Innocent Murderer (35 page)

“But it'll be locked.”

“Maybe I'll get lucky.”

“But isn't going to his garage a little stupid?”

“At this hour? He doesn't sleep there. It's the perfect time to go.”

I opened Martha's front door and stopped on the threshold — she bumped into me. “I'm coming with you.

You're going to need a second pair of eyes, in case some
–
one comes.”

I started to object but she gently pushed me out the door and shut it behind her.

We drove to Bank Street and parked the car a good block away, then walked back on the far side of the street.

We looked across at his garage. The front office was in darkness, except for a low energy nightlight that had a bluish tinge, making it look as though someone was watching TV. I couldn't see the back offices. I wondered if he had an alarm system. We crossed the road a few houses down and walked along the sidewalk to the lane
–
way that Elizabeth and I had roared down on the BMW.

There were no windows along this side of the build
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ing. When we rounded the corner there was one outside light at the back, but unlike my last visit the large doors were shut. We snuck up and checked the doors. Locked with a double padlock. But there was a small side door and we sidled over to it. No alarm sticker on it. I reached out to grab the knob when Martha jerked my shirt and nearly gave me heart failure.

“Fingerprints!” she hissed, ignoring the fact that I had just planted them all over the double doors. I was about to make some caustic retort when I realized we didn't have the time. We were drenched in a spotlight in full view of anyone looking our way.

I wound my jacket around my hand and tried the knob. Locked. We went back down the side of the build
–
ing, scanning for anything. I was about to give up when I saw a little window about five feet up off the ground. It looked as though it was slightly ajar but I couldn't be sure. I looked at Martha and she looked up at the win
–
dow, shook her head.

“You're not that small, Cordi,” she said. “Besides, how would you get up there?” She glanced at my face and shook her head again. “You never give up, do you?” she asked as she bent over and I clambered up onto her back.

I wasn't sure why the window was there, other than for ventilation, but it was unlocked. I pulled it open as wide as it would go and looked in. There was a platform running along the length of the building just under the window, so I began squirming my way inside. Once I got my head and shoulders through I knew I was home free. I moved along the walkway to the stairs, went to the back door and let Martha in.

There was a scuffling sound over by the door to the office and I nearly grabbed Martha and bolted. But as we listened there was no repetition of the noise, just a low humming sound from the eerie nightlights. The cars, so brightly coloured by day, were dark, empty shapes, their presence somehow sinister. Quietly, we moved down the row of cars to where I had caught my jacket. It was so dark that I had to get down on my hands and knees and do a sweep before I found it. Martha was jerking her head all over the place — on the lookout I guess.

When I finally stood up she said, “Find it?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Now let's go.”

But I wasn't paying attention. I was looking at the door that led to the front offices. It was slightly ajar. Had it been that way when we first came in? I couldn't remem
–
ber. I remembered the scuffling sound and the thought thumped through my mind that maybe Owen was here, hiding, waiting for us. It was an unnerving thought. But then why would he be skulking around his own shop in the dark? He couldn't have known I'd be dumb enough to come back for my wallet or lucky enough to find a way in. My heartbeat slowed and I touched Martha on the sleeve and jerked my head in the direction of the door.

“Maybe we can find something in Owen's office that will incriminate him.”

Martha gave me a startled-all-to-hell look that nearly made me laugh. The look eased into full-blown resistance and then into restrained acquiescence.

“What, like a written notarized confession?” she whispered.

I ignored her and headed toward the door. It was so quiet and the lighting was so eerie that it made me feel like I was on the set of a horror movie. I peered through the door. There were more nightlights in the hall but there was no light spilling out of any of the office doors. No one was home. We still crept down the hall as if there was someone there and I snuck my head around Owen's office door. It too was dimly lit by nightlights, although his had a reddish tinge. As my eyes adjusted I jumped back into the hallway and Martha let out an involuntary grunt then looked horrified. I put my finger to my lips and looked again. Thank god he was a deep sleeper. Owen was sitting at his desk, his head and arms resting on top of it in an awkward fashion. But it was his right hand that caught and held my attention. The dim red light shone dully off the barrel of the gun that he gripped, the same gun I had seen him waving at Elizabeth. When I looked more closely I could see the pool of blood he was lying in.

“I think he's dead,” I whispered at Martha, as I moved back into the corridor.

She made a funny face at me that could have meant anything from, “Let's get the hell out of here,” to “This is the stupidest thing I've ever done.”

We entered cautiously, one at a time.

“Jesus. Don't touch anything, Cordi,” Martha whispered.

I looked at her as if to say “duh.” I went over to the desk and checked his pulse — I had to touch at least that and shook my head at Martha. He was still warm and it made me shiver. I glanced at the desk. There was a note, somewhat blood spattered, but I could make out enough of it to see it was a typewritten confession in the murders of Michael, Heather, and Terry. Sally didn't rate.

“He killed himself,” said Martha as she hovered near the desk, one eye for Owen and one for the door.

“Looks like it.”

“I don't get it,” said Martha “Why would he kill him
–
self if the only proof that existed was in his head.”

“Maybe he couldn't stand what his sister had turned him into. A patsy. A murderer.”

“But still, he loved her. Is that why he killed himself?

Because he had killed someone he loved?”

It was pathetic really, a cold-blooded killer com
–
mitting suicide. But then the value of a human life to a cold-blooded killer would be negligible, even his own life, it seemed.

As I reached out and picked up the phone with the hem of my shirt to dial 911, I saw something glinting in the purple broadloom just under the sofa. I bent down to take a look and caught my breath. A little bronze ele
–
phant with a broken tusk.

Martha's antenna went sky high when she heard me gasp and she zipped over to take a look.

“Elizabeth's been here. Tonight.”

“How do you know?”

“Because two hours ago we were in a cop car and she was fiddling with her elephant.”

“Do you think she tried to save him?” asked Mar
–
tha as we looked at the typewritten note and the gun clenched in his right hand.

I had a flash back to the garage, Owen and Elizabeth and the gun. And suddenly I had a vision of Elizabeth's face as she learned what Owen had done, saw the anger and the revulsion, and the vengeance, saw Owen's hand gripping the gun — it had been in his left hand.

“Jesus,” I said. “She didn't try to save him. She killed him.”

“What?” said Martha.

“Owen was left handed.”

The words were barely out of my mouth when there was a footfall in the corridor and suddenly Elizabeth blocked our way out with her body and a gun in her hand. Martha was standing next to her by the door and she waved her closer to me. “You're too smart for your own good, Cordi.”

I'd always wondered about that expression until now. If I hadn't been so smart I wouldn't be about to die. Or maybe the word dumb works well too.

“What are you going to do? Kill us both?” I asked, as I judged the distance between us.

Elizabeth's gaze faltered.

“You're not the type, Elizabeth,” I said.

“I killed Owen,” she said between clenched teeth.

“But that was different. Your husband's death made it easy to want revenge.”

She licked her lips and held the gun steady and I wondered if maybe I had underestimated her.

“We're just two people trying to solve the very crime you wanted avenged. You have no burning desire to kill us.”

And into the silence that followed she said, “I have no desire to kill you.” She looked beyond me, to Owen. “Unfortunately, I now have a need to kill you.”

I should have seen that coming, but I definitely did not see what came next. A phone rang in the office across the hall, probably a wrong number, but for a split second Elizabeth turned her head away from us.

In that splintered little moment Martha did the most amazing full-body tackle, catapulting Elizabeth against the wall. The gun slid across the floor and disappeared under the sofa.

“I got her! I got her!” Both Martha and Elizabeth were a tangle of arms and legs until finally Martha gained the upper hand and sat on the much lighter Elizabeth.

I stood there, opened mouthed, looking at the two of them, Elizabeth pinned down but still struggling and Martha, beaming at me. She turned around to check on her quarry and said, “For god's sake, she's turning blue.

Get the gun, Cordi!”

Right! I thought, and went over to the sofa to fish around for the gun. But it was way under and I had to muscle the sofa out of the way to get it. I forced myself to pick it up as if I knew what I was doing, which I didn't.

She would have had the safety off so I'd have to be super careful. I aimed it to the left and way above her head and Martha gave me a strange look and decided to stay sitting on Elizabeth, although she did shift her weight so Elizabeth could breathe.

I picked up the phone and dialed 911 with my free hand.

The police had arrived very quickly, but they took us down to the police station for the initial questioning. It was well past midnight before they were done with us (for the time being). As we drove back to Martha's we went over all the details of the evening again and again, until we were sick of them.

“Somehow it doesn't seem fair,” said Martha finally. “On the one hand a truly cold-blooded killer never gets charged for his crimes, never gets what's coming to him, while his hot-blooded murderer will go to jail for a long time.”

“Owen did die, Martha. That's a huge price to pay.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. But that's not the way it's sup
–
posed to work. He should have been charged and tried and jailed for his crimes. Elizabeth shouldn't have had to take the law into her own hands and Sally should never have had to die.”

We fell silent and watched the city roll by, the lights of Parkdale giving way to the lights of Wellington.

As we sat waiting for a red light Martha suddenly blurted out, “I hate my boss.”

“I'm sure you'll get used to him,” I said.

“He's a pompous ass.”

“Well, that sounds like a bit of a hurdle, I admit.”

“I'm coming back.”

I played dumb but I was already starting to smile. “Where?”

“You know perfectly well where.”

In the end I dropped Martha off and drove home for my first, somewhat foreshortened, night in my new home. The threat was gone and I wasn't adrift anymore. I needed to lick my wounds and figure out how to keep Patrick after what I'd done. He was somewhere over the Atlantic now — probably already in England — and I hadn't even said goodbye. How bad was that?

As I drove past the farmhouse, Barney, Ryan's new golden retriever, started making a ruckus and I floored it so he'd stop. He didn't. Instead he followed me down the lane barking his head off. When I turned down the drive to my cabin only my porch light and one living room light shone out at me in greeting. I pulled my car into the drive
–
way and got out, breathing in the smell of fresh hay. It felt good to be free, to not have to look behind every door for a killer, to be able to venture into my home without any worry of an intruder bowling me over. Paulie jumped down from the porch and came over and rubbed up against me.

I reached down and scratched her ears. I loved the purring sound she made, like a muted little engine softly whirring.

As I walked up the steps to the house, Paulie on my tail, a shadow flitted across the porch. I whirled. Old habits die hard. All I could see was a silhouette com
–
ing towards me from the direction of the farmhouse.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Just me.” Ryan's voice floated on the evening breeze and I realized how crazily I had hoped it would be Pat
–
rick. Ryan came up onto the porch and we sat side by side on the little bench I'd built the summer before, look
–
ing out into the darkness of the night.

“What are you doing up so late?” I asked him.

“I could ask the same question,” he said softly.

He could always read my mind, my brother, and I knew he hadn't got up for the cows. I guess it was a brother-sister thing. So I told him everything that had just happened to me.

“Do you really think Elizabeth killed Owen?” he asked when I was through, and after he'd made enough brotherly comments to show me that someone cared what happened to me.

“Yes, I do, but we'll have to wait for the police to sort out who murdered whom. But off the record: Owen killed Michael in cold blood, using Terry as a murder weapon. Owen grabbed the wheel from Terry to kill Heather. He finally broke and killed Terry, but was tor
–
mented by it. Then Elizabeth, tormented by her need for vengeance, killed Owen and tried to make it look like suicide. And he just left Sally to die in the pool.”