Still Waters Read Free

newsworthy?”
    â€œSomething called Rongorongo, a wooden plaque from Easter Island about the size of a small paddle blade with writing on it.”
    â€œRongorongo?”
    â€œIt’s filled with opposing rows of hieroglyphs. It’s the writing that’s Rongorongo, not the board, and the people from Easter Island can’t read it now. No one canread it. They still carve replicas, and no one knows what they say.”
    Miranda had studied semiotics in university. She wondered if this accounted for the poignancy she felt for a language indecipherably encoded. She tried to imagine not being able to read your own writing.
    Morgan continued. “The islanders, they call themselves Rapanui, the island is Rapa Nui, two words, they used to have joke tournaments. Koro ’ei.” He savoured the words. “Jest fests, the losers laughed, and had to throw a feast, a weird form of potlatch —”
    â€œMorgan —”
    â€œI think there are fewer than twenty authentic Rongorongo tablets around, pretty well all in museums. He paid half a million.”
    â€œWell, Mr. Griffin!”
    It pleased them to have arrived at the victim’s identity without resorting to actual research. They watched him drift by as if he might reveal more of himself if they waited.
    â€œNo shoes. He wandered out from the house in socks,” said Morgan, dispelling any doubt that this was the dead man’s home. “Where did Yosserian go? I thought they were hauling him out of there.”
    â€œMr. Griffin seems a little soft around the edges,” said Miranda, who didn’t work out but was trim. “Not in very good condition.”
    â€œHe’s dead,” said Morgan, who occasionally worked out but mostly skipped meals.
    â€œI doubt if he even played golf. Too pallid to belong to a yacht club. Clothes not sufficiently stylish to suggest peer influence. I’d say he’s a loner. But don’t you think it’s peculiar, a high-priced lawyer, and I’ve never heard of him?”
    â€œCops and the law don’t always connect. Sometimes it’s a matter of luck.”
    â€œYou’d think he’d have some sort of a public presence, Morgan. Look at the house.”
    â€œI’m not sure he had much of a presence at all. He looks exceptionally ordinary.”
    â€œAs you say, he’s floating in a fish pond. Let’s get him out before the family comes home.” Miranda turned to see that Yosserian was standing by with another officer, apparently not wanting to disturb their forensic deliberations. She caught his eye, and they moved forward.
    â€œThere’s no family coming home,” said Morgan. “They’d be here already. It’s too late in the season for Muskoka, everyone’s down from the cottage by now. The yard’s too orderly. No bikes, no barbecue. The big Showa wants food, he’s nibbled those fingers before. Look at that. The Ochiba — look at him nuzzling. They’re closer than family. These fish are Griffin’s familiars.”
    â€œFamiliars.” Miranda often repeated Morgan’s key words, sometimes to mock him but sometimes intrigued. “That’s creepy. With scales.”
    â€œThey don’t all have scales. Some of them are Doitsu.”
    Miranda was equivocating about whether or not to give him the satisfaction of asking for an explanation when a stunning young woman emerged from the shadows of the walkway along the side of the house. She moved toward them with an air of belonging.
    â€œMaybe I’m wrong,” said Morgan.
    â€œShe’s not family.”
    The woman stood to one side and gazed at Robert Griffin as he was hauled over the pool edge and spread out on a groundsheet. While the officers manoeuvred the bag, she seemed to focus on the rasping of the zipper andthe squishing liquid sounds as the body settled into its plastic receptacle. Then she spoke with deliberate calm.