Innocent Murderer

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk like that to a man with a gun.” Owen jerked the gun and stared at Elizabeth, who suddenly squared her shoulders and glared at Owen.

  “The sleepwalking murderer was a sensation. She was in all the papers and then when she was acquitted there was the story about the trial, her time in jail, her emotional pain. And plenty of publishers were lining up to buy it. It was a bestseller and it got her career off on the right foot.” He was really rubbing it in.

  “And you ghostwrote it.”

  “I ghostwrote it. So you see who really was in control.”

  “You were always stepping in for her, weren’t you Owen?” Elizabeth’s voice was frightening. “Was Michael just the first of many? How many books has she published?

  How many pseudonyms? How many murdered writers?”

  Owen didn’t answer.

  “You pushed LuEllen down the stairs after you found out she was going to vote guilty. Your plan didn’t call for Terry ending up in jail for good, just long enough to get material for a book. A hung jury would have ended in another trial. You didn’t want that. The first trial was risky enough as it was — you knew that some other sleep–walking defences had failed — and Terry had already been in jail long enough.” Elizabeth paused and then said in a cold hard voice, “And what about Heather?”

  “You don’t seem to get the point, lady. I killed Heather.

  Terry didn’t do it. It was easy to do. I just bumped into Terry and grabbed the wheel from her for a split sec–ond. I know she knew but she never said anything. She played the perfect innocent, because she was. Same as with Michael.”

  “All for the sake of finding book material for Terry.”

  Owen shrugged.

  “Whose idea was it to use Michael and Heather’s manuscripts?”

  “Who do you think?” sneered Owen.

  “Rather lucky to find two very private and eccentric writers who refused to use computers.”

  “Not as hard as you might think. And it’s a big coun–try. Terry gave a lot of classes.”

  “Risky. What if they’d made a photocopy or read part of their work to someone else?”

  “Risk is part of life.”

  “So is anger. Do you realize Sally died for nothing? That she was acting a part in order to flush Terry out? Only it turned out to be you …” She paused. “You didn’t know that did you?”

  Owen cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “Did you know that her manuscript was bogus?”

  Owen still didn’t respond.

  “How do you feel about Terry now? She made you kill an innocent woman for nothing. What does that feel like, I wonder?”

  “You think I killed Sally?” He laughed, but the bra–vado was gone.

  “Yes, and I think you killed your sister too. There were no heroics here, no Sally saving Terry. You drowned Terry in her bathtub because she’d used you one too many times. You felt trapped by her, but you were not strong enough to cut the ties. She controlled you like a puppet and you let her. And then you killed her.”

  Owen laughed. “She only used me because I let her. She didn’t control me. I controlled her. I let her think she used me. I used her as a murder weapon for Michael, then I convinced her that Heather and the others would benefit her if they were dead. She owes her fame to me. As I said, I made it happen for her.”

  Others? But Elizabeth had moved on. “Why? Why would you kill for her?”

  “She was my big sister.”

  “You mean you killed Michael because she was your big sister?” Elizabeth’s voice was on the edge of control and beginning to slip over. “So what went wrong?” she whispered, visibly trying to pull herself together.

  Owen bit his lip as if debating on whether to tell Elizabeth everything. If he did it was her death sentence.

  I sidled over toward the BMW.

  He finally made up his mind. “She was in the tub when I came to her cabin. She wanted out. Couldn’t stom–ach the bad stuff, she said. I couldn’t make her understand that there was no way out, no turning back. She belittled me, told me I was incompetent and a leech living off her income. Then she actually had the nerve and the unmiti–gated stupidity to try and cut me off. She fired me. Her own brother. I lost it.” He was brandishing his gun now.

  “So you drowned her.”

  “Yeah. I drowned her. It was so easy. It only took a minute. I was so angry, after all I’d done for her. But then I had to carry her outside so I could dump her over–board and she looked so pathetic lying there naked so I wrapped her in a towel. But then I heard Sally coming and had to dump Terry in the pool. I left the towel to make people think she’d just come from the sauna.”

  “And Sally? What happened to Sally?”

  “Sally was collateral damage. But not the way you think. How was I to know she’d play the stupid little hero?

  She jumped in to rescue Terry without taking any of her clothes off. She was struggling but I couldn’t stick around, and it suddenly struck me as the perfect murder-suicide.

  Sally kills Terry because she is distraught over Terry and

  Arthur becoming a couple, then she kills herself, leaving behind a suicide note.”

  “Why not just keep it simple? Sally tries to rescue a drowning Terry and fails. They both die.”

  Owen smiled. “That was my initial reaction, but when I put the towel over the railing I suddenly remem–bered that the pool water was salt water and that the autopsy would show fresh water in her lungs. The police would start to snoop so I gave them a murder suspect.”

  “But the suicide note?”

  “Was from her handwritten manuscript. It was too bad to have to sacrifice it, but what a gift. Anyway, I felt I had no choice. Just as I have no choice now.” He raised the gun and I kicked the BMW to life. Owen jerked his head in my direction as the engine roared and Eliza–beth pounced. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, struggling with Owen’s gun arm as I skidded ninety degrees and drove straight for them and the doors beyond. Elizabeth and Owen looked up, even as the gun skittered across the doorway with Owen in pursuit. I slowed long enough for Elizabeth to get on and then opened the throt–tle and drove out into the sunlight. I turned the wrong way and had to make a big circle to come round to the driveway leading out to the main street.

  “Owen is getting into a car,” yelled Elizabeth as we screamed out of the driveway, bumped down onto the road, and squealed around ninety degrees then headed down Bank toward the Queensway highway, taking the turn at Catherine Street almost too fast. We went up the on ramp and onto the highway as I tried to figure out just where to go.

  “He’s right on our tail,” yelled Elizabeth.

  I had pulled out to the outer lane when suddenly Owen was beside us, forcing me into the gutter rail. I slowed and he slowed. So I sped up. He sped up and was just in front of me when suddenly he opened his car door and hit the brakes. I braked and swerved looking for the lifesaving hole between his door and the gutter rail. And found it. Just. I squirted through, feeling like throwing up but knowing I couldn’t. Elizabeth was hanging on to me and I whipped over three lanes of traffic, took the off ramp at Parkdale, and squealed through a red light and under the Queensway.

  We caught the light at Carling and Elizabeth craned her neck. “I think I see him. Blue Camaro, four cars back.”

  We played cat and mouse along Carling until I did another fast two-lane switch and turned down towards Dows Lake.

  “Still with us,” yelled Elizabeth.

  I took a right at the lake and once I entered the traf–fic circle I stayed in it, feeling a bit like a rolling stone going nowhere fast. But at least I could keep moving until we ran out of gas. On our third pass around, the blue Camaro came screaming in ahead of us and we fol–lowed Owen for three turns before he manoeuvred his car behind us. The bump almost wrenched the handle–bars out of my hands and I fought for control as the bike skidded sideways. We came out of it just before I was about
to give up and I gave the engine more gas. We were taking that roundabout way too fast, with Owen on our tail, when I saw a policeman enter the circle. I made up my mind. I went around once more, unable to see where the policeman had gone because of the mound of grass, trees, and shrubs in the centre. I flew by two exits before I saw him speeding away through the experimental farm in the heart of Ottawa. He was going pretty fast and I had to open the throttle to catch him. When I was right on his tail I waited until two oncoming cars were out of the way then I pulled out and roared past him. It didn’t take long before I heard his siren and I pulled over, my body numb and wobbly. I was glad I had Elizabeth’s legs to help stabilize the bike.

  “Jesus. Where did you learn to drive like that?”

  I watched as Owen cruised by, looking at us, and I wondered how this would all end.

  “Ryan — my brother.”

  “Thank god for Ryan,” said Elizabeth.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The policeman had been very patient as we told him the whole story about Terry and Owen and the writing group, but you could see the skepticism in his eyes as he wrote it all down, including my asking him to cross-check with the police on the balloon incident. He’d probably heard every story in the book from motorists anxious to avoid a ticket. But Elizabeth had been livid that he didn’t seem to understand what we were saying. We were talk–ing murder and attempted murder. She was flinging her arms all over the place and working up quite a sweat. The cop eventually calmed her down and as he took details from us she thrust her right hand in her pocket, pulled out the little elephant, and began fiddling with it.

  We were caught speeding, without helmets, on a bike for which we could produce no registration. And my wallet was missing. It must have been forced out of my jacket pocket when it got caught on the Subaru fender.

  The policeman impounded the bike and we spent several hours at the police station straightening things out. They said they’d look into my allegations concern–ing Owen. Elizabeth and I had to find our own way home. She was in such a strange and angry mood that I offered to share a cab, even though we lived in exactly the opposite direction, but she would have none of it.

  It was just before 11:00 by the time I finally got to my car back at Owen’s garage. As I was about to get in I looked up into the night sky and saw the blinking lights of a plane bound for who knew where. Patrick! I’d for–gotten about Patrick in all the excitement.

  I grabbed my cell phone, knowing it was useless, knowing he was gone, perhaps even on that plane over–head. But I dialed anyway because I needed something to do. The chirpy little female voice said he was unavailable. Unavailable. It sounded so final. I dragged myself out of self-pity, then got into the car and headed to a hotel. With Owen still on the loose there was no way I was going home. But on the way there my resolve broke. I didn’t want to spend the night alone. I went to Martha’s.

  She opened her door to my knock, took one scandal–ized look at me and said, “Lord. What’s happened to you?”

  I collapsed on the sofa and told her everything, end–ing by saying, “So now he’s going to find my wallet first thing in the morning. I’m screwed. He’ll just tell the cops I stole his BMW and my wallet will be additional proof that I was there. And I have nothing against him, nothing I can prove.”

  “I don’t like what you’re thinking, Cordi.”

  “But you don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  I got up off the sofa and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get my wallet. I can’t go in the morning and risk his being there. I’ll never get it back otherwise.” And I thought of the poem in that wallet. Patrick had written it for me when we first met. That was worth a small for–tune to me.

  “But it’ll be locked.”

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  “But isn’t going to his garage a little stupid?”

  “At this hour? He doesn’t sleep there. It’s the perfect time to go.”

  I opened Martha’s front door and stopped on the threshold — she bumped into me. “I’m coming with you.

  You’re going to need a second pair of eyes, in case some–one comes.”

  I started to object but she gently pushed me out the door and shut it behind her.

  We drove to Bank Street and parked the car a good block away, then walked back on the far side of the street.

  We looked across at his garage. The front office was in darkness, except for a low energy nightlight that had a bluish tinge, making it look as though someone was watching TV. I couldn’t see the back offices. I wondered if he had an alarm system. We crossed the road a few houses down and walked along the sidewalk to the lane–way that Elizabeth and I had roared down on the BMW.

  There were no windows along this side of the build–ing. When we rounded the corner there was one outside light at the back, but unlike my last visit the large doors were shut. We snuck up and checked the doors. Locked with a double padlock. But there was a small side door and we sidled over to it. No alarm sticker on it. I reached out to grab the knob when Martha jerked my shirt and nearly gave me heart failure.

  “Fingerprints!” she hissed, ignoring the fact that I had just planted them all over the double doors. I was about to make some caustic retort when I realized we didn’t have the time. We were drenched in a spotlight in full view of anyone looking our way.

  I wound my jacket around my hand and tried the knob. Locked. We went back down the side of the build–ing, scanning for anything. I was about to give up when I saw a little window about five feet up off the ground. It looked as though it was slightly ajar but I couldn’t be sure. I looked at Martha and she looked up at the win–dow, shook her head.

  “You’re not that small, Cordi,” she said. “Besides, how would you get up there?” She glanced at my face and shook her head again. “You never give up, do you?” she asked as she bent over and I clambered up onto her back.

  I wasn’t sure why the window was there, other than for ventilation, but it was unlocked. I pulled it open as wide as it would go and looked in. There was a platform running along the length of the building just under the window, so I began squirming my way inside. Once I got my head and shoulders through I knew I was home free. I moved along the walkway to the stairs, went to the back door and let Martha in.

  There was a scuffling sound over by the door to the office and I nearly grabbed Martha and bolted. But as we listened there was no repetition of the noise, just a low humming sound from the eerie nightlights. The cars, so brightly coloured by day, were dark, empty shapes, their presence somehow sinister. Quietly, we moved down the row of cars to where I had caught my jacket. It was so dark that I had to get down on my hands and knees and do a sweep before I found it. Martha was jerking her head all over the place — on the lookout I guess.

  When I finally stood up she said, “Find it?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Now let’s go.”

  But I wasn’t paying attention. I was looking at the door that led to the front offices. It was slightly ajar. Had it been that way when we first came in? I couldn’t remem–ber. I remembered the scuffling sound and the thought thumped through my mind that maybe Owen was here, hiding, waiting for us. It was an unnerving thought. But then why would he be skulking around his own shop in the dark? He couldn’t have known I’d be dumb enough to come back for my wallet or lucky enough to find a way in. My heartbeat slowed and I touched Martha on the sleeve and jerked my head in the direction of the door.

  “Maybe we can find something in Owen’s office that will incriminate him.”

  Martha gave me a startled-all-to-hell look that nearly made me laugh. The look eased into full-blown resistance and then into restrained acquiescence.

  “What, like a written notarized confession?” she whispered.

  I ignored her and headed toward the door. It was so quiet and the lighting was so eerie that i
t made me feel like I was on the set of a horror movie. I peered through the door. There were more nightlights in the hall but there was no light spilling out of any of the office doors. No one was home. We still crept down the hall as if there was someone there and I snuck my head around Owen’s office door. It too was dimly lit by nightlights, although his had a reddish tinge. As my eyes adjusted I jumped back into the hallway and Martha let out an involuntary grunt then looked horrified. I put my finger to my lips and looked again. Thank god he was a deep sleeper. Owen was sitting at his desk, his head and arms resting on top of it in an awkward fashion. But it was his right hand that caught and held my attention. The dim red light shone dully off the barrel of the gun that he gripped, the same gun I had seen him waving at Elizabeth. When I looked more closely I could see the pool of blood he was lying in.

  “I think he’s dead,” I whispered at Martha, as I moved back into the corridor.

  She made a funny face at me that could have meant anything from, “Let’s get the hell out of here,” to “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

  We entered cautiously, one at a time.

  “Jesus. Don’t touch anything, Cordi,” Martha whispered.

  I looked at her as if to say “duh.” I went over to the desk and checked his pulse — I had to touch at least that and shook my head at Martha. He was still warm and it made me shiver. I glanced at the desk. There was a note, somewhat blood spattered, but I could make out enough of it to see it was a typewritten confession in the murders of Michael, Heather, and Terry. Sally didn’t rate.

  “He killed himself,” said Martha as she hovered near the desk, one eye for Owen and one for the door.

  “Looks like it.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Martha “Why would he kill him–self if the only proof that existed was in his head.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t stand what his sister had turned him into. A patsy. A murderer.”

  “But still, he loved her. Is that why he killed himself?

  Because he had killed someone he loved?”