“In what way? It is not given to all of us to have a build like a sumo wrestler, you know. But it’s a very comforting trait to have in a partner. He doesn’t even have to do anything. They just look at him and melt into the scenery.”

“I don’t mean your size, you idiot. I mean, Dubinsky would never talk about people having builds like sumo wrestlers, would he?”

“Aah. You are referring to the thin veneer of civilization that a couple of years of English and Philosophy at University College gave me, are you? That flippant manner and brilliant use of language, you mean?”

“How did you get from there to here, then? It seems a long way from English to murder.”

“But not from philosophy to crime. Well, to make a short story too long, I was a perfectly ordinary boy from the east end with a flair, I suppose, for school. I won a scholarship to the U of T and went into a nice arty program, where I did all right for a while”—he turned casually away to pick up his beer again—“until I got deflected.”

“Deflected?”

“After first year I got a job as a security guard back on my home turf and ran into Marie, who was pretty enticing in those days—she’s still not bad, you know—and between her distracting me all through second year, and then during study week finding cause why we should get married, I didn’t even bother writing my exams. And that was the end of my experiment with culture and civilization. The police force was recruiting at that particular time, which was more than you could say for a lot of other places, and it seemed like a fairly secure and interesting way to make a living, so I joined. I’m not really that different from Dubinsky, you know. The polish slips off pretty easily.” He rolled over and ran his hand along her belly, and then took her beer glass from her and carefully set it on the floor.

“What time is it?” asked Eleanor. “I have to get home before it’s time to get Heather off to school. I am not one of your carefree singles.”

Sanders reached over for his watch. “Would you believe that it’s only 9:30? That’s what happens when you leave for dinner before the sun sets.”

“Mmmm,” said Eleanor, giving herself up to the moment, “set the alarm for two o’clock.”

“Why not five?” he murmured. “I’ll cook you breakfast.”

Chapter 8

It was the final five minutes of Amanda’s second last class of the day, English. The sun pouring into the classroom seemed to have infected teacher and students with a spirit of lazy contentment. It had been a long, cold winter. The discussion of Alexander Pope’s Rape of the Lock was dwindling into nothing; even the title was no longer capable of producing giggles. In that soporific atmosphere, the secretary’s head poking around the corner hardly caused a ripple. Miss Whitney lazily took the proffered piece of paper, read it, and called to Amanda.

“It’s a phone message. It’s almost time for the bell, so why don’t you go now and call? Take your books.” Startled at the unusual summons, Amanda hastily gathered her knapsack and poetry text and stumbled out of the classroom down to the pay phone in the common room.

She looked carefully at the words on the slip for the first time. “Please call your Aunt Kate as soon as possible.” Where was Aunt Kate? The number on the message was not familiar. Amanda fished out her quarter and dialed the number. A pleasant masculine voice answered with the words, “Harris and Robinson. May I help you?”

“May I speak to Dr. Abbott, please?” asked Amanda.

“And who may I say is calling, please?”

“It’s her niece, Amanda,” she replied, confused.

“Oh, yes. Is that Miss Griffiths? Dr. Abbott is in a brief meeting right now. Would you like to hold? She shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.” Ten minutes sounded like an eternity to Amanda, who could at that moment hear the bell ringing for Latin. “Wait a moment, I think she may have left a message for you.” There was a pause. “Here it is. Could you please meet her at 3:30 at the corner of Mount Pleasant and Elm, the southeast corner? She is picking up your parents at the airport.”

Still clutching her magic piece of paper, Amanda pelted into Latin class, no later than several of her slower-moving classmates. Breathlessly she waved the slip in front of Mrs. Cowper’s face and explained her predicament. Her parents were coming in; her aunt wanted her to drive out with her to the airport to meet them; and could she leave class five minutes early?

Mrs. Cowper reacted predictably. “Of course, Amanda! How nice that your parents are coming in. Keep your eye on the clock and slip out when you need to. Leave yourself enough time to get to your locker. Have a lovely time tonight!”

It was a couple of minutes before the final bell when she stationed herself on the prescribed corner, looking intently down the hill for Aunt Kate’s car to appear. She scarcely noticed the yellow police car pull up in front of her and stop, lights flashing. The handsome young constable who was driving got out and walked over to her. She looked up in surprise. “Excuse me, miss, but are you Amanda Griffiths?” She nodded, beginning to feel a sickening sense that something was very wrong. “I was asked to pick you up and take you out to the airport—something about an accident—” As his voice trailed off, he smiled and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Is it my parents?” she asked. “Has someone been”—she couldn’t say the word that was on her mind—“hurt?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he answered gently. “But if you’ll come with us we’ll soon have it straightened out.” He propelled her toward the car and opened the back door. There was a man in plain clothes sitting on the passenger side, looking straight ahead. She climbed in, and only realized after the door slammed shut that there were no handles on the inside. That and the mesh between the front and back seat gave her an uncomfortable caged feeling.

Instead of heading north in the direction of the airport, however, the car turned right off Mount Pleasant into north Rosedale; it cruised along Summerhill, into a park, past the sign that said “Official Vehicles Only,” and down a steep hill. Amanda opened her mouth but could not phrase a question that seemed adequate to the occasion. Besides, terror had taken away her voice, and she was grappling to maintain an outward appearance of calm. The car stopped, and the driver got out. He opened the door and bent over to peer in. She shrank back automatically. He turned away from her; when he turned back to her he had a handkerchief in his hand, with a sickly, sweet, chemical smell to it. As she opened her mouth to scream he clapped it over her face, soaking wet and cold. She struggled for an instant.

Eleanor sat with her mother, lazily drinking tea and letting her thoughts float idly where they would. Her mother was chewing over a problem having to do with the planting of some perennials at the bottom of the garden and the apparently related question of whether the tenant who was renting the coach house over the garage for a handsome sum should be allowed to buy a puppy. A standard poodle was what he had in mind, and the various strengths and weaknesses of the breed—as understood by Jane Scott—were being canvassed minutely. “You see, dear, poodles dig. I know they do, because they’re just like terriers, and it’s impossible to keep a garden if you have a terrier. So what do you think I should do?”

Eleanor paused and looked at her mother. She hadn’t been listening carefully enough to know which problem had actually been tossed in her lap, and besides, it seemed obvious to her that her mother would plant what she liked and that Susan, who owned the house, coach house and all, would not object to anything her new tenant wanted to do of such an innocent nature. “Well,” she temporized, and was saved by the sight of Kate Abbott waving through the living-room window and striding around to the side door. “Kate,” she hailed, “come and have some tea.”