John Moss - Grave doubts

“Well, I must say,” said Alexander, “I will be relieved when this latest development in her story is over. I really would like to get back to my work.”

“Of course,” said Morgan. “It’s good to keep things in perspective.”

More sympathetically, Miranda said, “I think the believers have already begun to disperse. Let’s check them out.” She led the others toward the front of the building and pushed one of the double doors open. The OPP officer outside made way and they stepped into a garish glow. Miranda was startled to realize the night had fled to the west and the grey sky was streaked with pink and orange as the sun pushed upwards against the eastern horizon. The crowd had thinned to a few clusters of diehards who seemed as thrilled to be associated with murder as with the holy apparition that it had displaced.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. “The paintings on the wall haven’t changed, but now they’re just paintings. For these people out here, Shelagh Hubbard’s appearance in the grave of their saint seems to have taken the magic away, if not the mystery.”

“Not their saint,” said Morgan. “She’s the saint of the housekeeping pilgrims. What these other people saw was an image of the Virgin Mary, and it undermines her manifestation to be associated with a criminal investigation. Logic kicks in. Maybe it’s only a picture of the folk saint after all, and suddenly the apparition is reduced to cult status, an awkward archaic curiosity. So, home they go, to wait for another sign, next time on a pizza crust or a washroom wall.”

“You are quite cynical, Detective Morgan,” said Alexander Pope. “I think the frescoes are the very beautiful works of unheralded genius. As art they are much more significant in the long run than an apparition of the Virgin Mary or, for that matter, the recovery of a saint’s untainted corpse, or even the surprise appearance of a dead murderess.”

“And you think I’m the cynic,” said Morgan.

“‘Sailing to Byzantium,’” said Miranda, who bristled at the word murderess.

“What?”

“Yeats. ‘Sailing to Byzantium.’ ‘Art above life.’”

“You’re speaking cultural shorthand,” said Morgan, unsure whether he was complimenting her or censuring her for inappropriate erudition.

“How long was she dead?” said Peter Singh.

“Who, the saint or the sinner?” Miranda responded.

“The woman we have been looking for.”

There was a pause. Then Miranda answered. “It’s hard to tell. She had been embalmed, she was sealed in, the crypt was icy cold. I’d say she could have been there a week or more.”

“And the violets?”

“Injected through her veins, I imagine, with the embalming fluid.”

“Oh, dear.”

Miranda turned to Morgan, who seemed radiant in the morning sunlight. “Well, partner, it’s time to go. Let’s check in with the OPP and then check out.”

“My goodness,” said Peter Singh. “I’m on duty in an hour. Goodbye. We will keep in touch.”

“For sure,” said Morgan.

“As for me,” said Alexander, “if no one wants me for anything further, I’m off to Midland and a good day’s sleep in a choice motel.”

“Very reasonable,” said Miranda. “I’ll tell the OPP they can reach you here later on. I imagine they’ll want you to keep clear of the crypt, but you can carry on with your project. I’ll ask, but I don’t see why not. I’m anxious to see how the story turns out.”

“The fifth panel? I’ll leave it for the time being. It is what it is: a stunning trompe de l’oeil. The panels on the other side of the church, I don’t anticipate anything special. The apotheosis of Sister Marie Celeste would be hard to top.”

“Unless her body turned up,” said Morgan, “unravaged by time.”

“Morgan,” said Miranda, “let’s let these guys get on their way.” She took him by the arm and turned back through the door. “Come on, we’ll go in and say our goodbyes.”

Six weeks later, Morgan was walking down Mount Pleasant Boulevard, taking in the green of mid-June despite the traffic roaring by. Ahead, leaning against the abutment of a pedestrian overpass, he saw a half-dozen girls in school uniforms. Their blouses were untucked, draped loosely over their skirt bands, and their knee socks were scrunched around their ankles. These were older students, intent on declaring their personal style by compromising the prescribed apparel of their school, looking as dishevelled as possible. Nothing and no one, thought Morgan, will test the limits of privilege like those born within it. Still, there was something dangerously sexy about their wilful abandon.

Feeling a lascivious twinge of guilt, Morgan looked away as he walked by. A familiar voice shrieked an indecipherable inanity, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that one of the girls was Miranda’s ward and another was her friend Justine. He stopped dead in his tracks. The girls went silent, then Jill recognized the slightly unkempt pedestrian who seemed poised on the edge of a decision. She dropped her cigarette to the ground. Justine did the same. The other four girls, unaware of the implications, kept on smoking.

“Jill,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “Good to see you. Good to see you, too, Justine.”

The two girls rushed him, Jill throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a smoochy kiss on the cheek, Justine hugging them both and blowing kisses into the air.

“Do you know this man?” said the tallest girl.

“No,” said Jill. “But isn’t he handsome!”

“He’s my mother’s boyfriend,” Justine announced.

“Your mother is married,” said the tall girl. “I met her, remember? And your father.”

“Well, he would be if he could.”

“Actually, he is the favourite boyfriend of my official guardian,” said Jill.

“Morgan!” said the tall girl. They, of course had heard of Miranda and Morgan and some of the sordid details of Jill’s past. That is how she chose to maintain control of her own narrative: by being forthright about the publicly known story, and perversely whimsical about the details.

Before Morgan could mumble that he was not Miranda’s boyfriend, the other girls gathered around him. Justine maintained a proprietorial grasp on his arm. He was embarrassed by the attention, and several times tried to excuse himself. Finally, he explained that he was on duty and really had to get going.

“Murder,” Justine announced. “Murder is Morgan’s business.”

Morgan took Jill gently by the arm and said, “Walk along with me a bit.” The others, even Justine, picked up the hint and fell back.

Once they were out of earshot, Jill said, “I know what you’re going to say.”

“What?”

“Miranda is death on smoking.”

“But she’s not as much against it as I am.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you had more sense.”

“I do.”

“Then — ”

“It’s not about sense, Morgan. It’s peer pressure.”

“Bull!” He couldn’t help but smile. “Peer pressure is no match for intelligence and a modicum of imagination.”

“Right. Actually, I’ve been conned by subliminal advertising. Did you notice cops in movies smoke?”

“Only the ones who can’t act.”

“Yeah. Dumb, eh?”

“Really dumb, Jill.

“So okay, let’s make a deal. I’ll never have another cigarette if you bribe me. And Justine. You have to bribe her, too. You see, what happens is, like a girl in my dorm, her parents wrote her a cheque for a thousand dollars when she turned twelve, and postdated it a decade ahead. If she makes it to twenty-two without smoking, it’s hers. Neat, eh?”

“And what if she smokes? How would her parents know?”