12. Clever Margaret

People think investigative journalism is all excitement and discoveries. In reality it’s gathering notes, verifying sources, checking and rechecking information and following leads that too often run into dead ends. Like detecting, there’s a lot of footwork but these days it’s not hard on the shoe leather. You can learn a lot from the Internet.

Births, deaths, marriages, divorces, vehicle registration, building permits, graduation records, it’s all there, along with surprising amounts of personal data from club memberships to friendships gone bad.

Kathy Chatsworth was adept at mining online records. All you need is a starting point, a name, a date, an event, maybe a quote. She had the words of a dying woman. “Channel Lane ... point.”

She was on her way to visit the company library and the historian who worked in the archives. Margaret Hooper was a fountain of knowledge and an insatiable reader who devoured fiction, blogs, biographies, true crime, epic fantasies, historical romance, political memoirs, you name it. Even more interesting, she remembered pretty much everything she read. This ability, together with the round tortoiseshell glasses she wore on her head, around her neck, dangling from her mouth and, occasionally, on her face, earned her the affectionate nickname Google.

Margaret glanced up over the top of her glasses, and beamed. “How can I help you, Kath?” She turned her eyes back to the screen but gestured for Kathy to sit.

“The recent murder victim,” said Kathy. “The one that died in my arms.” Margaret looked up sympathetically and gave an encouraging nod.

“Before she died, she whispered Channel Lane, Point, Channel Lane. Do you have any idea what or where that is?”

Margaret sat back and drummed her fingers on the old oak desk, then smiled. “It rings a bell. There was a murder about seven years ago. A student. Let me look it up. Do you need it now or can I get back to you?”

Kathy’s mind raced. “Any top line information you can give me would be great and let me have details later if you find them.”

The older woman struggled up from the oversized velvet armchair she favoured over modern office chairs. She made it to her feet on the second try, straightened her back with a click and motioned Kathy to follow. Down the hall, past two offices, she opened the door to a large file room, scanned labels on cabinets before choosing one and opened and closed drawers noisily until she found what she was after. She thumped a fat brown folder on the table and lowered herself carefully onto the flimsy, hard backed file room chair.

“Here it is. The victim’s name is,” she looked up apologetically over her glasses, “I mean was Catrina Somers, home from University and staying in a rental cottage out at Channel Lane Point. Stabbed as she came out of the shower. Interrupted a burglar, police think, stabbed once in the heart. Died almost instantly.”

    Kathy’s eyes grew wide, Margaret noticed. “That means something to you, eh? Dr. MacDugon did the autopsy.” She flipped the page. “Catrina was at McGill taking a business course, with a minor in ancient history. Good grades.” Kathy shifted impatiently. “Hmm, let’s see, guy named Rivers was her history professor, blah blah, she had just handed in a group project to him.” She flipped the file shut. “Dr. Mac can tell you about the corpse, but maybe the professor, or the kids who worked on that project with her can tell you about the live girl.”

Kathy felt a chill. Brampton did not believe in coincidence, and neither did she. Shaye’s dying words were the address of Catrina’s murder. If she knew why the student had died, she might learn why another young woman died in her arms seven years later. Dr. Rivers, self-proclaimed expert on the dagger and Catrina’s teacher was a good place to start.