Dying for Murder

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  I grabbed the knob on the front door and turned. It was locked. Thank god it was locked. The Wilsons’ dog began barking and I quickly inserted my key in the lock and let myself in. I’d never come home to an empty house before. It seemed so alien, so cold. Where was Chili? He should have been at the front door to greet me. I turned on the switch and flooded the hall and the front stairs with light. A note on the bottom stair. I picked it up.

  Grama had a heart attack. They’d call. I held back a sob, scrunched the note up. Had my parents taken the dog with them? To the hospital?

  Cautiously I entered the living room, groping for the switch on the wall. From dark indefinable shapes the living room leapt to life with the familiar black leather sofa and matching chair, the Blackwood print over the fireplace, my mother’s silver candelabra with five red candles — always red — wall-to-wall bookcases, and the double window and back door to the yard, leading off the living room. It took me awhile to notice it, because it was very subtle, but the sheer curtain covering the eight little windows on the backdoor was moving. My heart rate went up as I stared, willing it to stop its gentle billowing. Gingerly I approached and pulled back the curtain. My heart stopped for a blinding instant. Someone had broken the window closest to the lock. Someone was in the house.

  I whirled around, looking for a weapon, saw the candelabra and grabbed it. I had to get out of the house. I was moving silently through the living room back toward the front door, when a movement on the stairs to the second floor made me look up into a face of terror. A large man with a nylon stocking deforming his face, making it grotesque, stood at the top of the stairs, his right hand holding a baseball bat.

  I fled to the phone in the kitchen, putting the candelabra on the counter, but it fell on the floor — the loud clanging noise a hideous beacon of where I was. I tried to dial 911 while the panic clawed its way into my mind, enveloping it and infecting it with its contagion. The sight of one dangling wire drilled its way into my brain and I dropped the phone, picked up the candelabra, and ran for the back door where I nearly tripped over him — Chili, lying on his side right in front of the door, as if guarding it for me. Too late. I could see that from the way his little neck lay at an unnatural angle, that and the sightless eyes. I felt nauseated as I frantically moved Chili out of the way with my foot and unlocked the door. I only got it partway open when out of the corner of my eye I saw the baseball bat arcing down toward my head with vicious speed. I threw up the candelabra in defence and I tried to duck, but the blow was shattering and the darkness complete.

  I stopped reading. “That’s it. Christ. He must have raped her when she was unconscious,” I said. “She just talks about the horrors of the rape kit and how that made her feel. Nothing about the rape.”

  “Why did he get off?” asked Martha.

  I skimmed through the pages.

  “Oh boy. Her brother bribed a judge and the case was sent to retrial but was thrown out on a technicality. Actually, key evidence, including the rape kit, went missing after the bribe was discovered.” I looked up. “David bribed a judge.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It says here that he hoped the judge would convict Wyatt. Instead it led to Wyatt’s release.”

  “No wonder he and Stacey didn’t get along very well. David tries to help her and ends up ruining her chances of seeing her rapist go to jail,” said Martha.

  “If this book is published he can kiss his job as a lawyer goodbye.”

  “If he knows about the book. Gives him another dynamite motive.”

  “What about Wyatt? He comes to Spaniel Island and Stacey recognizes him. She must be really bitter that he walked free and suddenly she has two things to hold over him, the fake vaccine and the rape. He’s turned himself into a respectable guy with a new name. He’s not going to want her ruining that. So he kills her.”

  “It all fits. He beats women. At least, we think he does. He rapes Stacey. He fakes the vaccine. He kills Stacey,” said Martha.

  “Yeah, but too many other people have motives almost as good.”

  “But we can’t place them at the scene of the crime.”

  “You mean the cricket?”

  Martha looked at me as if she knew I was about to do something stupid, which I was. “What are you thinking, Cordi?”

  “That I need to have a talk with Wyatt.”

  “Not alone you’re not.”

  Duncan waylaid Martha in our search for Wyatt – so much for her worries. I bumped into David in my meanderings and pigeonholed him.

  “It seems you have another motive,” I said as he made an effort to detach himself from me.

  He puffed out his cheeks. “Do you ever let up?”

  “She was writing an autobiography.”

  He looked startled for a moment and then regained his composure.

  “So you knew?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course I knew. She did talk to me, you know, from time to time.”

  “So you know she detailed your bribe to the judge all those years ago. Before you were even a lawyer, no doubt.”

  “Yes, I knew.”

  “Was she aware of what it could do to your career if it got out?”

  “I tried to reason with her but it didn’t work. She always blamed me for the fact that her rapist went free.”

  “So you killed her.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I didn’t kill her.”

  “So who did?” I said.

  “You tell me,” he retorted.

  “Maybe nobody,” I said and then wondered why I’d said it.

  He looked at me strangely and was about to say something, when Darcy happened upon us. He looked from me to David and said, “Interrupting something?”

  To which David replied, “Not at all,” and he turned hastily and left.

  I asked Darcy where Wyatt was. He said Wyatt had gone to the local watering hole, which had reopened, and he gave me directions.

  “Are the boats running again?”

  “Yup. They started first thing this morning and there are a gazillion islanders coming over to look at the damage.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They said they are coming, maybe later this afternoon or evening.”

  I waved to Darcy and headed toward the watering hole.

  I was feeling pretty good. What safer place than a restaurant to confront Wyatt? Delsey’s Spot was an A-frame building on stilts with a huge balcony full of tables, most of which were empty. I scanned them all but Wyatt wasn’t there.

  I went inside, where it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The restaurant was one big marine motif. There was a bar built like a small jetty with bar stools made out of the spoked wooden steering wheels of boats — nicely capped with thick Plexiglas, for the sake of comfort. Various fishing nets festooned the walls, punctuated by buoys of all sizes and colours.

  Wyatt was sitting at a booth right by the tall plate-glass windows that overlooked the balcony. One thing was consistent about this island: no one had a view of the sea from any building. It made the beach feel isolated and free, but it made the buildings feel claustrophobic and lacking in something. But they made up for whatever it was by being built on stilts with wonderful staircases and wraparound verandahs.

  I called him by name and he looked up in surprise.

  “May I join you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I took that as a yes and slid in along the vinyl-

  upholstered bench.

  He’d been reading a paper and nursing a coffee. He made a point of carefully folding the paper and placing it on the table.

  “I know all about you,” I said.

  “No you don’t,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Not a good start. I didn’t like being on the defensive.

  “I’ve read the articles about September 25, 1986,” I said.

  “I was acquitted.” He pinioned my eyes with his steely gaze. I couldn’t get over how calm he was. It w
as unnatural.

  “On a technicality,” I said.

  “What’s your point?” he asked irritably.

  “That as far as Stacey was concerned you are as guilty as they come.”

  “Too bad she’s dead.”

  “Too bad you killed her.”

  He laughed at that and said, “Too bad you have no proof.” He was enjoying this so I went for the jugular.

  “I found a cricket in your boot.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “How would you know what was on my boot?” he asked and I kicked myself for not preparing an answer to that. So I ignored him.

  “It puts you at the scene of the crime.” And I told him about the spilled crickets.

  “Conviction by cricket? Can’t you do better than that?”

  “It means you lied. You were in Stacey’s cabin that night.”

  “Precisely — that night — it only means I was there sometime after the crickets escaped, but it is all speculation anyway. It wasn’t me.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “My boots were taken from my cabin the afternoon that Stacey was killed and someone returned them the following morning.”

  I tried to hide my surprise. I had not thought of that scenario.

  “Are you a diabetic?” I asked.

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “So you are?”

  He moved his hand up to his neck as if looking for something and then let it drop. He gave an imperceptible nod.

  I said, “Your MedicAlert necklace was found in Stacey’s hand.”

  “So that’s where it went,” he said.

  “So you admit to struggling with Stacey, who ripped off your necklace while you were killing her.”

  “This is getting tedious. I did not kill Stacey.”

  “So how do you explain your necklace in her hand?”

  “It was taken the same afternoon.”

  “Someone just strolled up to you and took it from around your neck?” I said.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. No. I took it off to take a sauna and it was gone when I got back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

  “Why would I want everyone to know I’m a diabetic?”

  I changed tacks. “What did Stacey tell you when you met?”

  “I didn’t recognize her. She was big and fat, not at all like the lithe little thing who cried rape.”

  The waitress came and interrupted us. I ordered a tea as he said, “Don’t make yourself too comfortable here. I’m only humouring you, you know. It’s really rather stimulating to think you think I’m a murderer,” he said, his eyes sharp and piercing.

  I tried again. “What did you talk about?”

  “Our twenty-five year reunion? What does anyone talk about? Husbands, wives, kids, dogs, cats.”

  I sat there stone-faced and he said, “Oh, lighten up, Cordi. It’s not all bad.” But I didn’t lighten up. “Okay. Okay. She told me she’d drag everything up again and see I was devetted, if there is such a word.”

  “What did she want in return?”

  He laughed.

  “It couldn’t have been money.”

  “No, it couldn’t. She was one fat wealthy bitch, wasn’t she?” he said as he took another sip of what had to be stone-cold coffee.

  The waitress arrived with my tea and I waited for him to continue.

  “No,” he said, “it wasn’t money. She wanted me to promise to keep a secret.” He started laughing.

  “What secret?”

  “Never to tell Mel that I was her father.”

  He looked at me and laughed again. “You didn’t know?” I felt sick.

  “But that means she had proof that you raped her. Your own daughter. Her DNA. Your DNA.”

  “Oh come on. Be real. It was consensual.”

  “A baseball bat over the head is consensual?”

  “You’re assuming I am guilty but there’s no reason to believe the rapist is Melanie’s father. Stacey obviously had intercourse with more than one man.”

  He was daring me to agree with him and I was feeling slightly unwell.

  “Besides, if it was me, which it wasn’t, I’d have to say Stacey played the martyr card. She would rather save her daughter from ever knowing me than see me in jail. How’s that for female idiocy?”

  I tried to ignore him but he was getting to me. “But if you are the rapist you’d damn well have to get rid of Stacey.”

  “Back to that again, are we? You’re pathetic. So was she.” He laughed again. “It was so deliciously funny.” He fixed me with his glacial eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because until she told me I had no idea Mel was my daughter.” He laughed again. “Stupid bitch.”

  chapter twenty-three

  After Wyatt left I sat at the table and counted the number of starfish in the fishing nets on the wall. My form of meditation, I guess. I had reached number thirty-seven when a bell tinkled and I looked up to see Sam coming through the front door. He didn’t see me sitting there and went over to the woman behind the bar.

  “Hey, Linda Lee. Can you give me a whirly burger and fries to go?”

  “Ten minutes, Sam.”

  “No problem.” He was perched halfway onto a bar stool and he turned to survey the room and caught my eye, which wasn’t hard since it was on him the whole way and I was the only person in the place. He slid off the bar stool and headed my way.

  “Cordi, what are you doing in here?” he asked.

  “Same as you.”

  “No, I mean, why are you inside? It’s a beautiful day out there.”

  I looked outside and said, “Have a seat.”

  He looked around as if trying to find a way out but there was none so he sat down facing me.

  I cut to the chase. “Why are you ignoring Mel?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “You’re pretty blunt.”

  I sat in silence, waiting. People abhor silence and if you can outlast the other guy it usually pays off. It didn’t this time.

  “What’s come between you and Mel? You told me the other day that she wasn’t who she seemed. What did you mean by that?”

  Sam fiddled with a knife on the table spinning it around and around, until I reached out and stopped it.

  “When Wyatt came she changed. She used to be so outgoing and happy. And now she’s all closed up and brittle. Not the woman I signed on for,” he said bitterly.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Why do you say that?” he warily asked.

  “Because you don’t ditch someone after only five days of unexplained bad vibes. Not when you’ve been with her all summer. If you love them you hang in there.”

  He reached for the knife again and I let him take it.

  “When I said she’d changed she said it was because she wasn’t who she thought she was and that I should just get used to it or get lost. I got lost.”

  “But you didn’t want to get lost, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he spat angrily. “But she scared me.” He glared at me.

  “Why does she scare you, Sam?” I asked quietly.

  “Because I think maybe she murdered Stacey.”

  “Why would you think that?” I watched him fiddling with the knife and wrestling with his demons.

  “Because she told me she was Stacey’s daughter.” He glanced up quickly, waiting for my reaction, and immediately looked down again. “And Stacey was leaving her twenty million dollars. I knew Mel had a shitty upbringing. Who wouldn’t blame their mother for that?”

  “I can see why you might think what you did. It’s a good motive.”

  “Do you think she did it?” Sam’s hand froze in midair and he looked up at me with eyes so intense they could have cut like diamonds.

  “There are others with equally good motives,” I said, almost like a refrain.

  Sam slammed his hand down on the table. “That’s just
it. My head says she could be a murderer and my heart says no. If I really love her I shouldn’t doubt her. Love doesn’t seem to be blind for me, which must mean I don’t love her.” He looked up with such torment on his face that I didn’t know how to answer. Luckily I was rescued by Linda Lee and the whirly burger, whatever that was.

  Sam took his burger outside without saying goodbye and I decided to order a whirly burger. While I waited for it to come I entertained myself by trying to find my location on the tabletop nautical charts that lay under a thick sheet of acrylic. The burger was taller than my mouth and came by its name honestly. It was so hot it made my head whirl and I had to order two drinks to put out the fire. I paid my bill and walked out onto the verandah. Sam was right. It was much nicer outside.

  As I was heading for the stairs someone called out my name. I turned and saw Martha waving at me, so I went over and said hello. She and Melanie were sitting at a table together. I looked around for Sam but he seemed to have made himself scarce. I sat down beside Martha and opposite Melanie, feeling butterflies in my stomach. I really didn’t want to talk to Mel.

  “How’s the sleuthing going?” said Martha.

  “It’s a mess. Everybody still has a motive.” I looked at Mel but she was taking in the view. “Including you, Mel.” She froze and slowly swivelled to look at me.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Twenty million dollars is a lot of money.”

  She looked trapped.

  “We know that Stacey was your mother.”

  “So?” she said defiantly.

  “So she was a very wealthy woman.”

  “And you think I’d kill her for her money? I finally find my mother after all these years and you have me killing her?” She was half standing now and I waited until she caught her breath and sat down.

  “You told me you hated your mother, that she abandoned you. Why the sudden reversal?” She stared at me but remained quiet, her face a tableau of confusion and anger.