Free Murder in Focus by Medora Sale Page B

“Then, since my life was totally disrupted anyway, I decided to come back to Ottawa. I’d had this project in mind for a while, and I scurried around and found a few paying assignments in the city to keep me going until the book is finished. So here I am. Sublet my Toronto apartment, rented out my studio space, and drove up in February. I was thinking of settling here permanently—this is where I grew up, and I like it—but I’m not sure there’s enough of my kind of work to keep me going here full-time.”
    â€œSo you’ve decided to move back to Toronto?”
    â€œWell,
decided
is too strong a word. I’ll probably go back. Sometime.” She shook her head. “Who can predict what anybody’s going to be doing in six months’ time? Or six minutes’ time? Look at that guy over there—not literally, my friend the inquisitive police officer—he’ll think I’m talking about him.”
    â€œBut you are.”
    â€œOf course I am. You know what I mean.” Amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. “He’s sitting in a bar, surrounded by noise and jollification, and what’s he doing? Flipping through a trashy novel, pretending to read it. Did he anticipate at lunchtime that he was going to be sitting here—”
    â€œHow do you know it’s trashy?” interrupted Sanders.
    â€œDid you know you were a very irritating person? Let us assume for the sake of discussion that it is trashy. Why sit in a bar drinking overpriced draft beer in order to read trash? Or not read it? He seems to have trouble concentrating. I’ll bet that pint cost him more than the book.”
    â€œHe’s probably meeting someone,” said Sanders. “And experience has taught him that she’s always late.”
    â€œThen why does he never glance at the door in passionate anticipation? The only direction he’s been looking in so far is over here, at us.”
    â€œWell, try this one. He’s one of your devoted admirers,” said Sanders. “And he’s hoping you’ll get rid of me so he can pick you up.”
    â€œIdiot,” said Harriet. “He doesn’t have much of a chance, anyway. I can’t stand pale, weedy redheads. You want to go with me while I drop the film off at the lab? That’s something else Jane would have done.”
    â€œDon’t you develop it yourself? I’m disillusioned,” said Sanders. “What about those movies with photographers up to their elbows in chemicals in the darkroom? While sinister portraits of gruesome murders being committed gradually emerge from the blank paper. You know the kind.”
    â€œNot Ektachrome,” she said. “Colour,” she added when she saw his blank look. “Positive colour—you know, slides. Labs just throw it in a machine and it’s ready in three hours. I’m not a big enough outfit to run my own colour lab. If you like, I’ll take you to my darkroom one of these days and show you some black-and-white developing, though, just to prove that I’m genuine.”
    â€œThat’s an intriguing possibility,” said Sanders cautiously.
    â€œActually,” she said, drawing out the word and then hesitating. “I have a more intriguing possibility. Do you like music?”
    â€œIs this a test question?”
    â€œNo, of course not.” She paused. “Well, I suppose it is. Before you answer, I’ll give you a clue to what you’re getting into. Anna Maria Strelitsch, the violinist, is playing at the Arts Centre tonight—Mozart and some moderns, I think—and I have two tickets. Good tickets. But I’m not going to take you if you’re going to hate it. I refuse to have my evening spoiled by someone squirming in agony—or falling asleep—beside me.”
    â€œHey, what makes you assume I’d squirm?” he said defensively. “I like music. It sounds