John Moss - Grave doubts

“Yeah.”

“Sociology?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have her transcript?”

“Yeah.”

“Lots of psychology courses? Courses in deviance?”

“Yeah, not unusual for a cop.”

“Art history? Does she have a credit for a course abroad?”

“Double credit. One art, one art history. Universitat degli Studi di Firenze.”

“I didn’t know you could speak Italian, boss.”

“I read it. I don’t understand it. What’s this all about, Morgan?”

“At this point I’m trying to connect with Miranda. I’m worried about her.”

“Anything I can do from here?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m closing in. Anything else in the Naismith file?”

“That’s about it. Says her parents were undertakers. Don’t know how that connects to police work, growing up in a funeral home.”

“Undertakers?”

“Yeah. Looks like both parents were in the business.”

“Gotta go, chief. I’ll call for backup if I need it.”

“Good. I’m together with my wife.”

“You’re what?” Morgan was flustered. Why on earth would the superintendent be telling him this?

“She’s a lawyer. We negotiated a settlement. Based on renewing our wedding vows. Thought you’d like to know. Everyone at headquarters has been talking about it for months. So there you are.”

“Well, thanks for sharing. I’ll get back to you after I find Miranda.”

“Morgan — ”

“Gotta go.”

Past Wiarton the road to Tobermory runs up the spine of the escarpment. On the west side the land falls away gently but to the east it plunges dramatically into the depths of Georgian Bay. Miranda had settled into the back seat and could not hear the sporadic conversation between Alexander and Rachel clearly enough to participate without leaning forward and shouting. The van needed work on its muffler and a good tune-up. Alexander’s mind ran to less practical matters.

Miranda ruminated on what she knew about Wiarton. It had the familiar feel of an Ontario town, declaring itself a good place to live through civic pride, with floral displays and refuse containers in abundance. There were numerous signs proclaiming it the home of Wiarton Willie. Pennsylvania has Punxsutawney Phil, Ontario has Willie. Once a year on Groundhog Day, animals otherwise treated as vermin are scrutinized as they search for their shadows to forecast the coming of spring. Every year spring comes, she thought. So far so good.

She turned in her seat to survey Alexander’s scuba gear. She had seen compressed-air cylinders in the shed by the side door of his house, but he had only a single tank with him. There was also a box that must contain his regulator and a net bag with his BCD vest, fins, mask and snorkel, and other paraphernalia. She and Rachel had thrown in the gear that was strapped on the back of her car for safekeeping, and they each brought kits with bathing suits and towels.

“Hey, you guys. I’ve got to stop for a minute.”

The van pulled over and she clambered out and disappeared behind a line of cedars. She went through the motions of having a pee, but in fact she had quite suddenly felt claustrophobic in the back of the van and needed to get out for a moment. Rachel poked her way through the undergrowth, coming up beside her.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah, you know, too much coffee.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Miranda watched Rachel as she led their way back to the car. Why was she so abrupt? she wondered. She didn’t seem quite herself.

When Morgan pulled into the Owen Sound police station, he was enormously relieved to see Peter Singh leaning against Miranda’s green Jag. His heart skipped a beat, however, when he saw the sombre look on Peter’s face and realized the young officer was not moving to greet him.

“What’s the problem?” he demanded. “Where’s Miranda?”

“She was here less than an hour ago.”

“She didn’t call you?”

“No. The desk officer said she was rushed.”

“Damn it,” said Morgan.

“How bad is the situation?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s in immediate danger, but she could be.”

“Can you explain?”

“Yes. No. Was she with Pope and Rachel Naismith?”

“I think so. Apparently she went off in a blue van.”

“Where? Any idea.”

“She said Tobermory. She said they were behind schedule.”

“Was that her phrase? ‘Behind schedule’?”

“Yes, I was told it precisely.”

“Let’s go! What’s in Tobermory?”

“There’s a toll ferry over to Manitoulin Island. From there you can drive across to the mainland above Lake Huron. If you want to go to the United States, you can go to the United States.”

Morgan’s sense of Ontario geography beyond Toronto was sketchy. As they raced from Owen Sound toward Wiarton, Peter Singh laid it out for him as best he could with words and many hand gestures to represent water, shorelines, and the international boundary.

“Why on earth would they want to catch a ferry?” Morgan demanded, as if an explanation was somehow Peter Singh’s responsibility as the geography specialist.

“I really don’t know. But the ferry does not leave until mid-afternoon. We have plenty of time.”

Morgan took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, and another, which came out like a sigh. She should be all right, then. We’ll get there, he thought, and bring her back with us. He relaxed a little and let his shoulders drop into a comfortable posture — he had been driving since the middle of the night with them tensed up virtually the whole time. He was exhausted. He pulled over and asked Peter Singh to take the wheel, then he slouched low in the seat and told the whole story, as much as he had figured out.

“Why would Alexander Pope buy the old church?” Peter asked, trying to stitch in a loose thread.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Morgan. “He must have known about the frescoes. He would know about Sister Marie Celeste and the pilgrims. He is a man enthralled with the dark side of mystery. My guess is he fully intended to create a miraculous apparition. He would revitalize an old building but, more important, he would control the story. The resurrection of history in a context of fanatical faith. Can you imagine the satisfaction, creating a saint that even the Church might be forced to sanction? Extreme fraud. That’s what the man lives and dies for.”

“And he substituted Shelagh Hubbard’s body for a saint’s bones?”

“No, I think that was the work of Rachel Naismith.”

“Really?”

“If all three of them were lovers and immersed in passionate depravities, there must have been terrible conflicts among them.”

“Why do you assume they were lovers?”

“How else to explain the recurrent connection between Pope and Hubbard? Only love has the capacity to accommodate such sordid desires. You will find, Peter, in our business, where reason fails, love prevails. Sometimes it is the only explanation. And how else to account for the way Rachel was able to insinuate herself between them — proof in the Florence snapshots, proof in the forged accounts of her lovers’ atrocities?”

“You think she came between them?”

“Not in Florence, at least not at first. For a while they were probably a charming menage a trois; she was seduced by the horrific allure of their demonic passion. At some point she had to have discovered the grotesque bond between them. It didn’t scare her away — it drew her closer. But life has a way of intruding on romance. I suspect they went their separate ways at the end of the summer. How else to account for the long delay until the Hogg’s Hollow murders?”

“Maybe they went about murdering people by themselves,” said Peter Singh. “Maybe it was a love game. In the publicity surrounding unaccountable deaths they would recognize each other’s signature work. Or they would let each other know, if the murders weren’t discovered. It was a way of keeping in touch. It is interesting, you know.”