Lucy and Miranda had once been friends. Miranda had very ambivalent feelings about Lucy. She knew Morgan had been through an abusive relationship and that his former wife was a manipulative bully, and yet Miranda felt empathetic, knowing Morgan could be intellectually overbearing and emotionally elusive.
“So, what about Alexander Pope?” said Morgan. “He’s your new friend, too.”
“He’s interesting. Maybe we should drop in and see him tomorrow. Beausoleil isn’t far from here, really.”
“Would he be working on Saturday?”
“Oh, for sure. I’d think when he’s on a project he must work through weekends and holidays. He’s a man driven by God knows what.”
“Possibly. He’s working in a church.”
“An abandoned Roman Catholic church.”
“I didn’t think Catholics did that.”
“It’s been deconsecrated, or whatever they do. It’s decommissioned. Secular territory. It’s just a building, now.”
“There’s gotta be a story in that.”
“So, let’s check him out on our way home.”
“It’s north of here. Home’s south.”
“Not very far north.”
“Sounds good. Where do you think Shelagh Hubbard has got to?”
“The abductor abducted! I don’t have a clue,” said Miranda. “Maybe there was someone else involved in her godawful plots.”
“I don’t think so. That’s not the impression I got from her notes. A monomaniacal psychopath couldn’t abide sharing credit.”
“Monomaniacal?”
“To do the crimes is psychopathic; to plan them, mono-maniacal. To conceive of their elaborate contexts, to play author with other people’s mortality… there’s only one reality for such a mind.”
“Her own.”
“No one else matters, except to flesh out the context of her own existence.”
“So, whodunit? Who took her away? She didn’t drive off, leaving things the way we found them.”
“Maybe it’s coincidence. Her disappearance might have nothing to do with the case.”
“Morgan, what if she’s setting us up again? What if she wanted us to find her notebooks? She is a woman with powerful needs; maybe she couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Go on.”
“So everything was arranged. By missing the tenure committee summons, she knew she could count on Birbalsingh to get excited, and she could count on us to get involved. She left the heat on in the house, did everything just so, to fake her abduction. It was a set-up, Morgan.”
“Could be.”
“Maybe it was time to move on. She connected with you. Maybe that threw a wrench in the works. Psychopaths aren’t supposed to feel — there’s no room for empathy.”
“Miranda, we didn’t really connect all that much. It would seem from her notes even less than I thought.”
“Maybe more than you know. She is a woman of infinite complexity. Maybe you touched something human.”
“We’ve agreed: interring my bones in the Huron burial mound was only in the planning stage — written up as if she were preparing an application for a scholarly grant.”
“Let’s say she lost her confidence in the project, whatever the reason. It was time to move on. We were meant to be her witnesses. Megalomaniacs need affirmation even if psychopaths don’t. Who better to witness a criminal achievement than professionals in the business of crime? We’re the equivalent of critics in the audience on opening night. Maybe the third volume is actually the first in a series. From another, earlier version of her life. Maybe she was successful with whatever diabolical tableau it records, but she felt it didn’t get the attention it deserved. Maybe it was never discovered. So she moved on. I’m betting it’s set in England — she studied over there. And not a hint of an English accent, did you notice that?”
“There is, actually. A bit of an Oxford lisp. I’d guess she grew up in Victoria.”
“Almost right. Vancouver. Shall we go? I paid the bill when I went to the washroom.”
“I’m ready.”
“There’s a good motel on the edge of town,” she said. She leaned back in her chair, stretched sinuously, and declared in a throaty voice, “It’s past my bedtime, darling!”
Morgan looked around. Diners at the tables on either side of them had overheard in that selective way people have of filtering anything salacious from the general hubbub of public conversation. The man to his right gazed openly at Miranda, assessing her attributes. Morgan shifted in his chair. The man looked away. The woman with him, however, caught Morgan’s eye and almost winked. On the other side, an older couple stared glassily at each other, chewing voraciously, ostentatiously pretending they had not heard Miranda’s proposition.
“Yes,” he said. “Enough foreplay. Let’s go!”
Arm in arm they sauntered to the door.
When they pulled up at the motel, Miranda turned to him and said, “Morgan, can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Miranda!”
“In the same room, darling. We’ll get separate receipts.”
They were inside the room with their coats off before Miranda noticed the bed. “I thought you asked for twins?”
“I did.”
“Well, that looks like a double to me.”
“King size, Miranda. We’ll put pillows down the middle like a bundling board.”
“At least you won’t get slivers.”
“Nor you.”
“Maybe I should get another room,” she offered.
“No, stay here. I need the company. Why don’t you relax and watch TV? I’m going back to the variety store to pick up some toothpaste and a razor. You want anything?”
“Toothbrushes. Baby-powder-scented deodorant. Condoms. Pantyhose. Tampons.”
“I don’t do tampons. Pantyhose, maybe.”
“Just testing, Morgan. Actually, I’d like some pantyhose if they have any. And some antacid pills. Hurry back.”
“Do you really want tampons? I don’t mind.”
“No, Morgan. Hurry back.”
“Condoms?”
“Forget it.”
Miranda showered and washed out her underclothes, wringing them almost dry inside a rolled bath towel. She climbed into bed naked, pulling the covers up to her chin, then folded them modestly down so that her arms were free to hold the third blue binder, which she propped up on the blanket over her breasts and proceeded to read. The text was so horrifically absorbing, when Morgan returned she hardly looked up.
He set down their bag of supplies and took off his coat. She looked radiant in bed, with the reading light casting a warm aura around her head and bare shoulders. He opened a closet and retrieved from the top shelf two extra pillows and a thick blanket. The blanket he rolled into a cylindrical shape and placed down the middle of the bed. Without speaking he walked around to her side of the bed, and she leaned forward while he tucked another pillow under her head.
He took the variety-store bag into the bathroom. Before closing the door, he tossed a new T-shirt out across the bed. “Present for you,” he said. “Hope it fits.” She held the T-shirt up in front of her. It was extra-large, white, with a generic Group of Seven windswept-pine-on-rocky-coast design, underneath which were emblazoned in neon colours, “Owen Sound: A Nice Place to Visit.” She chuckled, completing the familiar aphorism in her mind. She assumed the “wouldn’t want to live there” part was beyond the Taiwanese manufacturer’s cultural grasp, and
