Murder on the Run

by Medora Sale

  A deep breath of cool air steadied her. “Thanks, Mike. It’s all right. I just felt a little dizzy in there for a minute. It must have been the heat.” She turned and half-smiled at him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. What are you doing these days?” Now that the rum seemed to have decided to stay in her stomach, it was beginning to cheer her up. Even Mike looked pretty good.

  He seized the mood before it could pass him by once again. “Oh, Janie. You know what I’m doing. I’m waiting for you, like I always said I would.” He grabbed her hard by the upper arm, his voice hoarse and shaking with intensity. “Come back home with me. You’d be much happier. Dad says that he’s ready to retire whenever I want to take over the business—whenever we can get married. I can’t stand watching you be miserable. Please!”

  By now the air had cleared her head and restored her reason. She looked at the sturdy young man opposite her, whose broad shoulders, wavy brown hair, dark brows, and earnest look had made him, about ten years before, the most desirable boy in her high school graduating class, and laughed. “Mike, I wish you’d think up something more original to say one of these days. Can you honestly see me running a hardware store with you, all cosy and domestic? Come off it.” She turned and leaned on the railing of the balcony. “First of all, I’m still married—and I’m not sure when or if I’m planning to get a divorce. And then, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it just so I could end up where I started from. I mean, what would be the point of that? Besides, maybe I plan on marrying someone—well—more, uh, interesting.” He was leaning forward painfully to catch her words before the rush of the traffic below snatched them away. Then she turned back to face him. “You know, sweetheart,” she said, suddenly inspired. “I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m not at all what you think I am. Come here!” The snarl startled him almost as much as her catching him behind the neck and dragging his face down to her. She whispered something in his ear; then she let him go and pushed him away.

  He stared at her in blank incomprehension. Finally he shook his head and spoke, very slowly. “If I thought that was true, I’d push you off this balcony. My God, Jane, don’t say things like that to me. I can’t stand it. You’re just trying to drive me crazy.” His voice broke, and he tried to catch hold of her again.

  “It could be true, you know. You’ll never be sure now, will you? Think about that.” She ducked out from under his arms and moved back into the crowded living room.

  “Well, if it isn’t the farm queen and her rustic swain,” said a mocking voice as they entered. “Hi, Mike. How’re you doing? Not so good, to judge by the look on your face. If I were you, I’d leave her alone. She isn’t worth the agony.” Mike glared at the speaker and elbowed his way rapidly through the crowd and out the door. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Did I say something that upset him? I am so-o-o sorry.”

  “Hi, Grant. You are a real bastard, you know. But I think it was what I said that upset him.” She smiled briefly. “I thought you weren’t going to come to this thing. You change your mind about Marny’s charms?”

  “Not bloody likely. But I might have changed my mind about you. Did you ever think of that?” He grinned and tapped her lightly on the end of her nose. “Come over here and let’s have a little chat.” He put his arm around her shoulder and propelled her toward a chair in the slightly darkened dining L. She shivered a little at his touch.

  “And what are we going to talk about?” she asked with a touch of wide-eyed innocence.

  “Oh, business, and gossip, and what you’re doing with yourself these days. Then I’ll get you another drink.” He crouched down beside her chair, and began to murmur softly but intently close by her.

  Finally he stood up and looked at her with her head tilted questioningly to one side. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a tempting proposition, but I’m not sure that it’s feasible. I have my sources, you know, and I would have to check with them. They don’t like too much freelance distribution around town.”

  “Of course,” he said, expansively. “It wouldn’t really be much different, but it sure should be more profitable.”

  “And riskier,” she said coldly.

  “Perhaps.” The mocking good humour had left his manner at this point and he was staring at her impatiently. She tried to return his look with one of casual unconcern, but the nervousness he engendered in her made her eyes flicker away under his gaze. He radiated power, rank ambition, and a certain raw maleness that had always put her off balance. He was rather short, with dark, elegant good looks that projected equally well from the stage or in front of the camera; few theater people in Toronto appeared to make as handsome an income out of the profession as he did. There were several other actors at the party, but in this crowd of hopefuls, underpaid bit players, and under-employed stars, he wore his prosperity with arrogance. The eyes that sized up Jane Conway at that moment were as bright with ambition and greed as her own. They were both in from the country, these two climbers, and they understood and despised each other’s origins. The silk shirt and close-fitting jeans of Grant Keswick, the actor, were a very thin veneer, disguising and civilizing the body of Jake Matushek, the nobody. She used to sneer at Grant’s cultured voice and little fits of bravado until, in that last fight, Jake had re-emerged and had hit her with sufficient strength and force to terrify her. Then he had thrown her into a corner of the room, speechless with fright and indignation, and had called her a worthless whore before he walked out.

  “Come on, baby,” he said at last, his voice softening. “Let’s not fight about it yet. You ask around and see what happens.” He moved around to the back of her chair and leaned over her. “You’re looking terrific tonight, sweetheart. I don’t know what you’ve done to yourself but it seems to suit you very well.” He buried his head in the hair behind her ear as he let his arm drop slowly down over her breast. She let her head fall back, and for a few moments gave herself up to the pleasure of it all. But when he moved around and pulled her to her feet with sudden and urgent force, her compliance disappeared. “Don’t, Grant,” she hissed. She grabbed both his hands and pushed them off, shook herself so that her dress settled back into its cool lines, and said, “Thanks for the compliment. It’s fun and all that, but I have bigger fish to fry these days. No room for scroungers.”

  “Oh, my God,” he breathed. “For a minute there I almost forgot what a bloody little whore you are. Fortunately, I’m not obliged to buy it these days. I leave pigs like you to the slobs that have to pay. I think I’ll go home and take a shower.” He turned and walked steadily out of the room.

  Jane stared after him for a moment, then sauntered out of the dining area. She headed over to a chesterfield in the corner, where an extravagant-looking blonde was seated on the arm, leaning over an exhausted-looking brunette. “Jenny, Milly,” she murmured, dropping down beside them. “How are things? It’s been a long time.” They nodded. “You two still working?”

  “Hmm,” said the blonde. “From time to time. Things are a bit tight all over these days. But I’m eating. What’s up with you?”

  “Dreary job,” said Jane. “And dreary people. I’m teaching. It pays the rent.” She looked around her. “The same old types seem to be here. How can you bear it, week after week?”

  “It’s not that bad,” said Milly, the languid brunette, with a yawn. “As long as you don’t have to talk to anyone.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Jane. “It’s too hot and noisy and there’s nothing going on.”

  “All right,” said Jenny. “Where to?”

  “Somewhere where there might be a bit of action. How about the After Hours?”

  “Okay,” said Milly. “But I heard that the last time Linda was down there she got pulled in, you know.”

  “Crap,” said Jane. “Linda is too stupid to get out of the way of a slow-moving train. It’s perfectly safe, and this
place is deadly boring.” She looked around her once again. “Anyone else like to come along?”

  Chapter 4

  Jane stared over the red, blonde, and brown heads of twenty-four sixteen-year-old girls, her own head throbbing unpleasantly. She listened to the rustling murmur grow from surreptitious whispering to barely muted high-pitched giggles.

  “Quiet!” she said, her voice pianissimo but nasty. “One more sound and the entire lot of you stays after the bell. I am quite prepared to sit here until five o’clock, if it takes that long for you to learn to work in silence.” Liar. This day had already lasted at least a week. “Does anyone have anything she might like to say before we all start working?” She heard her voice, sharp, sarcastic, and shrewish, echoing in her aching head, cutting through the nervous hush. Amanda Griffiths buried herself deeper in her physics problems. Rosemary Hemphill turned to comment on the situation to the girl next to her, changed her mind, and opened her physics text in an elaborate parody of industry. But a flicker of interest—her first that class—darted across the lumpish face of Cathy Hollingsby, who put up her hand and produced her contribution to science.

  “Mrs. Conway, we saw you going into the After Hours last night—my dad and me. Do you go there a lot? We would have stopped and said hello, but we had to get home. My dad said that it was a pretty interesting place.”

  The hush was palpable now. Amanda’s interest in problems became all-consuming. Rosemary, silent for once, stared in astonishment at Cathy. Only Cathy would be stupid enough to say something like that to Conway. She wasn’t the kind of teacher you made personal remarks to, especially when she was in such a bitch of a mood.

  Anger made Jane’s queasy stomach lurch; blood pounded in her ears. “My life outside this classroom is entirely my own affair.” she said, her voice cold with rage, “and someone with such a miniscule grasp of physics as yours could well spend more of her time on problems and less on gossip. Get to work.” The words echoed and re-echoed inside her fuzzily hollow head. Oh God, let that bell ring now.

  Jane rolled off the bed and padded across the dull gray carpet into the bathroom. “Hey, where are you off to?” said a lazy male voice. “You only just got home. Come back to bed, sweetheart. It’s been a while, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, splashing water around as she washed with vigour. “But I don’t feel much like a cosy little chat now. I’m going running while it’s still sunny out there. You can stay if you like.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “Which? Staying? Or running?” Shivering in the cool afternoon, she reached for the running clothes on the back of the chair. Neat shorts, a red T-shirt with “Run for Life” on it, proclaiming that she had raced ten kilometers for cardiac research last spring, and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

  “Running,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow as he watched her dress. “I wouldn’t have thought it was very good for you—or very safe. Where are you running these days? The same routes?”

  “More or less. Up the ravine to Moore Park and then around and back, usually. And what’s wrong with it? You think I can’t outrun some rapist? Or do you think I’ll do myself an injury getting more exercise today? You over-estimate yourself, baby.” She turned her back to him and reached for her well-worn Nikes—she really needed a new pair, she thought, looking at the worn heels—and then sat down and put them on with great care.

  “Wait,” he said, as she started her warm-ups. “We still haven’t had that chat, you know. How about a drink somewhere tomorrow after work?”

  “I’m not sure about tomorrow.” she said jerkily, as she swung her torso around in deep bends. “I might have something on. Why don’t you call me?” She leaned against the wall and started stretching her calves.

  “Can I call you at work?” He got out of bed and began picking up his own clothes.

  “No. That’s impossible. Call me here at 4:30.” She was leaning against the dresser, stretching her quadriceps. “I’m off now. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.” She moved toward the living room.

  “You’re going to pull a muscle if you don’t watch it,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “You don’t warm up enough.”

  “Goddamit, stop trying to run my life. If Grete Waitz doesn’t warm up, why should I?” she said, and flung herself out of the apartment.

  Jane shivered as the cold wind hit her bare legs. In spite of what she had said, perhaps she would just drag herself a couple of miles—enough to clear the chalk dust from her lungs, the knots out of her neck and shoulders, the stale alcohol poisons from her bloodstream.

  The hangover, the exhaustion, and the sleepless night all made those first steps agony, but imperceptibly the pain faded, her head cleared, her shoulders dropped, and she fell into an easy stride. By the time she had reached the first corner she realized that the heaviness in her legs had disappeared. A long run, that was what she needed, to get away from the whole confusing mess. At that, she veered sharply left past the bridge down to the running path in the ravine. She had a seductive and illusory sense of tremendous speed as she relaxed and let her feet fall down the hill. She hadn’t been running as fast these days. It must be the lack of competition; ever since she had walked out on Doug she’d mostly run alone. You had to admit that he was a good running partner—lousy to live with, but great on his feet.

  It was stupid to have let Marny talk her into going to the party; stupider to have let herself get into that fight with Grant; stupider still to have dragged Milly and Jenny off to that bar. And if that bloody kid and her precious dad go around talking about seeing her there. . . . What in hell was a kid doing outside a place like that at 11:30 at night? I wonder what the school will make of it? She grinned as she panted up the hill imagining the look on her department head’s face. What the hell, she thought, as she crested the rise, I’ve lost the crummy job anyway. A beer, that’s what I need, five miles and then a beer, a bath, a sandwich, and at least ten hours’ sleep. Stuff the marking, the girls, and the whole bloody school. She floated down the hill.

  Time and distance disappeared; without any clear memory of getting there she had reached the end of the trail and was circling around to travel back the way she had come. Grant’s interesting business proposal teased at the edges of her brain, and she began to idly calculate how much money she could earn if she decided to throw her lot in with him. The noise of rush-hour traffic distracted her a moment, and she stumbled slightly; she hadn’t realized she was that close to the spot where the path drew near to the road. Then music replaced the calculations in her head as she picked up her pace again, and almost drowned out the running footsteps that started up behind her. The footsteps drew closer as she rounded the corner by the wooded section, and she slowed to let the other runner pass. I wish I had leg muscles like a man’s. Tuna on dark rye and a beer. The music in her head slowed down as she relaxed her pace, and the footsteps behind her grew louder and faster.

  The first class of the morning had started fifteen minutes earlier. Cassandra Antonini was moving purposefully in the direction of the prep room when she heard a shriek and a burst of giggles coming through the open door of the physics lab, followed closely by a rapidly lurching Slinky toy. Damn that woman. Doesn’t she realize it’s my ass in a sling if some kid electrocutes herself while she sleeps in again? Cassandra was a biologist, happy surrounded by fish and plants and pickled frogs, but nervous with the peculiar equipment in the physics lab. She swooped down on the Slinky. A second later she steamed into the room, roaring the group into order:

  “Sally, Heather, Carol, sit down. Everyone, open your textbooks. Let’s see, Miranda, how far did the class get yesterday? Right. Carry on, finish reading chapter seven and make notes on it. Silently! Susanne, go down to the vice-principal’s office and tell Mrs. Lorimer that Mrs. Conway has been delayed. Run! And I shall be next door, with the connecting door to this lab open. I expect absolute silence from all of you.�
� Awestruck, the girls subsided into stillness.

  Maggie Lorimer received the news from Susanne in stony silence; then, reflecting that it wasn’t really the poor child’s fault that her teacher had not shown up for work that morning, she smiled as warmly as she could manage and thanked her for bringing the message, before sending her back to class. With a resigned sigh she reached for her list of teachers who were free this period and the next, jotted down some names and went in search of someone to hold the fort. On her way back she stuck her head in the principal’s office and gave her the news.

  “It’s really too much, Roz.” Maggie dropped down in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the desk and spread her hands in annoyance and frustration. “What am I supposed to do? This is the third or fourth time she’s done this since she came. She’s driving me crazy. And the people who have to cover her classes are not too pleased about it, either. There’s going to be a general revolt, I think. They’ll start hiding in broom closets.”

  “Relax, Maggie. Our troubles may be over. I interviewed an absolutely marvellous woman last night for the part-time science job next year. She’s been in Europe for two years with her husband, just got back, was teaching for the Etobicoke Board before that, and everyone thinks she’s super. I checked around last night about her. Don’t worry. She’s coming back this afternoon, and if Cassandra likes her, I think I’ll offer her a job starting Monday and get rid of Jane Conway at once. There shouldn’t be a problem, I hope.” Thoughts of lawsuits sprang briefly into her mind. “She’s only here as a supply on a per-diem basis.”