Grave Doubts (33 page)

A little flustered at what seemed an invasive prescience, Morgan silently pursued the notion of unsolved murder as an expression of love. Statistically, it would appear most murders were resolved, but in fact there was no way of being certain. Gangland slayings, domestic homicide, street killings, violent deaths by assassination, by spontaneous manslaughter, were relatively public. But how many murders were premeditated, executed, and never discovered? They happened. They did happen.

“Could it be,” Peter Singh continued, “Dr. Hubbard discovered the other two had renewed their relationship? Perhaps that is so, and the result was murder.”

“Ultimately her own,” said Morgan. “The horrors of the eternal embrace. That was her final love letter — an acknowledgement she knew about their betrayal; a warning, a threat, a farewell gesture. She devised an extravagant drama, intended to be fully accessible only to her former lovers. The headless corpses — another villain would have torn out the hearts, but Hubbard located passion in the brain. The heart is merely a pump to keep the brain flush with lust and the appropriate other bits engorged with blood. Her methods
were extravagantly subtle — she knew their discovery would bring Alexander Pope onto the scene. She located the reveal where she could be fairly certain Rachel would be on duty. She revelled in the details.”

“She was very good. She knew they would know it was her.”

“The ring and the cross, those were for the benefit of the police, maybe for Miranda and me. Could she have known we’d be involved? It’s our kind of case. Whether she was thinking religion or Freud, she couldn’t resist the ring and the cross. Potent symbols of a romance fated to implode. They invited lovely speculation about motive, so long as we thought it was all in the colonial past. But she needed to have the historical story explode — it wouldn’t have worked if we hadn’t realized it was a fake. She needed Miranda and me as part of the story.”

“But why the next phase? Why would Rachel Naismith kill her?”

“To seize control of the story. Again, literally. Let’s say Hubbard’s extravaganza had its desired effect and drove a wedge of doubt, or fear, or envy, between Rachel and Alexander. What better way to rekindle a precarious relationship, especially if we’re right and he was trying to manufacture a miracle in Beausoleil. Give him a body smelling of violets, the illusion of sacrosanct flesh refusing corruption. The ironies run deep.”

“Kill one lover as an act of devotion to the other.”

“God forbid if Alexander Pope did not appreciate her efforts. If Pope felt threatened by Rachel’s extravagant play for the renewal of his affections, for whatever reason, their love would sour on a cataclysmic scale. Then imagine the two of them vying for the most horrific method of exterminating the other.”

“And you think Miranda might be caught between them.”
Morgan’s silent response chilled the air for a moment, then Peter Singh continued. “What happened to Sister Marie’s bones?”

“What?”

“If Rachel Naismith placed her rival in the crypt, what happened to the bones?”

“They haven’t turned up. If there was a mouldering body, she might have hauled it away for secret burial. She was experienced with both: secrets and burials. Or she might have ground up the bones and mixed them into Pope’s plaster. Saint Marie Celeste literally embodied in her own image. It would be as if Rachel had written her invisible signature across his achievement.”

“I think that is unlikely,” said Peter Singh. “Perhaps not. In any case, Officer Naismith must have known Shelagh Hubbard’s body would be recognized.”

“Yes, she would be displacing Alexander Pope’s story with one equally as good, maybe better, except this one would be hers. Perhaps meant as a tribute to Pope but taken, I would imagine, as an affront.”

“My goodness, competitive psychopaths.”

“Psychopathic lovers.”

“Deadly.”

“Very.”

By the time they passed through Wiarton, Peter felt he had a sufficient grasp of the situation to ask, “Can we arrest them?” His voice was tremulous with excitement.

“No,” said Morgan. “Not unless, God forbid, they’re in the midst of another crime. To make a case, we’ll need a warrant to search his house.”

“You said you already know what is there, in the house.”

“But I am not supposed to know. Meanwhile, if Miranda’s okay, we don’t want to spook them. Not that there’s anywhere
for them to run. The easiest place to keep track of fugitives from the city is in the wilderness.”

“This is not wilderness, Morgan. It is countryside.”

“If you’re from the city, it’s wilderness.”

“The law is a most exciting field of endeavour,” said Peter, as if the idea had never struck him before.

“Yes,” said Morgan, who had never been in doubt that it was.

chapter seventeen
Tobermory

Alexander Pope wheeled the blue van down into the harbour area and pulled up abruptly by the red and white sign in front of the dive shop. There were not many boats to be seen but quite a few tourists were milling about, taking in the nautical ambience. The glass-bottom vessels would be out sightseeing by this time, while the sun was high in the sky and visibility was at its best, and the larger dive boats were out as well. Tied to the wharf across from the shop was a small trawler adapted for diving. It had a waterline platform attached to the transom and rails to hold on to, with a ladder that would flip down into the water at the dive site.

When they entered the shop, a young man greeted them — obviously a diver earning his keep. He glanced at their dive credentials and told them their boat was ready to go.

“You sure you don’t want a guide?” he asked.

“I don’t mind, one way or the other,” Alexander
responded, turning to Miranda and Rachel for input.

Miranda was about to say she would welcome the guide when Rachel spoke up, pleasantly but firmly refusing the young man’s offer. “I’ve been here before. Wrecks aren’t a problem. We’re not going deep, no penetration. Just give us a good map.”

“You look familiar. Not many —.” He stopped.

“Not many black women diving in Tobermory?”

Miranda flinched. She had never heard Rachel play the race card before, not so obviously and without even a touch of irony. The young man turned a deep red.

“No,” he mumbled. “Police. Not many cops come in here to dive. Usually they, you, make your own arrangements. I remember — you’re a policeman.”

Rachel thrust her breasts out against the material of her T-shirt until Miranda thought the young diver’s eyes would pop.

“Woman,” he amended. “Are you all cops?” The question was rhetorical: he was sure Miranda was, and assumed by his imperious bearing that Alexander must be as well. “The gear you’ll need is through here. Pay in advance. It’s good weather for diving. The trawler over there is gassed up, ready to go.”

He was talking to Rachel. When they came in, he had assumed Alexander was in charge. There was no question, now. This was Rachel’s show.

Morgan stared out the side window from his slouched position in the passenger seat. He looked at his watch. He gazed at the sky ahead. He turned to Peter Singh. “What time is that ferry?”

“Not for a couple of hours.”

Morgan sat up so fast the safety belt wrenched him around in his seat. “Then why the hurry? Why did she say she was behind schedule? What was the rush?”

Peter Singh glanced over at him, then back at the road, then at Morgan again, expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“How far are we from Tobermory?”

“Thirty minutes, maybe forty.”

“Let’s get moving.”

“What are we suspecting?”

“I am suspecting that they are not catching a ferry. They’re going scuba diving.”

“They are what?”

“They are going wreck-diving, underwater. Scuba, you know?”

“I know what ‘scuba’ means, I am only surprised that they would be going to do that. Do you think she will be safe?”

“No, I do not.”

Rachel cast off as Alexander revved up the engine and Miranda pushed them away from the wharf. Miranda was used to outboards at camp and dive boats in the Caribbean but she had not actually been in a boat this size and was surprised at the stability. It had probably been a saltwater vessel, she thought, retired to a freshwater job that seemed a trifle effete in comparison, after years having decks awash with the guts of innumerable fish.

Although Rachel had never mentioned previously diving at Tobermory, the other two accepted that she was directing their dive on the basis of earlier experience. They had decided on single-tank dives; they had three cylinders of compressed air aboard, including the one Alexander had brought from
home. They would pick their site carefully, away from the bigger dive boats. Georgian Bay water was notoriously frigid, even in June, but if they stayed relatively shallow they could dive for an hour, even more if they were exceptionally efficient on air, although even with heavy-gauge wetsuits an hour might be more than enough. If they got too chilled, they could forego the second dive or cut it short.

Once out of sight of the harbour, Rachel directed the trawler toward an isolated area down the coast. Miranda looked back at the shoreline where the Niagara Escarpment, extending from the Falls far to the south, shambled into the bay. It was rugged and elusive, sometimes seeming closer than it was and sometimes farther away. No wonder so many ships met their doom in these waters. In a storm this would be a treacherous place, and even on a placid day in June, the water seemed ominous. Miranda had only been diving in the tropics, where the translucent surface reveals myriad depths of blues and greens. Here, the surface was like polished ebony, as if the bottom were a dark secret. So many have drowned here, going down with their ships, Miranda thought. She was used to diving amidst living coral and bright-coloured fish, not among wreckage haunted only by the drowned ghosts of the dead.

They found a marker buoy flying the diagonal red-on-white flag, and swinging the stern downwind they tied off securely and lowered the ladder into the water. Quietly, they slipped into their gear, helping each other to safety-check valves, regulators, buckles, and BCD vests.
Buoyancy Control Devices
; was there a sport anywhere with more acronyms? Miranda wondered, trying to distract herself. Each checked the others’ auxiliary regulators and mouthpieces to make sure in an emergency a buddy could breathe from the same tank. The octopus, she thought. At least
octopus
is descriptive — a
metaphor, not an acronym. They conferred about weights, and trusted Rachel’s judgment based on her previous experience in fresh water. They needed to dive heavy to compensate for the buoyancy of the thick suits. Better too much weight, she said, than too little. You can increase buoyancy by adding air to your BCD vest, but if you’re too light, you’ll be fighting to stay down the whole dive.

Rachel had a small dive bag that she attached to her belt, along with one of the flashlights the dive shop provided. Miranda wondered where the bag came from when she saw Rachel take it from her knapsack. They had not come north expecting to dive. “Whatcha got there?” she asked casually, trying not to further arouse the uncharacteristic crankiness Rachel had been showing for the last hour or so. Miranda realized that her friend was likely apprehensive about the dive, just as she was, and that’s how she was dealing with anxiety, just as Miranda was coping by being exceptionally quiet.

“Just stuff, don’t worry,” said Rachel, and she smiled disarmingly.

Miranda felt reassured. At this point in any diving adventure, Miranda found nerves were always a little on edge as the excitement mounted, and a display of companionable affection was welcome. She observed Alexander. He, too, was inordinately quiet. For the moment, Miranda felt a renewed bond with him, perhaps because they both seemed to be enacting a scenario that was primarily Rachel’s design.

They stepped down onto the dive platform, moving awkwardly under the heavy burden of their tanks, their limbs constricted by the thick, clammy, synthetic material of their wetsuits. They wriggled into their fins, pumped a bit of air into their vests, adjusted their masks and checked to see their snorkels were in place, slipped on thick gloves, then put in their mouthpieces. Rachel immediately took a broad stride
forward and splashed into the water, her head barely going under. Miranda followed and Alexander came last.

Miranda was astonished by the slap of cold against the exposed flesh of her face and even more by the crystal clarity of the water hidden under the dark surface. She felt an icy trickle track the length of her spine between wetsuit and skin, but looking down at the panoramic scene spread out below them in glimmering detail she forgot her discomfort.

Raising her head for the last time in open air, she exchanged excited grins with the other two divers, despite mouths jammed with breathing apparatus, and each diver gave the okay signal followed by a thumbs-down sign. They slowly began their descent along the sloped length of the mooring line. At ten feet Miranda stopped, squeezed her nose through her mask, and blew until a slight popping in her ears relieved the pressure, and then she hovered, surveying the wreck below them. She felt a familiar thrill spread through her body as she slowly descended, pausing periodically to clear her ears, eyes shifting from wonderment at the wreck below to monitor her companions’ progress, ensuring that they stayed within easy reach of each other.

Twenty minutes south of Tobermory, Peter Singh asked Morgan, “What is the significance that her parents were morticians?”

“Rachel? I’m sure most kids of funeral directors grow up excessively normal. It’s almost
de rigueur
. But it seems likely Rachel was exposed as a child to the arts of embalming and preparing corpses for public display in ways that have shaped her life ever since. She acquired skills and a fascination with death, the way a lawyer’s kid will become a classroom advocate
and end up as an adult serving hard time for manipulating the limits of power. Or a politician.”