Grave doubts qam-1

by John Moss

  It was her father who used to describe the morning sun as shining bright like a red rubber ball. Then he would utter the mantra, “Del Shannon from Rapid City, Michigan,” and take strange satisfaction in how the words and the image and the emotional response they evoked were in perfect, private harmony. She had never heard the song; it wasn’t something her parents would actually have owned. She could feel the warmth of her father’s grin and with it came a terrible emptiness as she wondered what they might have been to each other had he lived.

  She sat perched with her knees drawn up and her arms clasped around them, rocking gently against the cool stone. She turned to watch Rachel struggle through the zippered door in the tent vestibule, crawl out onto the pine needles, stand up and stretch, then amble slowly toward her in her oversized teddy-bear pyjamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes and stepping with exaggerated caution over dry grass tufts growing from clefts in the stone. Rachel sat down beside her. Neither of them spoke, and together they rocked in rhythm to the waves lapping against the sheer wall of the granite shore.

  As the sun pressed higher in the sky, Miranda rose to her feet.

  “You want coffee?” she offered.

  “Sure,” said Rachel. “I’ll help. I hate lighting the stove — I’ll measure out the coffee.”

  “It’s in little bags.”

  “I’ll count them. Two, right?”

  Miranda smiled broadly at her friend. Apprehension about the events ahead passed from her mind. Diving, done properly, was an exhilarating sport. She was excited by the prospects ahead.

  Morgan stopped for a coffee on the outskirts of Newmarket, due north of Toronto. He patched through to Alex Rufalo, asking for a response to his Scotland Yard query the night before requesting a scan of Madame Renaud’s employment records extending back ten years.

  “It’s coming through now,” said the superintendent. “Don’t go away.”

  Illogically, Morgan followed the directive literally by sipping his takeout coffee in the restaurant parking lot. It occurred to him he might reach Miranda through Peter Singh in Owen Sound. He did not feel justified in calling the OPP to track her down. At this point there was nothing substantive to suggest she was in danger, although the case was building exponentially in his mind, implicating her companions in multiple murder. He was sure the three of them were together. Officer Singh could unofficially intervene, cut Miranda apart until Morgan could get to the scene.

  Rufalo came back on the radio. “Morgan, there’s no earlier record that Hubbard worked at Renaud’s. Nothing under her own name.”

  “I knew that,” said Morgan.

  “But how about this to stifle your disappointment…”

  “What? Say on.”

  “Your good friend, Alexander Pope, did!”

  “Did what?”

  “He worked at Renaud’s — for eighteen months in the early nineties.”

  “Aha!” Morgan exclaimed.

  “‘Aha’ what?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. Gotta go. Could you run a background check for me on Officer Rachel Naismith?”

  “One of our guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. Check back in an hour. Are you on your way to Georgian Bay? Do you want me to contact the Provincials?”

  “And say what? Not yet. I don’t know what you’d tell them.”

  “Morgan, something else that might interest you. Your friend Alexander Pope — it seems the church property is in his name. He is the registered owner of the crime scene in Beausoleil.”

  Morgan signed off, his mind racing as he wheeled onto the highway. An oncoming pickup swerved to miss him without slowing down as the driver leaned on the horn. Morgan hardly noticed. He was assimilating the new information into a sequence of probable events, with Alexander Pope displacing Shelagh Hubbard as the pivotal character. Given that her journals were apparently counterfeit, a new possibility pressed inexorably forward. It still seemed likely the Hogg’s Hollow murders were Hubbard’s project, and it was certain that Rachel was inextricably linked to the revelation of her crimes, but the centre of power was shifting to Pope. He had worked at Renaud’s during the period now established as the time when the first set of murders occurred. Although his involvement in Hubbard’s murders was peripheral, and his connection with the disposal of her remains was circumstantial, it seemed to Morgan a virtual fact that he was responsible for the deaths in the wax museum and the presentation of his victims on public display.

  Trying his best to think and drive at the same time, Morgan wished Miranda were riding at his side. She was better at deductive reconstruction from limited materials. Where, he wondered, would she go with this? How would she fill in the gaps? The narrative demanded a bridge between London and Florence. How did a Canadian on a postdoctoral fellowship who took a hands-on course in London from a Canadian expert in constructural duplicity end up in her instructor’s arms, apparently sharing his affection with a younger version of a policewoman from southern Ontario? It had already occurred to him that Rachel was a lesbian or bisexual, even that she and Miranda were having an affair. Were the two women in Florence lovers already, before they got there? Unlikely. The prior connection was between Shelagh and Alexander. There was nothing to suggest Rachel had a history in London, nothing to link her to Shelagh Hubbard before the snapshots in Tuscany.

  Suppose, Morgan thought, trying to think like Miranda, the senior two of the threesome had become lovers while she was taking his course in London. It ended bitterly, or perhaps in an aura of doomed inevitability. Pope went to Italy. He had arranged for Shelagh Hubbard to study facial construction in wax simulations at his former employers, perhaps as a parting gesture to assuage his remorse for leaving her behind, or perhaps to ingratiate himself if it was she who spurned him. No, the latter is unlikely, given the eventual course of events.

  Passing a couple of trucks, then applying the brakes to keep a third truck between him and a police cruiser scanning for speeders from the side of the highway, Morgan contemplated the brutal irony that Alexander Pope, who elevated fakery to a fine art, should reverse the procedure by transforming the patently unreal effigies of dead murder victims into genuine cadavers. Then, he wondered, suppose in her nocturnal ministrations, cleaning and repairing the wax effigies after their daily exposure to public scrutiny, Shelagh Hubbard discovered his macabre sport? Rather than recoiling, perhaps driven by obsessive love, she was inspired to have found a way back into his heart. She pursued him to Italy, armed with the capacity to renew their relationship on a different and, given their morbid dispositions, ironically revitalized basis.

  Why was he in Florence? The answers to that were hanging on the wall in his sanctum sanctorum. He was studying to replicate some of the greatest painters in the Western world, having in effect moved from reconfiguring dead faces of real people to creating authentic reproductions of people long dead. As well as refining his talents with oil on wood and canvas, he undoubtedly studied frescoes. Already an authority on the subtleties of plaster, it would have been impossible to resist the study of tinting techniques at the home of the Renaissance masters.

  As for Rachel Naismith, she would have been in Florence to study art in her own right, perhaps under the tutelage of Alexander Pope, an accomplished artist who spoke the same language. Quite possibly. Her talent as a calligrapher, her history at the University of Western Ontario, combined with the irrefutable evidence of her close relationship in Florence with Hubbard and Pope, insisted on her culpability in the subsequent murders. How so, Morgan was uncertain.

  What an unholy threesome, he thought, especially appalled by Rachel. Did she know, then, standing arm in arm with her lovers for the snapshot, that the bond between the other two was on the dark side of death? Morgan felt an intense sense of betrayal, and mounting anger for the dreadful abuse of Miranda’s friendship. What could have driven Rachel to immerse herself in such malevolence? Was she on the road to depravity from childhood, the victim of a p
sychopathic mutation in her developing personality? Did her immersion in the dissociative world of Florentine aesthetics somehow exacerbate an already-screwed-up nature? Was the overwhelming time warp of immediate access to the sinister beauties of Renaissance culture enough to make her open to deadly seduction? Did the other two seduce her on the banks of the Arno, or she them? Did she somehow complete their perverse relationship, bringing them closer together, making the banalities of evil seductive? Or did she insinuate herself into the perverse dynamics of their existing affair to feed her own appetites?

  Morgan cut north on old Highway 11, the continuing extension of Yonge Street that divides Ontario into east and west, to pick up the most efficient route to the Nottawasaga region of Georgian Bay.

  He became aware that he was searching for ways to exonerate Rachel, and recoiled from the creeping sympathy that might compete with his concern for Miranda, who, having displaced Shelagh Hubbard in the unholy dynamics of a new and dangerous threesome, was surely in grave danger. He reached for the radio, determined to contact Peter Singh and ask him to drive over to Beausoleil or, if necessary, to the campground outside Penetang.

  Alexander Pope was lounging on the front steps of the church when the women arrived with their camping gear strapped to the back of Miranda’s racing-green Jaguar.

  “You want to leave your car here?” he asked, unbending his long limbs and strolling to the side of the car. “I’ve called Tobermory. We’re set up with a boat and full gear for you two. I told them we’d be there by a little past noon.

  “Thanks,” said Miranda. “I’ve got a lot of work piling up. I think I’d like to head back tonight. What about if you two ride together as far as Owen Sound and we’ll drive the rest of the way together? I’ll leave my car there so we can cut south on the way back.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” said Alexander Pope. “It will give Rachel and me a chance to catch up on old times.”

  “Since March?” Miranda exclaimed.

  “In detail,” said Rachel. “Don’t worry, we’ll find things to talk about. We’ll talk about you.”

  Miranda smiled uneasily. She suspected perhaps there was a subtext to the relationship between the other two she did not grasp, and ascribed her anxiety to feeling a little left out. On the drive over from Penetanguishene, Rachel had come up with the suggestion, herself, that she ride with Alexander as far as Owen Sound. It had seemed entirely reasonable, but now Miranda felt herself resenting the petty betrayal of her friends. Somehow the three of them broke down into a configuration of pairs. They were not all three friends together. Like teenagers, she thought. In any permutation of their affections, one of them was invariably left in the cold.

  She had decided early that morning she needed to get back to Toronto. She loved camping and had reconciled herself to the day’s adventure, but she felt an indefinable sense of urgency. Something was not quite right. She suggested they head back after diving. Rachel seemed content with the revised plan.

  By the time Morgan reached Peter Singh, he was less than an hour from Georgian Bay. He had anticipated having difficulty explaining what he wanted Peter to do: see that she’s okay and stay with her. To Morgan’s surprise, this was not received as an unreasonable request. He felt a rising affection for the young officer and told him he’d explain when he got there.

  “For sure, Morgan. I will meet you; just say where.”

  “Wherever you connect with Miranda. When you find her, get back to me.”

  “I will.”

  “Good, go for it.”

  “You mean I should drive to Beausoleil? Why don’t you contact her on your radio?”

  “She’s camping with Rachel — I think you met her. She’s not carrying her cellphone. They’ll have gone to see Pope, but he’s not answering.”

  “Have you tried the campground?”

  “No, I don’t know the area. I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m counting on you to do that.” Morgan’s newfound affection was beginning to wane. “I really would like you to get going on this. Call me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just north of Barrie.”

  “You’re probably closer to her than I am, but let me see if I can pin her down. I’ll get back to you.”

  The radio went blank, then Officer Singh came on again.

  “I was talking to her last night, you know.”

  “You what?”

  “I was talking to her last night. She called from a restaurant in Midland. They were having dinner together — Miranda and Mr. Pope, and Rachel Naismith.

  “Why did she call? Was she okay.”

  “Oh, yes, she was very okay. They were having a good time.”

  “Why did she call you?”

  “Why not? She is my friend. I suppose you would like to be analytic. Possibly she was fulfilling a social obligation, given she’s a visitor in my part of the country.”

  “Did she say where she’d be today?”

  “Oh, no, I do not think so. Well, she said if she comes through Owen Sound she would give me another call.”

  “Why would she be coming through Owen Sound?”

  “Goodness, Detective, we’ll have to ask her.” Peter Singh had lost his sense of the gravity of the situation, in his delight at the possibility of connecting with both of them.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes?”

  “If she calls, let me know.”

  “Yes, of course. And meanwhile I will call around and see if I can track down her camping ground. I suspect if you cannot reach anybody at the church, they are on their way here. Goodbye now.”

  Morgan felt the first pangs of hunger since he had left home. It was well past breakfast time and still too early for lunch, so he compromised on a couple of doughnuts outside Midland.

  Miranda had to concentrate not to get separated from Alexander Pope’s van. She was intent on drinking in the splendour of the countryside, which was at its most lush in June. To one side she could see beyond the gnarled groves of apple orchards the high hills of the Niagara Escarpment creeping along the edge of the coastal plain, and on the other side, beyond orchards and grasslands, she caught glimpses of the lake, dazzling evanescent in the sunlight. Ahead, the blue van snaked through what little traffic there was, and periodically she would rev the Jag and catch up behind them. Pope would honk in acknowledgement and she would honk back. She was more and more looking forward to their adventure.

  They stopped for coffee at the Tim Hortons in Collingwood.

  “How are we doing for time?” she asked.

  “It’s too early for lunch,” said Alexander. “We’ll grab a sandwich in Owen Sound and eat on the way.”

  “You two finding enough to talk about?” she asked Rachel.

  “No,” said Rachel. “We don’t say a word to each other. It’s murder.”

  All three laughed.

  “Let’s go,” said Rachel. “It’s still a long drive. Where are we gonna meet in Owen Sound?”

  “At the police station,” said Miranda. “We’ll leave my car there. A vintage Jag by the side of the road is flaunting temptation. We can pick up some food at the same time.”

  Rachel and Alexander exchanged looks. He said, “It’s okay with me.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Whatever. See you there.”

  They pulled out in tandem, coffees in hand.

  “Morgan,” said Peter Singh. “Save yourself time. I tracked down the campground.”

  “Good.”

  “No, not so good. She has checked out.”

  “Did they know where she was going?”

  “The man said she mentioned Tobermory.”

  “What’s in Tobermory?”

  “Beautiful scenery, I suppose. Funny rocks with holes in them. A lot of cedar trees.”

  “Does she have to go through Owen Sound to get there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I am in Owen Sound, at home. I am now off duty, since I talked to you b
efore.”

  “Where did she call you last night?”

  “At home.”

  “Stay there. She’ll call. She likes you.”

  “I like her, too. Are you coming straight through? I should tell you how to get here.”

  “Owen Sound’s on the map, I’ve been there before.”

  “I mean my home. I am looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan. “Talk to you later.”

  He looked around. He was driving along the edge of a town. It’s big enough, it must be Collingwood, he thought. He pulled into the Tim Hortons for coffee and another doughnut at the takeout window. He thought of a sandwich, but the anxiety running in tremors through his entire body distorted his appetite. Doughnuts fill voids other foods can’t even find.

  Odd, he thought. Doughnuts and cars. In Toronto he ate the occasional pastry and yet, out here in the country, driving, they seemed as indispensable as gasoline. He looked down at the fuel gauge. He was not used to either doughnuts or cars. His stomach felt bloated and the gas tank read empty.

  Miranda ran into the police station and explained who she was — a Toronto detective and a friend of Peter Singh’s. No problem, said the woman at the desk. Where was she off to? Miranda explained they were going to Tobermory, and behind schedule. The woman shrugged and waved her away, telling her to have a good day.

  On the outskirts of Owen Sound, Morgan got through to Alex Rufalo and pulled over to the side of the road so he could hear better. He had already called Peter Singh, asking him to meet him downtown.

  “I’ve got Officer Naismith’s file, Morgan. It looks straightforward to me. Three years on the force. Good record. Good future. She’s got a degree from the University of Western Ontario, comes from the Chatham area between Windsor and Sarnia. Nothing stands out in her background.”

  “What’s her degree?”

  “Honours sociology. Oh, and honours art history. Double honours — very impressive.”

  “Art history?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sociology?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have her transcript?”