Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  I have to admit that my heart went out to Jean; in a split second she’d been transformed from a tigress to a lamb. She let Meg’s upper body fall, completely ignoring it as it tumbled from her grip, and she walked toward me repeating the question, ‘What will I do now?’ over and over, wet-faced and hopeless; a lost soul in a frail body that had just aged ten years in two short minutes.

  ‘Come with me, dear, I’ll get you a brandy,’ came an unexpected voice – it was Martha Gray, pushing her husband to one side. She enveloped Jean within a wing of a pink chiffon negligee.

  ‘Someone call 911,’ I barked. Luis made a dash from the floor toward his room. It seemed my powers of speech had returned, and my hangover was a thing of the past; I continued to be the only one with any sort of plan of action, so I went for it.

  ‘We need to get out of here and shut the door until the police come.’ I sounded as though I knew what to do, but I hadn’t been involved in a sudden death like this since I’d had my formal training in crime scene management years earlier, when a real body had turned up at the ‘fake’ crime scene. This was an even bigger shock than that: I hadn’t gone to school with that body; I hadn’t played at being Emma Peel in the school yard with that body; I hadn’t been quaffing wine and swapping old memories a few hours ago with that body. Getting out and leaving everything as untouched as possible, Jean’s intervention aside, was all we could do.

  ‘You can’t leave her hanging out of bed like that.’ It was Adrian; he spoke with surprising authority.

  We all looked at how Meg’s body was balanced on the edge of the bed, where she had fallen from her mother’s arms. It was a precarious position.

  I hesitated. All my training told me to not touch anything, but this was Meg – she could fall. Of course, I immediately told myself she couldn’t get hurt . . . but then reasoned with myself that if she fell off the bed, then that would be as much of a disturbance of the scene as if she were lifted back onto it. I knew in my heart that, for some inexplicable reason, we’d all feel better if Meg was placed ‘safely’ back on the bed.

  ‘Okay, I’ll lift her up,’ I almost whispered. I turned to the others, ‘But only me – you all stay there.’

  I tiptoed across the room until I reached Meg. Oh Meg. Dear Meg. I tried to control my emotions.

  Reaching under her shoulder I gathered up her right arm and lolling head. She was cold, but not icy. She was certainly still mobile, though I could tell that rigor mortis was setting in. She was surprisingly light. I shifted her as little as I needed until she wasn’t likely to fall.

  There. She was safe.

  Not a body, but an old friend.

  I had to fight to hold back the tears. I had to be professional.

  As I re-joined the group at the door I wiped my damp hands on my robe.

  ‘Well done,’ said Adrian, in a soft voice, and we closed the door as well as we could, given that it was badly splintered.

  There was nothing we could do but await the arrival of the police.

  ‘The power, it is out, and the telephone it will not work – it is dead.’ Luis’s voice echoed around the dim landing. The word ‘dead’ hit us all like a hammer. Only Luis seemed to not notice. ‘Does anyone have a cellphone? I did not charge mine last night,’ he added.

  As he said it I kicked myself that I hadn’t been sufficiently well organized to recharge mine before I had gone down to dinner.

  ‘I’ll get mine,’ barked Joe Gray.

  Now there’s a man who’ll never be without his mobile communication devices, I thought, as the dealmaker returned to his room as fast as his twig-like legs would carry him. And thank goodness for it today, was my next thought.

  Joe reappeared at the top of the stairs and passed me the sleek device with his liver-spotted hand.

  ‘You do it,’ he ordered.

  I suspected Joe never asked for anything, rather he got what he wanted by instructing people to simply do his bidding.

  Obligingly I took the phone, checked the signal – which was weak – and moved around the staircase until I found a spot where the signal was stronger.

  ‘You guys all go and get dressed and so forth, then maybe someone could get some coffee on the go? Maybe rustle up something for breakfast? There’s nothing we can do until the police get here,’ I shouted from my perch at the top of the stairs, and the little group straggled past me, into their various rooms.

  I was alone by the time the operator finally answered. I briefly explained the situation, gave my name and our location, then, after a few moments, I found I was speaking to what sounded like a twelve-year-old girl, who informed me she was the shift supervisor and that she was sorry, but no emergency response could be offered at the present time.

  I almost exploded. ‘About ten minutes ago we discovered the body of Miss Meg Jones, noted author, in her bed. She has no pulse and is cold to the touch. We need first responders, now.’ I was pretty proud of myself – I felt I had acquitted myself very professionally.

  ‘Anyone there with medical, paramedic, or police experience?’ She sounded like the bossy type.

  I let my mind skip through the group and was sure of my answer.

  ‘No. At least, not that I’m aware of. I’m a professor of criminal psychology, but I don’t have the expertise we need here. We need professionals. Now, please.’ I suspected I sounded abrupt.

  ‘Well there’s the problem, you see. We can’t send anyone for probably the next twenty-four hours.’

  I was non-plussed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you seen the weather, Professor Morgan?’

  ‘Well, it’s terrible, that’s true,’ I replied grudgingly as I peered through the tall windows ahead of me and saw snow swirling furiously, ‘but surely you can get out to us – we’re not that far off the main road. We’re just about an hour outside downtown Kelowna for goodness’ sake. This is an emergency after all.’

  ‘I happen to know the property, professor, and I’m afraid that’s the issue; not only can we not get to the lodge, but the whole of that valley is cut off. It has been since about three this morning. Heaviest dump of snow in the history of recorded weather fell last night, almost two meters in some areas. And it’s drifted. All the local crews are out trying to open roads right now, and our emergency response vehicles are dealing with a multiple vehicle incident on the section of the highway near the airport. Also, until these winds die down, we wouldn’t be able to get a chopper to you.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’ I knew I was using my most sarcastic tone, and I could even hear my Welsh accent getting stronger; apparently it does when I’m angry.

  She replied calmly, ‘Keep everyone away from the body. Keep the room locked. Try not to disturb anything in as wide a circle around the room in question as possible, and keep the room cool. We’ll get there as soon as we can.’

  I pulled myself together. ‘Have you any idea how long that might be?’

  ‘Difficult to say at the moment, professor. The weather forecast isn’t good, I’m afraid. Says we’re in for high winds and snow for at least the next twenty-four hours, which is why we can’t promise anything. It’s pretty bad.’

  To be fair, she sounded genuinely sorry and her voice had lost some of its gruffness. I began to realize that we could, probably, be a lot worse off than we were. The house wasn’t terribly cold, so I assumed we still had heat, and I’d noticed gas rings in the kitchen last night, so we could eat. And Meg wasn’t going anywhere.

  Poor Meg; if I could keep her room cold enough there wouldn’t be a problem with the body for quite a while. We just had to hope they would get through sooner rather than later. I had lost my sarcasm and ire by the time I responded.

  ‘I understand, Ms . . .?’

  ‘Supervisor McCarthy,’ she replied.

  ‘Okay, Supervisor McCarthy, I’ll make sure we keep the scene as it is.’

  ‘You called it a “scene”, professor. That makes me think you suspect foul play. Is that the
case? I really should alert the RCMP if you think there’s something amiss, even if they can’t get there immediately.’ She sounded genuinely concerned.

  That question.

  I half-closed my eyes; if I can get to the point where everything blurs I can recall the thing I want to visualize much better. In my mind’s eye I saw Meg lying on her side in bed, I saw the flowers on the bedside table, the bedclothes. What was it about Meg, before Jean had gathered her into her arms, that wasn’t right? That didn’t mesh with what I’d felt when I’d moved her? If I wasn’t clear in my own mind, what should I say to this girl?

  Then she added the questions that changed everything.

  ‘If you’re thinking foul play, any idea of who, or how, or when?’

  Upon hearing those words, I knew immediately what had been nagging at me; rigor and lividity progress at roughly the same rate, after death, so if Meg had died lying on her side, as we had found her, there would have been a lividity stain on her face where it lay on her pillow – but there had been none.

  She hadn’t died lying on her side in her bed – she’d died in a different position, maybe even in a different place, and had been moved after death. I sat down on the stairs. Hard. Truly speechless.

  Meg had been moved after death.

  That meant that, even if she’d found the prospect of facing everyone the next day too daunting after her performance at dinner and had killed herself, someone had still moved her body.

  Who would do that? And why?

  Or had someone killed Meg? Murdered her? Shut her up before she could reveal their ‘dirty little secret’?

  That would make more sense. Horrible, frightening sense.

  But if that was the case, then reason dictated that her murderer was downstairs, making breakfast; no one could have got into McEwan’s Lodge, and safely away again, if we’d been snowed in since the early hours. It had to be one of us.

  ‘Professor Morgan – are you okay?’ the young voice sounded worried.

  I gathered my thoughts, and was immediately on my guard.

  ‘I’m here – sorry, you cut out for a moment there.’ I had to think fast. ‘We’ll make sure we keep Meg’s body safe,’ I replied, avoiding her questions. ‘Thank you, Supervisor McCarthy, for your concerns – I’m sure you must be very busy. But, please send someone, anyone, as soon as you can?’

  ‘Will do. I’ll pass on the message it’s urgent, and maybe you could at least create a photographic record of the scene of death?’

  I’d planned to use my phone to take happy snaps of an old friend at her birthday party, not to keep a record of her corpse.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll do that,’ I said. I was resigned to some pretty unpleasant duties.

  We said our goodbyes, then I was alone in the dim morning light.

  I made my way down to join the others in the kitchen-diner, and became the center of attention.

  I looked at the group before me with different eyes; what was I seeing there? Fear? Hope? Anxiety? All those emotions, and more, were evident – but the question was, which one of them had Meg’s murder on their conscience?

  ‘So?’ Luis’s question hung in the air. I swallowed hard and prepared to put on the best act of my life.

  ‘They can’t come right now, and they can’t say when they can get here – the snow’s a couple of meters deep in places, and they’re working on opening up the roads. There’s nothing any of us can do for poor Meg.’ I tried to sound comforting. ‘They’ve asked us to keep her body cool, and off limits. They’ll be here as soon as they can.’

  Sadness and resignation bubbled throughout the group.

  ‘So it’s a waiting game?’ asked Peter Webber, knowing the answer.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ replied Joe Gray.

  I knew there were things I had to do, alone, so I made a suggestion. ‘I have to pop upstairs to dress, but how about that breakfast? And maybe someone could light a fire? And what about the power? Maybe Peter could work on that?’

  A general murmuring ensued, as people agreed to undertake certain tasks.

  I was relieved, and got back to my room – fast. I knew what I had to do; pull on some clothes, then sneak across the landing and take photographs of my dead friend. However, more than anything, I wanted to sit and cry, but I didn’t have the time. Before I could mourn Meg, I had to work out if she’d killed herself, and – if not – then try to work out who might have killed her. It might not be easy, because – if Meg had been telling the truth the day before – it sounded as though everyone at the lodge might have had a motive.

  And so I stood over my old friend’s corpse, and steeled myself to do what I had to do.

  The first thing I had to do was decide how best to use the remaining battery charge in my phone. I toyed with the idea of calling Bud Anderson; he’d been using my skills, on a contract basis, for a few months because he felt a victim profiler was a useful additional tool for him in his role heading up the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team in Vancouver, and the surrounding Lower Mainland. However, I was still getting to know him as a person, and didn’t want to jeopardize how he might think of my professional abilities when I was this closely connected to a murder case. I needed that extra income, and the work I’d been doing for him was fascinating – plus, it was a wonderful way for me to be able to test my theories on real cases.

  On the other hand, the photographs of the crime scene were a necessity, something the cops might rely upon – when they finally arrived. So I decided against a probably uninformative phone call that might raise questions about my ability to self-direct, and opted to use my phone as a camera instead.

  I began with photographs of everything in Meg’s room, which seemed to be exactly the same as my own; except for the pattern on the comforter, the fixtures and fittings were essentially the same, as was their location. I couldn’t find a suicide note – not so much as a scrap of paper.

  I reckoned that, since she’d been moved in any case, there was no reason to not examine her body for any signs of what might have killed her. Meg was wearing a dark-brown silk-satin nightgown; it was good enough for a red carpet appearance. The first thing I discovered was that she’d died sitting up, leaning back, with her legs straight out in front of her – the indications of the lividity were clear; her lower back, buttocks, the back of her legs and her heels were all purplish.

  Maybe she’d been sitting up in bed, leaning against a pillow? That was the sort of position she’d have been in, and for at least a couple of hours after death. I thought about using a meat thermometer to get her body temperature, and thus allow a calculation of her time of death, but, even if I could have come up with a good reason for hunting about for such a thing in the kitchen, the thought of having to push it through her skin and into her liver was just too much for me. Meg had gone to her room around ten p.m., and we’d found her at about eight a.m. That would have to do. I’m a criminologist, not a forensic scientist – I’m not good with that sort of stuff at all. In theory, it’s fine. But in reality? Yuk.

  There were no bottles of pills, no potions or powders lying about, and still no sign of a suicide note. I couldn’t see any obvious weapons, nor a mark on her body; not a pinprick, nor signs of her having ingested anything corrosive. The lack of petechial hemorrhaging in her eyes suggested she hadn’t died from asphyxiation.

  I hadn’t been as thorough as a medical examiner, but I thought I was doing pretty well, given the circumstances. The only odd thing was that Meg’s hair was a mess – a real mess; it had been sleek the previous night, now it was tangled and matted. And, in parts, damp.

  I checked the bathroom; like the bedroom, it was pretty much the same as mine, but Meg had added her own extensive collection of high-end toiletries and cosmetics. Again, there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary – not if you were a multi-millionaire, in any case.

  The bath was dry, as was the bath mat. All her towels, including the hand towels, were dry. I wondered about that. S
he’d clearly removed her make-up before retiring – and it looked as though she’d brushed her teeth and applied some frighteningly expensive night cream. So, a normal preparation for a night’s sleep . . . then what?

  There was nothing to signify an intention to kill herself; nothing knocked over in a possible struggle; nothing at all to suggest how she might have died. Zero.

  I realized time was passing, and that my absence downstairs might arouse suspicion – especially in whomever had done this to poor Meg – so I took one last look around the bathroom and bedroom, allowed myself to bid a final farewell to my old friend, and left Meg alone, pulling the door closed behind me.

  I tiptoed back to my room, pretty sure no one had seen me, then decided I really did need some sustenance, and took myself off downstairs. As I walked into the kitchen so did Peter – but it was clear he’d ventured out into the snowy wasteland beyond the front door; he looked pinched and chilled, though his cheeks were glowing.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Adrian, who was pouring coffee.

  Peter shook his head. ‘Something happened to make the panel blow several fuses all at once, and there’s been some arcing and a burn-out. I’ve fixed it alright, but it seems the power isn’t reaching the house from the power lines – I guess there must be a ton of them down in this weather. It looks like the auto-switch for the generator worked, but that, too, has blown. I won’t be able to repair that main generator. However, I found an ancillary generator in the shed; it’s powerful enough to service the pump from the well, but that’s it. So, no power for anything else, but we’ll have water, at least.’

  I butted in, ‘But, I used the loo this morning – it flushed just fine.’ I sounded surprised, because I was.

  ‘Mine too,’ added Adrian.

  It seemed the tragedy had removed some of the usual ‘embarrassment’ factors that accompany normal life.

  ‘This property is on a well system – bound to be this far out, I guess. Every toilet tank would have one flush in it,’ said Peter, ‘but without me hooking up the back-up generator to the well-pump, that would have been it. I just hope the little one doesn’t give out. May I suggest those of you who can, fill your bath with water while we have it – then at least we can resort to buckets to flush, if the need arises.’