LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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