style="font-size:15px;"> After a curiously relaxed breakfast as Harrington D’Arcy’s guest on the sweeping verandah of the RTYC mansion — since the exchange of currency was not allowed, this was the only way to get food, except for a few discreet vending machines in the men’s locker room — Morgan had wandered aimlessly among the docked boats, admiring the simple complexity of the spars and rigging. The Royal Toronto was not a club that took kindly to power boats unless the owners were inordinately influential. When he walked back toward the Pemberly, he noticed among the flurry of police activities that no one had thought to cover the body — perhaps because she was wearing a bikini and exposure seemed natural, even in death.
Gazing intently at the corpse as he approached, Morgan had to do a quick sidestep to avoid colliding with Ellen Ravenscroft, the medical examiner from the coroner’s office.
“Quite distracting, isn’t she!”
“G’morning,” said Morgan.
“You’ve been here awhile?”
“Arrived by invitation at dawn.”
“That sounds sinister.”
“The husband’s connected. He called Rufalo at home and requested me.”
“Where’s your intrepid partner?”
“She’ll be in Santiago about now.”
“Good God, she really did want to get away from you. That’s in Chile.”
“I know it’s in Chile. She’s on leave.”
“Well, good for her, love. She’s been through a lot. She needs to put murder behind her.”
“She’s writing a murder mystery. On Easter Island.”
“Lovely! I hope in the arms of a comely young Polynesian.”
“She’s not that way inclined.”
“You’re telling me ‘comely’ refers only to women? You never know, Morgan. She’s on holiday. So, I’m comely, and you’re not?”
He smiled. He found her amusing and wearing. She was Miranda’s age, late thirties, and one of those people who was very attractive until you analyzed their features and realized it was all in the personality. You ignored the features and concentrated on the personality, which could be dangerously seductive.
He had no idea why he thought of Ellen Ravenscroft as dangerous.
“Is she really writing a mystery?”
“Yeah.”
“Well good for her. So you’re available, then?”
“That’s not determined by the whereabouts of my partner.”
“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan. I could have had my way with you years ago, if I’d wanted.” She paused. “So tell me about the bikini, which is mismatched, by the way.”
They were still on the dock, waiting for the forensics people to stand aside.
He shrugged.
“She’s rather voluptuous.”
“Apparently.”
“Vivacious.”
“It’s hard to be vivacious and dead.”
“She’s stunning.”
“On the surface,” he muttered, stupidly.
“Is there another way, love?”
Morgan braced himself on the wire shrouds and eased Ellen aboard. He watched her examine the corpse, first very close without touching, then gently shifting and prodding.
“No bruises. Minor abrasions around her upper arms — you can see by the discolouration from her blood settling, pale side up, it confirms her posture, she probably died right here.”
“Of what?”
“Suffocation … an overdose … poison …”
“What about natural causes?”
“Morgan, you’re very unromantic.”
“But could it be?”
“Yes. That’s a possibility.”
“Then why does the husband prefer murder? He set up the scene, he called us. We’re here on the presumption of murder.”
“The presumption of murder, I like that. Good title for what’s-her-name’s mystery.”
“Yeah,” said Morgan. He wondered what sordid scheme the widower could possibly need to conceal by using murder as an alibi.
“Morgan, look closer at her face. Serene expression. Make-up, a perfect mask. Except for the eyes — look at the creases. This woman was crying when she died. Someone has done her make-up after death, someone who knows what she’s doing.”
“She?”
“Could be a professional, a mortician. Make-up artist with a film crew.”
“At sunrise?”
“Time and a half for overtime.”
“When did she die? The husband told me he tried to shake her alive — that would be the abrasions on her arms — but he claims to have been down below until dawn.”
“It’s after ten, now. I’d say four, five hours ago. Whatever I find, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Yeah, call me. I’m going to wander around here for awhile.”
“For sure, might as well take advantage. It really is a world apart, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Morgan, looking across the harbour at the city, which seemed to be floating like an island of towering facades between water and the late summer sky.
“You take care, love. I’ll call.”
Morgan stepped over onto the dock and felt the gentle sway of the Lion as his weight shifted, and heard rasping high in the shrouds where the mainsail halyard slapped against the mast. He liked the sounds of sailing, although they were not part of his personal history. Perhaps in another life.
Morgan spent the rest of the day wandering around the RTYC, admiring boats, sidestepping guano deposited by innumerable seagulls, ducking overhanging branches of ancient willows, his mind skipping back and forth from the dead woman in the bikini to Miranda, on her way to a wind-swept island in the South Pacific. After lunch, back in the city, digging through files of old newspapers, financial papers and journals, scoping out Harrington D’Arcy. The dead woman’s name was Maria. A Brazilian heiress. The details were vague, the wealth implied. The D’Arcy wedding had been so exclusive even the Globe and Mail was uncertain of the guest list, although it received restrained
