Innocent Murderer

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “Tracey.” The name rang out like the lonely hollow sound it was. I’d thought too soon.

  We all turned in unison to look at Tracey, who sat frozen in her chair. She was dressed like a grey day, som–ber colours that reached to her grey face and iron grey hair. Her thin, pinched features seemed to recoil back, giving the impression that her face was seriously sunken.

  She seemed to have shrunk into the chair, her body hunched, her arms hugging herself as if to make sure she was really there.

  “Come and get your writing and at least try, on your next one, to make it seem like you’re listening to me. If you can’t write better than this you’ll never get anywhere, and even then you can’t be sure.”

  “You mean, even if we’re good there’s no guarantee?”

  Terry studied the man who had spoken and said in measured tones, “In this business it helps to know some–one, or be someone.” There was a trace of bitterness in her words, but she shrugged them off and held out Tracey’s essay.

  “Isn’t that how you got published?”

  Terry turned to face Peter, who had slipped in unno–ticed. She looked at him curiously and then laughed. “I guess you could say I became a celebrity and then pub–lished a book. But I just got lucky, or unlucky if you look at the jail time I did for something I had no control over.

  I just took advantage of bad luck and turned it into good luck. I do NOT recommend you take my route.”

  Someone in the audience yelled out “What happened?”

  Terry smiled and said, “Read my book. It’s all there.”

  I thought that was rather abrupt, but it couldn’t be pleasant to always be confronted with such an unpleas–ant memory, to constantly be asked about it.

  Terry waved Tracey’s paper at her. When Tracey didn’t make a move to get up — I don’t think she could’ve if she’d tried — Terry waltzed over and dumped it in her lap then went on to her next topic, without any sign that she was aware of what she had just done to Tracey. I was very glad I had no work in that pile and looked furtively at Martha and Duncan. Duncan was frowning and Mar–tha was biting her lower lip.

  “This next needs no explanation.” She walked back and forth with the poor little essay quivering in her hands, stopped in front of Martha and began to read:

  “The saucer-like silent, sizzling sun shone a ray of wonderment upon the little boy, who opened his mouth and gulped it down, quenching his tears away. But be patient, gentle reader, and you shall soon find out what happens to the little ray of wonderment.”

  There was dead silence and then rather a few muffled giggles. I looked at Martha, watched her face hitch a ride on a roller coaster of emotions: astonishment, bewilder–ment, anger, realization…. But it was the last one that I’ll never forget. She suddenly flung back her head and laughed with the best of us. When the laughter had died down Terry handed Martha her essay.

  “Gentle reader? Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Gulliver’s Travels.” Martha didn’t skip a beat. “Or perhaps you haven’t heard of it?”

  Terry studied her for a long time. I thought she was going to say something but she didn’t. Instead she turned to the class and gave them their next assignment before asking me to give my lecture. It was just my luck that she was handing over a giggling class to me. I confess I thought that maybe she had done it on purpose, but that was uncharitable. Still — talk about daunting.

  I was just about to start when someone poked their head in the door asking for Terry. She scowled but got up and went out, leaving me alone at the front of the room.

  I was immediately peppered with questions from people doing research for their books. I finally threw aside my notes and opened the floor, allowing them to query me about the body I had found in the wilderness the summer before. Then they grilled me for information for their own books.

  “I’m researching a book where my murder victim is killed in Quebec, then moved three days later and dumped in the woods in northern Ontario. How can my protagonist know how long since death?” asked one man.

  “Well, flies love dead stuff and they can find a vacated body really quickly — within seconds sometimes. They lay their eggs and it’s the larvae we use to help us pin–point the time of death. Since we know how long it takes for each species of larva to develop into a fly, and we know they sometimes colonize within minutes, we can count backwards and find the time of death by finding the time when the flies deposited their eggs.”

  “How can my protagonist know that the body’s been moved?”

  “There are different species of flies in different habi–tats. In this situation you would have larvae growing right from death in Quebec and larva growing from three days later when the body was moved to Ontario. Not only would you know the body had been moved, but you could pinpoint when it was moved. Forensic entomology is pretty straightforward.”

  It went on like this for some time. I was hoping maybe the questions were over when a chair scraped back and the tall slender woman who had whisked Peter away stood up. She looked me straight in the eye. “My book is set on a ship. That’s why I’m on this trip. What would be the best way to murder one of my characters and get away with it?”

  “That’s not really about forensic biology, since there aren’t too many flies out here at sea. And I’m sure you’ve thought of the best way: just upend them overboard.”

  “I had thought of that but there’s so much pack ice.”

  “You could,” I said gently, “write the pack ice out of the book.”

  She looked at me then and I thought I saw a look of sudden desperation, but I must have been mistaken because all she said was “How stupid of me,” and sat back down.

  Over the next few days the weather was too socked in for us to take any trips ashore and everyone was getting cabin fever. I spent my spare time in my berth, watching people strolling around the bow of the ship. All of them were wearing winter jackets and some were wearing balaclavas so that they looked like criminals. We were at anchor in some bay we could not see, hoping the fog would break so we could go ashore. But at least it was calm.

  From where I stood I could see the entire bow with its myriad ropes and chains, and things that looked like horns. Someone had randomly painted lime green squares on the forest green deck, making it look as though some sort of tropical disease had taken hold and spread.

  I was stir-crazy in that cabin. Thumbing my nose at my stomach I went on deck to explore. I needed air the way a sagging balloon does. The Susanna Moodie was a working ship, its provenance in days past as a research vessel made it utilitarian. As I strolled around the bow I looked up at the bridge, which was perched on the top deck of what looked like a big, white, square apartment building. It was supremely ugly.

  I poked around the bow and checked out the anchor line, which was enormous and snaked its way down a hole about one and a half times my circumference. You could ride it up if it was calm — if there was no choice.

  As I stood there, looking down through the hole at the sea below and the waifs of fog that clung to it, the anchor line came to life and began reeling itself in. Each loop of the chain was bigger than my hand. As it rattled up onto the deck from its hidden visit beneath the sea it hugged one side of the tunnel. We were in a dead calm. I won–dered what the chain would do in a rolling sea.

  “Cordi!”

  I turned and followed the voice; Duncan, out for a stroll in the fog, just like me.

  “Dear girl,” he said. Duncan was the only person I’d never corrected for calling me girl. It just seemed so innocuous and well meant coming from him. “How’s the stomach?” He flung his arm around my shoulder and I staggered, not at the weight of him but because the sea was wreaking havoc with my balance.

  I gave him what felt like a sick little grimace. “Not great.”

  “You just have to suck it up, as they say,” he said, and I could tell he was proud of himself for getting the lingo right.

  “When it�
�s going the other way?” I asked.

  He looked at me curiously and then grinned. “Well, I admit, that’s a tad difficult.”

  He withdrew his arm, put his hands on my shoul–ders and stared into my face. “You don’t look so well,” he proclaimed.

  Since I already knew that I didn’t bother to answer. Instead I said, “What do you suppose that Peter guy meant when he asked Terry if the Zodiac ropes had been cut?”

  “Dunno. Doesn’t make any kind of sense. I mean, why would anyone want to cut the ropes?”

  “I could have been killed.”

  Duncan looked at me. “I hope you’re not suggesting someone was out to get you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “My dear girl, no one could have known you’d have to take over the boat. And there’s the little ques–tion of why.”

  “So maybe someone was out to get Peter.”

  “Cordi, where do you get such a vivid imagina–tion? Besides, I’ve heard from the captain that the ropes weren’t cut — they were just badly frayed.”

  He stared at me until I looked away. I could see Owen and Terry huddled on the bow in deep conversation.

  Duncan followed my gaze. “Have you met Owen and Terry yet?”

  I nodded. “I sat beside them both on the plane.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Terry’s a bit of a handful, but Owen seems nice enough. A bit stiff but okay.”

  “You mean Terry’s right-hand floor mat.”

  “He’s a floor mat?” I asked.

  “He does everything she tells him to do and gets no thanks whatsoever. He comes to every writing meeting just in case she wants him.” Duncan flicked an imaginary piece of fluff over the railing and turned to look at me.

  “I think he must be in love with her because I can see no other reason why he would do that.”

  We stood at the railing, watching the ship being pushed about by the sea.

  Duncan was twiddling his thumbs, looking like some–one who wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  He looked at me. “Have you met Sally yet?”

  I looked back at him with interest. “No. Who is she?”

  “She’s a member of the writing group. Good-looking with a hell of a head of red hair.”

  Sally. The one on the plane. I slowly nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen her. Why?”

  “She’s not right,” he said.

  “Not right?”

  “You know what I mean. You’ve been there.” There was a long pause between us.

  “She’s depressed?” I finally asked.

  Duncan nodded. “Looks like her boyfriend left her.”

  “Arthur?”

  “How did you know that? You’ve spent most of your time in your room.”

  “I overheard the breakup on the plane,” I said.

  We stood in silence for a while. “She could use a friend.”

  “Surely she has friends on board.”

  Duncan hesitated. “Yes,” he said. But he said it the way you say it when you’re not really sure.

  “Ah ha! An ulterior motive.”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. She’s been to every writ–ing class and I still don’t know why she bothers me. Something about her isn’t right.”

  “You think it’s the depression?

  “Could be,” he said thoughtfully. “Could be … She seemed sad even before Arthur dropped her.” But he didn’t sound as though he was convincing himself.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” I said, with a noted lack of enthusiasm.

  We went back to watching the dull grey sea.

  “What do you know about Terry’s trial?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know?” Duncan said. “Where were you when that happened? It was in all the papers.”

  “I can’t remember. I must have been out of town,” I said, somewhat defensively.

  “She killed a friend of hers named Michael in her sleep.”

  I stared at him as I thought about all the implications that simple sentence embodied. “And was acquitted?”

  “Yes. They determined that she didn’t know what she was doing, and based the case on several others where sleepwalkers were acquitted of violent crimes.”

  We talked some more about the case and I wondered how easy it would be to fake walking in your sleep and killing someone. But I was beginning to feel unwell and didn’t feel like pursuing my thoughts.

  I left Duncan and sought refuge in my room. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew Mar–tha was prancing in, carrying a vermilion and bilious green bathing suit draped over her shoulder and par–tially hidden by a multicoloured towel covered in teddy bears. Where she ever got her sense of colour I didn’t want to know.

  “C’mon, Cordi! It’s sauna time!”

  Sauna time. I groaned.

  “C’mon, it’ll do you good. Where’s your bathing suit?”

  I waved in the direction of the dresser, or whatever it’s called on a ship.

  Martha began fishing out everything until there was nothing left. She looked at me questioningly.

  “It’s the navy blue thing right there.” I moved towards her to get it when she pulled it out and waved it around.

  “There’s hardly anything here, for god’s sake. Where do you put yourself?”

  I grabbed the bathing suit from her and went into the head to find a towel. The sauna was right down at the end of my corridor — aft of my cabin in nautical terms. The change rooms were big enough for five peo–ple, but the sauna could have held ten because it lay mid–way between the men’s and the woman’s change room so that both could use it.

  I changed into my bathing suit and opined that it had to be a coed sauna. Martha took an inordinate amount of time changing into her suit and while I was waiting for her I started counting the blue flowers on the wildly floral wall–paper. I got to three hundred when Martha emerged from her cubicle and I was very proud of myself for not leaping backwards in shock. She was wearing the most amazing bathing suit. She looked like a ballerina with a little skirt that refused to sit tight to her hips but stuck up, making her look even bigger. Colourful little fish were flitting to and fro, their eyes glittering with multicoloured sequins, and at discrete locations there were clear circular discs exposing the skin beneath. It was definitely not the type of suit some–one of her ample size should attempt to wear.

  I guess I didn’t hide my reaction very well after all because Martha’s face caved-in. “I bought it because I thought everybody would be so busy looking at it that they wouldn’t notice how big I am.”

  I felt about two centimetres tall.

  She turned from me and as she opened the sauna door a voice squeaked out, “You just have to bide your time, Sal. Be patient. But I still don’t understand why you have to do it at all.”

  The voice stopped as our eyes met. She was a woman of curves, like a Reubens, with raven black hair and burnt umber eyes. She instinctively hunched forward as if to protect her body from a blow and then relaxed.

  “Hello, I’m Sandy.”

  I nodded my head at her. She’d been in the writing class. I turned to look at the only other person in the sauna — the redhead.

  Martha waded in and introduced me to Sally as we found our spots on the benches. She really was a big woman — not fat but big boned. Her luxurious, curly, red hair billowed around her face, making her watery blue eyes look like an afterthought.

  “I was just telling Sally here,” said Sandy, “that she’s got to be patient. She’s frustrated that she hasn’t seen a polar bear yet.”

  I smiled and said, “Hard to see anything in this fog.”

  Sandy and Sally exchanged glances. Maybe I’d been too flippant?

  “Did you know they are the largest land based carni–vore in the world and their hair is actually translucent so the sun will go through it to the skin beneath?” I pushed on. “Their skin is black to absorb the
sun and the fur is like a wetsuit when they swim.”

  No one said anything after that nice little piece of didactic information.

  “Your lecture was fun,” said Sandy suddenly. Fun was a strange word to use and I just nodded.

  “Did you really solve a murder?”

  I nodded again.

  “It sounds fascinating, all the clues and sleuth work that you had to do.”

  I thought about the state the body had been in and involuntarily shivered.

  “Lord love you, Cordi. How can you be shivering in a sauna?” Martha asked.

  “Maybe someone stepped on her grave thinking it was mine.” I swivelled my eyes over to look at Sally. That was a funny thing to say. These were a rum pair.

  Martha jumped into the silence and changed the subject rather too abruptly. “Sally is part of our writing group and rumour has it she’s a dynamite writer.”

  Sally, who looked as though she had been crying for twenty years, waved away the compliment.

  “I just wish you’d read some of your novel to us in class so we could enjoy your talent.”

  “Sorry, it’s just something I never do.”

  “Couldn’t you hand out a copy, or even just an excerpt? Anything?”

  Sally mournfully shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t do that because …”

  Sally was interrupted by Sandy, who said with the finality of a full stop period, “Sally doesn’t like crowds,” and again they exchanged glances.

  “But that doesn’t mean she can’t …” Martha started, before thinking better of it when she caught sight of Sally, who had large tears pounding down her face. For a while I thought that maybe it was just a whole lot of sweat and we could ignore it, but then she started to gurgle a bit.

  Martha and I looked at each other and then at Sally.

  “You know, it’s okay to cry,” said Martha. “It helps the pain.”

  “How would you know what kind of pain I’m in?”

  “Sweetie, we’re on a boat. There are only a hundred and ten or so of us and the rumours have been flying. You haven’t exactly kept your sorrow to yourself. You’ve been moping about the ship for all to see.”