The Ice Storm Murders Page 7

  "Thomas, the storm is over."

  He moaned and covered his head. "What's the time?"

  "Seven. I'm going down to start breakfast."

  "We should talk."

  "I—"

  "We must."

  What could she say to him? She loved him, but she couldn't live with him in the USA, become a citizen, even in Vermont, much as she liked Culver's Mills. What could they do? What would he do?

  "I want to marry you. I'm tired of roaming around, unattached, with no home, no one to return to."

  "I want to marry you. I love you and want to spend my life with you. But not in the USA. Not now."

  “The President’s time will end."

  "But the people who voted for him, the people who go armed and think that's okay, the people who think babies should be ripped from their mothers' breasts will still be there. I can't live among them. I can't."

  "I'm an American. You have American friends."

  "Yes, I do. People I love dearly, but half, half of the people voted for that man."

  Anne twisted away and out of bed to pace the room. Sunshine crept through the window and shattered on the carpet.

  "Do you want to live in Toronto."

  She glanced at him and smiled. Toronto. Perhaps. "Would you do that? What about your home in Vermont? What about the grandchildren? What about your business?"

  "No reason we can't visit?"

  "That depends on how things are going, doesn't it. You know the fascist turn the government is taking."

  "The election—"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps he won't be reelected. And what about you? Are you on his enemies list?"

  "Not yet. And is Ontario much better with that—? Politics shouldn't govern our life. Is that all this is? The politics?"

  "So much has happened—from Vermont to Bermuda to Spain. I'm still working through all that and the fear."

  Two murders in Vermont, one in Bermuda that almost imprisoned her, a race with a vulnerable child across Europe, and then the attempt to murder her in Vermont. And Karen's attempt on her life in this very building. Too much death and too much fear.

  "Come here."

  She snuggled back into bed and into his arms.

  "We belong together. So long as we agree on that, the rest is logistics."

  She caressed his stubbled face. His dark eyes, crinkled at the margins, full of love, watched her face.

  "We belong together, but—"

  Disappointment fell across his face and shuttered his eyes. She stroked his face again but, after a moment, wriggled out of his embrace and climbed out of bed.

  "Give me another day or so. Meanwhile, people have to be fed."

  "Another day. They have to be fed by you?"

  "And Eloise. Another woman trying to make a decision."

  "Is she?"

  "She loves David."

  "And he?"

  "Beginning to, I think."

  His voice, full of sadness and not a little impatience, reached her in the bathroom. "You're so good with other people's relationships. Bring some of that insight to ours. I'm tired of waiting for your decision."

  She peered around the doorframe towards him. "I know. Please. A little more time."

  No one screaming. No one calling for help. Why hadn't someone discovered her?

  The killer crept off the bed and stood at the window. The storm was over, but from the thick ice covering the downed power lines, no one would be leaving soon. Good. He had more work to do. He sat down at a pine desk fitted into a corner of the room, and composed a note, printing in careful block letters. That should frighten that nosy pair, keep them from interfering in what had to be done.

  Anne stirred the embers in the wood stove, added some kindling and a sturdy log, peeling some of the white bark and adding it to the growing fire. She moved the green-enamelled kettle to the burner and left it to bubble away to itself.

  Eloise opened the door from the stairwell. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her usually happy mouth turned down. A sleepless night, Anne supposed.

  "Morning, Eloise. The storm is over."

  "Dieu merci. Perhaps everyone will relax a little."

  "One can only hope."

  Eloise sat at the table with a hand on her forehead. When Anne spoke, she lifted her dark eyes to meet Anne's. Troubled, Anne thought. Why? "Do you have a headache?"

  "Non. I am worried about Olivia. She has a cauchemar, crying and sobbing. When I woke her, she begged me not to spank her. No one ever spanks her, and I don't know where she heard the word. And she was missing for an hour, hiding somewhere I suppose. Sometimes she plays games by herself."

  "A nightmare. Does Olivia spend time with her mother?"

  "No, no. Her maman dumped Olivia at David's door two years ago and later died in a car accident. He went to the court, and now he is the guardian."

  Anne poured boiling water into the family-sized Italian coffee maker. "Perhaps Vanessa?"

  "Perhaps. When she wakes up, I will ask her about the dream."

  "She may not remember."

  Anne poured cups for them both and then filled another as a gust of cold wind from the outside door brought Mike into the kitchen with an armload of wood.

  "Thanks, Mike. I'll need to feed the stove soon."

  "Let me. She's melting outside, eh. Coffee. Great."

  He reached for a mug and wrapped his hands around it.

  "That's good news. Did you go down the lane?"

  "As far as I could but the hydro pole is down across it, and the wires may be live. Some trees beyond it are down too. Lots of chainsawing before we can get out."

  "There'll be some unhappy people here this morning."

  "Why will people be unhappy?" Trevor said as he and Carmel walked in from the living room.

  "The road is still impassable."

  "You came in a helicopter. Will it come back for you?"

  "Not for two days unless the cell service comes back on or David finds the satellite phone."

  Beth and Kevin came next, looking carefree and cheerful in ski sweaters and jeans. Behind them, David came down the stairs. Darkness surrounded his eyes and fatigue marked his face.

  "Bad night?" said Anne.

  "Not much sleep."

  Anne fried bacon in the black iron pan and put the plate in the warming oven. She found an antique toaster, sliced bread and put the toaster in the oven. On the stove top, coffee bubbled in a white percolator, a jaunty blue cornflower decorating its side. One percolator wasn't going to do it this morning, she thought. She refilled the Italian carafe with more water and added eggs to her pan.

  "Where's Thomas," said David.

  "Still sleeping. I'll go up when the eggs are done. What about Vanessa?" said Anne.

  "I haven't seen her yet. She's not too sociable without her coffee."

  "I'll take her some on my way. How does she take it?"

  "Black."

  The door to Vanessa's room stood ajar. Anne raised her fist to knock when a ray of light, passing through a chink in the curtains, crossed the carpet and fell across the object on the bed.

  "Vanessa," she said.

  When there was no response, Anne pushed aside the door with mounting dread, found a place for the coffee on a dresser and flicked on the light. The object turned into Vanessa's body, its arm hanging off the bed, its abdomen soaked with blood. Slashes in her silk nightgown. A knife then. Vanessa's lovely eyes, blank and clouded, stared at nothing. No horror on the face. Had she been sleeping and woke only as the knife plunged into her? Or did she not wake at all until death took her. A metallic smell of blood, but not the other, darker stench of death. It wouldn't be long for that.

  What should she do? What would they all do now?

  She reached forward, staying as far away as possible, and touched the forehead with the back of her hand. Deadly cold. Her fingers found nothing where a pulse should be. It would be hours or days until the police would come. She shouldn't touch it, but someone would ask if
the body was stiff. She lifted the arm from the bed, tried to flex the wrist and the elbow. Stiff. She checked the feet. Fully established rigor. The room was cool but not cold. She should take a room temperature.

  What else? Time. She checked her watch. 8:30 am, but she wouldn't be the one to fill out the certificate. Not this time. Blood rushed with the sound of blowing sand through her head. She must get out before she fainted all over the crime scene. At the door, she took the coffee with her.

  Outside, she sank to the floor, gulped the coffee, and put her head down to her knees. Footsteps neared her, and a rush of fear swept over her.

  "What are you doing, Anne? Are you sick?"

  Thomas. It was Thomas. He squatted down beside her and put his arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment and took a deep breath. "Vanessa is dead. Stabbed, I think. Blood everywhere."

  "What the hell? Who?"

  "Vanessa."

  "Who would kill her?"

  Thomas took his arm back, held her face for a moment with concern in his eyes, stood, and pushed open the door. He looked down at her, a question in his eyes. "What?"

  "Why did you go in?"

  "Why? What does it matter? I did, and there the body lay, like all the others. Why are you questioning me?"

  Thomas backed away, his hands up. He needed to know.

  "I'm sorry. The door was ajar. I saw Vanessa in the light from the window when I was bringing her coffee."

  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she shivered again. She reached a hand up to Thomas. "Help me up. We've got to tell the rest."

  "Can you stay here? I'll get David so we can lock it up."

  "We have to turn off the heat in there and take the temperature of the room now and open the windows a crack before—"

  "One thing at a time."

  Anne sank to the floor again as he left her.

  Bodies everywhere she went. Everywhere. How could she go through it again? How? She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Chapter Nine

  Thomas found David in the kitchen with Mike, sitting at the worn pine table—two friends chatting over breakfast. The comforting smells of bacon and toast mingled with coffee in the warm air from the stove.

  "Storm coming back, I think," said Mike.

  "Coming back?" said David.

  "Yeah. Wind's picking up and the temp's dropping. Ice staying around for a while."

  Both looked up when Thomas sat down without a word. He noted the dark circles around David's eyes and the usual happy-go-lucky look Mike wore. No nervous tension that he could see. Could David have made that furious assault on the woman he was supposed to love and not show it? What motive could Mike have to kill a woman he barely knew? Or was that an assumption?

  "What's up, Tom?" David said.

  "I have bad news—"

  Mike laughed, the booming sound filling the room, but stopped when he glanced at Thomas. "Bad news. How did you get any news?" he said.

  "It's Vanessa."

  "What's —" said David.

  "There's no easy way to tell you this. She's dead, David—"

  "No. You've made a mistake. Who says she's dead?"

  He shoved the table out of his way, sent his chair crashing into the counter, and raced towards the stairs.

  "Stop," said Thomas. "Stop, Dave."

  David hesitated at the door, his face red with anger. "Why?"

  "I'm coming with you."

  "So am I," said Mike.

  Thomas glanced at Mike. His face was ashen, and tears threatened to break from his eyes. How fond was he of Vanessa? Didn't he just meet her? But there was no time to wonder. David thundered up the stairs and along the hall. Thomas took the stairs two-at-a-time and was at David's heels when he stopped in front of Anne.

  "What happened?" David said.

  He tried to push past Thomas, who blocked the door and put his hand on David's shoulder. "You can go in, but you can't touch her."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Because she was murdered."

  Colour drained from David's face, and he staggered into the wall. Mike ran up to them. "Did you say murdered?"

  "Yes. Only David goes in, and he only looks."

  "But—"

  Anne stood up and took Mike's hand. "No, Mike," she said. "Go downstairs and bring me the thermometer from the kitchen wall. I need the temperature in the bedroom.

  Inside the room, David shook off Thomas's hand, hid his face, and sobbed.

  The copper smell of blood filled the room, and something more, something coming underneath. She'd been dead a while, Thomas thought. David took a step towards the bed.

  "No, David."

  David, his face suffused with rage, whirled on Thomas, "Why the hell not? Who put you in charge? This is my house. I was going to marry her."

  "Everyone's a suspect. You can't touch her."

  "A suspect? I loved her."

  "Everyone heard your fight with her."

  "It was just a fight. Everybody fights."

  His rage faded; he whimpered, his eyes pleading with Thomas. "I didn't do this, Tom."

  "We have to do all we can to make sure the police can find out who did. I'm going to open the windows in here. Can I trust you to stay away from her?"

  "No. I'll go outside."

  Thomas pulled the double-hung windows down from the top, and frigid air streamed into the room, replacing the miasma of death. His thoughts turned to Anne. How was she going to handle yet another murder? Last winter in Culver's Mills had been bad enough and almost ended their relationship. Not this time. He wouldn't let it.

  Back in the hall, David beat the wall with a slow rhythm. Anne handed the thermometer to Thomas and gripped Mike's hand.

  "Are there keys?" Thomas asked.

  "Keys?"

  "I want to lock the room."

  "Yes."

  David dug in his pocket and handed a key ring to Thomas. He chose the one that read Vanessa, slipped inside, and waited until the thermometer stopped dropping. Outside again, he locked the door and pocketed the key.

  "Sixteen celsius," he said to Anne.

  A querulous voice behind him said, "What in heaven's name is going on here?"

  Andrea, dressed in jeans and a navy, Irish-knit sweater, stood in the doorway of her room down the hall.

  "Go downstairs, Andrea. We're coming down to tell you," David said.

  "Don't tell me—"

  "Go."

  She searched David's face, shrank back, and tottered off towards the stairs.

  Anne held Mike's hand until they reached the stairwell, releasing it to follow him down to the kitchen. Behind her, Andrea nattered at Thomas, demanding to know why they were huddled in the hallway outside Vanessa's room. He didn't answer.

  The wood stove filled the kitchen with warmth and the sweet scent of burning maple logs. Eloise, her dark hair tied back and her face calm, buttered toast at the counter. New storm clouds, visible through the window over the sinks, dark and heavy with snow, gathered for a fresh assault over the pine trees at the edge of the clearing. Anne shuddered. Would they never escape from this place?

  "Where are the children?" David asked.

  "Still sleeping."

  Brad stood at the open fridge. He carried milk and orange juice to the table, his eyes narrowing when he saw the troubled faces. "What's the matter?" he said.

  Thomas, standing at the end of the table, said, "Please, sit down. We have something to tell you."

  Andrea sank into the armchair at the head of the table; Eloise slipped into a chair beside David and Brad. Anne sat beside Brad.

  "Where are Trevor and Carmel?"

  "Here we are," Trevor said, swinging open the door from the living room.

  "And Beth and Kevin? Did anyone call them?"

  Anne rushed up the stairs, told Beth they were needed in the kitchen, and ran back down to her place at the table.

  They arrived, with curiosity and nothing else that Anne could see, on
their faces. Everyone waited. Someone held his breath, or so it seemed to Anne. Perhaps they all did. Anne watched Beth's hands, again in that white-knuckled grip. What would she feel this time, with another murder?

  "This morning, Anne took Vanessa some coffee on her way to wake me up. Vanessa's door was ajar, and Anne saw her body on the bed," Thomas said.

  "Her body? That's a strange way to put it," said Brad.

  Thomas, his voice harsh and brutal, said, "Anne found Vanessa dead, stabbed in the gut. Someone here has murdered her."

  "No," said Eloise and Brad.

  Andrea screamed, a high-pitched sound that threatened to spiral into hysteria, but Brad went to her, put his arms around her and whispered in her ear until she calmed.

  Trevor hugged Carmel, who turned her frantic face to him. Beth hid her face in Kevin's sweatshirt. He wrapped his arms around her.

  But then, all eyes focussed on Anne. Her face burned, and she fought to open her throat, inclined to close in moments of high stress.

  "I went in far enough to touch her forehead and take her pulse. She was dead. Her arms were stiff."

  David's nostrils flared, and his face reddened. Veins in his neck popped. "Why could you touch her and not me?"

  Anne touched his hand, but he pulled away from her. "Because I'm a doctor and it's my duty."

  "How do we know you didn't kill her?" said Andrea.

  Again, Anne thought. Someone wanted to accuse her again.

  "And why would Anne do that? She met her a few hours ago," Thomas said. "Anne and I know only David, and only because of business and the death last year. Someone stabbed Vanessa, in the abdomen, multiple times. Someone who wanted to make sure she would die. Someone full of rage or despair or hate."