“You can be a mislabelled murderer after all.”
“You mean he was wrongfully convicted?”
“Exactly! Except that it’s a she. She was acquitted.”
She said it triumphantly, her words placed before me like a gourmet meal that I was supposed to jump on with relish. Even without relish it sounded like a dish with too much flavour, but I was determined to show her I could keep an open mind and not look for the negative in everything.
“What’s her name?”
“Terry Spencer.”
The name rang some distant bell, but I had no idea what it might be trying to tell me. Not that I cared. I was damned if I was going to let Martha talk me into some–thing I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to do.
“So what did she not do?” I asked “She did not kill a man. She was acquitted on the evidence.”
Martha hesitated and I looked at her suspiciously, but she didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, so why do you think I would want to spend a week in the Arctic with this — this acquitted lady?”
“So you can help her with her creative writing course next month.” She hesitated when she saw the look of incredulity on my face. “C’mon, Cordi. It’s going to be a nice, leisurely nine day cruise to see the Arctic. All you have to do is give some writing students a few good tips on how to investigate a murder. That, and some natural biology of the Arctic. It’ll be a breeze.”
I didn’t say anything. I was too busy battling the gale force wind she called a breeze.
Martha ploughed on. “Terry teaches my creative writing course and we’re all going to sort of bond and get to know each other in the Arctic while we get mate–rial for our work. You know, observe the passengers and stuff.”
“But you hate the wilderness,” I said.
“This is different. I don’t have to live in a tent and get eaten alive. This is like being a turtle. You travel with your own room attached. No hardships!”
I stood there wondering how I could work with Martha every day and sometimes feel as though I knew so little about her. I didn’t want to pursue the details of my supposed role in all this, so I changed the sub–ject instead. “I didn’t know you were taking a writing course.” I was getting drawn in despite myself. “I didn’t even know you wrote!”
Martha swung back to her desk, looking as if I’d hurt her feelings, and began sorting through vials of my insect specimens. I must have said it the wrong way because nothing in the words sounded offensive to me.
“I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t write,” I said to her accusing back. Silence. She was infuriating. When
I wanted to hear gossip she was as mute as a slug, but when I didn’t care she was like a rooster at dawn.
I tried another tack. “What makes a murderer quali–fied to teach you guys to write, and why in the name of god would she need me?”
She turned back to look at me. “You keep forgetting that she was acquitted. She wrote a bestseller while she was incarcerated — you know, all about her time in jail and stuff like that.”
“But Martha, that doesn’t sound like creative writ–ing. Are you sure you’re getting your money’s worth?” I added, not wanting to see her scammed. She could be so damned trusting.
“Cordi, stop jumping to such negative conclusions.
She’s written several works of fiction since the non-fic–tion book. You really should read more, you know. She’s quite well-known.”
“No. I want to know why you seem to have volun–teered my name.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t mind helping out. The person who was supposed to do it backed out late last week and Terry is desperate for a replacement.”
“Maybe it’d be easier to find a replacement if you just held the course here in the city.”
Martha threw me a withering look that instantly made me feel like last year’s lilies. “You can’t possibly bond with people here in the city. It’s too impersonal and we all go home after our three hours a week. There’s no time to really get to know each other, learn about each other, and get some good material for our writ–ing. There’s nothing like meeting new people in close surroundings to get good material for a story — that’s what Ms Spencer says.”
Oh brother, a touchy feely teacher imprisoning her charges on a gimungus ship in the Arctic. And she wants someone who’s allergic to bonding to be there helping her students bond … or was I jumping to conclusions?
“I thought writers were a solitary lot.”
“Well, yeah, they are,” said Martha in a voice that sounded like a kid being denied a lollipop.
“Why are they going on this trip then?”
“Because Terry said it would be good for our writing. And intimated that there might even be an agent on the trip. You know, someone who could read our work and discover the next P.D. James.”
“How big is this anti-social group?”
“There are eight of us who are going.”
When I didn’t say anything she smiled. “What do you say, Cordi? The trip would be paid for. Give you a good vacation and distract you from Patrick.”
Ah, my lover, Patrick — who was thinking seriously about going to London, England, for a prospective job that I fervently wished would evaporate. Long distance relationships don’t usually last, and Ottawa to London is a hell of a commute, not to mention expensive. Plus we hadn’t been able to really talk about it because he was away in Georgia for a week, giving a paper at a sci–entific convention.
I should have just said no to Martha — I had so much work on my plate — but her mention of Patrick had derailed me. “When do you need to know my answer?”
“Today.”
“Today? Are you nuts? How can I decide today when I don’t even know if this Spencer person is a three-headed monster from Mansonville, or a sweet old gee–zer from church? Not to mention the problem of my not having enough material to teach your class anything use–ful. When is this trip anyway?”
Martha’s face suddenly started doing gymnastics again and she kept flicking her eyes in the direction of the door. Startled, I turned around to look.
Standing there was a striking woman with corn blonde hair and forget-me-not eyes — cookie cutter beautiful. She was wearing a sky blue shift, belted at her tiny waist with a silver tasselled belt.
Before I could speak she said, “I think I prefer to be the old geezer to the three-headed monster.” The words came out sounding pompous and stilted.
Fortunately I don’t blush but I went one better with my stammering
