LITMIR.BIZ

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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 words — they came out sounding swol–len and unused. “Oh … Uh … Are you …?” I turned to Martha for help, wishing I was somewhere else.

      “Yup, this is your three-headed monster. Terry Spen–cer, meet Cordi O’Callaghan.” And with a flourish of her hand, Martha ushered her in. God, but she was drop-dead gorgeous, which is about what I felt like doing I was so embarrassed.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….” I held out my hand, at a total loss for words. Her blond hair was so shiny you could see your reflection in it and her deep tan looked fantastic on her tiny features, accenting her plump, red, heart-shaped mouth. Thirty-five? Forty-five with a nip and tuck. About my height, five feet six inches. Her handshake was surprisingly weak, my own strong grip evaporated in sympathy and I let go quickly.

      “No problem, Ms O’Callaghan.” She emphasized the Ms as though it was a four-letter word. She was watch–ing me carefully, her eyes still and hard. “At least it’s in the open,” she continued as I said nothing. “It’s harder when people look at me and I can see them wondering if I really am a murderer.”

      Her eyes were fixed on me. The smile on her face made it seem like she was amused, but her gaze felt arro–gant. I squirmed in discomfort, wishing I could get onto safer ground so that I could feel like I had some control over the situation.

      “Would you excuse us a moment, please?” I said and grabbed Martha by the arm, hauling her out into the hall.

      “What the hell is going on?” I asked as we moved down the hall together.

      “Shhh, Cordi, she can hear you.”

      I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What’s she doing here?”

      Martha rubbed her hands and I watched her face as it surfed through a bunch of different emotions, finally settling on what sure looked like guilt.

      “I suggested she swing by here to have a quick talk about logistics and stuff before tonight’s lesson so she could confirm with the class if you were coming. She said she’d be in the area anyway and would drop by.”

      “Why

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