Reluctant Dead

by John Moss

  “You hunted for fish, you cooked?” She tried to envision her partner in a primal mode, foraging in the Arctic, and she came up empty. She could imagine him on Rapa Nui easily enough, but not in the northern reaches of their own country.

  “I fished with rocks and a spear. Arctic char. When we tried to move him, Escobar, we discovered he’d died.”

  “Three men died. Two after you got there.”

  “There’s a lot to sort out. It wasn’t really my jurisdiction. I was a bystander, a witness by no choice of my own. According to the RCMP report, all three died of exposure.”

  “Is that what the autopsies said?”

  “There were no autopsies.”

  “Really! Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Miranda, the official version is they were in a boat that smashed into a pod of whales, the guide floated off and was rescued, they managed to get to shore, and we found them, but it was too late. They died of exposure, hypothermia, deprivation of the necessities for survival.”

  “But what do you think really happened?”

  “They were out there for three days. No food. You just don’t know how raw it can actually get, especially at night.”

  “In the land of the midnight sun?”

  “Geography lesson: we were above the Arctic Circle, but by early August the sun dips below the northern horizon for a couple of hours during the night — it’s like perpetual dusk only it doesn’t go on forever, just seems like it, especially if you’re wet from the sleet and cold without shelter. So, yeah, you could die in August in the Arctic, no problem.”

  “But you didn’t die, you hunted and fished and shared body heat with a beautiful woman.”

  For a moment, Morgan was startled. “You realize we crash-landed in the middle of a river? At least we had the plane and a bit of gear. We were lucky. The others weren’t.”

  “Lucky you crashed! Morgan, who was flying? The woman? How did you manage to land at just the right place? Was she the navigator, as well? And two people died after you found them! Some rescuers you turned out to be. Why no autopsies — no need? There’s always a need when three guys die in questionable circumstances. Do you really believe they died of exposure?”

  “Well, the first one did, for sure. Yeah, I do believe.”

  “Interesting answer from an atheist! Morgan, believing don’t make it so.”

  “When I talked to the Mounties, they were adamant.”

  “Adamant?”

  “That was that and the case was closed.”

  “Morgan, this is me. We’re not buying their explanation even on a temporary basis. Whales don’t attack boats. Boats maybe attack whales.”

  “You know this because?”

  “Common sense. And nobody swims very far in the Arctic Ocean.”

  “Baffin Strait. Yeah, not for long.”

  “And what about the hunter, the report on the Globe website said he was wearing a survival suit. Really! And how come he was, and not them? And how come he was picked up and they weren’t, if they swam ashore at the same time?”

  “Nobody looked for them on the land. They found the guide floating, they found life jackets floating. They looked in the wrong place.”

  “Empty life jackets? Doesn’t that strike you as strange? The guide got into a survival suit and they couldn’t do up their own life jackets. Morgan, how did you cook your fish?”

  “What? On a fire. Willow twigs, dead dwarf willows as high as your knees.”

  “And where did the fire come from, did you rub two penguins together?”

  “Penguins live in the Antarctic. They already had it going, they lit it with their friend’s lighter. The third man who had died earlier, he was a smoker. They buried him.”

  “Under the permafrost?”

  “They piled stones on top of him.”

  “What kind of lighter? A Zippo?”

  “How would I possibly know the name of a lighter?”

  “Did it flare like a mini butane torch or snap open with a solid click like cocking a Winchester 73?”

  “Yeah, the latter.”

  “It was a Zippo. Morgan, it had never been in the water.”

  “Or they dried it out.”

  “No. That wouldn’t happen. The fluid would evaporate. Those men had never been wet, none of them, they wouldn’t have lasted so long. They were dropped off on shore.”

  “So much for the RCMP report.”

  “The Mounties have a job to do, Morgan. It’s bigger than resolving a single crime. I’m betting it was a judgment call and they decided to let things ride.”

  “You learned this at Mountie school?”

  She didn’t smile. Yes, perhaps not in so many words but it was drilled into them how to conduct the Crown’s business in isolated communities. Mounties were expected to be cop and coroner, prosecutor and defence, judge and jury, social worker and therapist, confessor and friend. She had never been tested herself, but she knew others in the force who had, and she had great respect for them. In the field, officers are called upon to make calls that might be deemed inappropriate elsewhere.

  “And the woman?” she said. “Gloria. Is she smart or just beautiful?”

  “Gloriasimmons. Like it’s one name.”

  “Quaint. So she’s both.”

  Morgan explained who she was as best he could. He realized his description of her was sketchy and his attempt to account for her relationship with Harrington D’Arcy was devoid of humanity and his explanation of his own relationship with her was feeble. By the end, Miranda felt she had a pretty good grasp of exactly who Gloria Simmons was and where she fit into the scheme of things.

  “Is she back in Toronto?” she asked.

  “Yeah, she came back the day after I did. Haven’t seen her, though. She’s been looking after the D’Arcy funerals and trying to push through the deal between her people and the Chilean government cartel.”

  “Stop, stop, stop. The funerals? Have the bodies been released? Her people? You said she was blonde. What is she, a Laplander? And cartel? You just said the government of Chile runs a cartel!”

  “You’re cut off of coffee! You want to switch to hot chocolate or lemonade?”

  “Morgan, I’ve been up for thirty hours straight except for a few naps on the plane. Get me a goddamn coffee. Please.”

  “Okay, but yes, she’s a willowy blonde Laplander Inuk with a great style sense and the designated executor of both D’Arcys who have indeed been released, and I did say cartel because if the Chilean government closes the deal they’ll have the next best thing to a world monopoly and they’ll control world prices for copper and that will keep them in power, them being the individuals who will benefit from controlling said prices, and who are, therefore, in effect a cartel, a word also referring in the archaic sense to a co-operative arrangement among politicians. Now, let me get you a lemonade. It’s on me. As were your first two coffees. Think of this as a welcome home party.”

  When he returned with a grande lemonade, known anywhere but Starbucks as a medium-large, and his third coffee, she was waiting with a question. “Does this mean you’re on side with the existing government of Chile?”

  “Apparently I am.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “We’re on opposing sides, Morgan. Not that it matters, but apparently we are.”

  “Do you want to explain?”

  “I’ll start at the end and work backwards.”

  “Why not start at the beginning?”

  “Good stories never start at the beginning.”

  “You know this from your career as a novelist?”

  Miranda glared across the table and forced a smile. “Yeah, there won’t be a novel. I’m having enough trouble sorting out the divergent realities impinging on my life without imagining alternatives.”

  “You just said a mouthful.”

  “I did, didn’t I!”

  “Divergent realities impinging … that’s how I feel about my Arctic trip. It was all very real at th
e time, and this world wasn’t.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the interior of Starbucks that also implied the city at large and, especially, Police Headquarters just up the street. “Now, this is real, that isn’t. Know what I mean?”

  “Exactly. We’ll make it even more real, let’s go to my place and order in pizza. But first, tell me more, tell me whatever comes into your mind. I’ve missed being there.”

  “Which do you want, the case or the odyssey?”

  “Odyssey! That’s rather grand. But, okay, skip back to the no-autopsy business. What gives with that, what really killed those three guys?”

  “Like I said.”

  “Exposure? You said the official report said. What really killed them?”

  “International commerce, I suppose. They went up there to sign papers on site, but that never happened.”

  “Who stands to gain by their deaths?”

  “Your side. The Pinochet junta.”

  “How so — I’m not taking sides, Morgan — how do they gain?”

  “D’Arcy Associates stood in their way. That’s my understanding. Gloria Simmons was his partner, they were representing the Inuit interests.”

  “There had to be Inuit on the junta side, Morgan. As the indigenous people, they hold the mineral rights.”

  “Yeah. Inuit means the people. I imagine the people as a whole would get a much better deal working with the Chilean government.”

  “The people, yes, but particular persons might benefit more from working with the cabal, what you call the Pinochet junta.”

  “Your side.”

  “For God’s sake, Morgan. I’m not taking sides. It’s just that the collapse of the present regime might be collateral damage if my friends on the island prevail. And vice versa. If the government falls, they might succeed. But believe me, we’re not fascists.”

  “We? Miranda, what have you got yourself into? What’s got into you?”

  “You want an inventory of recent lovers?”

  Morgan remained silent.

  “Good, they’re too numerous to mention.” Miranda felt suddenly exhausted. She wanted to sleep in her own bed. She wanted to skip the pizza. She was about to propose they break off for the day when a thought occurred to her. “Morgan,” she said, “when did they die?”

  He stared at her, sympathetic with the exhaustion she must be enduring, trying to catch up or slow down to get on the same wavelength. “By they you mean the men in the Arctic?

  “The last two, where were you when they died?”

  “I was there. I was fishing when Harrington D’Arcy died. I was flagging the chopper when the other guy died, unless he died in our smoky little nest while I was there and I didn’t notice. My goodness, what an ignominious way to go, without anyone noticing.”

  “And your new best friend, Msgloriasimmons, she was with them both.”

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes.” And then she added, as if clinching an argument, “His wife is regarded on the island as a martyr to their sovereignist cause.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Maria D’Arcy.” Miranda watched the phases of incomprehension flitter across his features as he moved from bewilderment through annoyance to curiosity.

  “She’s from Rapa Nui! Of course she is. That explains the letters and her relationship with that guy, Te Ave something?”

  “Te Ave Teao. What letters?”

  “And her mother is from Rapa Nui!”

  “You know her mother?”

  “Yes,” he said, pleased that he knew things she didn’t; embarrassed that he was small enough to be pleased. “Maria Pilar Akarikitea.”

  “And a small-boat sailor called Ralph McMan, I suppose? You know him, too?”

  “Rove McMan, as in rover. Yes, I do.”

  “Good, that makes my life easier.”

  He waited for her to explain, but she didn’t, so he continued. “If Maria D’Arcy’s island connection puts her in sympathy with the Pinochet cabal — and whatever you say, your side is on side with the fascists, even if it’s only by default — and if Harrington D’Arcy’s business connections were with the Inuit and the Chilean government cartel, that would put the D’Arcys very decidedly in opposite camps.”

  “Cabal, cartel, it’s hard to tell one from the other without a scorecard. What about coalition and consortium. Too many c-words. Let’s stick with Pinochet fascists on one side, I can’t believe I said that, and the government in power on the other. Or better yet, the Rapa Nui interests and the Inuit interests. Chile’s irrelevant.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Depends on your perspective, Morgan. Chile may be on centre stage but for us, at least, the real drama is off in the wings.”

  “And for the D’Arcys.”

  “Morgan, you don’t think he murdered his wife just because you’ve come up with a motive?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he loved her?”

  “Perhaps not in the conventional sense, but yes I do, very deeply.”

  “Then it seems to me a distinct possibility, Morgan, that contrary to your hormonal bias, the much admired and quite beautiful Msgloriasimmons, LLB, might not have been on the same side of this billion-dollar conflict as her partner, Mr. Harrington D’Arcy, LLB, OC.”

  “Miranda.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Miranda, she was the one who suggested the whale encounter was questionable. She even wondered if Pauloosie Avaluktuk had shot D’Arcy and the others, although she insisted the whales were real.”

  “And that kept your interest up, didn’t it? She had nothing to lose by pre-empting suspicion, and you to gain as her sidekick. What the hell was D’Arcy doing out there on a boat, anyway?”

  “Checking landing locations for ocean-going freighters, or so I was told. Seems reasonable. They’ll have to build dockage to ship out the ore.”

  They sat quietly for a while, braced by the reassuring familiarity of Starbucks, Morgan deep in thought, and Miranda with a quiet sense of well-being and nothing on her mind but random images of Bora Bora settling into the tropical night.

  Later, as they approached her building on Isabella Street, Miranda took his arm and leaned close to ask what seemed like the ultimate in arbitrary questions.

  “No,” he answered. “I’ve never been to Gibraltar. Why?

  “Just wondering. Do you want to go? There’s a cave I’d like to explore. St. Michael’s. It looks like you can only get to it very high up, almost at the summit.”

  “Sure. Possibly next week. I’m kind of tied up at the moment with a murder, maybe several.”

  She rang her own buzzer. It was an old habit. He’d never seen her do it before.

  “Do you want me to come up? Maybe you’re too tired.” He ran his hand through his hair, which seemed to her, somehow, a gesture of sympathy.

  “For pizza, no, I’ve lost my appetite. But I want to hear more about what you’ve been up to in the ice and snow.”

  “And I want to hear about your South Seas adventures. But it could wait ’til morning, you know.” He tousled his hair again. She smiled at the awkwardness of his gesture.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go up and tell lies.”

  10

  The Tangled Web

  As Miranda walked slowly up the worn marble stairs through the cool planes of dark walnut veneer, she finally felt at home. She had already dropped off her bags on her way to meet Morgan at Starbucks, and had hardly noticed where she was. Now he was traipsing behind her and, tired as she was, she felt exhilarated.

  From Morgan’s perspective, he thought she moved with deliberate grace, picking out each footstep in turn as she ascended through the muted light. He hung back a few paces, wanting to give her space to sort out whatever was swirling though her mind. By the time they reached her door on the third floor, he had taken the key from her hand and led the way inside.

  “My plant’s dead,” she said as she walked into her livin
g room.

  “I watered it regularly.”

  “You drowned it, Morgan. My prized orchid.”

  “You bought it at the supermarket.”

  “I said prized, not prize. It was the only living thing in the world that depended on me completely and I let it down. Damn it, you killed it.”

  “Only by loving it too well. I’ll buy you another.”

  “Not like Miss Grundy.”

  “Your orchid has a name?”

  “Had. Now she’s mulch. Sopping wet at the roots, desiccated up top. Morgan, I don’t trust your relationship with Gloriasimmons.”

  “Pardon? I wasn’t expecting that. We don’t have a relationship.”

  “Exactly! With all you’ve been through together, and yet there’s no relationship. Something’s askew.”

  Over pizza, which they broke down and ordered, and a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, they talked well into the night. Morgan told Miranda everything he knew about the case. Of Maria’s mysterious death and the story of how he ended up marooned on a remote shore of Baffin Island, disclosing every detail he could think of, but skipping over the sleeping-bag incident, which seemed graphic in his mind, but not relevant, and omitting any personal reference to Ellen Ravenscroft. His account was essentially linear and chronological.

  Hers was a series of discontinuous episodes which she interspersed during his narrative as they came to mind. What she had experienced and endured was complex, not one story but many — layered and confusing. She didn’t want reassurance or understanding and she certainly didn’t want interpretations and answers. In the end, Morgan had a pretty firm grasp of what she had gone through, including an uneasy awareness of the dark romantic attraction she had felt for Matteo, which seemed understandable, and for Thomas Edward Ross, which seemed perversely destructive.

  Eventually, she rose from the sofa and made a move toward her bedroom. “Do want to stay?” she asked him, turning her head to speak through an auburn veil of shoulder-length hair.