She was annoyed with her partner. He knew it and stayed out of her way. After they’d left Starbucks on Monday, he had walked with her over to headquarters, but remained outside. She disappeared into the planes of glass and pink granite, while he stood on the sidewalk, admiring the postmodern architecture of the massive edifice, acknowledging to himself the possibility that the austere obscenities of modernism were at last giving way. A police building with a stream flowing from its centre was a blow for imagination and form over function. He spent the rest of the day walking.
Tuesday he got up early, had breakfast out, and walked some more. He was looking for something and it was locked inside. Wednesday morning he called Miranda. She was already at her desk.
“You busy?” he asked.
“No. Are you coming in?”
“Meet me for lunch?”
“Sure. You name the spot. Rufalo was asking what we were up to. He didn’t come right out and say, ‘Where’s Morgan?’ but he wanted to know.”
“He’s trying to get his mind off personal problems.”
“His or yours, Morgan?”
“Must be his. Did you tell him I’m out here doggin’ some leads?”
“Something like that. I told him you were hard at work, that something would break pretty soon.”
“I hope not another murder tableau.”
“Have you heard from your friend?”
The silence on the other end of the line declared his unease. She was not sure if it was with her or with himself. He had obviously moved on from infatuation. She would find out soon enough which way. They agreed to meet at the nondescript little Italian restaurant where she and Rachel had dined two weeks before.
Morgan found himself standing on the corner of Queen and Yonge. He leaned against an opaque glass wall. This was exactly where he had waited for his wife, nearly two decades ago, sheltering from the rain in the lee of the building, waiting motionless, four hours, knowing where she was, not knowing why she wouldn’t come, raindrops sliding down his cheeks into the corners of his mouth, salty, like tears.
Shelagh Hubbard was Lucy. In the middle of the night, last night, Morgan was startled from sleep by the shock of a recognition that had eluded him while awake. They looked nothing alike, but they were one and the same. The forensic anthropologist and his former wife. If Lucy had aged at half the rate he did, a preternatural possibility given her facile personality, she and Shelagh could be twins under the skin. One was full-figured with a head like death as a temptress; the other had the slender and sinuous body of a classical ballerina destined by demeanour always to play roles of betrayal and loss. Both could be ravishingly attractive and, with a shift in the light, a change of attitude, beautifully grotesque. They both embodied ambivalence, playing affection against anger, emotional austerity against blatant sexuality, sympathy against strength. Each was a siren to Morgan’s unfettered Ulysses.
All morning he wondered about the siren’s call. Was it the sound of his own weakness tolling in the chambers of his heart, or was it truly seduction, the melodic ululation of his heart’s desire? By the time he reached the restaurant, walking up Yonge Street, he was convinced that regret was a waste, that he had not stuffed up his ears but had listened, first to one, then the other. Their songs were the same. Surely, he thought, it’s better to wrestle with demons and sleep with the devil than not.
His line of reasoning, such as it was, collapsed when he saw Miranda sitting at a back table, patiently waiting. She smiled receptively. As he leaned down to her, she reached forward and with the back of her hand brushed gently against his cheek. He was startled for a moment, until she blew him a pouting kiss, and he decided he was forgiven. He would not tell her about the connection, the siren. He suspected she would understand. Instead, they would have lunch, talk about antiques and things. Maybe he would tell her about his tattoo, although it was unlikely.
Thursday; they met in front of Professor Birbalsingh’s office. The professor had pretty much lost interest when the bodies were declared modern. Postmodern, in fact, he had quipped. “It is not a question of contemporaneity,” he explained to Miranda when she had dropped in to interview him on her own while Morgan was away. “They are, of course, recently deceased. I am saying we would have discovered that, although perhaps not for a few more hours. A science like ours works incrementally, you know, building one small observation upon another and another, until sometimes we have constructed a dinosaur, Miss Quin, from an elephant’s remains. But eventually, the elephant will out, so to speak, declaring its trunk not a tail, despite our scientific efforts to the contrary.”
“Postmodern?” she had said.
“Indeed, Miss Quin.”
“Detective.”
“Detective Quin. I am sorry. Titles are so very important in my line of work and I am assuming in yours also.”
“They can be, yes.”
“Well, I am saying ‘postmodern’ because it strikes me as a crime that breaks all the rules. You know it is a nasty murder but you feel it is an estimable achievement, nonetheless. In spite of your capacity for empathy with the victims you admire the artistry of their rather hideous demise. You know, it was a scene of undoubted melodrama and of comic absurdity, but certainly presaged by tragedy, devised for ironic effect. All very academic, in fact. Four modes in one. My late esteemed colleague, Professor Northrop Frye, would have been very much pleased. Perhaps ‘pleased’ is not the most appropriate word.”
“So,” Miranda had said, fascinated by his convoluted assessment. “Our killer is an academic?”
“Dear me,” he responded, “I should say so, but that would perhaps be presumptuous. Not a university person, in the strictest sense, perhaps. No, quite unlikely. The university life does not leave room for such a flourish of imagination, I am afraid. Too many committees and subcommittees and granting agencies with juries. A project like this would die in the seminal stages.” He paused, raised his stentorian eyebrows, and added, “As, of course, it should.”
It had occurred to Miranda as he had been talking that Dr. Shelagh Hubbard fit the description. She had the academic credentials to be an adjunct professor, but she was employed outside the university, doing most of her work through the ROM. It was following this conversation that Miranda ran a close check on Birbalsingh’s associate and came up with her connection to Alexander Pope, studying methods of domestic construction in British colonial times. Otherwise, the woman’s curriculum vitae read like an academic prototype, and her personal dossier suggested life was a subsidiary activity to scholarly pursuits.
She liked Professor Birbalsingh and was happy to come along when Morgan suggested they interview him again, even though Morgan did not seem to have particular questions in mind.
When the professor opened his door, he seemed relieved at their presence.
“I was going to call you,” he said. “Come in, come in. Be seated.” He had a pair of comfortable leather chairs in his cramped office, both of them piled with books that he distributed among a clutter of papers and other books on the floor. “Now then,” he said, sitting down behind his desk in a chair strategically placed in front of a narrow window to cast a luminous glow around him while obscuring his features in shadow. “I am happy to have you here. I was wondering if you might be hearing from Dr. Hubbard.”
Good grief, thought Miranda, was word already out about the sauna? Has Morgan offended academic protocol? Are the university authorities holding him responsible for her whereabouts?
Morgan responded, “No, I dropped in to see her last weekend at her farm. She was marking papers and exams. Is there a problem?”
“There is. She was expected back yesterday noon.”