Dead Politician Society (19 page)

Matthew rolled around lazily to look at the alarm clock. Noon. He hadn't stayed in bed this late for years.

He turned back toward Annabel. “So what do you want to do today?”

“You're kidding, right?” Her lips curled in irony.

“Why would I be kidding?” He took her hand and smiled to think of what it had recently done for his cock.

Annabel laughed. “If we were at my place, you'd have been gone before I woke up. Where did this spending the day part come in?”

“When you trusted me with all that stuff last night. It meant a lot to me.”

Matthew brushed a fallen strand of hair behind Annabel's ear. She looked so pretty this morning, the way the sun caught her blond highlights.

“So my reward is a whole day of Matthew.” Annabel rolled her eyes, then looked at him. “Do you really think Utopia Girl is one of your students?”

Matthew sighed. “I was worried already. What you've shown me cements it.”

“Worried already? You mean you know which student?” Annabel's eyes shot wide open. “I should have come to you before. We might have saved a life, or even two.”

“I don't know which student.”

“Oh.” She relaxed. “Then what made you think one of your students was involved?”

“Well . . . You know how those letters have been signed by a secret society?”

“Of course,” Annabel said. “But I thought that was a smokescreen. Are you telling me the society is real?”

“It's very real. I founded the
SPU
when I first came to U of T.”

“You founded a secret society?” Annabel took her hand away from Matthew's, and used it to prop up her head. “That's really cool . . . or it could have been, if, you know . . .”

“It was supposed to give students a sense of their own power. Each year, I've chosen the handful of kids who — not to be immodest — remind me of myself at their age. Only instead of feeling unimportant and not listened to, like I did, I wanted these kids to see that what they say and do can make a difference.”

“Matthew, that's amazing.”

He shook his head. “I got sidetracked by my own ego.”

“Who wouldn't?”

“A stronger person? I'm supposed to be their role model, and instead I led them into murder.” He wanted to tell Annabel about Elise. But of course he couldn't. He'd lied to the police, and he sure as hell didn't want that case reopened.

“You didn't do it on purpose. Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“So don't blame yourself for your good intentions. Take control of now. Maybe together we can solve this.”

How adorably naïve. And somehow that thought led Matthew to think of Clare. He'd enjoyed her so much, that night in his office. She was innocent like a student, but tough like a — shit. That's why she'd been snooping.

“When did you get the first email?” Matthew said. “That first fake obituary, about Hayden Pritchard.”

“Tuesday morning. I opened it when I came into work.”

“And when did you contact the police?”

“What? Why do you care?”

“Humor me.”

Annabel shrugged. “My direct boss was out for the morning, so I showed Penny right away. She called the police, and two detectives were interviewing me in under an hour.”

“What time do you think the cops left the
Star
offices?”

“I don't know.” She looked at him strangely. “I got to work a few minutes before eight. They were probably leaving around nine-thirty or ten.”

About an hour before Shirley had informed him he had an uninvited guest in his utopia class.

“That little bitch is a cop.”

“What little bitch?”

“Clare.”

Matthew got out of bed and looked at his face in the en suite bathroom mirror.

“Who's Clare?”

Annabel got up as well, started gathering her clothes from various locations on the floor.

“A student of mine. I think she's an undercover.” Matthew splashed water onto his face. “You want to go over to the island today? Rent a couple of bicycles, act like tourists?”

“Why not? Let's pretend for a day that you actually like me.”

“What?” Matthew returned to the bedroom, an open can of shaving cream in his hand.

“I know we can't do this forever.” Annabel slipped a leg into her thong. “But sure, for today, let's pretend.”

“Annabel!”

Why today, of all days, did she want a meaningful relationship discussion?

“Don't be upset. I like you. I'm not mad.”

“Then why are you being insecure?” Matthew set down the shaving cream and sat on the unmade bed.

“I'm not
being
insecure. I'd be foolish if I
was
secure.”

“You think I'm using you for sex?”

“No.” She did up her bra. “I think you like me, as much as you're capable of liking someone.”

“But — last night — this morning — didn't we have such a good time together?”

“Yeah.” Annabel wriggled into her J Brand jeans. “I shared some information, then we had better sex than we've had in two years.”

“And what do you mean, as much as I'm capable?”

“I mean, until you like yourself, if you ever do, how can you have any respect for someone else who does?”

Matthew sighed. “What have you been reading?”

“Look, for whatever reason, I still want to date you.” Annabel sat beside him, half-dressed, on his bed. “So let's do it. Let's go to the island. Rent some bikes. Pretend we're in love.”

“Okay.”

Matthew was turned on by Annabel's new attitude. It was a shame she had to be slipping away for him to see it.

Clare toyed nervously with her lit cigarette as she stared at herself in the mirror. Garth Brooks was in her cd player, but even “Friends in Low Places” couldn't make her feel comfortable about the party that evening. Who was she to mingle with lobbyists and politicians? And what if someone died tonight? Cloutier would blame Clare in a heartbeat — he would jump at the chance to get her pulled from this case.

She had no idea if the dress she was wearing was fancy enough or over-the-top or plain wrong for any number of reasons. The lady in the consignment shop had assured Clare that it was black tie appropriate. And the fit was good — it even made her look like she had breasts that were larger than her paltry B-cup. Still, when she looked in the mirror, it didn't feel like herself looking back.

Her phone rang.

“Clare? Matthew.”

“Um.” She drew a blank. “Oh right. Dr. Easton.”

“I think you're all right to use my first name.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I'm distracted.” She frowned at the mirror.

“Did I reach you at a bad time?”

“No,” Clare said. “I'm trying on a dress for tonight. I'm invited to this dinner, and I've never gone to anything black tie before.”

“You'll do fine.” Matthew's voice was soothing. “It's not the environment fundraiser where the prime minister's speaking, by any chance?”

“I think so. Jessica Dunne invited me to go with her family.”

“Some of your classmates may be working it.”

“Huh?”

“A friend owns a firm that caters a lot of these events. When she's short on staff, I ask my students. I think it's a great opportunity to get them up close to the politics.”

Clare wondered if he was intentionally abetting a killer.

“She asked me for one more server tonight, so I thought of you.”

“You did?” Clare scowled at her dress again, and wished she'd had the invitations in reverse. She would have been much more comfortable serving than being served. “Well, if Jessica's family hates me, maybe I'll duck into the kitchen and ask for an extra uniform.”

Matthew laughed. “I don't think you need to be this nervous. It's only dinner, and they're only people. How about we hook up later?”

“You mean after the event?” Clare shivered, remembering how his hands had felt on her hips while he was thrusting from behind, pushing her against his desk. “Yeah, I'd like that.”

“You want to meet me in my office?”

“Sure.” Was there a reason he didn't he want her at his house?

“I have some marking to do, so don't worry about how late it is when you get there.”

“I'll call you when the wild times subside.” Clare clicked off the phone, and resumed frowning at herself in the mirror.

Utopia Girl: Closing in on my conclusion. Well, technically only halfway there, but the hardest work is done.

Death Reporter:
I guess congratulations?

The sun was beaming through her panoramic windows. Annabel's slippers were on. She had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc on the table beside her. The world was beginning to look okay again.

Utopia Girl:
Good news for you is I'm ready to say more re: motive. Cryptically, of course. Always liked guessing games.

Death Reporter:
So I might have guessed.

Utopia Girl:
You think you're funny.

Death Reporter:
I settle for my own amusement. What did you want to tell me?

Utopia Girl:
The dead politicians all have something in common.

Annabel grabbed her notepad. Was a real clue about to surface?

Death Reporter:
Beyond having policy you hate?

Utopia Girl:
Duh. You don't kill someone over policy.

Death Reporter:
I've never killed anyone for any reason, so you'll have to guide me slowly.

Utopia Girl:
Was on the streetcar with you yesterday. You went to the Beaches to see your boyfriend.

Had she told anyone she'd taken the streetcar? She couldn't remember telling Matthew.

Utopia Girl:
Followed you halfway down Kenilworth Avenue. You were so cute. The way you turned around to see if anyone was following you. If you actually want to catch someone, you might not want to stop walking and freeze for three seconds before you gather up the courage to turn around. Gave me ample time to slip behind hedge.

Annabel got up and closed all the blinds in her living room, though it was only five o'clock — still daylight for a couple of hours. Then she moved into her bedroom and did the same.

Death Reporter:
What do you want from me?

Utopia Girl:
Loyalty.

Death Reporter:
Through fear?

Utopia Girl:
I'm fine with whatever works.

Death Reporter:
Do you threaten your victims before you poison them?

Utopia Girl:
Stop calling them victims. And don't be ridiculous. I want them dead.

Death Reporter:
So you're not planning to kill me.

Utopia Girl:
Not currently. No offense, Annabel, but your corpse would hardly make headlines.

Death Reporter:
Small mercies, I guess.

Utopia Girl:
Religious reference?

Death Reporter:
If so, it's unintentional. I got thrown out of Sunday School for not singing the words God, Lord, or Jesus in any of their stupid songs.

Back when she'd been confident. When she'd tell someone to fuck off without worrying incessantly about what they'd think about her. When she hadn't been afraid of stupid things, like bees.

Utopia Girl:
You sound bitter.

Death Reporter:
Maybe slightly.

Utopia Girl:
Well, glad to see you're lightening up. Seriously, your life is not in danger unless you do something to piss me off.

Death Reporter:
Have we met in real life?

Utopia Girl:
Real life. Cute expression. Why would you ask me that, Annabel?

Death Reporter:
Have we?

Utopia Girl:
Ha ha. You think I'm your boyfriend?

Death Reporter:
Maybe. Well, not boyfriend, technically. Well, are you?

Utopia Girl:
Dr. Easton is one of several people I could be.

Death Reporter:
God, please just tell me.

Utopia Girl:
Thought you didn't like to use the word God.

Death Reporter:
Taking it in vain is fine.

Utopia Girl:
I'll try to remember not to scream it out in bed.

Annabel got up, poured the rest of her glass of wine down the sink, and boiled the kettle for tea.
Control
, she reminded herself. As in, don't give it all away.

Death Reporter:
You said you were willing to tell me something new. A clue.

Utopia Girl:
See, the fact that you call it a clue is alarming. Means you see yourself as a sleuth. Which means you're trying to solve this case.

Death Reporter:
Wouldn't you be?

Utopia Girl:
No. I'd be minding my business, so the killer wasn't caught. Because that's where the book is.

Was that true? Annabel thought the best book was if Utopia Girl
was
caught, admittedly after her mysterious mandate had been completed.

Death Reporter:
So you won't tell me anything?

Utopia Girl:
Not now. Have to get ready.

Death Reporter:
Am I supposed to ask, ready for what?

Utopia Girl:
If you like. Have to get ready to poison a politician. If you open your blinds, you might even see some of the action.