LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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