did that come from?” asked Morgan.
“What, the Taliban? I don’t know, whenever I think of relations between the sexes these days, I think of them. I mean, Morgan, watch the newscasts. Countries in that part of the world treat women like a different species. Crowd scenes, throngs in the streets, and no women. A sea of beards and burnooses, and impotent fists throttling the air — and not a woman in sight unless under a shroud. And don’t give me the freedom of religion crap — freedom for whom? The normalization of hatred for women, that’s what we’re seeing; fear and hatred of women. Even by women themselves. Especially by women themselves.”
“I wasn’t going to say a word. We live in parallel realities, get used to it.” He paused, curious about the direction their conversation had taken. “When I think of Afghanistan, I see those giant Buddhas crashing into clouds of dust a few years ago and, you know, it makes me ashamed and I think, God save us from religious zealotry.”
“An interesting prayer for an atheist.”
“Have you seen the pictures, giant hollows in the rock where the statues were, gaping holes spilling rubble? I’m ashamed on behalf of humanity.”
He’s more concerned about statuary, about cultural artifacts, than about women in shackles of drapery, in perpetual shadows. Perhaps it’s all the same.
“I made a list,” said Miranda abruptly, as if the clash of cultures were not under discussion. “You know, a list of the places we went for dinner or drinks, I gave it to Spivak.”
“He’s already checked them out,” Morgan responded. “No one recalls either of you. It’s like you were never there, like you didn’t exist.”
“That’s comforting. We were being unobtrusive, you know, too mature to flaunt our discretion.”
“What about the last night, nothing comes back?”
“No, yes.”
“What do you mean, no, yes?”
“Morgan, in the morning, there was a smell of almonds.…”
“And?”
“Hand cream, there must have been hand cream in the women’s washroom. I use aloe-based moisturizers at home, this was almond.”
“And this tells us what?”
“That we dined at an upscale restaurant. Large. The little spiffy bistros on the list have modest little bathrooms. I’d say we went to one of the major hotels. The Four Seasons, the Royal York. Almond is very old fashioned. I’d guess the Imperial Room at the Royal York.”
Before their eyes adjusted to the midday June sunshine, they had crossed the street and descended into the glossy underworld that spreads beneath downtown Toronto like an alternate universe, where weather and seasons are residual memories, office workers are on half-hour tethers, and retail is king.
From the Union Station subway stop they had direct access to the grand lobby of the Royal York and immediately found the maître d’ of the Imperial Room, who had just come on shift.
“Yes sir,” he said, directing himself to Morgan. “This lady was here a few nights ago.”
“Really,” said Miranda, “how can you be so sure?”
“Well, sir,” said the maître d’, still addressing Morgan, “the lady needed assistance in getting up from the table. It does not happen often, our patrons usually, ah, consume with discretion —”
“Hey,” said Miranda, taking him by the arm and swinging him around. “It’s me, I’m here. Talk to me.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course.” He turned to look at Morgan. “She was quite drunk, sir. I am sorry.”
“You’re gonna be a sorry soprano if you don’t focus,” said Miranda.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where was I sitting? Who was I with?”
“Over there,” he said, nodding to a discreet table against a far wall. “You were alone with a gentleman, and then another gentleman joined you.”
“The bill,” said Morgan. “We need to see the bill.”
“Could I ask what for, sir?”
“You are assisting in a murder investigation.”
“Really? Well, of course.” The maître d’ was warming to his role. “If you will please come this way,” he said, and gently pulled his arm free of Miranda’s grasp. He led them into a small office and rummaged through a sheaf of receipts.
“Nothing,” he finally said. “There is no record.”
“There must be a bill,” said Miranda. “Perhaps we paid in cash.” As an aside, she said to Morgan, “He had credit cards, but he always used hard currency, sometimes American.”
“Of course,” said the maître d’. “It happens so seldom. Yes, you are right, Detective, just so. Here we are. Giovanni was your waiter. He will be here shortly. Let me see. You had very good wines; quite memorable, in fact. A bottle of Bordeaux with dinner, very nice, Château Cos d’Estournel, 1986. Excellent choice with your boeuf bourguignon. Myself, I might have preferred a sunny Clos de Vougeot, something a little less sinister, but, well, chacun à son goût. And when your other friend arrived, Dom Pérignon. A magnum. Memorable, indeed. Yes, of course. Excellent. Still, I do not understand … unless you drank more than your share, Detective.”
Morgan led her out into the main dining room. “Let’s get Spivak on this. He can arrange a sketch, maybe, of the third man, from the waiter.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“The waiter? Okay.”
They stood in the middle of the room, watching people cleaning up from the luncheon crowd, preparing for dinner.
“Does it look familiar?” Morgan asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he said, surprised, “what do you remember?”
“Dancing with my father —”
“What?”
“I remember dancing with my father. We came here, just before my teens, a year before he died.”
“Really.”
“Mart Kenny was playing. I think he played here for years. My dad always wanted to see Mart Kenny and His Western Gentlemen, we heard him on the radio. But my mom wouldn’t dance with him. She could dance really well but she didn’t think he could, so he danced with me.”
“Was it the same?”
“As now? It feels like it was, but, you know, memory is fickle. No, I don’t remember being here with Philip. I don’t know, Morgan, it all seems familiar.”
She paused.
“The
