Cold Canadian Crime by Crime Writers of Canada

Author:Crime Writers of Canada
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crime Writers of Canada

Killarney’s tries hard to give off an Irish ambiance and, for the most part, though I’m not an expert on things Irish, I would say it’s quite successful.

I entered to the sound of The Dubliners, an Irish band I actually know, found a corner table, and ordered a Guinness. I checked my phone for messages and texts, then settled in to enjoy the Guinness and contemplate my meeting with Ellie Karsten. I was still contemplating when she arrived, maybe twenty minutes later.

She slid out of an expensive-looking white winter coat and draped it over the back of the chair opposite me.

“What will you have?” I asked her.

She ignored me and ordered a whisky sour from the hovering server, then sat, smiling. “No sense you buying me a drink with the money I’m paying you to investigate.”

I shrugged. “Probably a good point.” Her drink came and she didn’t seem in a hurry to show me whatever it was she thought might be useful in the investigation, so I decided to start the conversation. “I did some checking on the internet … wanted to see if the old class would still come up. It did, and so did the syllabus.”

“Does that tell you something?”

“Well, it’s a longshot but I suppose it’s possible that some psychopath could also have come across the syllabus online, maybe did some reading and thought, what a great setup for a series of murders.”

“You make it sound pretty far-fetched.”

I shrugged. “I like to look at all the possibilities. Tomorrow I’ll start checking on that list of people from your class … see if anybody jumps off the page as the obvious killer.”

I thought about going through the names with her—see if I could trigger a memory or two—but I was getting the feeling I was losing her. She was looking at a spot a little over my right shoulder. It was like she was looking off while thinking about something. Or maybe she was seeing something that interested her, maybe even worried her. After a few seconds, she came back to me.

“If we’re right, the killer could be getting ready to kill again,” she said. “Have you thought about The Mystery of Edwin Drood? That’s next on the syllabus.”

“I have and, as I’m sure you know, it’s a bit tricky,” I told her. “Because Dickens didn’t finish the book, we don’t know for sure whom he intended the killer to be, but most scholars think it’s Edwin’s uncle, the choirmaster who is in love with Edwin’s fiancée. So, if our killer is true to form, we need to be thinking about uncle-nephew or maybe uncle-niece relationships. The killer has deviated from the books slightly but seems to maintain at least the basics of the fictionalized murders in his actions.”

I’d lost her again. She was looking in the same direction but now was becoming somewhat agitated.

“What is it?” I asked. I started to look back, but she stopped me.

“No, don’t turn. Don’t look.” She leaned closer to me. “There’s a man sitting over there.

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