Crazy Dead (A Cordi O'Callaghan Mystery)

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “Just good to be home,” I said rather lamely. We had finished our main course and Rose got up to get dessert.

  And that was when Ryan said, “Did that patient ever turn up?” His face was neutral, but his eyes were anything but. Another elephant in the room. I knew what it had taken for him to ask the question and I knew what answer he wanted.

  When I didn’t say anything Martha asked, “What patient?”

  I looked at Ryan and then turned to Martha and told her about Mavis. I saw her glance once at Ryan, but then I had her whole attention. And I didn’t stop with what Ryan knew. I told them everything, from Ella to the subway to my flight over the bridge.

  “You fell off the bridge? Today?” asked Ryan, the incredulity in his voice obvious.

  Martha looked back and forth between us. “You could have been killed,” she said. Ryan looked at her and gently shook his head.

  “She’s your sister and my friend, for cripe’s sakes. We have to help her.”

  Ryan said nothing. He didn’t believe me.

  “She’s my friend.”

  Words that meant the world to me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was late by the time I got home. The snow had finally stopped and it was a comfort to see no tracks leading to the alcove that sheltered my front door and my neighbours’ from the elements. Martha, who was staying with friends, waited in her car until I flashed my living room lights at her to signal that all was well. I heard the tiny peep of a horn in acknowledgement and watched as she drove around the circle and headed toward the bridge.

  I wasn’t sleepy. My mind was rushing like the rapids in a river, so I picked up my mail and started going through it all. In the end I must have fallen asleep on the sofa because something woke me, a noise that didn’t belong.

  I sat bolt upright and listened. It came again, a light tapping sound coming from the bedroom. I looked around for a weapon and my hand closed over a heavy glass paperweight, the kind with dandelion fluff inside. I slowly got up and tiptoed toward the bedroom. I peered around and looked inside, expecting an intruder, a killer, Ella. Nothing. I went back into the living room. It had sliding glass doors that opened onto my little backyard, which was flanked by my neighbours’ yards and carports, and looked into a narrow wooded ravine.

  Cautiously I pulled back a curtain and peered out. But I saw nothing, which was a good sign, because there were no footprints. And then the tap tap came again and I jumped back. Gathering my wits, I looked out once more and saw a broken tree branch rhythmically hitting the window. It took a while for me to calm down, and longer still to go to bed and fall back asleep. So many images in my mind, so many lost thoughts, so many fears.

  When I awoke the next morning I lay in bed awhile looking out the window at the blue sky. Today was yesterday’s future where all things were possible, still were possible. A brand-new day. I stretched out and suddenly remembered my fall from the bridge. I sat up and checked myself over, but there had been no noticeable damage from the tree. My coat had been well padded, I guess. Nice if my mind had been padded, too, I thought as I felt the fear steal through it again. I got up to stop it from growing, realizing that in the very act of doing so, I was getting better. I couldn’t have got up at all only a short time ago.

  I padded into the living room and opened the curtains to let the sun in. But instead, it let in fear. Stark and real.

  There were footprints in the snow, coming toward my sliding doors. And there were no footprints going back. I whirled around to look at my front door. The chain was off and as I approached I saw that the bolt was undone. Had I forgotten to lock the door? Or was someone in my apartment with me? The thought was terrifying.

  There were lots of places for someone to hide in the condo, and I searched them all, while holding the heavy glass paperweight in one hand. But there was no one but me in my home. Had someone come in through the sliding doors in the night and left by the front door? I did a quick search. Nothing had been stolen and there was no tampering of the lock in the back doors as far as I could see. So where had the footsteps come from? Had I gone to the carport to get something and walked back in my own prints? I couldn’t remember. And that was frightening, too. How could I forget?

  But why would anyone come into my apartment and leave without taking anything or doing anything? I was just about to get my coat and boots and check the shed, when the phone rang.

  It was the police.

  “I’m afraid we found no evidence at the bridge,” said an officer, who identified himself as Pete Simpson.

  “Everything has been covered by the snow.”

  “What about branches on that tall tree? I know I broke some branches.”

  “Yes, there were broken branches, but nothing conclusive.”

  “Nothing conclusive.”

  “Nothing to corroborate your story.”

  “Story?” I said.

  “Look, Ms O’Callaghan, we spoke with Ms Ella Fraser and she’s very worried about you. She wants you back at the hospital as soon as possible.”

  I felt a shock go through me at the mention of Ella’s name. It had never occurred to me that they would talk to her, but of course they had to. I wondered where that left me.

  “Look,” said Pete again, “we checked out the subway incident, too, and nobody came forward to say you were pushed, and the surveillance tapes are inconclusive. Ella appears to have an alibi, but we’ll check it out.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That we can’t really help you, unless some new evidence comes up. We’ll keep your case open for a while,” he said.

  After we disconnected, I wandered around the apartment for a while, at sixes and sevens, until I finally got my act together and went to get my coat and boots. I pulled my coat off the hanger where I had hung it, and that was when it hit me. How could my coat be in the closet when I had left it at the base of the tree? No, I must have grabbed it, or I would have frozen in that numbing cold. I brushed the memory lapse from my mind and got myself out of my apartment and down to the bus, carrying just a backpack full of my things.

  I fervently wished that I could have seen Ella’s face when the police told her I’d reported the bridge incident. Surely there would have been a clue at her guilt, might still be. I had one eye out for her as I took the elevator up to the seventh floor and signed myself in at the window of the nurses’ station.

  As I was walking down the hall toward my room Ella came out of a patient’s room and we nearly collided. With her strapping curvaceous body she was certainly big and strong enough to hurl me over the bridge, but to my surprise, she seemed pleased to see me and asked me how my overnight at home had been. She didn’t mention the police and appeared genuinely concerned about me. I was confused and held my counsel, while she made encouraging comments about the state of my mental health.

  “Going home for a night is the first big step to getting better,” she said. I wondered about that. Wasn’t the first big step accepting that you were sick in the first place and seeking help?

  Our conversation was interrupted by Dr. Osborn, who came out of the same room Ella had been in and took her by the elbow, after a cursory nod to me, and walked down the hallway. It didn’t escape my notice the flash of delight in Ella’s eyes and the little smile on her face as he took her arm, but whether it was from relief at getting away from me or some other emotion I couldn’t say. She was hard to read.

  I went into my room and dumped my backpack on my bed. Kit and Lucy were out somewhere and the fourth bed still lay empty, which was a good sign. Maybe it meant that there were no other poor souls out there needing a bed. Unlikely, I thought, but for whatever reason, the bed was empty. I lay down on my bed and fell asleep with the sun on my face. When I awoke the sun was long gone. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

  “You sure sleep a lot.” The accusatory and cranky voice came from my l
eft. Lucy.

  I turned to look at her. She was lounging on her bed, her single pillow propped against the headboard in a vain effort to support her head, which had missed the pillow and was leaning on the headboard.

  “Who do you think could have killed Mavis?” I asked point-blank.

  “Nothing to say she is dead,” countered Lucy aggressively.

  “Humour me,” I said.

  She stared at me for a few moments and I thought she wasn’t going to say anything at all. But then she shrugged and said, “Dunno, but she is a bit of a snoop, you know? Always nosing around. Just like you.”

  “You mean she found out about things that people would rather she didn’t?”

  Lucy hesitated and then said, “You could say that.”

  Lucy reached around and tugged at her pillow, as if to signal that the conversation was over. But I had other plans.

  “Could she have been blackmailing anyone?”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Jesus, lady, you’re just like her, maybe worse,” she said. “Totally snoopy. Totally inquisitive. Didn’t your parents teach you any better?”

  “Was she?” I persisted.

  Lucy flapped her hands in the air. “Whatever.”

  I took a stab in the dark. “Was she blackmailing you?”

  Lucy caught her breath and then pretended it was just the beginning of a deep impatient sigh. But we both knew it wasn’t. I just didn’t know why. Even though Mavis was wealthy I had my suspicions.

  I had a sudden urge for another Tim Hortons coffee, so I put on all my winter gear and, when I saw a lineup at the elevator, I trooped down all seven flights and out into a deeply overcast day. Sort of like my mood. There was a long lineup, but the staff was quick and I soon had my steaming cup of coffee and a double-chocolate doughnut in my hands. I took a table by the window and drank my coffee and watched all the people walk by. Big ones, fat ones, skinny ones, short ones, and decided that the predominant colour for clothing this winter was black.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to be sitting alone in a coffee shop. It wasn’t where I wanted my mind to be. Lonely and alone. I quickly finished my doughnut and scooped up my coffee and left, practically running, hoping to leave my demons behind. I headed east, back toward the hospital, and within seconds could see the front door.

  I stopped. Jacques and Lucy were coming out of the door and I really didn’t feel like talking to them. I watched with interest as they turned and headed east. What were they doing together? If I had to admit it, maybe I was a little jealous. Lucy was so beautiful and Jacques was a man. Lethal combination. Yet they seemed to be keeping their distance from each other, avoiding any chance physical contact.

  So I followed them to University Avenue and then down University to Osgoode Hall, where Toronto lawyers meet for lunch and business. I was standing at the northwest corner of Queen and University, waiting for the light to turn green, when a SUV with tinted windows came out of nowhere, taking a right on a red light. It jumped the curb right at my feet and if a man hadn’t grabbed me by the neck of my coat and hauled me out of the way, I would have been a statistic.

  I felt slightly sick, but I pulled myself together enough to thank the good Samaritan. I crossed the street and saw Jacques and Lucy enter Osgoode Hall. I was suddenly overcome by another wave of nausea and I sat down on a bench, taking deep breaths and trying to still my nerves. Someone was out to get me. Had they nearly succeeded again? Or was it just a coincidence?

  I was pretty sure that Jacques and Lucy were going to the restaurant inside the hall, so I sat there awhile longer, collecting myself. And then I walked up to the doors of Osgoode Hall.

  The building was almost two hundred years old, its impressive three stone archways at the front entrance holding up six elegant columns supporting a peaked portico. It reminded me vaguely of a mini Parthenon. I always get a frisson of awe, as if caught in a spine-chilling time warp, whenever I find myself amongst ancient things, with their history spreading out behind me like a taunt, or maybe a lament for all that could have been, but wasn’t.

  I had been here before. The restaurant is open to the public, where once it was the private domain of lawyers. I had to go through security and empty all my pockets and wait while they eyeballed my stuff. I wondered what the lawyers of the 1840s would have thought of that. Once through, I tried to remember how to get to the restaurant — it had been a while. I walked under vaulted ceilings across mosaic-tiled floors into an ordinary room carpeted in red. I followed the red carpet up a set of stairs and came out into an unobtrusive lobby that held a coat rack and not much else. The main entrance to the restaurant was just off this lobby, and did not advertise itself well. I didn’t have a reservation and wasn’t really sure what I was going to do to get in unobserved.

  I loitered in the lobby for a few minutes, trying to catch glimpses of people in the restaurant. Finally I edged up to the door and looked in. I quickly scanned the room. Jacques was sitting with his back to me at a table for two along the west wall. There was no sign of Lucy. She must have gone to the washroom. A stroke of luck for me. It was early for lunch, so when I asked for a table right behind Jacques’s, they were able to accommodate me. I knew the washrooms were in the direction that Jacques was facing so I knew I would be undetected if I sat down before Lucy came back.

  I was inches from Jacques, my back to his back, and felt quite proud of myself for being so unobtrusive. I had a moment to relax and I looked around. The cathedral ceiling and the multi-coloured stained-glass windows shaped like archways and candled by the sun, gave the room a feeling of vastness and light. In contrast, the heavy wood panelling and bookshelves with their leather-bound law books that skirted the room, rising ten feet from the floor, gave it a feeling of coziness, which might seem oppressive in the summer, but in winter felt somehow protective. I was just taking in the enormous pendulous multi-light chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling and the stanchions between the stained-glass windows, each holding their lights like hands cupping a dove, when I heard sounds behind me that indicated Lucy had returned.

  I had to force myself not to turn around and look. When the waiter came I almost panicked, knowing Jacques would recognize my voice. So I dropped my voice an octave and whispered and the poor woman had to bend over me to hear my order. I told her I had laryngitis so she wouldn’t think I was a complete idiot. Once she was gone I strained my ears to hear what Jacques and Lucy were saying. Most of it was pretty boring.

  Then I heard Jacques say, “Do you believe her?”

  “That she saw Mavis dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hard to say,” Lucy replied. “Why would the docs cover it up? We’re all adults. We know people die.”

  “Yeah, but they usually don’t die in a psychiatric hospital. We’re supposed to be safe there. Protected.”

  “Personally I believe the authorities when they say she’s been moved to another floor.”

  There was a silence and then Lucy said, “Maybe she just thought Mavis was dead, you know, mistook death for a deep sleep.”

  “That’s not what she says. What’s wrong with her, anyway? Why is she in hospital?” said Jacques.

  “Don’t know and that may be because they don’t know yet. Sometimes a diagnosis can be difficult and because she’s so —”

  There was a loud guffaw and four very noisy people descended on the table to my left and proceeded to drown out Lucy and Jacques. It was just as well, for I was unnerved. I did not like it one bit that people were talking about my illness. It made me feel powerless, and the fact that it was Jacques doing the asking made things complicated. Did he ask because he cared about me, or did he ask because he thought I was crazy and wanted corroboration, so that he could run as far away from me as he could, as fast as he could? But then, he did say more than once that he believed me. I had to stop second-guessing myself.

  I co
uldn’t resist the urge to turn around and watch them when they left by the other entrance to the restaur-ant. And wished I hadn’t. Jacques was giving Lucy a one-armed hug. She was looking at him, laughing. It made me wonder. And I think the little shiver I felt was another pang of jealousy. Was he just another womanizer? Another ladies’ man? I tried to put that out of my mind and I found that I was suddenly ravenous. I hadn’t eaten for a while and I ate my now cold club sandwich, which was still pretty good. I debated asking for a glass of wine, but it wasn’t as much fun drinking alone. Besides, wine would interfere with my meds.

  Out of curiosity I glanced over at Jacques and Lucy’s table to see if they’d had wine. I don’t know why I cared so much about Jacques’s resolve to stop drinking, but I was relieved to see there was no wineglass in front of his seat, only one in front of Lucy’s. I sat and listened to the voices drifting over my head for a long time before I finally got up and went back to the hospital. I felt so normal that it seemed kind of ridiculous for me to go back at all, but Ryan and Martha would be frantic if I didn’t, so I did.

  I fell asleep on my bed with my winter coat still on and awoke sweating. I peeled off my coat and saw that Kit was lying curled up on her bed with her back to me. We all did that, turning away from the world, to get some privacy. Human nature, I guess.

  I wandered out into the hall. It was still too early for dinner, but I was really thirsty, so I went to the common room to get some juice. I thought I was the only one there until I heard someone clear his throat and I turned to see the back of Jacques’s blond head, the rest of him hidden by the sofa. I picked up a juice container and went around the sofa so that he could see me. His eyes were shut and his face was relaxed as if he was asleep. He looked sad and vulnerable and I turned to go.

  “Everything okay?” came his voice.

  I turned back, and hesitated. Despite the unwritten code in the ward that you don’t ask people how they are, he always seemed to be asking me.