I spent part of the drive home wondering why I was surprised that they were sisters. After all, why would they have thought it necessary to volunteer that infor–mation? Then I moved on to wonder about Sally’s act–ing role and finally about how I had failed to say no to Sandy’s request. I had told her that I was pretty busy with my job at the university, but she had refused to let me say no right then and there, which is what I wanted to do. I’m such a wimp. She had asked me to give it some thought before I made a decision. I had hesitated in the face of such determination, agreeing to think it over and get back to her. I had just delayed the inevitable and per–haps given her some false hope.
It was way too late to go back to work, and rush hour was over, so the ride home was easy. I rolled into the barn to see if Ryan was around. It was quiet — not yet milking time. I strolled over to our Olympic milk producer, Ethel, and gave her a pat on the schnozz. I checked the pens where the cows are kept, in case Ryan was in there, but he wasn’t. I reached over one of the pens and let one of the little guys suck on my fingers. Being a steer is such a bummer. If your genes don’t single you out for stud service your life is short. But at least you’re well-fed.
I left the barn and walked around to the entrance to Ryan’s studio. The red light outside the door was off — he wasn’t in the darkroom. I wondered when he would change over to digital. It was a lot easier and surely the quality was good enough now? But I knew Ryan liked the peace and the quiet of the darkroom and the eerie red glow of the safe light. Life seems so far away when you’re in there.
I opened the door and walked in. Ryan was over by the big bay window, looking at a fistful of prints.
“Hi, Cordi. What’s up?”
I dawdled down his long table looking at the photos strewn all over it. He’s a good photographer, my brother, and more and more magazines were after his services. One day he wouldn’t have to be a farmer anymore, although I knew he would never give that up. It’s in his blood, same as me. I looked at him and smiled. The sum–mer sun had created so many freckles on his face that they had practically merged. His thick blond hair always makes me wonder how we ever came from the same par–ents. My hair is as black as it comes and not one single freckle can be found on my face. There are other differ–ences too, of course, and no stranger had ever cottoned on to the fact that we were brother and sister.
“Spill it.”
“I think I just agreed to investigate another murder.”
“Whose murder?”
“The woman on the ship who I told you about.”
Ryan dropped his photos on a chair and waited.
I told him about the police deciding that Sally had murdered Terry — because of the salt water/fresh water evidence that pointed to Terry being murdered. I told him that they couldn’t prove it and then I told him that Sandy wanted her sister’s name cleared, that she believed Sally couldn’t have done it.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Ryan said, and I knew he was thinking of the bear ravaged body of my first murder case. He’s as bad as I am with corpses. We want to be as far away from them as possible. You’d think a couple of farm kids who’d shot their share of groundhogs would be inured to dead bodies, but we weren’t, at least, not dead human bodies.
“Why would you want to get mixed up in that stuff again?” asked Ryan.
“I’m not sure I do, but you have to admit it sounds intriguing.” I told him about Sandy’s and Duncan’s ver–sion of Sally attempting to rescue Terry.
“But I thought you said Terry drowned in fresh water?”
“Yeah, that’s right, but Sandy believes Sally saw Ter–ry’s body in the salt water pool and jumped in to rescue her without knowing she was already dead.”
“But by your description it was a tiny pool.”
“Sally was wearing winter clothing when she jumped in. A big ankle length wool coat that would have dragged her down.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t she have taken it off?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the suicide note?”
“That’s a little tricky. Police say it’s Sally’s handwriting.”
“So whether you should help or not depends on how much you believe this Sandy.”
We bandied around some ideas for a while, and I told him what Sandy had said about Sally acting a part.
“That’s one dedicated actress,” he said and I let his words sink in. It was always restful being around Ryan. He’s seldom judgmental and solid as a rock.
When I finally turned to leave he said, “I was in your cabin delivering a parcel when the phone rang. I answered it thinking it might be Rose.”
“And?”
“It was somebody asking for you. Wanted to know if you would be in tonight so they could call you back. I told them yes. Hope that’s okay.”
“Telemarketer?”
“No.” Why is it that telemarketers are so easy to spot?
Ryan could be exasperating sometimes, the way I had to crowbar information out of him. “Male? Female?”
“Couldn’t tell. Whoever it was had laryngitis or something.”
I thanked him for bringing in the parcel.
“Watch your back. It’s heavy,” he said, as I headed out the door.
I got in my car, drove past the farmhouse and waved to Rose, who was out playing baseball with the kids.
Ryan had dumped the box right in the middle of the hallway and I pushed it with my foot to move it. It was immovable. I bent over and looked at the label. No clue.
It looked as though someone had used about five miles of tape to seal it, and by the time I was through cut–ting it open I needed a shower. There was a covering of brown paper hiding the contents, which I pulled aside, and started to laugh. Inside was an enormous card with an elephant riding on the back of a mouse, blaring his love for me, and hiding twelve bottles of a good white wine. Each bottle had a little stickum on the neck with a corny little message meant only for me. No wonder he’d used so much tape. It felt good to be loved like this, and I resolutely refused to think about London and spoil it all, so I didn’t try to phone him.
I took the shower I needed, spent a leisurely hour in the kitchen making dinner, popped the cork on one of the bottles of wine, and took my dinner outside to eat on the porch. Somewhere the moon was coming up because its light was glinting off the oak trees on my front lawn. The wine was light, fruity, and chased away all my nerves. After I’d finished dinner I sat for a while, contemplating life. Suddenly I remembered Ryan’s mys–terious phone call. They hadn’t called back. I got up and checked my messages. There weren’t any. I scrolled back through the people who had called me today. I knew them all except one. It was a blocked number and I felt a twinge of annoyance, easily chased away by another sip of wine and the fact that I had once thought about block–ing my own number.
The wine made me sleepy and I headed for bed where romping dreams, surrealistic and disquieting, awaited me.
I’m not sure what woke me, but it woke me with such suddenness that for a moment I was disoriented. Some–thing wasn’t right. I looked out the window and against the light of the moon saw swirls of smoke sending their tendrils across my room. I was out of bed in a flash, the smoke already beginning to sting my nostrils. I ran out through my open door into the hall where the smoke was thicker. I looked down the stairs and saw the blurred lights of flames dancing like maniacs on my living room wall.
The kitchen. It was in the kitchen. I raced downstairs, but the smoke got thicker as I ran. I stood on the land–ing and watched as a plume of black smoke whooshed out of the kitchen. That’s when I ran. I stumbled up the stairs, holding my pajama top against my nose. Some of the killer black smoke had already reached the hallway.
I looked up at the smoke detector, wondering why it hadn’t gone off. The batteries were brand new — I’d struggled on the stepladder on my tippy toes to put the damn things in so I knew it was working. Not anymore — the plastic protector was dangling from the ceiling and I felt my mind shudder. The battery was gone, which could mean only one thing: He was back. Or was it a she?
I ran back into my bedroom and shut the door. My cell phone was somewhere and I flung clothes and bags everywhere until I found it. I dialed Ryan because I knew 911 would need help finding me on a rural route. I was on a cell phone and I’d have no time to talk.
His sleepy voice came over the phone as the black smoke entered my bedroom.
“Ryan! My house is on fire. Call 911.”
I didn’t wait for an answer, couldn’t wait. I ran to my window and hauled up on it but it wouldn’t budge.
I checked the latches to make sure it was unlocked and tried again. Nothing. I looked around the room for something to break the window with and spied my favourite oak chair — I really loved that chair. I looked for something else but there was nothing, so I picked it up, held it over my head, and advanced on the window, coughing like crazy. I heaved the chair at the window and nothing happened. They made it look so easy in the movies. It took two tries to break the heavy glass and then another couple to make a hole big enough for me to get out. I was coughing hard now as I crawled out the window onto the roof of the porch. I skidded to the edge of the roof and looked down. A twenty-foot jump onto the steeply sloping part of my front lawn. Ankle break–ing country.
“Cordi!” I heard Ryan screaming my name and looked over and saw him racing around from the kitchen door to the front door.
“Ryan, NO! I’m up here,” I screamed, but he didn’t hear me and he disappeared under the porch roof.
Two fire trucks finally arrived and I jumped up and down and waved my arms. At any other time I would have thought it pretty impressive for the trucks to arrive so fast, since we live in the country, but all I could think of was why didn’t you get here sooner? One of the fire–men saw me and I watched as he ran around, released a ladder, and hurried over to me.
I looked back. Behind me the smoke was billowing out the window, but all I could think of was Ryan. I stood helpless on that roof waiting for the firemen to come. When they did I yelled, “My brother! He’s inside!”
I could see two firemen hauling out the hose and aiming it through the kitchen window, while another two firemen went in through the front door with their oxygen masks and tanks. A fifth fireman rescued me on the ladder.
I sat on my front lawn, a blanket over my shoulders, watching the front door until I heard a woman’s voice. “Cordi? Where’s Cordi?” It was Rose. I could see a fire–man pointing me out to her and she came running over.
“Oh my god, Cordi. Are you all right? Ryan came to help.”
“Rose, look, Ryan is …”
Before I could finish my sentence two blackened fire–men burst out the front door carrying my unrecogniz–able soot soaked brother between them. I felt like I was going to be sick. He was limp. No movement. No move–ment at all.
Confused, Rose had turned to look at the doorway as I stood up. “Dear god, Cordi. Who is it?” she cried.
I looked at her in total terror. “Ryan,” I said. “It’s Ryan.”