Crazy Dead (A Cordi O'Callaghan Mystery) Read online

  For Dorion

  Sisters forever!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  The pain of the dark. Eternal blackness smothering my mind. I felt so alone, lying there, staring at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed through all my days of darkness, and neither had I. We were both water-stained. Me by tears, and the ceiling by the rain seeping in through some wayward hole. But at least the stain on the ceiling vaguely represented something: a seagull sailing on the wind, its wings tilted up toward the sky in the exact opposite direction that I represented, which was nothing, miles and miles of nothing, in a spiralling descent downward.

  I could hear the clatter of dishes down the hall, but the dissonant sounds didn’t mean anything to me. It was just noise. Dark noise. And into that wrenching blackness came a voice — my brother Ryan’s — but it could not reach me where I was.

  “It’s time to go, Cordi.”

  I didn’t care about going or staying. I was beyond that. Ryan had to pull me off my rumpled bed and lead me out into the sticky black sunshine. I found myself in his dusty old car and wondered vaguely why I was there. I sat immobile and watched the cars go by as we drove through the congested streets of Toronto, until the motion of the car put me to sleep.

  Ryan woke me and helped me out of the car into a parking lot covered with a monotony of cars. We weaved our way through them. We went inside a big concrete building that loomed eight or ten storeys above us, and Ryan sat me down in a crowded hallway and left me there. One among many, sitting on hard metal chairs, waiting. Waiting for what?

  It was some sort of hospital because there were people in white lab coats. But I stayed there, where Ryan had left me. I guess time passed and he came back for me, bringing with him a red-headed woman dressed all in white, who extended her hand to me. I stared at it, but I did not take it. Seemed so pointless. Why take a hand when the emptiness inside me would render the gesture meaningless?

  “I have to go now, Cordi,” said Ryan, and I looked up at him and saw nothing, felt nothing. He kissed me on the forehead and turned to go. I did not turn to watch him leave.

  The nurse babbled on about nothing in particular as she led me to an elevator and we went up and up, the little red floor numbers above the door flashing as we passed them, until the elevator spewed us out into a small lobby. There were glass doors at either end and a glassed-in nursing station straight ahead. She opened one of the doors and led me down a wide grey-tiled hall with painted cinder-block walls. The room I followed her into was a box with beds. I was vaguely aware that there seemed to be a lot of them, and that made me think for some reason of an orphanage, although I had never been to one.

  I was an orphan, too. I was an orphan from life.

  She must have told me her name, the nurse, but I hadn’t taken it in as she gently placed my belongings on one of the beds and said something else I didn’t take in. Didn’t care to take in. I looked at my belongings. They looked so pathetic and lonely, just like me. The nurse left and I curled up on the bed, cradling my head on my hands. There wasn’t even a curtain to give me some privacy

  “You try to kill yourself?” The voice was soft and quiet. She moved her head into my line of sight. Jet-black hair cut in a Cleopatra hairstyle that made her improbably round face look like a balloon. But there was nothing balloonish about her troubled eyes. They were so sunken that they almost imploded into themselves, reflecting a world surely alien to mine. Or maybe not. We stared at each other, but I did not move from where I lay. Not a muscle.

  “Naw. You’re too out of it to have tried that,” she said, answering her own question. She’d been there, to that place where you couldn’t even lift a finger to help yourself, the place where I was now. I knew it without her having to tell me.

  She sat there and talked at me. She kept talking about her “sieve of a mind.” I do remember she told me a joke that made her cackle with a laugh that went on and on and on. And made me want to cry and cry. It was about two little birds on a telephone wire and one little bird says to the other little bird, “Don’t some people’s voices make your feet tingle?”

  I didn’t laugh. I remember that. Looking back now, I wonder if she had sensed what was coming, in some way.

  When she left I slept for centuries, dreaming dark dreams and empty hopes. I was in a huge barn, with a man, a man who was not my father, and I was swinging on a swing strung high from the rafters and I saw my parents and my brother crying, because they could not find me. Back when I was a little girl. Back when I was going to be a writer. So long ago. So far away.

  And the nightmares mercifully faded and I was conscious only of eating, of swallowing pills, aware of people crowded around my bed asking endless questions to my stony silence.

  No, I did not try to kill myself. Of that I was sure.

  I lived in a daze, the memories of my mind interlaced with the tendrils of a fog that watered down everything I did, everything I was, till I felt I was but a blur on my mind’s horizon, wearing a caution sign that read SEVERELY REDUCED VISIBILITY FOREVER AHEAD.

  And then one morning I woke up and the sun didn’t look quite so black and I felt a tiny quickening in my mind that I had despaired of ever feeling again. I nursed that little glimmer the way one would a small ember in a hearth and day by day it got bigger until one day I spoke. It wasn’t much, but it was a way back.

  There was, finally, a grey, dingy light at the end of the tunnel.

  Chapter Two

  My mind was bruised and worn, but still there, still me, still Cordi. I was actually able to look around at my surroundings and take stock. I’d never been in a psychiatric hospital before, but depression, the dark all-consuming kind, had periodically hounded me almost all my life. Pathetically, I remember thinking it would go away once I turned thirteen, once I got my period, once I got my driver’s licence, once I had a boyfriend. But it never did. Instead, I lived my life around it, always wary that it could blindside me with the force of a seismic shift.

  It somehow seemed a logical extension of my life, to be here, far from home. Ryan had rescued me from my log cabin on our Gatineau, Quebec, dairy farm, found a condo for me, and insisted I come to Toronto to do my sabbatical, but I knew now that it was so he could keep an eye on me and my injured mind. Not that he needed the additional burden. He had temporarily moved to Toronto to try to save his daughter, Annie, from an aggressive brain tumour. There were doctors in Ottawa who could have helped, but Ryan wanted the best, and the best happened to be in Toronto. There is no doubt he would have gone to Vancouver or Beijing if that was what it took. But it made
me feel awful. At first I had persuaded myself that I had come to Toronto so that I could support Ryan and Rose, Annie and little Davey, but then the darkness had come in spades, and I got lost.

  My hospital “room” was as warm and fuzzy as a concrete slab. Someone had tried to make it look nice by taping up a poster of bicycle wheels and a tall lanky black man playing the saxophone. But the posters were ripped and the tape holding them to the walls had yellowed with age. How many souls had come through this room and looked at those posters and despaired — like me?

  There was an oversize single window, no curtain, facing north, that let in a lot of light. I needed that after all the darkness in my life. The four beds were lined up on either side of the window. Even with the bedside table blocking me from the bed across the way, there was no privacy and no warmth. Totally utilitarian, and a setup that made it easier for any nurse or doctor or caretaker walking by to keep an eye on us, but it made me very uncomfortable. There were some flowers on my table — big garish purple things. There was a card tucked into one of the gargantuan petals and I got out of bed and pulled it out, angry that someone other than my brother knew I was here.

  “Get better, Cordi. We’re rooting for you. Love, Martha and Duncan.”

  Martha was my lab technician. She looked after all the animals in my lab at Sussex University, where I worked as a zoology professor. Duncan was a pathologist and, along with Martha, had helped me solve a number of mysterious deaths that had turned out to be murders. What can I say? I often seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I softened at the sight of her name. If anyone needed to know how I was doing and where I was doing it, it was Martha.

  I put down the card and looked around the room. The bed on the other side of the window was occupied by someone curled up in a tight ball of bedcovers and pillow, and I could not see her face. The woman in the third bed had her face turned into the wall. Obviously I wasn’t the only goldfish wanting some privacy. The fourth bed was empty, the sheets rucked up so that the fitted sheet was off its moorings. I sat down on my bed and looked out the window, then started when I felt a presence beside me. I looked around and saw the girl who had told me the joke about the little birds. I’m not sure why I remembered that, or her, because there was very little else that I could remember since Ryan had brought me here. I didn’t even know how long ago that had been.

  Her hair starkly framed her round face and this time I saw how wide apart her eyes were — you could’ve put a bowling alley there. And she could’ve been the bowling ball. Because now I noticed how short and round and dumpy and young she was. Her dark, almost black eyes stared out at me from above a button of a nose, and her mouth was almost round, as if she had a nervous tic that made her constantly pucker up. Purple-and-yellow running shoes peeked out from under black-and-white flannel pajamas made into a giant crossword puzzle. I wondered if it was a working puzzle or just fake. I had a sudden strong urge to write a word, even without knowing the clue. “Trapped” might work, I thought.

  She sat down beside me with proprietorial panache and said, “You’re better now.” And she giggled, just like a four-year-old, although she must have been more like twenty-four.

  I recoiled, still not wanting to talk very much, as if my words would somehow send me back into the darkness.

  “You have pretty eyes.” She swivelled and trampled some more on my personal space as she reached out to touch my eyes. Instinctively I pulled back. She scrunched up her face, as if she was about to cry.

  “You don’t like me,” she said and then she did begin to cry.

  “Yes, I do,” I said, my voice alien in my ears, hoarse and unused. I hesitated, searching for something to say. “I liked your joke.”

  She sniffled and stared at me. “What joke?”

  “The two little birds on a telephone wire.”

  She looked at me blankly and then I saw confusion and fear, which shook me, because why would a joke make her so afraid?

  She stood up and started backing away from me, without taking her eyes off me.

  “They’re stealing me,” she said. Then she said it again. And again.

  She turned and ran to her own bed and buried her face in her pillow. I almost got up and went over, but something held me back. Something in my own mind or something from hers? I wasn’t sure. My own mind was still pretty wobbly. Looking at her now, I had a vague recollection of her bringing me some water, which I had spilled all over my shirt and couldn’t have given a damn. And her name was Mavis. I was suddenly sure of that, though why that piece of information should bubble up was a mystery.

  As I sat there on my bed she suddenly jumped off her bed, grabbed a sweater from the closet, and charged out the door, just as a woman dressed in nurse’s whites walked in.

  “Oh, how wonderful, Cordi. They’ve moved you back,” she said. She was maybe thirty-eight, with shiny auburn hair. It was corralled into a painful-looking ponytail, revealing strong angular features that made her look more handsome than pretty. She was about five foot eleven and maybe 180 pounds. For all the extra weight, she was strangely sensual, like a woman who has just made love and is coveting the feeling of her own sexuality. She had a voluptuous Botticellian figure and she carried herself like Aphrodite. Some women just have it, no matter what they look like, and she had it in earnest.

  Her name tag said Ella, but I’d never seen her before in my life. Or had I? How much of my life had I lost to the darkness and despair of depression?

  “What’s the date?” I asked rather brusquely, trying to hide my fear.

  “February 23.”

  February 23. Jesus. I vaguely remembered doing a guest lecture at the Ramsey Wright Zoology Building at the University of Toronto at the beginning of February. Teaching a class of undergrads about the mechanics of bird flight. But all I had really wanted was to be away from the world, away from prying eyes. And I had crept home. Three weeks ago. Jesus. Three lost weeks. I had to get out of this place. I didn’t belong here. Or did I? I remembered the blackness, now receding. Had the hospital done that? Made the blackness go away?

  Ella had gone to the window and was talking about how nice the view was and that if I tried really hard I could see Robarts Library at the University of Toronto. I knew what she was doing, of course. She was trying to make me feel at home in my goldfish bowl.

  “We’ll get you to some group therapy sessions and you’ll see your doctor later today,” she said. She moved away from the window and toward me, where I sat on my bed. She reached out and handed me a little paper cup. I took it from her as she said,“Here are your pills.”

  Inside were three pills, three different kinds. For all I knew they were arsenic, strychnine, and cyanide, but that was ridiculous and I knew it. She waited for me to pop them in my mouth and when I didn’t she said, “We have to have our pills, dear. Just pop them in and I’ll be on my way. And next time you can get them yourself. Eight o’clock mornings and nine o’clock evenings just down the hall. Mavis will show you where.”

  I dumped the pills into my hand and hesitated again, not because I didn’t want to take them, but because a perfect stranger had called me “dear” and was including herself in the taking of my pills, and I was trying to digest that disturbing fact.

  “They’re the same pills as usual, dear. You can ask your doctor about them if you want, but right now you need to take them.”

  I felt a twinge of anger, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist, just a watery feeling amidst the unfocused thoughts of my mind. I popped the pills.

  I was rummaging around for some clothes to wear when Mavis stomped back into the room, dived under her sheets, such as they were, and lay still, like a fawn being warned by its mother. I was looking at the lump that was Mavis when one of the other lumps suddenly exploded out of her bed in a long lithe motion of sheer athleticism. She must have been nearly six-two, with shoulder-length thick blonde hair spra
wling all over her face, and a thin body that was all muscle and clothed in loose maroon shorts and a matching pajama top. I watched her in fascination, her toned body moving like a waltz, each movement flowing effortlessly into the next, almost as if she was moving in slow motion, though she most definitely was not. Her beautiful body was eclipsed by her face. She had smooth milky-white-and-rose skin and enormous sapphire eyes, bookending a perfectly shaped little nose with a curvy tip. Her lips were full and naturally reddish. She caught me staring at her and frowned.

  “Lucy,” she said as if it was a command to arms, her voice surprisingly deep.

  “Cordi,” I answered.

  She cocked her head. “What the hell’s that short for?” She sounded aggrieved, as if I had metaphorically stomped on her toe.

  I hesitated, not wanting to answer, but she was looking at me so intensely that a question I usually deflect, I answered.

  “Cordelia.” After thirty-five years of living with that name I still hated it. Why my parents had picked it I never knew, although I always suspected it represented some clandestine place where they had first met. As soon as I was old enough, and had endured enough taunts, I insisted on being called Cordi. Lucy looked at me as if she had just smelled a bad smell.

  “Whoa. Not sure whose name is worse,” she said as she glanced in Mavis’s direction. “Mavis? Cordelia? At least you have a good short form. Avis sounds like the car rental.”

  She grabbed her sheets and made an attempt at making her bed when Mavis suddenly flipped back her covers and stared at us, then got out of bed.

  “Kit’s going to get in trouble,” said Mavis. Lucy and I glanced over at the last lump left in bed.

  “Not supposed to miss breakfast,” said Lucy in a critical voice.

  Mavis shrugged. “Not on my conscience,” she said. She rolled her eyes and grabbed a towel and left the room.

  And that was when Lucy added, “Poor Mavis.” When I didn’t react she asked, “Don’t you want to know why?”