Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  Sally smiled sweetly, and her words seemed to have an amazing effect on Meg; her body lost its tension, and she relaxed. Meg nodded at Sally, and broke into a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sally – you’re right, I should be a better hostess.’ Meg’s voice sounded warm and genuine. Bizarre. ‘The caterers have set up a sort of bar in the kitchen – why don’t we all go through and get ourselves something? There are some little snacks too – though you don’t want to spoil your dinner; I’d planned on us eating in about an hour – the meal they’ve prepared will be ready by then.’

  It was as though a switch had flicked in Meg’s head somewhere; she was acting like a totally different person, with no carry-over of her previous vindictiveness at all.

  Mine wasn’t the only puzzled face in the room, then relief swept visibly through the little group; at least, it was visible to me in the way bodily tensions relaxed, eyebrows were lowered to their normal resting places, and pallid complexions colored up, while ruddy ones calmed down. Jean Jones even shook her thin little body as though she were a dog emerging from a chilly pond. We were all doing the same thing, mentally.

  Meg walked ahead of us, leading the way to the kitchen across the entry hall, seemingly oblivious to the stress she’d caused since her Grand Entrance.

  It was going to be tough to try to act as though nothing weird had happened, but it seemed the whole group had tacitly agreed to some sort of pact to do just that . . . and things went rather well, really, until what turned out to be the end of dinner, which was when I messed up in such a way that it might well have led to murder.

  Upon reflection, I suppose I should admit that Meg might have had something when she said I’m very clever, but that I can be dumb; if ever I was to prove that to be the case, it was that evening. Though, in my own defense, I don’t think it was really my fault – just my doing.

  We’d all enjoyed our drinks and snacks, then we turned our attention to getting dinner served. We all pitched in, and soon we were sitting down at the vast oak dining table that was a part of the open-plan kitchen, which mirrored the Great Room. We tucked into a feast of roasted local duck with local vegetables, and a lot of wine – which was not just local, but from Meg’s own vineyard. Admittedly the wine had been made before Meg owned the property, but that didn’t stop us all complimenting her on each type we tried. And we tried more than a few. After a couple of hours of eating and drinking we were getting a bit raucous – all except Sally, who, it turned out, didn’t touch alcohol; she claimed she was allergic to it. Right.

  I should make it clear that we were getting loud in a nice, friendly way. I was sitting next to Meg – and it was the pleasant, old Meg who sat down at the table that night; we were raking over old times, laughing at past fashion faux-pas, past adventures, past boyfriends, past . . . everything. And that was the problem – we were talking about the past; I said to Meg that she’d had such an interesting life she should think about writing a book about it – an autobiography. And she replied that she sort of had already, but that she was keeping it a secret just for now.

  And then came one of those moments in life that you’d give anything to change – to go back to, and make it un-happen. Let’s call it an accident, or, if you’re the type who believes in that sort of thing . . . which I don’t . . . the intervention of Fate.

  Everyone seemed to stop talking at the same time, and the only thing you could hear in the room was me whispering loudly to Meg, ‘Really? You’ve written your autobiography? Am I in it?’

  As I looked around the table it was quite clear that everyone was thinking exactly the same thing; were they in it? I can recall their faces quite clearly, and every one of them was horrified. I swear some of them had even stopped breathing.

  ‘Oh Meg, what have you done?’ Peter Webber sounded distraught.

  Meg stared at me venomously – and all I could do was mouth my apologies to her.

  The cat was not going back into the bag. No way.

  The wine that, until then, had warmed the conversations around the table, now fueled heightened emotions in everyone. Myself included. As I studied Meg I could tell she’d made a decision. She stood. She swayed a little, and steadied herself.

  All eyes were on her. Which Meg would she be? What would she say?

  ‘I wanted it kept a secret for tonight – but now you know.’ She spoke quietly. ‘I was going to tell you tomorrow, on my birthday. Yes, I suppose you could say I have written my “autobiography”. I’ve worked on it with my doctor . . . my shrink; it’s been an incredibly cathartic process. I found out a lot about myself by doing it. And, yes, you’re all in it. And, yes, I’ve told the truth. That was the whole point of it. And, yes, the reason I invited you all here this weekend was that I need to talk to you all, individually, about how you played a part in making me the person I am today. It’s an important stage in my therapy. My doctor says it’s critical to my future well-being, and I agree with him. There. Now you know.’

  Meg wasn’t being mean; more than anything she sounded resigned. And relieved. She drank down the glass of rich ruby wine that stood beside her empty plate. I noticed that Adrian did the same. As did Luis and Dan.

  A tear trickled down Meg’s cheek. She ignored it. ‘I don’t expect any of you to understand,’ she said, ‘but I needed to do it. I have to face up to my past, to be able to face my future.’ Meg’s voice wavered. It sounded to me as though she were reciting some sort of mantra.

  ‘And you don’t give a damn who you hurt in the process, do you, Meg?’ Adrian pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. There was a fire in his eyes. Was it anger – or terror?

  ‘Hurt? You lot?’ Meg’s voice was suddenly charged with fury, strong and loud. ‘Oh yes – I could hurt all of you if I wanted to. I know all your dirty little secrets, don’t I? Every one of you has a stain on your conscience – there’s quite literally a skeleton in each of your closets.’ She glanced pointedly at her mother. ‘But that’s not what this is all about. Believe it or not, I didn’t ask you all here to point out that you’ve got away with something that could have ruined your life. You, Sally – I know nothing about you . . . though I suspect that’s because there’s little to know. Picked a new wife who wouldn’t ask too many questions, eh, Peter? Clever boy. But the rest of you?’ She stared at her empty glass. ‘No, I can’t do this now. Sod the lot of you. You’ll all have to stew on it overnight – I’m off to bed.’

  Meg threw down the napkin she’d been clutching and twisting, and stomped out of the room, her head down, tears streaming down her face. She made for the stairs.

  The room was silent. Then Sally Webber spoke. ‘I suppose we’d better sort out around here before we go to bed. I’m pretty good at filling dishwashers.’

  Every face, including that of her husband, turned toward her in amazement. Once again she seemed to be completely oblivious to the implications of what had just happened.

  We were all in shock, but we rallied, and dealt with the mundane task of clearing away what had, to be fair, been a very good dinner. As I carried plates and cleared glasses I couldn’t help but wonder what Meg had meant about skeletons in closets.

  I knew I had none; except I had to admit the media frenzy that had enveloped me after I’d found my ex-boyfriend, Angus, dead on my bathroom floor all those years earlier, might have made someone think otherwise. But that was all behind me. I’d left that in the UK; I was a Canadian now, and had been for years. Besides, the authorities had completely exonerated me – publicly, no less, due to the huge interest the tabloids had taken in the case of the initially inexplicable death of the alcoholic, violent boyfriend of a criminologist.

  It all came flooding back as I gathered up the stemware – the photographers following me everywhere, the tutorials I hadn’t dared attend, the lectures I hadn’t cared to deliver . . . the way my life had been raked over, and embellished with all sorts of wicked untruths. It had been a nightmare – a nightmare I hoped was over. But maybe that sort of thi
ng never really goes away. Why would Meg think that anything she could say or do regarding that part of my life could hurt me more than I’d already been hurt by it?

  It was clear I wasn’t the only one going through the process of self-examination; everyone was in their own little world as we filled the dishwasher, hand-washed and wiped the stemware, and finally made our way to our rooms – where at least we could all be alone with our thoughts, and not have to put on a brave face for the rest of the group.

  Eventually I snuggled down under the patchwork comforter on my bed. It had been an emotional day, and I thought I’d never sleep. But I did. Until I received what was, to say the least, a rude awakening.

  ‘Cait. Cait. Wake up. It’s Meg – I’m sure she’s dead. She won’t answer her door – to her own mother.’

  It was Jean Jones, knocking at my door and screaming for me. I stumbled out of bed, discovered my bedside lamp wasn’t working, stubbed my feet into slippers in the half-light, and pulled a robe around myself. The air was chilly. As I opened the door the first thing I noticed was that Jean’s lipstick matched her dressing gown exactly.

  Burnt orange – not a good color choice with that sallow skin, I thought. True, it was an odd thing to notice, but, there you go, I did.

  It was about the only thought I managed before I realized I had a truly horrific hangover, and chided myself that I really should have drunk more water before going to bed the night before.

  I also realized that upright wasn’t a good position for me, and, as Jean dragged me mercilessly toward Meg’s bedroom door I thought my head was going to drop off; mind you, if it had dropped off that wouldn’t necessarily have been a bad thing because it would have taken my hangover with it. But, as it was, I was stuck with the headache, the quickening waves of nausea, and the noise caused by Jean thumping on Meg’s door ricocheting around inside my skull.

  When Jean stopped hammering, my head stopped banging too; I was grateful for the relief, but she’d proven her point. Meg didn’t respond. I reasoned that, if Meg felt anything like I did, she was probably hiding under the blankets hoping her mother would leave her alone; I knew I was.

  ‘See!’ was all Jean could manage as she flung her arm toward the locked door. She was wild-eyed and sounded vindicated. I felt resigned to the fact I’d actually have to do something, then Luis’s head and bronzed, bare torso appeared along the corridor.

  ‘What is it, this noise?’ he asked.

  I pulled my robe around my sadly unsupported bosom, and surreptitiously checked the corners of my eyes for yukky bits.

  ‘Meg won’t answer her door. It’s locked, and Jean is worried about her. Can you check your connecting doors to see if she’s awake?’

  I’d summoned all my powers of control to make my mouth and furry tongue form that one sentence, and I was spent. It did occur to me to wonder why Luis had his own room, as opposed to sharing one with Meg, but I couldn’t cope with everything that was going on all at once, so decided to shelve that particular issue until later – when we knew why Meg wasn’t opening her door.

  As Luis disappeared into his room with a grunt, I tried hard to make spit, but my mouth was as dry as the Valley of the Kings in August – where I’ve been, and I can tell you it’s exceptionally dry. As Luis re-appeared wearing slippers and a robe, he was shaking his head – something I seriously doubted I’d ever be able to do again, given my sorry state.

  ‘The door, it is locked,’ he declaimed with astonishment.

  Jean pounced. ‘See!’ she screamed, sounding doubly vindicated this time. I winced. Jean was very close, and very loud.

  Unsurprisingly, given Jean’s performance, heads were popping out of doors all around the landing.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Peter, seeming to speak on behalf of everyone. Sally was peering out from behind him in their doorway, like a field mouse hiding behind a wheatsheaf.

  I tried to clear my throat to speak, but Luis’s voice boomed around the huge space of the atrium and landing, ‘It is Meg. She is locked in her room. She will not answer her mother. Her mother is worried.’

  I felt like adding something along the lines of ‘la plume de ma tante est dans ma valise,’ as Luis’s stilted phrases took me back to years of pointless, parrot-like repetition in French language classes. Luis’s explanation created little by way of a reaction from anyone, except Jean, who took the ensuing five seconds of puzzled silence as her cue to let rip. Loudly.

  ‘Meg’s dead – I know it, I can feel it in my bones. I’m her mother and I know something’s wrong. Why won’t anybody listen?’

  As though we had a choice.

  A murmur of disbelief rippled around the emerging group, and my overwhelming feeling of unreality was compounded as Luis proclaimed, ‘I will break down the door.’

  Before anyone could protest, he had bounced off the sturdily built cedar-plank door in question with a loud, ‘Ooff’. I was pretty sure bruising would soon set in beneath the perfect tan, but I suspected a rather more enduring hit had been taken by the ego of the man who was known worldwide for flinging himself through carefully constructed stunt-doors on a weekly basis.

  No one knew what to say – here was melodrama mixed with embarrassment. To top it all, my stomach was beginning to churn; if I’d drunk a lot the night before, I was pretty sure Meg had drunk more. What if she’d fallen? What if she’d thrown up and . . . a gag reaction set in as I stupidly thought of vomit, and I had to work hard to control myself. While I was grappling with a stomach full of stale red wine and supporting myself against the wall, people began to stumble toward Meg’s room.

  Soon everyone was gathered outside her door, trying to calm her mother. No one seemed to know what to do next, so, being the control freak I am, I spoke up.

  ‘If we’re all sure she’s really fine, but want to make sure, the only way to do it is to get into her room. But let’s not go wrecking a borrowed house unless we have to. Has anyone got a key for her room? Are there spare keys for any of these rooms?’

  There were shrugged shoulders all around and a sad-faced Luis said, ‘We were told to be careful with the keys to the rooms, they are the only ones. Originals. Meg has a master key, but I think maybe it is in her room.’

  It seemed there was no other option but to break open the door, after all.

  ‘Okay then,’ I croaked resignedly. ‘Now, if all you . . . boys –’ I chose the word carefully so as to avoid any possible insults – ‘just run at the side of the door where the lock is – not the side where the hinges are – I’m sure it’ll open. After all,’ I added in deference to my hostess’s fiancé, ‘Luis must have weakened it already.’

  Luis smiled his warm smile in gratitude as the men gathered to rush at the door.

  It worked, and the door flew open with a loud crack.

  Luis fell into the room and Peter flopped on top of him; Adrian grabbed the doorframe to prevent his angular body from joining the huddle. I cast my eyes across the room toward Meg’s bed. She was lying on her side looking peaceful, but ashen.

  Jean made a move, but I grabbed at her. ‘No,’ I exclaimed, every hair on my neck quite literally standing on end. I knew at that moment that Meg was dead and, as my criminology professor’s mind went to work, I noticed that her body was lying in an unnatural manner; it didn’t look as though she’d died in her sleep.

  Instinctively, I knew something was wrong with the scene, but – in the shock of the moment – I just couldn’t grasp what it was. My ‘photographic’ memory has helped me tremendously during my professional, academic, and even personal life – but that was one unwanted picture I knew would haunt me forever. The detail was burned into my mind’s eye. It would never go away.

  Sometimes I really hate my so-called gift.

  ‘She’s my daughter, she needs me,’ screamed Jean as she thrust me aside, and with two bounds was across the room, sitting on the bed, and pulling Meg’s limp body into her arms. She clutched Meg’s corpse to her chest and screamed for h
er daughter to wake up. She shook Meg, wailing and crying into her daughter’s tousled, long, dark hair. It was phenomenally dramatic; Jean looked – and sounded – like some tragic Greek heroine.

  Everything seemed to be happening at double speed and in slow motion at the same time; people with still-groggy voices crowded at the door; cries of shock and disbelief were on everyone’s lips; Jean was screaming; the inside of my head was banging. Someone had to do something.

  ‘Listen up,’ I called above the hubbub. Everyone fell silent and looked at me as though . . . well, I don’t know what they expected, and I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I just sort of took charge.

  ‘Everyone move back from the door – yes, you too Luis.’ Meg’s fiancé was still flat on his stomach taking in the whole scene from floor level.

  ‘But Meg . . . is she . . .?’ Luis’s unasked question hung in the air. He looked pitifully desolate as he peered up toward me.

  ‘I told you. I told you she was dead,’ screamed Jean as she held her daughter’s body tightly to her breast. ‘You wouldn’t listen. You didn’t believe me. But I knew. I’m her mam. I’m her mam.’ She sobbed and moaned, all the time rocking and swaying. Then she turned toward our weird little group at the door and, without provocation of any kind, snarled viciously at us, ‘You won’t take her away from me. I’m not leaving her alone.’

  Her eyes flashed with hatred, then, quite suddenly, it seemed as though all the passion disappeared from them and she looked at Meg as if for the first time. Jean took in the sight of all of us huddled and heaped in the doorway, tears welling in her eyes, and said softly, ‘Oh my God – Meg’s dead. She’s really dead. What will I do now?’