Fit to Die (15 page)

“You bet I'm angry. Police didn't even try to find Debbie's killer.” Russ sat back and drummed on the photo with his fingers. “But I'll get the bitch. Believe you me.”

“I don't think—”

“I can see her right here.” He tapped his forehead with his finger. “And I got a pretty good idea where to find her.”

He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket and held the pack out to me. I shook my head, and he leaned closer.

“She better watch her step, eh?” And then, I swear to God, he giggled.

Helen stood up. “I think we could take a short break now. Top up your coffee or juice. The bathrooms are just down the hall, and you can smoke outside on the front steps. See you
back here at 8:15.”

Russ must have left during break, because when I got back from trying to scrub the mascara off my cheeks, the discussion was starting again, and his seat was empty. We talked about a lot of things in the second half. We talked about the shock of not having the person around any more, and I said that even though my mom was sick for so long, I felt real empty when she was finally gone. And I told them how worried I was about my dad, who just played computer games all evening. Without Russ there to hog all the conversation, everybody else had a chance to talk, and I recognized a lot of my own feelings in what they were saying.

Nine-thirty came before I knew it. Helen did a final check on how we were doing so far, then said she hoped we'd all be back next week. I waited while the others got their stuff together and Helen was gathering up coffee cups and juice bottles.

“I know you've already spoken to my dad, but do you think you could try talking to him again about coming next week? He's driving me nuts. He never talks about his feelings, just tries to be cheerful all the time. I asked him to come tonight, but I think it would be better coming from someone his own age.”

She laughed at that, and I realized I'd jumped to conclusions. It was hard to tell, but I thought she might be in her early forties. She had a nice smile, and I decided she might be just the one to get my dad away from solitaire.

“It would be better if you could make him see how important it is to you.”

We agreed we'd both try to talk to him. As I was leaving the room, I noticed the snapshot of Debbie Simpson sitting on the arm of Russ's chair. I picked it up to have another look at it.

Helen frowned. “I hope Russ didn't upset you, Jill.”

I shook my head and studied the snapshot. I sure liked the way the photographer had angled the light on her cheekbones.

Helen held out her hand. “Here. I'll give it to him next week”

“Could I borrow it? It's got good composition. I'd like to show it to Mr. Jones in my photography club.”

Helen looked a little unsure, but then her briefcase started ringing, so I stuffed the photo in my backpack and left her rummaging around for her phone.

•  •  •

I showed the photo to Dad the next morning, pointing out the lighting and how the camera had captured her bone structure. I could tell he wasn't really listening, and that didn't surprise me. He'd been pretty spacey ever since Mom died.

What did surprise me was when he looked over and said, “How did you get a picture of her?”

“What do you mean? Have you seen her before?”

“I think so. I don't know her name, but she's often at the gym, and she takes part in most of the charity runs.”

I guess my mouth was hanging open, because he tapped it shut with his finger and laughed, “What's this about, Jill?”

I told him about Russ Simpson and his dead wife.

He held the photo up to the light by the window and shook his head. “She looks older now, but I'm pretty sure it's her.”

“But this woman is dead.” My head was spinning.

He was looking at his watch. “I'm going to be late for work.” He picked up his briefcase and keys and opened the door. “I've registered for the 10K race on Saturday. Why not come along and see if she's there.”

•  •  •

I wasn't sure I'd be able to pick out the woman in the photo from a whole field of runners, and I realized Dad would see even less from inside the pack, so I called Helen to see if she'd go with me. I was pretty sure she'd been seriously spooked by Russ and would be curious to see the woman Dad thought resembled the one in the snapshot.

I stuffed my camera and tripod and some high-speed film into my backpack ready for Helen to pick me up at eight-thirty the next morning. Barriers were already up along the Parkway, so we left the car near the university and walked back through campus. We found the registration tent and grabbed a printout of runners' names and registration numbers. Then we pushed our way through the crowd to the starting line. There were already several hundred spectators on the sidelines and twice that number dressed in shorts and stringy tops with numbers pinned to them, stretching and jogging in place, waiting for the starter's pistol.

I looked for Dad and pointed him out to Helen. Then I scanned the front-seeded women. I looked at the photo again and stopped short on Number 36. She had short gray hair and her face was tanned and lined, but other than that, she was a ringer for the woman in the snapshot. I nudged Helen and she nodded, then ran her finger down the list and said: “Number 36. Amber Thompson.”

I was studying the woman's profile when I heard Helen gasp.

“Look!” She was pointing at a man climbing up a grassy slope near the bicycle path that runs alongside the Parkway. He was dressed in a bright yellow rain suit, rubber boots and work gloves and he was holding a glass mason jar out in front of him.

It was Russ Simpson. He lifted his head, and I saw the weirdest look on his face. I turned to see what he was staring at and sure enough, there was Amber Thompson, right in the cross hairs.

I dropped my backpack to the ground, scooped the tripod out of it and took off running as fast as I could, trying to cover the distance between Russ and me before he got to the top of the hill. The grass was still slick with dew, and I almost slipped, but I got to him just before he made it to the road. I came up on his right side, crouched down and thrust the tripod in front of his ankle. It snared the plastic pant leg, and he went down with the whooshing sound of air going out of a tire.

He twisted around and kicked out furiously, his boot catching me square on the nose. The bottle fell from his hand and bounced, splashing its contents over him and the grass. I got a couple of drops on my hand and they burned like mad, but that was nothing to what the stuff seemed to be doing to him.

I could hear him screaming as the fluid burned into his scalp and face. The grass around him sizzled and steamed, and I rolled away down the hill. Finally, I came to rest on my back, and by the time I got my bearings, Dad was leaning over me. He looked pretty worried, so I reached up and touched my nose with my hand. It came away covered with blood.

“You've lost your nose stud,” Dad said, handing me a wad of tissues.

“No problem. It's time I lost it, anyway.” I struggled to my feet and looked over to see the race officials trying to coax Russ into the First Aid Tent. He was still shrieking and flopping around on the grass. The exposed skin on his head and neck was turning a sickening red.

Helen came up beside me carrying a big plastic cup of water. I plunged my sore hand into it. It sure felt good. “So, I
guess you two have met, eh?”

Dad shook Helen's hand. “Jill tells me I'll be coming to your grief session next week.”

I grinned at Helen and she gave me a thumbs up.

I turned and looked up the hill then, to where Amber Thompson was standing stock still, staring at Russ. She caught my eye and walked stiffly over to where we were standing. I hoped she wasn't going to pass out.

“I want to thank you,” she said, and her voice sounded wobbly and weak. “That acid was intended for me.”

“I figured.” I said. “Did you know he came to our bereavement group and he was carrying a picture of you?”

“Bereavement group?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “So he's still grieving for Debbie Simpson.”

“Did you even know he was in town?”

“No. I had no idea he'd managed to track me down. It's been years since I got away, changed my name, my appearance, everything. I thought I was safe.”

“I've been wondering,” I said, “if you're the woman he told us about, the one he says killed Debbie Simpson.”

She looked puzzled. “Is that what he said?” Then she nodded without waiting for my answer. “That would make some kind of sense, I guess.”

“It would?”

“Absolutely. I did kill Debbie Simpson, and she deserved to die. She was a pathetic, frightened little girl, totally controlled by her abusive husband.”

“I see,” I lied.

There was a long pause. Then she held her hand out to me.

“I think I'd better introduce myself,” Amber Thompson said. “I am Debbie Simpson.”

SUE PIKE
doesn't own a camera but she greatly admires anyone able to capture mood and meaning in a single snapshot. She limits her hobbies to writing and has had stories in all of The Ladies' Killing Circle anthologies. “Widow's Weeds” from
Cottage Country Killers
won the Arthur Ellis Award for best short mystery story of 1997.

JOAN BOSWELL

Finished with the day's training and back in my dorm, I flipped through my mail. Pizza Pizza—a two-for-one deal. VISA—a pitch for my business. A hand-addressed envelope—probably a machine-simulated charitable appeal.

I removed a single sheet of paper.

“Dear Anna. Because of what I read in an article about you and the Olympic rowing team, I realize I'm your mother. I left you in St. Michael's church when you were three months old. Just like the article said, your birthday is February 15 and you're 26. I saw in the picture that you still have the birth mark on your left shoulder.”

Much larger printing and capital letters made the next sentence jump from the page.
“IF I SPILL THE BEANS, YOU WON'T GO.

“You're not a citizen. I brought you to Canada from Holland. Your father emigrated first but didn't meet us. I couldn't look after you. I did you a BIG FAVOUR by giving you up and letting you have a good life. It's time to return the FAVOUR. Pay me $10,000 and I won't tell your secret. I'm in Cabin Ten at the Bide-A-While motel. If I don't hear from you by FRIDAY, I'll phone the Victoria paper.”

I reread the letter. The shocking message remained the
same. My birth mother wanted to blackmail me. What kind of woman was she to even contemplate doing this? But she had one thing right. She had done me a favour—a huge favour. No one could have been luckier with her adoptive parents than I'd been.

If what she said was true, what should I do? Borrow $10,000 and pay her? But was she right? Would the circumstances of my birth bar me from the Olympics? The Children's Aid Society would know. I dialed and asked for the director.

“Ms. French is out of the office for the day. She'll be in tomorrow, but, if it's urgent, perhaps I can help you?”

Twenty-four hours to wait for the verdict. Should I warn Carol, my coach? Of course not. Why upset her about something that might not happen? I threw the envelope in the waste basket and shoved the letter in my desk drawer.

But I couldn't get it out of my mind. After a nearly sleepless night, I staggered out of bed. Exhausted, I debated whether to drive or walk to the lake for the first of our three daily rowing practices. I opted for the twenty-minute walk, hoping the exercise would untie the knot in my stomach. The grey clouds that blanketed the sky, promising rain, echoed my mood.

As we gathered on the dock, my team mates handed folded sheets of paper to Carol. Damn, I'd forgotten this morning was the deadline for returning one of the many forms our bureaucratic country required.

“Carol, I left it on my desk. Is it too late to run over at lunch?”

“It is. One of the guys from the office is coming to get them…” she checked her watch “in half an hour. They have to go out in this morning's mail.”

“Dad could go,” Bobbie Johnson said.

Most mornings, multimillionaire Marshall Johnson, a
rower on Canada's 1968 Olympic team, parked his Porsche at the far end of the lake and watched our practice.

Carol shook her head. “The girl at the desk in the residence wouldn't let him go up.”

“My car's here,” Bobbie said.

It always was. Her car, a dark-blue Porsche that matched her father's, seemed to be her security blanket, her reassurance that her daddy loved her enough to buy the very best. Poor Bobbie lived in fear she'd lose her place on the team and her father's approval. Marshall Johnson supported Olympic rowing financially. I suspected he'd withdraw his money if Bobbie lost her spot. This had to be the reason why Carol kept her when Marnie, the first alternative, was a better rower.

Bobbie curried Carol's favour in every possible way. “It won't take me a minute. I'll be back by the time everyone's warmed up.”

Carol nodded.

I could offer to go with her, but why spoil her chance for brownie points? I thanked Bobbie and tossed her my room key.

We'd just finished our stretching exercises when, true to her word, Bobbie's Porsche peeled around the lake and screeched to a halt beside the dock. She delivered the paper to Carol and joined us as we lowered ourselves into our shell.

In the boat I forgot everything but the joy of moving through the mirror-calm lake. The oars dipped, dragged, lifted, flashed forward, turned and sliced. The creak of our seats as they slid back and forth, the rush of the bow as it cut through the water—every motion and sound was as familiar and comforting as my own heartbeat.

We followed the row with a two-hour run. Light rain coated the path with a film of moisture which made each footfall treacherous. Rain drizzling on our skin chilled us as we
clocked the miles. Although I tried to empty my mind, to focus on breathing, to visualize molecules of fresh air entering my nostrils and filling my lungs—I failed. Instead, I fixated either on the possibility of not being on the Olympic team, or on my birth mother—her name, her appearance, her life.