Chapter Five

“Beluga whale off the starboard bow!” The intercom system woke me from a groggy, Gravol-induced sleep.

I opened one eye and looked through the porthole. I was greeted by patchy, milky white fog and floating chunks of white pack ice as far as the fog would let me see. No horizon for me to fix on, just a great white abyss. How the hell anyone could see a beluga whale in such a world of white was more than I could fathom. You were much more likely to hear the “canaries of the sea,” with their squeals, whistles, and little puffs. The sea was moving us in a rolling rhythm that made me want to lie back down and sleep forever. I could hear the rumbling throb of the engine coming from deep within the ship, shuddering through its core, totally out of sync with the sea, something I wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t felt so sick.

I glanced at the clock and groaned: 6:00 p.m. I’d missed the crew briefing, but I could make the passen–ger orientation — just. Even if I didn’t get any questions asked of me I had to be there. Terry had left no doubts about that. I gingerly stood up, swaying with the ship. I could do this if I didn’t think too much.

One of my two rooms, the sitting room, had a win–dow that looked out over the bow and I’d been spending a lot of time looking out of it, trying to find the horizon and stabilize my semi-circular canals. There was just one easy chair. The bedroom was even more sparse; just the beds, a table, and a lamp. No shower. No bath. Just a sink and a toilet.

I pulled on my pants and a fleece jacket and headed into the hallway, which was so narrow that an over–sized person might feel somewhat claustrophobic. For me, narrow was good. I could lean on both walls. The stairs were a bit of a challenge since the ship seemed to lurch out of reach of my foot every time I was trying to find a step.

People were milling around outside the dining room, so at least I wasn’t late. I poked my head inside the room. It was plain, just like my room — only the bare neces–sities. It had already been set up for dinner and people were sitting at tables of eight with perky red and white checkerboard tablecloths, fake flowers, and cheap cut–lery — this was definitely no luxury liner. I saw that Terry was there and in a sea of strange faces I gravitated towards her. But I never made it. Someone touched me on the shoulder and I turned to see the hairy man who had been knocked out in the Zodiac.

“Cordi O’Callaghan?”

I nodded and he held out his hand “Peter Stanford. Your friend Martha pointed you out to me.” I followed his gaze and saw Martha and Duncan deep in conversa–tion. How had I missed them?

“I gather I owe you my thanks,” he said.

I glanced at the bandage on his head, which was holding back some serious curls that threatened to engulf his face. He smiled as I took his hand.

“They said you were on death’s door.”

“Somewhat exaggerated,” he said. “The doctor kicked me out of sick bay half an hour ago. Just in time for the orientation meeting.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was happy or irked at having to be here so I said something nice and neutral. “Have you been to many?”

“Tons. I’ve been lecturing on Arctic seabirds for ten years. But my current field of research is the nesting hab–its of gyrfalcons.”

I looked at him with renewed interest. Gyrfalcons are the largest falcons in the world and nest off cliff faces that are often inaccessible. Half the time, to even see their nests you have to climb up or fly over. No wonder he was reading about illegal trade in animals. There was probably a whole chapter on gyrfalcon eggs and how they somehow manage to get themselves from Canada to Saudi Arabia on a rather regular basis. But I didn’t go there. Instead, I said, “Guess you’re not afraid of heights.”

He laughed and was about to say something when we were called in to the meeting. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows as if to say “duty calls.”

I tried to get beside Martha and Duncan but the surg–ing crowd took me to a table of strangers. Every crew–member and every lecturer (including myself) had to give a five-minute spiel. It was interminable and I spent the whole time waiting for my turn and worrying about it.

In the end my speech went smoothly enough, though the crowd was more interested in the one measly murder case I had worked on than anything else.

And then Terry got up to say her bit. She’d barely begun when someone called out, “Did you cut the ropes on the Zodiac?”

Terry searched the audience for the source of the voice and said nothing. Cut the ropes?

“Aren’t you the murderer?” asked the voice. I couldn’t find him. Neither could Terry.

I heard a collective intake of breath as the words hit home. It was surreal. The entire room fell quiet, and once again I was aware of it moving gently up and down with the swell of the sea.

Terry slowly turned and looked into the audience, looking for the owner of the voice. “No, I am not a murderer.” Her voice was quiet, defiant. She’s been here before, I thought. Handling accusations from a room full of unknown people.

I scanned the audience and found him. Peter. What I could see of his face was cold and ugly and there was a tall, dark-haired woman clamping her hand on his shoulder with a look of what can only be described as alarm. I looked more closely and was pretty sure it was the woman who’d sat across the aisle from me on the plane.

“You had a good lawyer, eh?” he asked in a suddenly good-natured voice, but the look he gave her was one of frightening focus.

She looked at him curiously. “I was acquitted. Every–body knows that.”

“You had a good lawyer.”

The woman beside Peter was frowning and hurriedly whispered something to him. Whatever she said worked and the fight went out of him even as Terry said, “Are you trying to accuse me…?”

I heard a chair scrape back and the booming voice of Captain Jason Poole rang through the room. “That’s enough everybody.” He stood there with his hands up as if he was about to do a vertical pushup. Terry started to protest but thought better of it, and Peter had melted into the background with the tall, dark-haired woman.

Poole surveyed the room. “I think this meeting is over, folks. Please direct any questions to the expedition staff and pray for good weather.” He started to leave and then hesitated. “And for the record? Ms Terry Spencer was acquitted. End of story.”

But of course, that wasn’t the end of the story. It was only the beginning.

Over the next couple of days time kind of stood still in the swirl of fog that followed us like a besotted dog. We couldn’t seem to shake it. I went looking for Martha a couple of times to try and find out more about Terry’s so-called murder. What with all the racing around to pack and get ready for the trip and then feeling so sick, it had been at the bottom of my list of priorities. But since I’d missed a lot of meals and spent a lot of time in my cabin I hadn’t found Martha. I gave up, figuring I’d find out soon enough.

The first day was pretty much a writeoff for any trips ashore because of the fog and the pack ice, so all of us lecturers had to work double time. I hadn’t yet given a lecture to Terry’s class, so I thought I’d sit in on hers in the dining room to get a feel for it before giving my bit at the end. It appeared that she had already given an assign–ment to the class before they arrived on board so she would have some material to deal with. The newcomers presumably would get an assignment today.

Terry had put all her stuff on one of the dining room tables near the front of the room.

She paced back and forth in front of the class and then reached over and took one of the stories from the top of the pile. “Let me read you the opening two sen–tences of this essay,” she said, her voice the physical equivalent of someone holding their nose.

“It was an awful day. I walked along the sidewalk thinking about depressing things and worrying that my life was moving along too quickly.” She glared at us all.

“I can’t count how many times I’ve had to drill it into my classes to show not tell. This is a perfect example.”

She waved the offending sheet of paper at us. “What kind of awful day? Was it raining, hailing, sleeting? Was the smog smothering our protagonist or maybe it was fog obscuring the author’s reasoning? Now try this:

“The rain smashed into the sidewalk like a hand slap–ping a face.

“Okay. Maybe a little overdone for a first sentence, but that doesn’t just tell you that it’s an awful day, it shows you. It gives you an image of what’s happening to make it an awful day and maybe make you wonder why your protagonist used such an analogy. And the next sentence — what depressing things is the author talking about? This is a golden opportunity to describe some–thing depressing that perhaps links back to an important past event, maybe something like:

“I could barely keep my leaden feet moving for all the wrenching images of dead and dying people flitting through my mind, mocking me.

“This gives the reader some indication of the nature of this person; that they’re pessimistic and prone to depression. So why is the protagonist thinking of dead and dying people? Choose any depressing thing that fits the story. It doesn’t have to be dead people. And the sec–ond half of that sentence is so pedestrian. It says nothing to the reader except that life moves quickly, which every–one over the age of twenty knows already.

“Say something that has meaning to your character, maybe even something that foreshadows something to come or makes you wonder. What about:

“Making me wonder if my life had passed me by.

“This reinforces the depressive nature of our protago–nist and sets us to wondering why she’s wondering if her life has passed her by. It draws us in.”

The class was silent. I watched them taking it all in. It was pretty clear that Terry had just turned a piece of challenged writing into something more interesting. I wondered who the author was and was glad that Terry had been kind and not identified him or her.

“Tracey.” The name rang out like the lonely hollow sound it was. I’d thought too soon.

We all turned in unison to look at Tracey, who sat frozen in her chair. She was dressed like a grey day, som–ber colours that reached to her grey face and iron grey hair. Her thin, pinched features seemed to recoil back, giving the impression that her face was seriously sunken.

She seemed to have shrunk into the chair, her body hunched, her arms hugging herself as if to make sure she was really there.

“Come and get your writing and at least try, on your next one, to make it seem like you’re listening to me. If you can’t write better than this you’ll never get anywhere, and even then you can’t be sure.”

“You mean, even if we’re good there’s no guarantee?”

Terry studied the man who had spoken and said in measured tones, “In this business it helps to know some–one, or be someone.” There was a trace of bitterness in her words, but she shrugged them off and held out Tracey’s essay.

“Isn’t that how you got published?”

Terry turned to face Peter, who had slipped in unno–ticed. She looked at him curiously and then laughed. “I guess you could say I became a celebrity and then pub–lished a book. But I just got lucky, or unlucky if you look at the jail time I did for something I had no control over.

I just took advantage of bad luck and turned it into good luck. I do NOT recommend you take my route.”

Someone in the audience yelled out “What happened?”

Terry smiled and said, “Read my book. It’s all there.”

I thought that was rather abrupt, but it couldn’t be pleasant to always be confronted with such an unpleas–ant memory, to constantly be asked about it.

Terry waved Tracey’s paper at her. When Tracey didn’t make a move to get up — I don’t think she could’ve if she’d tried — Terry waltzed over and dumped it in her lap then went on to her next topic, without any sign that she was aware of what she had just done to Tracey. I was very glad I had no work in that pile and looked furtively at Martha and Duncan. Duncan was frowning and Mar–tha was biting her lower lip.

“This next needs no explanation.” She walked back and forth with the poor little essay quivering in her hands, stopped in front of Martha and began to read:

“The saucer-like silent, sizzling sun shone a ray of wonderment upon the little boy, who opened his mouth and gulped it down, quenching his tears away. But be patient, gentle reader, and you shall soon find out what happens to the little ray of wonderment.”

There was dead silence and then rather a few muffled giggles. I looked at Martha, watched her face hitch a ride on a roller coaster of emotions: astonishment, bewilder–ment, anger, realization…. But it was the last one that I’ll never forget. She suddenly flung back her head and laughed with the best of us. When the laughter had died down Terry handed Martha her essay.

“Gentle reader? Where the hell did that come from?”

“Gulliver’s Travels.” Martha didn’t skip a beat. “Or perhaps you haven’t heard of it?”

Terry studied her for a long time. I thought she was going to say something but she didn’t. Instead she turned to the class and gave them their next assignment before asking me to give my lecture. It was just my luck that she was handing over a giggling class to me. I confess I thought that maybe she had done it on purpose, but that was uncharitable. Still — talk about daunting.

I was just about to start when someone poked their head in the door asking for Terry. She scowled but got up and went out, leaving me alone at the front of the room.

I was immediately peppered with questions from people doing research for their books. I finally threw aside my notes and opened the floor, allowing them to query me about the body I had found in the wilderness the summer before. Then they grilled me for information for their own books.

“I’m researching a book where my murder victim is killed in Quebec, then moved three days later and dumped in the woods in northern Ontario. How can my protagonist know how long since death?” asked one man.

“Well, flies love dead stuff and they can find a vacated body really quickly — within seconds sometimes. They lay their eggs and it’s the larvae we use to help us pin–point the time of death. Since we know how long it takes for each species of larva to develop into a fly, and we know they sometimes colonize within minutes, we can count backwards and find the time of death by finding the time when the flies deposited their eggs.”

“How can my protagonist know that the body’s been moved?”

“There are different species of flies in different habi–tats. In this situation you would have larvae growing right from death in Quebec and larva growing from three days later when the body was moved to Ontario. Not only would you know the body had been moved, but you could pinpoint when it was moved. Forensic entomology is pretty straightforward.”

It went on like this for some time. I was hoping maybe the questions were over when a chair scraped back and the tall slender woman who had whisked Peter away stood up. She looked me straight in the eye. “My book is set on a ship. That’s why I’m on this trip. What would be the best way to murder one of my characters and get away with it?”

“That’s not really about forensic biology, since there aren’t too many flies out here at sea. And I’m sure you’ve thought of the best way: just upend them overboard.”

“I had thought of that but there’s so much pack ice.”

“You could,” I said gently, “write the pack ice out of the book.”

She looked at me then and I thought I saw a look of sudden desperation, but I must have been mistaken because all she said was “How stupid of me,” and sat back down.

Over the next few days the weather was too socked in for us to take any trips ashore and everyone was getting cabin fever. I spent my spare time in my berth, watching people strolling around the bow of the ship. All of them were wearing winter jackets and some were wearing balaclavas so that they looked like criminals. We were at anchor in some bay we could not see, hoping the fog would break so we could go ashore. But at least it was calm.

From where I stood I could see the entire bow with its myriad ropes and chains, and things that looked like horns. Someone had randomly painted lime green squares on the forest green deck, making it look as though some sort of tropical disease had taken hold and spread.

I was stir-crazy in that cabin. Thumbing my nose at my stomach I went on deck to explore. I needed air the way a sagging balloon does. The Susanna Moodie was a working ship, its provenance in days past as a research vessel made it utilitarian. As I strolled around the bow I looked up at the bridge, which was perched on the top deck of what looked like a big, white, square apartment building. It was supremely ugly.

I poked around the bow and checked out the anchor line, which was enormous and snaked its way down a hole about one and a half times my circumference. You could ride it up if it was calm — if there was no choice.

As I stood there, looking down through the hole at the sea below and the waifs of fog that clung to it, the anchor line came to life and began reeling itself in. Each loop of the chain was bigger than my hand. As it rattled up onto the deck from its hidden visit beneath the sea it hugged one side of the tunnel. We were in a dead calm. I won–dered what the chain would do in a rolling sea.

“Cordi!”

I turned and followed the voice; Duncan, out for a stroll in the fog, just like me.

“Dear girl,” he said. Duncan was the only person I’d never corrected for calling me girl. It just seemed so innocuous and well meant coming from him. “How’s the stomach?” He flung his arm around my shoulder and I staggered, not at the weight of him but because the sea was wreaking havoc with my balance.

I gave him what felt like a sick little grimace. “Not great.”

“You just have to suck it up, as they say,” he said, and I could tell he was proud of himself for getting the lingo right.

“When it’s going the other way?” I asked.

He looked at me curiously and then grinned. “Well, I admit, that’s a tad difficult.”

He withdrew his arm, put his hands on my shoul–ders and stared into my face. “You don’t look so well,” he proclaimed.

Since I already knew that I didn’t bother to answer. Instead I said, “What do you suppose that Peter guy meant when he asked Terry if the Zodiac ropes had been cut?”

“Dunno. Doesn’t make any kind of sense. I mean, why would anyone want to cut the ropes?”

“I could have been killed.”

Duncan looked at me. “I hope you’re not suggesting someone was out to get you?”

I didn’t answer.

“My dear girl, no one could have known you’d have to take over the boat. And there’s the little ques–tion of why.”

“So maybe someone was out to get Peter.”

“Cordi, where do you get such a vivid imagina–tion? Besides, I’ve heard from the captain that the ropes weren’t cut — they were just badly frayed.”

He stared at me until I looked away. I could see Owen and Terry huddled on the bow in deep conversation.

Duncan followed my gaze. “Have you met Owen and Terry yet?”

I nodded. “I sat beside them both on the plane.”

“Lucky you.”

“Terry’s a bit of a handful, but Owen seems nice enough. A bit stiff but okay.”

“You mean Terry’s right-hand floor mat.”

“He’s a floor mat?” I asked.

“He does everything she tells him to do and gets no thanks whatsoever. He comes to every writing meeting just in case she wants him.” Duncan flicked an imaginary piece of fluff over the railing and turned to look at me.

“I think he must be in love with her because I can see no other reason why he would do that.”

We stood at the railing, watching the ship being pushed about by the sea.

Duncan was twiddling his thumbs, looking like some–one who wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out.

“What?” I finally asked.

He looked at me. “Have you met Sally yet?”

I looked back at him with interest. “No. Who is she?”

“She’s a member of the writing group. Good-looking with a hell of a head of red hair.”

Sally. The one on the plane. I slowly nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen her. Why?”

“She’s not right,” he said.

“Not right?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been there.” There was a long pause between us.

“She’s depressed?” I finally asked.

Duncan nodded. “Looks like her boyfriend left her.”

“Arthur?”

“How did you know that? You’ve spent most of your time in your room.”

“I overheard the breakup on the plane,” I said.

We stood in silence for a while. “She could use a friend.”

“Surely she has friends on board.”

Duncan hesitated. “Yes,” he said. But he said it the way you say it when you’re not really sure.

“Ah ha! An ulterior motive.”

“I can’t put my finger on it. She’s been to every writ–ing class and I still don’t know why she bothers me. Something about her isn’t right.”

“You think it’s the depression?

“Could be,” he said thoughtfully. “Could be … She seemed sad even before Arthur dropped her.” But he didn’t sound as though he was convincing himself.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” I said, with a noted lack of enthusiasm.

We went back to watching the dull grey sea.

“What do you know about Terry’s trial?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” Duncan said. “Where were you when that happened? It was in all the papers.”

“I can’t remember. I must have been out of town,” I said, somewhat defensively.

“She killed a friend of hers named Michael in her sleep.”

I stared at him as I thought about all the implications that simple sentence embodied. “And was acquitted?”

“Yes. They determined that she didn’t know what she was doing, and based the case on several others where sleepwalkers were acquitted of violent crimes.”

We talked some more about the case and I wondered how easy it would be to fake walking in your sleep and killing someone. But I was beginning to feel unwell and didn’t feel like pursuing my thoughts.

I left Duncan and sought refuge in my room. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew Mar–tha was prancing in, carrying a vermilion and bilious green bathing suit draped over her shoulder and par–tially hidden by a multicoloured towel covered in teddy bears. Where she ever got her sense of colour I didn’t want to know.

“C’mon, Cordi! It’s sauna time!”

Sauna time. I groaned.

“C’mon, it’ll do you good. Where’s your bathing suit?”

I waved in the direction of the dresser, or whatever it’s called on a ship.

Martha began fishing out everything until there was nothing left. She looked at me questioningly.

“It’s the navy blue thing right there.” I moved towards her to get it when she pulled it out and waved it around.

“There’s hardly anything here, for god’s sake. Where do you put yourself?”

I grabbed the bathing suit from her and went into the head to find a towel. The sauna was right down at the end of my corridor — aft of my cabin in nautical terms. The change rooms were big enough for five peo–ple, but the sauna could have held ten because it lay mid–way between the men’s and the woman’s change room so that both could use it.

I changed into my bathing suit and opined that it had to be a coed sauna. Martha took an inordinate amount of time changing into her suit and while I was waiting for her I started counting the blue flowers on the wildly floral wall–paper. I got to three hundred when Martha emerged from her cubicle and I was very proud of myself for not leaping backwards in shock. She was wearing the most amazing bathing suit. She looked like a ballerina with a little skirt that refused to sit tight to her hips but stuck up, making her look even bigger. Colourful little fish were flitting to and fro, their eyes glittering with multicoloured sequins, and at discrete locations there were clear circular discs exposing the skin beneath. It was definitely not the type of suit some–one of her ample size should attempt to wear.

I guess I didn’t hide my reaction very well after all because Martha’s face caved-in. “I bought it because I thought everybody would be so busy looking at it that they wouldn’t notice how big I am.”

I felt about two centimetres tall.

She turned from me and as she opened the sauna door a voice squeaked out, “You just have to bide your time, Sal. Be patient. But I still don’t understand why you have to do it at all.”

The voice stopped as our eyes met. She was a woman of curves, like a Reubens, with raven black hair and burnt umber eyes. She instinctively hunched forward as if to protect her body from a blow and then relaxed.

“Hello, I’m Sandy.”

I nodded my head at her. She’d been in the writing class. I turned to look at the only other person in the sauna — the redhead.

Martha waded in and introduced me to Sally as we found our spots on the benches. She really was a big woman — not fat but big boned. Her luxurious, curly, red hair billowed around her face, making her watery blue eyes look like an afterthought.

“I was just telling Sally here,” said Sandy, “that she’s got to be patient. She’s frustrated that she hasn’t seen a polar bear yet.”

I smiled and said, “Hard to see anything in this fog.”

Sandy and Sally exchanged glances. Maybe I’d been too flippant?

“Did you know they are the largest land based carni–vore in the world and their hair is actually translucent so the sun will go through it to the skin beneath?” I pushed on. “Their skin is black to absorb the sun and the fur is like a wetsuit when they swim.”

No one said anything after that nice little piece of didactic information.

“Your lecture was fun,” said Sandy suddenly. Fun was a strange word to use and I just nodded.

“Did you really solve a murder?”

I nodded again.

“It sounds fascinating, all the clues and sleuth work that you had to do.”

I thought about the state the body had been in and involuntarily shivered.

“Lord love you, Cordi. How can you be shivering in a sauna?” Martha asked.

“Maybe someone stepped on her grave thinking it was mine.” I swivelled my eyes over to look at Sally. That was a funny thing to say. These were a rum pair.

Martha jumped into the silence and changed the subject rather too abruptly. “Sally is part of our writing group and rumour has it she’s a dynamite writer.”

Sally, who looked as though she had been crying for twenty years, waved away the compliment.

“I just wish you’d read some of your novel to us in class so we could enjoy your talent.”

“Sorry, it’s just something I never do.”

“Couldn’t you hand out a copy, or even just an excerpt? Anything?”

Sally mournfully shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t do that because …”

Sally was interrupted by Sandy, who said with the finality of a full stop period, “Sally doesn’t like crowds,” and again they exchanged glances.

“But that doesn’t mean she can’t …” Martha started, before thinking better of it when she caught sight of Sally, who had large tears pounding down her face. For a while I thought that maybe it was just a whole lot of sweat and we could ignore it, but then she started to gurgle a bit.

Martha and I looked at each other and then at Sally.

“You know, it’s okay to cry,” said Martha. “It helps the pain.”

“How would you know what kind of pain I’m in?”

“Sweetie, we’re on a boat. There are only a hundred and ten or so of us and the rumours have been flying. You haven’t exactly kept your sorrow to yourself. You’ve been moping about the ship for all to see.”

“What rumours?” she asked.

“Take your pick. For example: you just lost a child in childbirth and are suffering from postpartum depression.”

Sally gave a weak smile and shook her head.

“How about: your business just went bankrupt and you are in debt over your earlobes?” Where did Martha find these metaphors?

Sally slowly shook her head.

“Okay then. You’re a murderer, intent on revenge.”

Sally suddenly covered her face and shook her head.

Sandy squeezed her on the shoulder, in an attempt to comfort her, but Sally shook her off.

Martha caught my eye and knowing what she was about to do I began shaking my head, but she pretended not to see me. “Final scenario: Cordi here accidentally overheard your conversation with Arthur on the plane.

He broke up with you.”

Sally began sobbing then and Sandy gave us the hairy eyeball, but we stayed put.

Eventually Sally choked out, “He said he loved me.”

The words, though muffled and tear laden, were easy to hear — the universal story of love’s cruel side.

“I don’t know how I can survive without him,” she said, then whimpered. “I don’t think I can.”

We were saved from all the normal useless platitudes that accompany such a statement by the sauna door open–ing and two more women coming in. They were as close to Mutt and Jeff in size as any friends I’d ever seen. One was the woman who had tried to muzzle Peter, and had asked the question about how to get away with murder on the boat. She was very thin and at least six feet tall.

She had short, wavy black hair and a no-nonsense sort of face with an aristocratic air to it.

The other was the woman who Terry had skewered.

She was nudging five feet on her tippy toes. She had really frizzy, grey streaked hair and watery grey eyes that matched her complexion. She was a woman of angles — everything sharp and pointy from the top of her head to her nose and chin to the hipbones sticking out through her bathing suit.

I thought that Sally and Sandy might leave because they had been in longer than we had, but they stayed put. Martha introduced me to Elizabeth Goodal and Tracey Dunne, from the writing group. I was beginning to feel hemmed in, and where, I wondered, were all the men? This was a shared sauna after all, but it would be a hell of a lot nicer without bathing suits. Tracey had taken up a position beside me, making me feel like a giant.

Elizabeth broke the awkward silence by saying to no one in particular, “I just came from the dining room and Terry was lacing into some poor guy, telling him he was incompetent and the cause of the Zodiac fiasco.” She looked at me with a deprecating smile and said, “Nice work by the way.”

I opened and closed my return smile in a fraction of a second. “Is Terry always like this?”

There was a long silence and then Martha asked, “Like what?” As if she didn’t know.

I took a deep breath and said, “Arrogant, rude, demanding.”

“Pretty much, yes,” said Elizabeth.

“Why do you all put up with her?”

I watched as the group looked at each other and liter–ally closed ranks, even Martha, who said, “She’s a really good teacher and she knows all the right people in the writing world.”

“You mean she can get your book placed in the hands of the right agent?” I looked at them and they all nodded in unison like a bunch of synchronized swimmers. Is that really how it worked?

“I’ve never heard of her,” I said, wondering how someone so abrasive could know all the right people.

“She was in all the newspapers.” It was the first time that Tracey had spoken, even in greeting, and I was struck by the depth of negativity in her voice, like Eeyore in a bathing suit.

“You mean her trial?”

“Yes.” Tracey glanced at Elizabeth and Sally as if seeking corroboration.

“She spent time in jail for a murder she didn’t com–mit. Right?”

Tracey slowly nodded.

“What happened to her? How did she get involved?”

I looked around at the lot of them, but no one seemed to want to answer so I focused my gaze on Martha.

“Just read the book she wrote about it, Cordi. It’s all in there.”

“Yeah, but can’t you give me some more detail?”

Duncan’s version had been sparse to say the least.

Martha made a big show of letting out her breath.

“Okay, here goes, but it’s really long and convoluted, and you should read the book to do it justice.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on a boat, Mar–tha. Where am I going to find her book?”

“Ship, Cordi. As in umiajuaq.” I stared at her and she laughed. “The Inuit distinguish between them too.

Umiaq is a boat, umiajuaq is a giant boat.” When I didn’t say anything she shrugged. “It’s a ship if it can carry a boat and it does have a library.”

Yeah, right. As if it’ll be in the ship’s library, I thought.

“One of the guys in Terry’s adult ed writing class, Michael,” said Martha, as she settled into her storytell–ing role, “was an archaeologist doing research on the Queen Charlottes….”

The sauna seemed suddenly very quiet, except for a sudden muffled cough somewhere — probably Sally.

Martha continued, “Terry thought it would be a good idea to tag along and write a book and Michael agreed.”

“Reluctantly,” said Elizabeth.

“They were in the western part of the Queen Char–lotte Islands on the west coast, with a group, camping out at the site. It was almost morn …”

The door to the sauna suddenly flew open and in walked Terry, as naked as the day she was born with a white towel coolly slung over her shoulder.

I don’t know who met her eyes but the atmosphere must have blazoned out, “We are talking about you,” because she went on the offensive right away.

“Look at you sissies. All in bathing suits for god’s sake.”

“I should point out to you,” said Martha, “that this is a coed sauna and nudity is not a bright idea.”

Terry smirked at Martha. “Scared?”

“You bet. In case you haven’t noticed I’m not thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed alright. But in case you haven’t noticed, it’s women’s night. Or hadn’t you wondered why there weren’t any men?”

I think we all felt like taking off our suits then and there, but Terry’s smirk would have just got bigger and more carnivorous, so we didn’t.

Terry snorted and moved over to take her place by Sally, who had to move over to make way. We were crammed like sardines and I was getting really hot. I couldn’t figure out how on earth Sally and Sandy could stand the sauna for so long. I was only staying out of curiosity. Maybe they were too.

Terry sat on the top tier and scanned the room, look–ing at each of us in turn, as if we were insect specimens.

As she got to Sally she suddenly recoiled. “Jesus, Sally.

What the hell’s the matter with you?” We all looked at Sally who had managed to dry up her tears and was looking pretty normal. Sally frowned and said nothing.

“Your necklace, girl. For god’s sake, can’t you feel it?”

Sally looked down at the cross around her neck as if she had never seen it before. She picked it up and quickly dropped it, looking at her fingers in surprise. Sandy moved closer to Sally and amid some ouches and ows got the necklace off and unceremoniously dropped it on the cedar bench. There was a red cross on her skin and no one said anything, but you could feel the question on every lip: “Why didn’t you feel it?” Just showed how far gone she was over Arthur, I figured.

“Jesus. What kind of a person wears a bloody neck–lace into a sauna?” asked Terry. No one said anything.

“Talk about dumb.”

In response Sally looked up in despair and said, “But it’s so hard to be Sally.” She gulped, looking like she’d swallowed a big hunk of sorrow, or had quietly gone mad.

“What I mean is it’s hard to be me, hard to be Sally when Arthur is gone. I don’t feel anything.” She looked around at the rest of us and made an effort to smile. “I just thought I’d found the right guy you know?”

Elizabeth and Tracey exchanged glances and Terry rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord, stop crying over spilt milk.”

Sally jerked her head up and whispered. “At least with spilt milk you can lap it up, so nothing’s wasted. This is not spilt milk.”

“Okay, so it’s spilt milk on sand. What’s the difference? Your analogy stinks. If you think you’re unique, think again. We’ve all been through it.” Terry looked around at the rest of us but no one said anything, no one nodded either. It was as if we were isolating her by refusing to agree with what we all knew was the truth. I wondered why.

Suddenly Sally stood up and lurched for the door. Terry smiled and caught her by the arm. I didn’t see what passed between them because Sandy suddenly stood up and blocked my vision.

Martha grabbed my arm. Terry looked at Martha. “Is it possible that you have no idea what you look like in that thing?”

Martha daintily opened the sauna door wider and gracefully walked out, calling over her shoulder, “Is it possible that you have no idea what you just said?”

As I left I looked back at Terry, who languidly raised her hand as if giving me permission to leave. “I cannot believe that you are going to jump in the pool in your bathing suits,” she said. “Bunch of cowards.”

“Now for the good part,” Martha said as we trooped out the changing room door in our bathing suits, down the hall, past two cabins, and out the aft door onto a metal catwalk.

Somewhere along the way we lost Elizabeth and Tracey, but they must have gone into the showers rather than brave the Arctic wind. And the pool. It looked like something you’d see at a really old zoo. It was very small and completely square, enclosed by a seri–ous looking iron railing that came right down to the edge of the water. You certainly couldn’t swim lengths in this kid-sized pool, unless they were vertical. The water was very deep and very clear. I figured they must have used it to contain wild aquatic animals because it looked like a prison. And it sat half a deck below the top observation deck, which meant that anybody could come and watch us frolic in the icy cold waters, mak–ing fools of ourselves.

As we skittered down the fire escape type stairs the cold Arctic wind was threatening to beat the pool to the punch. By the time we got down there and draped our towels over the railing I was feeling decidedly less hot and hoped the pool wasn’t as cold as it looked.

Fat chance. The maniacal scream as Martha made the first leap was not reassuring. There are sauna-induced screams and then there are sauna-induced screams. The higher the pitch the greater the shock, and I think her scream would have broken a wineglass. If I had had any doubts they were all dispelled by Sandy’s high-pitched squeal and Sally’s awful, long, drawn out moan. I knew that I should have gone first. And then it was my turn but I had to fight my way to the jumping off spot as every–one raced to get out. Suddenly I stood alone, everyone chattering around me and draped in nice warm towels, feeling the rosy glow you get after you survive the breath stopping cold.

“Go for it, Cordi,” called Martha. “It’ll fix your stomach for sure.”

“Yeah, by killing it outright,” I replied.

They all yelled their encouragement until finally I leapt. The cold nearly knocked me out, sucking away my breath like a siphon. I came up clawing for the ladder and grabbed something soft and warm instead. I looked up anxiously, wanting to get the hell out of the pool and there was Terry looking down at me, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, still without a stitch of clothing on her body.

“This is how you’re supposed to do it, ladies.” She stood there for a while as if we were both enjoying a dip in the tropical south and then she suddenly let out an unholy bellow and jumped over my head into the water. I scampered out and Martha draped my towel over my shoulders as I began to shiver. We were all watching Terry as she dog-paddled to the ladder, got out, slipped on her slippers and wrapped her towel around herself.

Something made me look up at the open deck imme–diately above the pool. Arthur was standing there, the fog swirling around him, making him look indistinct and wraithlike. He was dressed in a down jacket and watch cap, resting his arms on the railing, completely still, staring down at Terry. His face was expressionless, like a man staring at something he couldn’t see. His gaze flitted to me for a split second and then he slowly turned away and disappeared. He didn’t seem to care that I had seen him, which was very disquieting. Peeping Toms are usually secretive.