felt an intense sense of betrayal, and mounting anger for the dreadful abuse of Miranda’s friendship. What could have driven Rachel to immerse herself in such malevolence? Was she on the road to depravity from childhood, the victim of a psychopathic mutation in her developing personality? Did her immersion in the dissociative world of Florentine aesthetics somehow exacerbate an already-screwed-up nature? Was the overwhelming time warp of immediate access to the sinister beauties of Renaissance culture enough to make her open to deadly seduction? Did the other two seduce her on the banks of the Arno, or she them? Did she somehow complete their perverse relationship, bringing them closer together, making the banalities of evil seductive? Or did she insinuate herself into the perverse dynamics of their existing affair to feed her own appetites?
Morgan cut north on old Highway 11, the continuing extension of Yonge Street that divides Ontario into east and west, to pick up the most efficient route to the Nottawasaga region of Georgian Bay.
He became aware that he was searching for ways to exonerate Rachel, and recoiled from the creeping sympathy that might compete with his concern for Miranda, who, having displaced Shelagh Hubbard in the unholy dynamics of a new and dangerous threesome, was surely in grave danger. He reached for the radio, determined to contact Peter Singh and ask him to drive over to Beausoleil or, if necessary, to the campground outside Penetang.
Alexander Pope was lounging on the front steps of the church when the women arrived with their camping gear strapped to the back of Miranda’s racing-green Jaguar.
“You want to leave your car here?” he asked, unbending his long limbs and strolling to the side of the car. “I’ve called Tobermory. We’re set up with a boat and full gear for you two. I told them we’d be there by a little past noon.
“Thanks,” said Miranda. “I’ve got a lot of work piling up. I think I’d like to head back tonight. What about if you two ride together as far as Owen Sound and we’ll drive the rest of the way together? I’ll leave my car there so we can cut south on the way back.”
“Sounds fine to me,” said Alexander Pope. “It will give Rachel and me a chance to catch up on old times.”
“Since March?” Miranda exclaimed.
“In detail,” said Rachel. “Don’t worry, we’ll find things to talk about. We’ll talk about you.”
Miranda smiled uneasily. She suspected perhaps there was a subtext to the relationship between the other two she did not grasp, and ascribed her anxiety to feeling a little left out. On the drive over from Penetanguishene, Rachel had come up with the suggestion, herself, that she ride with Alexander as far as Owen Sound. It had seemed entirely reasonable, but now Miranda felt herself resenting the petty betrayal of her friends. Somehow the three of them broke down into a configuration of pairs. They were not all three friends together. Like teenagers, she thought. In any permutation of their affections, one of them was invariably left in the cold.
She had decided early that morning she needed to get back to Toronto. She loved camping and had reconciled herself to the day’s adventure, but she felt an indefinable sense of urgency. Something was not quite right. She suggested they head back after diving. Rachel seemed content with the revised plan.
By the time Morgan reached Peter Singh, he was less than an hour from Georgian Bay. He had anticipated having difficulty explaining what he wanted Peter to do: see that she’s okay and stay with her. To Morgan’s surprise, this was not received as an unreasonable request. He felt a rising affection for the young officer and told him he’d explain when he got there.
“For sure, Morgan. I will meet you; just say where.”
“Wherever you connect with Miranda. When you find her, get back to me.”
“I will.”
“Good, go for it.”
“You mean I should drive to Beausoleil? Why don’t you contact her on your radio?”
“She’s camping with Rachel — I think you met her. She’s not carrying her cellphone. They’ll have gone to see Pope, but he’s not answering.”
“Have you tried the campground?”
“No, I don’t know the area. I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m counting on you to do that.” Morgan’s newfound affection was beginning to wane. “I really would like you to get going on this. Call me.”
“Where are you?”
“Just north of Barrie.”
“You’re probably closer to her than I am, but let me see if I can pin her down. I’ll get back to you.”
The radio went blank, then Officer Singh came on again.
“I was talking to her last night, you know.”
“You what?”
“I was talking to her last night. She called from a restaurant in Midland. They were having dinner together — Miranda and Mr. Pope, and Rachel Naismith.
“Why did she call? Was she okay.”
“Oh, yes, she was very okay. They were having a good time.”
“Why did she call you?”
“Why not? She is my friend. I suppose you would like to be analytic. Possibly she was fulfilling a social obligation, given she’s a visitor in my part of the country.”
“Did she say where she’d be today?”
“Oh, no, I do not think so. Well, she said if she comes through Owen Sound she would give me another call.”
“Why would she be coming through Owen Sound?”
“Goodness, Detective, we’ll have to ask her.” Peter Singh had lost his sense of the gravity of the situation, in his delight at the possibility of connecting with both of them.
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“If she calls, let me know.”
“Yes, of course. And meanwhile I will call around and see if I can track down her camping ground. I suspect if you cannot reach anybody at the church, they are on their way here. Goodbye now.”
Morgan felt the first pangs of hunger since he had left home. It was well past breakfast time and still too early for lunch, so he compromised on a couple of doughnuts outside Midland.
Miranda had to concentrate not to get separated from Alexander Pope’s van. She was intent on drinking in the splendour of the countryside, which was at its most lush in June. To one side she could see beyond the gnarled groves of apple orchards the high hills of the Niagara Escarpment creeping along the edge of the coastal plain, and on the other side, beyond orchards and grasslands, she caught glimpses of the lake, dazzling evanescent in the sunlight. Ahead, the blue van snaked through what little traffic there was, and periodically she would rev the Jag and catch up behind them. Pope would honk in acknowledgement and she would honk back. She was more and more looking forward to their adventure.
They stopped for coffee at the Tim Hortons in Collingwood.
“How are we doing for time?” she asked.
“It’s too early for lunch,” said Alexander. “We’ll grab a sandwich in Owen Sound and eat on the way.”
“You two finding enough to talk about?” she asked Rachel.
“No,” said Rachel. “We don’t say a word to each other. It’s murder.”
All three laughed.
“Let’s go,” said Rachel. “It’s still a long drive. Where are we gonna meet in Owen Sound?”
“At the police station,” said Miranda. “We’ll leave my car there. A vintage Jag by the side of the road is flaunting temptation. We can pick up some food at the same time.”
Rachel and Alexander exchanged looks. He said, “It’s okay with me.”
Rachel shrugged. “Whatever. See you there.”
They pulled out in tandem, coffees in hand.
“Morgan,” said Peter Singh. “Save yourself time. I tracked down the campground.”
“Good.”
“No, not so good. She has checked out.”
“Did they know where she was going?”
