother?”

  “I’d have to look into that, but if there was no will and he’s her only relative it would all go to him.”

  I thanked him and then said, “Did you find out any–thing about Michael Grady’s wife, Beth Grady?”

  “You mean Elizabeth Goodal?”

  My heart stopped for a moment.

  “You still there?” Derek asked.

  I managed to get out the words “Go on,” as my mind whirled around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.

  The card on the plane, signed by M — Michael.

  “She wasn’t with him on the trip when he died. She kept a very low profile at the trial — as in zero. She didn’t attend. Wouldn’t talk to the press. Just holed up in her house until it was all over. Then she took back her maiden name and moved to a small condo in down–town Ottawa.”

  I rang off and hunted around for Elizabeth’s number.

  She didn’t answer, but someone else did; she told me to just drop on by when she heard I was a friend of Eliza–beth’s. I struggled over whether I should take this strang–er’s advice and just show up. Elizabeth had come across as being quite a formal kind of person and she was likely to be very chilly over the fact that I had informed the authorities about her epilepsy. But how could I not? I still felt badly — it was her career after all.

  It didn’t take too long for me to make up my mind. Too many unanswered questions and my curiosity was killing me. Now five people aboard that ship had some–thing to do with Michael and Terry.

  Elizabeth lived in a condo right on Prince Arthur, where it overlooked the canal. Her place was in the base–ment, next to the laundry room, and I wondered how she had afforded the cruise if this is where she had to live. I double-checked the number and then rapped quickly before I could back out.

  The door was flung open by a big, bouncy teenaged redhead with an enormous smile that was contagious. I introduced myself and she yelled back into the room, “Mum! She’s here.” She enlarged her smile and said, “She’ll be right out. I have to go. See ya.” And I was left standing alone in the doorway of a woman I wasn’t sure would want to see me, especially after what I had to say.

  Eventually she did come, but not before I’d thought about leaving a dozen times. She looked at me the way a stranger would and then slowly it dawned on her that she knew me.

  “Hello,” she said. “Cody is it?”

  “Cordi.” She nodded coldly and waited for me to say something. I blurted it out like a six-year-old who couldn’t wait to tell a secret. “I wanted to talk to you about your late husband, Michael Grady.”

  She didn’t look stunned. She didn’t even look sur–prised. She just looked resigned. “Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

  But she asked me in and led me down a nonde–script, narrow hallway and out into a brightly lit room overlooking the Rideau Canal. But it wasn’t the canal or the spectacular view that stunned me, it was what was in the room. Bird
houses, birdhouse wallpaper, birds swoop–ing from the ceiling on gossamer strands, glass birds, porce–lain birds, straw birds, plastic birds, bejewelled birds, wire birds, terra cotta birds, bronze birds, cloth birds, leather birds, wooden birds, matchstick birds, pewter birds, all adorning every available surface and space on the walls.

  I tried not to stare with my mouth open, but it was very hard and I don’t think I succeeded because I could see she was enjoying my astonishment. But she didn’t say anything, just sat down in a plush birdie covered chair and indicated that I should sit on the sofa littered with pillows covered in birds. I’ll say one thing for her: not a single bird, painting, pillow, or sculpture was kitsch. They were all tasteful works of art. So much for being poor, I thought, as I spied what looked like an original Bateman of a raven looking particularly miserable in a forest. She asked me if I would like some lemonade and I almost said no, but the way she said it made me feel that it was some–how important for her to do something so I said yes.

  While she disappeared into the kitchen I looked around some more. It wasn’t all birds — there were two bookend giraffes standing on a side table with a single volume of Birds of the World. And the table that sepa–rated me from a huge comfy chair that was obviously the one she used was covered in rags and newspapers and a tin of Brasso. When I looked closely I saw there was a tiny burnished bronze elephant that shone with such warmth that it almost seemed alive. It was gleam–ing from its recent polishing, but the broken tusk left no doubt as to where I’d seen it before. Had she taken it from Terry’s room? And if so, why? As I reached out to pick it up she came into the room with a tray and two tall glasses of pink lemonade. I had never understood the pink part of lemonade. Lemons are yellow.

  She looked at me, her gaze unflinching, and I got the impression that she wanted me to ask the right questions so she could control the answers. But I was wrong. She took the offensive. “How did you find out he was my husband?” Her voice was calm and almost matter of fact.

  “The newspapers …”

  “Never used my maiden name.”

  “I did some searching. It’s not too difficult tracking a person if you know where to look. You leave a trail.” It wasn’t really a lie. After all, I had tracked down Derek, which was the first step, and that hadn’t been too difficult.

  She placed the tray down on the table in front of me and then sat in the comfy chair. She hadn’t taken her eyes off me since entering the living room. It made me feel like a cat on the prowl, and I guess I was because I went for the jugular. “Why were so many people associated with your husband’s trial all in the same writing group?”

  She was unprepared for that and she reached over and picked up the little elephant, stroking it with her fingers.

  “Peter. LuEllen. Terry. Owen. You,” I said. “All together on a cruise ship.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “I know that Peter found Michael and was his best friend. I know that LuEllen was a juror who had a rather timely accident. And I know that Terry and Owen were siblings.”

  “I see,” she said and gave me nothing more.

  I decided to wait her out. I could hear her kitchen clock thumping through the seconds and somewhere on Prince Arthur a motorcycle was exploring the speed of sound. I saw a magnificent blue jay swoop down to the birdfeeder outside her window, scaring the little warblers away. I started checking out the various bird mobiles hanging from the ceiling and was just switch–ing to the rather lovely wallpaper liner when she leaned forward, replaced the elephant on the table, and finally spoke. “Michael and I had been married ten years when he met Terry.”

  Her voice was noncommittal, but I wondered what it had to do with my statement. I decided to go with the flow.

  “She was teaching a creative writing course and Michael had always dreamed of becoming a writer, so he took the course and he wrote a novel.”

  “Was it good?” I asked.

  She looked right through me and I almost turned to look behind myself. “I don’t know. I know he was hugely excited about it, but he never let me read his stuff, not until it was finished. It was all handwritten — he said he loved the heft of the pen and the scratchy sound of the ink staining the paper with his thoughts. I thought he was nuts to have only one copy. But, of course, he let Terry read it.

  He said she was going to help him get it published.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I’m not sure. I never found it among his belongings.”

  “How did the two of them wind up in the same camp–ground when the murder took place?”

  “I’m sure you’ve read the book, but Terry was scav–enging around for ideas — she wasn’t a well-known author back then — and Michael had told her that he and a group of zoology students were going to set up camp for thirty days and study a range of topics that I don’t remember — obviously one of them was birds. Anyway, she somehow managed to wrangle an invitation from him. He wasn’t too happy about it, but she had told him she would send his manuscript to an agent and he was gaga over that.” She reached for her lemonade, which by now had lost its sweat and ice to the warmth in the room. “That’s where she murdered him.”

  The word murder made me look at her. That and the venom in her voice. “She was acquitted,” I said.

  “She was brilliant. The sleepwalking defence was sheer genius. The perfect murder. Kill someone in your sleep, plead guilty to the murder, and then use a sleep–walking defence.”

  “So you think she acted out the whole thing?”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  “You have proof?”

  She glared at me. “I don’t need proof. I just know.”

  She had picked up the little elephant again and was rubbing it back and forth in her fingers. I nodded at it and said, “I saw one just like that in Terry’s room the night after she died.”

  Elizabeth stopped rubbing the little elephant and held it between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Martha and I bumped into you in the hallway that night. Is that what you were doing? Stealing it?”

  Her eyes flashed. “It wasn’t hers, it was Michael’s.

  He kept it as a sort of talisman. Took it with him wher–ever he went. It went missing the night he died. I was just reclaiming what was rightfully mine.” She carefully put the little elephant in her pocket, but left her hand there as if reluctant to part from it.

  “You’re saying that Terry stole it?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she murdered him and wanted a memento, or she murdered him and just liked the elephant. I don’t know why. What does it matter? She did it.”

  “It matters to you,” I said quietly.

  She exploded out of her chair so quickly I dropped my empty lemonade glass. “Of course it matters to me.

  The bitch murders my husband and gets off scot-free?

  How would you feel?”

  “Angry enough to murder?”

  Her icy look told me I was making no friends here and she didn’t sit down, signalling the end of the con–versation.But I still had my first unanswered question search–ing for an answer. I still wanted to know why so many people from the trial had inexplicably taken up creative writing as taught by Terry. I asked her again but she was having none of it.

  She waited for me to extricate myself from the sofa, then escorted me to the door. I guess she had second thoughts, or didn’t want to be rude and not answer my question because she said, “You’d have to ask them why they took her course.”

  Nothing like passing the buck.

  “And by the way, your nice little phone call has me grounded unless a doctor will give me the all clear.” And with that she quietly closed the door in my face.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the time I got back to work I was busting a gut to talk to Martha and get her ideas on what I had learned. I raced into my office but she wasn’t there. I went
in search of her in my labs and those of the other two profs. She wasn’t anywhere. Then I remembered — she was work–ing full-time for Dean for a week trial period, her deci–sion not his. Dean had hired a temp for us. I debated pre–cisely two seconds about interrupting her in the rarefied environment of the Dean’s office and then zoomed down the three flights to his floor. His office was huge and I found Martha pulling files, presumably in preparation for one of his classes.

  When she saw me she grinned and started to say “Hi, Cor …” when she suddenly stopped and looked quickly over to the door leading to Dean Dean’s office and low–ered her voice. “Boss likes it quiet.”

  I looked at Martha in surprise. How the hell was she ever supposed to keep quiet? Instead of asking her I said, “Where’s your milking stool?”

  Again, she looked over at Dean’s door and whis–pered, “He doesn’t like it. Says it’s very unsophisticated.”

  I noticed she wasn’t looking at me when she talked, which is totally unlike Martha. “You okay here?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said without much enthusiasm, which for Martha was difficult to do.

  “Can we talk?”

  I could tell she was torn. Her face was having a roller coaster ride with her emotions.

  “About the murders?” I said.

  Her face brightened and then fell flat.

  “Look, this is obviously not a good time. Come up when you have a free moment.” She grimaced and I said, “Oh, come on, you must get free time?”

  “Not like you guys give me,” she said. “And I have to ask permission to leave. I’ll come up as soon as I can.”

  The door to Dean’s office opened and he came out and said, “What’s all the talking out here? I can’t get anything done.”

  He stopped when he saw me. “Cordi, hello.” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “If you don’t mind, I need Martha to be doing her job and you are obviously a distraction. If you have obtained whatever you needed from her I would appreciate it if you let her get on with her work.”

  Martha made a face at me from behind his back and I smiled at Dean and said, “I was just getting some invaluable advice from her. I’m sure you don’t mind her helping out an old friend.”