Innocent Murderer Read online

  INNOCENT

  MURDERER

  INNOCENT

  MURDERER

  A Cordi O’Callaghan Mystery

  Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  A Castle Street Mystery

  Copyright © Suzanne F. Kingsmill, 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Copy Editor: Cheryl Hawley

  Designer: Jennifer Scott

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kingsmill, Suzanne

  Innocent murderer : a Cordi O’Callaghan mystery / Suzanne F. Kingsmill.

  ISBN 978-1-55488-426-1

  I. Title.

  PS8621.I57I66 2009 C813’.6 C2009-903252-X

  1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

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  For B.W.J.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter One

  “You want me to spend a week in the Arctic with a convicted murderer?”

  My lab technician swivelled around in her chair to face me. “Well, not exactly a murderer,” said Martha, her voice lingering on the word “exactly,” stretching it like molas–ses. She tried to stare me down, all her indecision playing over her round face like a carousel of slides flicking too fast: excitement swirled into indecision, melding with con–sternation, mixing with uncertainty, combining with stub–bornness. I got dizzy watching the play of feelings over her face, which is beautiful when it’s not so conflicted.

  “Martha, how can someone be a convicted murderer but not really?” I glanced out of the window of the uni–versity zoology building where I work as a professor. Summer classes were winding down and there were only a few people walking through the grassy quadrangle below. When classes are in full swing in the fall the little patch of green is thronged with students lazing about, or playing Frisbee or catch.

  When Martha didn’t answer I turned back in amaze–ment. She usually views questions as one views the next potato chip. Impossible not to devour.

  “Well?”

  “Really, Cordi, you’ve got to learn to keep your mind open. You can’t always take things at face value.”

  I started to protest but she waved me down.

  “You can be a mislabelled murderer after all.”

  “You mean he was wrongfully convicted?”

  “Exactly! Except that it’s a she. She was acquitted.”

  She said it triumphantly, her words placed before me like a gourmet meal that I was supposed to jump on with relish. Even without relish it sounded like a dish with too much flavour, but I was determined to show her I could keep an open mind and not look for the negative in everything.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Terry Spencer.”

  The name rang some distant bell, but I had no idea what it might be trying to tell me. Not that I cared. I was damned if I was going to let Martha talk me into some–thing I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to do.

  “So what did she not do?” I asked “She did not kill a man. She was acquitted on the evidence.”

  Martha hesitated and I looked at her suspiciously, but she didn’t say anything else.

  “Okay, so why do you think I would want to spend a week in the Arctic with this — this acquitted lady?”

  “So you can help her with her creative writing course next month.” She hesitated when she saw the look of incredulity on my face. “C’mon, Cordi. It’s going to be a nice, leisurely nine day cruise to see the Arctic. All you have to do is give some writing students a few good tips on how to investigate a murder. That, and some natural biology of the Arctic. It’ll be a breeze.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy battling the gale force wind she called a breeze.

  Martha ploughed on. “Terry teaches my creative writing course and we’re all going to sort of bond and get to know each other in the Arctic while we get mate–rial for our work. You know, observe the passengers and stuff.”

  “But you hate the wilderness,” I said.

  “This is different. I don’t have to live in a tent and get eaten alive. This is like being a turtle. You travel with your own room attached. No hardships!”

  I stood there wondering how I could work with Martha every day and sometimes feel as though I knew so little about her. I didn’t want to pursue the details of my supposed role in all this, so I changed the sub–ject instead. “I didn’t know you were taking a writing course.” I was getting drawn in despite myself. “I didn’t even know you wrote!”

  Martha swung back to her desk, looking as if I’d hurt her feelings, and began sorting through vials of my insect specimens. I must have said it the wrong way because nothing in the words sounded offensive to me.

  “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t write,” I said to her accusing back. Silence. She was infuriating. When

  I wanted to hear gossip she was as mute as a slug, but when I didn’t care she was like a rooster at dawn.

  I tried another tack. “What makes a murderer quali–fied to teach you guys to write, and why in the name of god would she need me?”

  She turned back to look at me. “You keep forgetting that she was acquitted. She wrote a bestseller while she was incarcerated — you know, all about her time in jail and stuff like that.”

  “But Martha, that doesn’t sound like creative writ–ing. Are you sure you’re getting your money’s worth?” I added, not wanting to see her scammed. She could be so damned trusting.

  “Cordi, stop jumping to such negative conclusions.

  She’s written several works of fic
tion since the non-fic–tion book. You really should read more, you know. She’s quite well-known.”

  “No. I want to know why you seem to have volun–teered my name.”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t mind helping out. The person who was supposed to do it backed out late last week and Terry is desperate for a replacement.”

  “Maybe it’d be easier to find a replacement if you just held the course here in the city.”

  Martha threw me a withering look that instantly made me feel like last year’s lilies. “You can’t possibly bond with people here in the city. It’s too impersonal and we all go home after our three hours a week. There’s no time to really get to know each other, learn about each other, and get some good material for our writ–ing. There’s nothing like meeting new people in close surroundings to get good material for a story — that’s what Ms Spencer says.”

  Oh brother, a touchy feely teacher imprisoning her charges on a gimungus ship in the Arctic. And she wants someone who’s allergic to bonding to be there helping her students bond … or was I jumping to conclusions?

  “I thought writers were a solitary lot.”

  “Well, yeah, they are,” said Martha in a voice that sounded like a kid being denied a lollipop.

  “Why are they going on this trip then?”

  “Because Terry said it would be good for our writing. And intimated that there might even be an agent on the trip. You know, someone who could read our work and discover the next P.D. James.”

  “How big is this anti-social group?”

  “There are eight of us who are going.”

  When I didn’t say anything she smiled. “What do you say, Cordi? The trip would be paid for. Give you a good vacation and distract you from Patrick.”

  Ah, my lover, Patrick — who was thinking seriously about going to London, England, for a prospective job that I fervently wished would evaporate. Long distance relationships don’t usually last, and Ottawa to London is a hell of a commute, not to mention expensive. Plus we hadn’t been able to really talk about it because he was away in Georgia for a week, giving a paper at a sci–entific convention.

  I should have just said no to Martha — I had so much work on my plate — but her mention of Patrick had derailed me. “When do you need to know my answer?”

  “Today.”

  “Today? Are you nuts? How can I decide today when I don’t even know if this Spencer person is a three-headed monster from Mansonville, or a sweet old gee–zer from church? Not to mention the problem of my not having enough material to teach your class anything use–ful. When is this trip anyway?”

  Martha’s face suddenly started doing gymnastics again and she kept flicking her eyes in the direction of the door. Startled, I turned around to look.

  Standing there was a striking woman with corn blonde hair and forget-me-not eyes — cookie cutter beautiful. She was wearing a sky blue shift, belted at her tiny waist with a silver tasselled belt.

  Before I could speak she said, “I think I prefer to be the old geezer to the three-headed monster.” The words came out sounding pompous and stilted.

  Fortunately I don’t blush but I went one better with my stammering words — they came out sounding swol–len and unused. “Oh … Uh … Are you …?” I turned to Martha for help, wishing I was somewhere else.

  “Yup, this is your three-headed monster. Terry Spen–cer, meet Cordi O’Callaghan.” And with a flourish of her hand, Martha ushered her in. God, but she was drop-dead gorgeous, which is about what I felt like doing I was so embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….” I held out my hand, at a total loss for words. Her blond hair was so shiny you could see your reflection in it and her deep tan looked fantastic on her tiny features, accenting her plump, red, heart-shaped mouth. Thirty-five? Forty-five with a nip and tuck. About my height, five feet six inches. Her handshake was surprisingly weak, my own strong grip evaporated in sympathy and I let go quickly.

  “No problem, Ms O’Callaghan.” She emphasized the Ms as though it was a four-letter word. She was watch–ing me carefully, her eyes still and hard. “At least it’s in the open,” she continued as I said nothing. “It’s harder when people look at me and I can see them wondering if I really am a murderer.”

  Her eyes were fixed on me. The smile on her face made it seem like she was amused, but her gaze felt arro–gant. I squirmed in discomfort, wishing I could get onto safer ground so that I could feel like I had some control over the situation.

  “Would you excuse us a moment, please?” I said and grabbed Martha by the arm, hauling her out into the hall.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked as we moved down the hall together.

  “Shhh, Cordi, she can hear you.”

  I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What’s she doing here?”

  Martha rubbed her hands and I watched her face as it surfed through a bunch of different emotions, finally settling on what sure looked like guilt.

  “I suggested she swing by here to have a quick talk about logistics and stuff before tonight’s lesson so she could confirm with the class if you were coming. She said she’d be in the area anyway and would drop by.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to but we got involved in other stuff.” She looked me in the eye. “I told her there was no way you’d be able to attend the class tonight and that if she wanted to check you out she’d have to come to you. It’s kind of urgent you know.”

  I knew Martha well enough to know I should have paid attention to that last sentence, but I was too busy thinking about what she said just before to catch the warning signs. “Check me out? What do you mean, check me out?”

  “Well, you know, to make sure you aren’t a shy recluse unable to string two words together who would bomb out with the students.”

  “Martha, are you saying that it’s not a sure thing I’d be going, even if I wanted to?”

  “Well she can’t hire you sight unseen, can she? And you can’t accept sight unseen, so I guess this is sort of a mutual job interview.” The guilt was on her face big time.

  She hadn’t told me because she was afraid I’d have made a point of not being here when Terry came — a valid concern.

  There was nothing for it but to go back in, face Terry, and make the most of the situation, but I was surprised to feel a tickle of sudden disappointment that the job wasn’t yet mine for the taking. How much did that have to do with wanting to be distracted from thoughts of Patrick? Or maybe I really did want to go and see the Arctic with a bunch of people I’d never met — with a teacher who I wasn’t sure I liked.

  Terry was standing by the window near Martha’s desk and looked up quickly as we re-entered. I glanced at the desk and wondered what she’d been reading. Then I wondered why it mattered.

  “You got things straightened out between you?” she asked.

  Martha mumbled something and I said nothing.

  Terry smiled and I offered her Martha’s chair and sat down on the counter so that I had the high ground and was able to see what she was snooping — something on the life cycle of sparrows. I smiled. Terry shook her head and instead leaned against the other counter as Martha triumphantly reclaimed her chair. I thought about get–ting two more chairs from the office but decided against it. The more uncomfortable we all were the less likely we’d talk forever.

  “I understand from Martha,” I said, “that you’re looking for someone to give some lectures to your writ–ing students on an upcoming trip?”

  “That’s right. You sound perfect as a replacement for this particular cruise.”

  Did that mean that for any other cruise I was incom–petent, or that I was only competent as a replacement, or both?

  “Martha tells me your lectures on gruesome murder investigations are packed. Plus you can throw in some general Arctic biology on the side.”

  “You realize,” I said stiffly, “that my expertise is not with humans. I offer a course here at
the university for entomology students who want to learn how to iden–tify insects. To make it interesting, for part of the course we use roadkill and pigs, and move the carcasses from one habitat to another. The students have to determine where the animal actually died from the insects on the body, and how many times it was moved, if at all.”

  “No problem with that,” she said. “You can give some of the same lectures you give your students. Humans are animals after all; just like the roadkill.” She said it in a way that made my skin crawl, but when I quickly glanced up at her, her blue eyes were smiling back. “I teach Mar–tha and twenty-three others, but only eight are coming.

  The cruise caters to about eighty clients from varying backgrounds, most of them belonging to naturalist clubs of one sort or another. They’d be allowed to listen to your lectures up to a maximum of forty people per session.”

  “You mean there are only eighty tourists on board?”

  This was not the sort of cruise I had imagined. I had pic–tured one of those mini floating cities that most luxury liners seem to be these days. This actually sounded work–able. Some of the classes I teach have a lot more than eighty students in them. Things were beginning to look up. I was actually thinking I could look forward to it — until she got up to leave and my little bubble exploded.

  “Thanks for taking this on,” she said, offering me her hand. I couldn’t remember saying that I would take it on, but she forestalled my protest saying, “God, I’m glad we found a last minute replacement for Kathy Reichs.”

  And then she was gone.

  The alarm bells that had tinkled earlier were posi–tively deafening now. I turned and looked suspiciously at my lab tech. “Last minute?”

  “Plane leaves in three days.”

  I gaped at Martha. How was I supposed to organize my schedule in such a short time? And why hadn’t Mar–tha warned me she was going on holiday?

  “You didn’t tell me you were …”

  “I did, Cordi, when I told you I was getting Leah as a replacement.”

  The penny dropped. I’d been distracted by my research at the time and hadn’t really been listening to her. I had thought it was some holiday in the distant future. But I remembered now.