Blood Wine

by John Moss

  Miranda heard the telephone ring. She was still sitting on the bathroom floor. She had been there for four or five hours. She could remember time expanding as if she were an observer watching two women, neither of whom seemed familiar.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder; the observing Miranda knew about such things and even thought it might be an appropriate term, perhaps for both women. It didn’t mean anything — it was not a diagnosis, it was a description.

  She could envision Morgan on the other end of the line giving his Clint Eastwood scowl, which would shift too quickly into a sly Kevin Spacey grin and then, because no one was answering, his face would collapse into a Jack Nicholson sneer or a Mel Gibson smirk, or, if he could muster it, a blue-eyed Paul Newman smile, even though his eyes were deep brown.

  No, that sequence would be if he thought she was in bed with her lover. He would have another set of faces for this, whatever was happening now.

  He doesn’t know how he looks, she thought. Maybe nobody does. For the most part he was stone-faced, displaying only the subtlest nuances of character, like all the great screen actors. Some people thought he was cold. Others thought he was cool.

  He was only forty-two, but she never thought of him in terms of young actors like Ewan McGregor or Brad Pitt. They had not yet done enough in their lives to transcend the roles they played. And never like Al Pacino, De Niro, or Hoffman, who were inseparable from their roles.

  The phone kept ringing in a monotonous jangle, like a giant insect blindly searching its prey.

  Morgan was childish, sometimes, but only with her. He would recite bits of nursery rhymes or schoolyard jingles, sometimes delightfully, absurdly obscene, always inappropriate, although he almost never swore. You can take the boy out of the schoolyard, she thought, but …

  Time passed, and she could hear voices and a key rattling in her door.

  Then Morgan was beside her. The building caretaker who let him in had gone back to bed. Morgan touched her, and she touched the blond woman’s cheek.

  “Hello, Morgan,” she said.

  “My goodness, it stinks in here,” said Morgan.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “You were going to ask if I’m okay. I’m okay. This is my friend, she’s okay.”

  “You’re not,” said Morgan. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  Suddenly, as if she had been slapped in the face or jarred with defibrillators, Miranda returned to herself.

  “Morgan! No ambulance, no cops.” She placed her hand around the back of his neck and drew herself upward as he rose to his feet.

  “My God,” she said. “I’m stiff.”

  “And who is this?” said Morgan. “You’re both filthy.”

  “I’m okay, Morgan. I’m okay. Let’s get cleaned up here.”

  Morgan turned on the shower and in a surreal, almost balletic sequence of movements, he and Miranda got the young woman into the streaming water, where Miranda, still in her pajamas, stripped off the woman’s soiled clothes and handed them out to Morgan, who tossed them in the tub and then went for a bathrobe, which they wrapped around the young woman, who appeared conscious of what they were doing but did nothing to assist. He took her into the bedroom and spread her out on top of the sheets, noticing there was still residue around her wrists, possibly from duct tape, then he returned to assist Miranda, who was tangled trying to get out of her drenched moose-grazing flannel pajamas. He helped her into and out of the shower then towelled her off before wrapping her in a clean white beach towel and leading her into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed beside her erstwhile companion.

  “Why are you here?” said Miranda ingenuously, implying it was a pleasant thing to have him drop in, but a bit of an intrusion.

  “I wanted to talk about wine. When I called, there was no answer — who is this? She obviously needs help? So do you —”

  “And you’re here, Morgan. She came to me, I’m the help she was looking for. We’ll help each other, Morgan. How can I help you? You want to know about wine? You’re the expert, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Miranda …”

  “She came to me, Morgan, because she needs me. Philip sent her.”

  “Philip!”

  “I know he’s dead. I’m not confused. But she’s a link between him and the man who killed us, killed him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Statistics. Logic. How often does a discombobulated blond turn up at your door, how often does a corpse turn up in your bed? Both extremely unlikely. The chances of these two events happening in the same week to the same person, astronomically unlikely. Ergo, it’s magic, or there’s a causal connection.”

  “We’ve got to call Spivak, see what he can make of her. We’ve got to get her to a doctor. Does she talk?”

  “Call Ellen Ravenscroft.”

  “What?”

  “Call Ellen Ravenscroft, she’s a doctor.

  “She’s a coroner, this woman’s alive —”

  “Morgan, are you with me on this? She came to me. Not to the police, not to the hospital, she came to me.”

  Morgan reached out and felt her forehead. Miranda leaned against the pressure of his hand. He stood up, and bending over her, he lowered her back onto the bed beside her new friend, who had closed her eyes and seemed to be asleep. Miranda closed her eyes as well and drifted off as he watched her.

  He wandered out into the living room and down the hallway. The floor was sticky with drying urine. He got a sponge-mop from the kitchen, dampened it with a little water and some vinegar from under the sink, and cleaned the floor from the hall through to the bathroom. He put the mop away after rinsing it and stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the strange scene of the two women asleep on the bed.

  He started back to the living room, then turned and taking a light blanket from the back of a chair, he covered the sleeping women, tucking the blanket close around them as if they might catch a chill, even though the night air was seasonably balmy. Through an open window he could hear the ambient hush of the city.

  When the security door buzzed, he let Ravenscroft in without checking to see who it was. She had been surprisingly cheerful when his call wakened her. He met her at the door.

  “Thanks,” he said softly.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Where is she? And there’s no point in whispering, we’ll have to wake her up anyway.”

  Ellen walked into the bedroom and flicked on the overhead. “My God!” she said. “There are two of them?”

  Morgan had not told her about the stranger. He had said Miranda seemed to be suffering from post-trauma shock and had asked for Ellen by name.

  Miranda stirred, and without opening her eyes mumbled, “Hello, Ellen Ravenscroft.”

  “Hello, Miranda Quin. And who are we in bed with this time?”

  Miranda’s eyes flashed open. She glared at the medical examiner, then shut them again and smiled. “She’s my friend.”

  “And what’s your friend’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can your friend talk? I think she’s awake. Are you awake, Miranda’s friend?”

  The woman’s blue eyes flickered then stayed open, clear but expressionless. Ellen pulled back the blanket and scowled at the strange array of bathrobe and towel covering the two women.

  “I gather this was your doing,” she said to Morgan.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Very gentlemanly, Morgan. Very modest. But perhaps a sheet would have been enough. It’s sweltering under there. You go on out to the living room and I’ll see what I can do with these two. Come on, love,” she said to Miranda. “We’ll start with you. Up you get.”

  As Morgan left the room, the M.E. was struggling to get Miranda mobile. From the living room he could hear thumping and bumping but could not imagine what, exactly, was going on.

  After a surprisingly short time, Miranda and Ellen emerged from the bedroom with the stranger between them. Ellen had dressed both in baggy
sweatshirts and pajama bottoms. Morgan got up and Ellen helped the two women to the sofa, where they sat side by side, both looking dazed as if they had just woken from a long sleep.

  “I’ve checked them over,” said Ellen, addressing Morgan as if the women were not there. “Miranda’s fine. I mean physically. They both are. I think we might try a tranquillizer.”

  “I don’t do tranquillizers,” Miranda snapped.

  “But then again, perhaps we won’t try a tranquillizer,” said Ellen, pausing, “on either of them. Goldilocks here is in deep shock. She may have been sedated, but everything’s working fine. I’d feel better getting her to a hospital —”

  “No hospital,” said Miranda.

  “— or not. I don’t think she’s in any danger. I don’t think either of them are.”

  “I think we’re both in danger,” said Miranda.

  “If someone was trying to kill you — ” said Morgan.

  “— we’d be dead.”

  “Did you check her bag?” Ellen asked.

  “No,” said Morgan. “What bag?”

  “In the hall,” said Ellen. “It’s not Miranda’s.”

  “Not my taste,” Miranda explained.

  “And I figured it’s not yours, Morgan. Therefore, it must be Miranda’s new best friend’s. It’s blond-appropriate.”

  Miranda smiled.

  Morgan retrieved the bag from the floor of the hall. He brought it back into the living room and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. All three women leaned forward, anxious to see what was inside. Morgan realized this was the first sign the stranger had shown of interest in anything not bottled up in her own skull.

  He pulled out a gun, dangling it carefully from the trigger guard. He sniffed it then set it down gingerly on the glass.

  “It’s been fired,” he said. “Fairly recently.”

  He removed item after item from the bag, setting each on the table in a random display. Mostly it was cosmetics and toiletries. There was a wallet and change purse, both empty. In the shadowy depths at the bottom was a large crumpled-up wad of used tissues.

  Morgan turned to the young woman. “What’s your name?” he asked. They were stunned when she responded.

  “I think Michelle,” she said. Her cobalt-blue eyes began to take on personality, as if she were finding her way inside toward the light.

  “How do you know Miranda?” he asked.

  Her eyes flicked in Miranda’s direction but she said nothing.

  “What happened?” Morgan asked, speaking in a voice intended to project gentle authority. “Where’d you come from, why are you here? What’s your last name, Michelle?”

  She directed a conspiratorial glance at Miranda. “I’m tired,” she said, trying to get up from the sofa. “I’d like to sleep.”

  “Me too,” said Miranda, rising and helping the young woman. “Thanks for coming, Ellen. I’ll call you in the morning. Night, night.”

  She began to lead the woman who called herself Michelle into the bedroom.

  Morgan stopped them. “What’s going on?” he said.

  Miranda looked into his eyes, asking for patience. “Will you stay?” she said. “Sleep on the sofa?”

  “I think I killed a man,” said the strange young woman.

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” said Miranda.

  She looked at Morgan and shook her head slowly, as if to acknowledge her friend was delusional. Morgan walked Ellen to the door as the other two women went into the bedroom.

  “What the hell was that?” said Ellen. “She killed someone?”

  “I don’t think so, I don’t know.”

  “She’s been through something major. You should get her downtown.”

  “Yeah. I want Miranda in better shape when we do. It’s not going to change anything, letting them sleep.”

  “They’re not friends, you know, Morgan.”

  “I know, but Miranda needs her, and they seem to connect. I’ll be right here.”

  “You want me to stay?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks for coming. I’ll call when we get this sorted out.”

  “Good luck. You all right?”

  “Fine, just fine.”

  “G’night love,” she said, leaning forward and kissing him on both cheeks. She walked out, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Morgan went back to the glass coffee table and picked up the Lewinsky-esque bag. It still felt heavy. He prodded the large clump of soiled tissues at the bottom with a ballpoint then turned the bag up and emptied it over the table. A wad emerged slowly, breaking free from where it had adhered to the inside of the bag, and then rapidly unravelled across the glass, a flurry the colour of diluted blood.

  Morgan’s eyes focused on the massive gold ring before his mind could grasp that he was looking at a severed human hand. Unmistakably male. He was surprised at how cleanly it had been cut away at the wrist and how little blood there was at the stump end. He was surprised at how well-manicured the nails appeared, with their cuticles neatly done, the edges evenly curved.

  They were sitting in an anteroom of the psychiatric ward of a hospital. Outside, they could see rooftops of other hospitals that lined University Avenue in a stalwart display of public health-service efficiency. It was mid-morning, the June sky a radiant blue with cotton clouds hovering in random swatches as if smog were only a rumour.

  Miranda listened as Spivak berated Morgan with enough exaggerated indignation to make it obvious he was not actually angry, just frustrated.

  “You sat there! You sat there all bloody night long, staring at a bloody disembodied hand. With a smoking gun on the table. With a homicidal amnesiac. You didn’t call in? What the hell were you thinking? They needed their beauty sleep?”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan.

  “Did you nod off yourself, is that what happened, did you stretch out and you were so goddamned laid back you fell asleep?”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan.

  “Morgan,” said Miranda.

  “No, I didn’t. I was thinking.”

  “You and your goddamned thinking —”

  “You should try it,” said Miranda.

  “Thank you, Detective,” said Spivak, turning to Miranda. “You’re quite alert after a good night’s rest.”

  A doctor came through locked double doors and approached Spivak’s partner. They talked and Eeyore Stritch walked over to the others by the window.

  “She’s fine,” he said. “They’re going to release her after lunch.”

  “She doesn’t know who she is,” Morgan exclaimed.

  “Can’t arrest her for that,” said Spivak, joining them at the window. “But for a severed hand in her handbag, we could hold her for that.”

  “On what charge?” said Miranda.

  “Committing an indignity on human remains,” said Eeyore Stritch.

  “We don’t know if the rest of the guy’s dead,” said Morgan. “Maybe he gave it to her. Chopped it off as a keepsake.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll want to know where she is,” said Spivak. “Don’t lose her.”

  “She’s not with us, she’s not ours,” said Morgan.

  “She is now.”

  “We’re running the prints on the hand,” said Eeyore Stritch. “So far, nothing local, not in Canada. We’re running a DNA comparison, too, to see if there’s any connection with your guy, Miranda.”

  “Which one?” said Miranda.

  Morgan said, “What about her prints?”

  “We’re running them as well.”

  “And the gun?” said Miranda.

  “No, well, we should hold her on that,” said Spivak. He hacked repeatedly into a handkerchief then continued. “It’s illegal, carrying a discharged weapon, concealed.”

  “It wasn’t concealed,” said Miranda.

  “It was in her purse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s concealed.”

  “Debatable,” said Miranda. “What about prints? Were there bullets?”
/>
  “On the gun? No prints —”

  “Why would she wipe it clean, then put it back in her purse?”

  “And no bullets, it was empty.”

  “You don’t even know how recently it was fired.”

  “She’s not licensed.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Miranda. “Her ID is missing.”

  “It’s not registered.”

  “So the gun is illegal, she’s not. You saw her wrists, somebody duct taped her wrists. She was a victim.”

  “Detective,” said Spivak, “we’re not charging her with anything yet. You two keep an eye on her. Morgan’s still on the force —”

  “I’m suspended, not fired.”

  “We’ll come back for her,” said Morgan.

  “Whatever. Keep in touch.” Spivak nodded to Eeyore Stritch and the two of them sauntered down a corridor leading to the elevator, leaving Morgan and Miranda facing each other in silence.

  After a time, Miranda got up and paced around the room, then returned to sit beside Morgan.

  “Why didn’t you call in last night?”

  He shrugged.

  “Why not? What were you thinking?”

  He grinned. “You needed rest.”

  “Why, really?”

  “I’m not sure.” He stretched awkwardly against the hospital settee so that he could reach into a side pocket of his pants. He pulled something out, clutched in his fist. Holding his hand out toward her, he slowly unclenched his fingers. Lying in his palm was the massive gold ring. Slowly he closed his fingers over it and started to slide it back into his pocket, then changed his mind and held it out to Miranda. She held it in her cupped fingers, hefted it as if testing for weight, then dropped it into her purse.

  4

  The Winery

  Morgan signed out a car but Miranda was driving. They sped along the Queen Elizabeth Way. Traffic was light; it was early afternoon. Morgan leaned around from the passenger seat, straining his safety belt to address the blond woman in the back.

  “You remember me, do you?” he said. “From last night.”