“And she’s late by a day,” said Miranda. “Did you call her?”
“Oh, yes, I did, but there was no answer.”
“And is that a grave problem?” she said.
“Yes, very grave.”
“How so?” asked Morgan.
“Well, you see, she was expected to speak to the tenure committee yesterday at four o’clock.”
“And it was a bad thing to miss her appointment?” Miranda posed this as a question but the answer was obvious.
“Yes, very bad. She was being considered for tenure and there were questions to be asked about her publication record.”
“Is that standard procedure?” asked Morgan.
Professor Birbalsingh leaned forward over his desk so that his facial features emerged into the light of the room. “It can be,” he said. “Especially if there are ambiguities.”
“Such as?”
“Just ambiguities. The committee wanted clarification.”
“About what?” said Miranda. “I’ve read her CV. It’s impressive.”
“Perhaps that is the problem, Miss Quin — Detective.”
“I know she was waiting to hear about a grant proposal,” said Morgan. “She told me about a Shirk application — ”
“Shirk,” said Miranda. “SSHRC. Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council.” She was quite pleased with herself. Usually it was Morgan who had access to the obscure meanings of acronyms and abbreviations.
“I was not aware of such an application,” said Professor Birbalsingh. “Even if she applied through the ROM, it would have gone by me. No, I do not think she applied this year for funding of any sort.”
Morgan was perplexed. He described her research project. Professor Birbalsingh reacted with mounting astonishment.
“I do not think it likely, Mr. Morgan — I am sorry, Detective Morgan. Perhaps you would prefer to call me Iqbal. But no, we will let such an opportunity pass. What Dr. Hubbard told you seems a rather quixotic venture. I doubt very much there would be money or interest to sustain such a project. There is not much of a market for saints in Ontario. Perhaps in Quebec, though I doubt it. And it all seems very conjectural. I suspect she was spinning a fantasy. Such are the ruminations of the forensic anthropologist.”
“But she has, perhaps, spun a few others in her pursuit of tenure?” Miranda found Shelagh Hubbard’s predicament mildly amusing.
“No, not exactly. But as I am her sponsor, so to speak, having encouraged her cross-appointment with the museum, I am dismayed by her failure to appear before the committee.”
“Did you call the police?” asked Morgan.
“I was about to when you arrived, unsummoned.”
“You’d have to call the OPP. It’s provincial jurisdiction.”
“Morgan, it’s only been a day. She could have been out for a walk when Professor Birbalsingh called, or in the bath, or simply not answering the phone. Try again, Professor. Let’s give it another day. You call us tomorrow, if she hasn’t turned up. We’ll look into it. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure Dr. Hubbard is in her own capable hands. She’ll look after herself.”
“Was there something else that brought you all this way to my office, or was it a social call?”
If there had been a purpose, Morgan seemed to have forgotten. He turned to Miranda. She shrugged amiably.
Professor Birbalsingh nodded gravely and rose to his feet, indicating their interview was over. “Then I am sorry for your wasted time. I am afraid I must say goodbye,” he said, shaking both their hands.
In the corridor, after they heard the lock click, Morgan and Miranda exchanged knowing glances. There was something endearing about a man so much the caricature of an academic. They walked out into the sunlight of University Circle and, immediately, each was taken up with a medley of personal memories from when this had been the centre of their separate worlds.
When Professor Birbalsingh’s call was relayed to Miranda early Friday morning, she told him they would look after it and she called Morgan.
“You know, I think we should take a run up there,” Morgan said.
“It’s OPP jurisdiction.”
“Exactly my point. I’d like to get there first, have you look over the place before they get involved.”
“We’re not breaking in, Morgan. If we get there and no one’s around, we call the Provincials.”
“Oh, for sure,” he said. “Want to meet for breakfast?”
“I’ve got to go into the office. I’ll pick up a car and be over in an hour.”
Morgan showered and got dressed, then decided he might as well cook up breakfast for both of them. He put a frying pan on to heat and broke eggs into a bowl, ready to scramble as soon as she pulled up in front; put the coffee on; took six pieces of back bacon out of the freezer which he carefully pried apart with a bread knife and put on to fry — this was double his weekly allotment; he was feeling magnanimous. By the time Miranda came in, toast and juice were on the table, coffee aroma filled the air, the eggs were cooking, and there were four pieces of cooked bacon left, to be split between them.
“You have something on your lip,” she said when she sat down. “Bit of bacon? Are these four mine, then?”
“I was just testing.”
“The point of hoarding a commodity is not to enhance consumption but to control distribution.”
“Sounds like Economics 101.”
“Not the bacon, dear, I was thinking about murder. Did she deep-freeze her victim while she figured out what to do with him? Or did she know from the beginning and was just using the freezer for storage until the right woman came along to complete the coupling she had always intended?”
“All that because I snuck a bite of my own bacon? You can’t say ‘she,’ for sure. We’re a long way from having a case.”
“Ring ring,” she said.
“Did you say ‘ring ring’?”
“I did. It’s my vibrator,” she said, reaching for the cellphone on her belt.
“That’s an odd place to keep a vibrator.”
She gave him a mock smile and he mumbled to himself, “ring ring.”
“Hello, Quin here.”
“Detective Quin,” said the voice in the phone. “Singh, here — Owen Sound Police. I have had insistent calls from a Professor Birbalsingh — several calls. He gave me your name. They’ve patched me through from your office.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know Professor Birbalsingh?”
“Yes, Officer Singh, I do. I assume this is about Shelagh Hubbard.”
“He apparently called the OPP to report her missing.”
“I gave him their detachment number.”
“I gather they explained that since she’s a part-time resident, it would not be unusual for her to be away. It struck them as most likely Miss Hubbard had simply left for Toronto or elsewhere. He was most upset. He called us, as the nearest municipal police. I called the OPP myself and they sent a car out at my request.”
“And what did they find?”
“Nothing. Everything appeared normal. No evidence of forced entry. They felt they had neither just cause nor authority to pursue the matter.”
“I appreciate you letting me know, Officer, but where are we going with this?”
“Professor Birbalsingh was insistent. He said you would confirm that a most serious problem was happening.”
“My partner and I are involved in a murder investigation. We would like to question Dr. Hubbard — ”
“She is a doctor? I did not know that. We need more doctors up here. Shall I drive out and look around? Unofficially, of course.”
“That is very kind, Officer Singh. But no, my partner and I will drop in and check things out. If there’s anything irregular, we’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Detective. Is Dr. Hubbard a murder suspect? Is she a specialist?”
“She’s a Ph. D. in forensic anthropology, and no, she is not a suspect, as far as Professor Birbalsingh is concerned.”
“I take your meaning, Detective Quin. If he calls back, I will be most discreet.”
“Thank you, Officer. I’ll keep you informed.” She snapped the cellphone shut.
“So, it’s on vibrator mode, is it?”