Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

by Boswell Joan

  At five past twelve, after the congregation had meandered through the last hymn, Day had pronounced the benediction, and Zena Adams had launched the choir into a Bach postlude, people turned to one another. The agitated buzz of dozens of conversations filled the air.

  Rhona returned with the choir to the choir lounge, where she said, “Thank you for your cooperation. I’m familiarizing myself with the many facets of Reverend Robertson’s life. If you worked with him on committees, or knew him in any other capacity, please share the information with me. Anything you can tell me, and I do mean anything, may be helpful. If you’re doubtful, let me be the judge of the importance of what you have to say. At this moment, it may be hard for you to sort through your thoughts, but please call me when you do.” She placed a handful of business cards on the piano.

  Before she’d taken five steps into the adjoining room, where dedicated Sunday school teachers cleaned up the messy aftermath of Christian learning, a babble of voices rose behind her. Rhona made her way to the hall crowded with knots of people talking in hushed voices. When she pushed through the cluster at the door, Marguerite strode toward her.

  “Who was the woman in the choir who went home, and who was the hysterical woman in church?” Rhona whispered.

  Bending close to Rhona, Day murmured, “Denise Nielsen and Sally Staynor.” Before she could say anything else, an ascetic looking man with a monk’s fringe of dark hair and a willowy blue-eyed blonde joined them.

  “Jim, Detective Simpson is interested in Paul’s life,” Day said. “You’re precisely the person to describe Paul’s activities here at St. Mark’s, as well as his and your work with refugees.” She explained, “Jim Brown has belonged to this congregation all his life. He’s worked for non-governmental agencies involved in the third world. He’s familiar from first-hand experience with the situations from which our refugees have escaped. His wife Yolanda . . .” Here she included the woman next to him, “is our fundraiser ‘par excellence’.”

  Jim Brown examined Rhona as if he was running a photo ID. “Didn’t you come here when we had trouble a couple of years ago?”

  Rhona smiled. “Great memory. I did. Tell me what you do for refugees?”

  “We’ve sponsored six families in the last four years and more before them. We care for them in every way for the first year. Because we haven’t had a family recently, I haven’t seen much of Paul.” His eyes didn’t meet hers.

  “Any other reason?”

  Yolanda Brown broke the lengthening silence. “Jim, everybody here knows what you think of gay ordination.” With her chin high, she said, “Jim isn’t alone. Many of us hated it when Paul made the ordination issue such a sideshow. And I, for one, don’t mind admitting it.” She relaxed a bit. “Sorry, but I’m tired of being made to feel unchristian because I don’t believe gays belong in the pulpit. I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter now. We’ll do everything we can to help.”

  Day’s skill at moving Rhona smoothly from group to group led Rhona to wonder if they gave lessons at theological school in working the crowd. Seasoned politicians would envy Day her style. By one o’clock, they’d circled the room, and it was time for Rhona to drive to the university.

  On her way out, she stuck her head in the kitchen where the couple who’d left the church early, the Porters, along with a coterie of helpers, washed the dishes.

  “I’m Detective Simpson. Sorry not to talk to everyone. I understand a number of you worked closely with Reverend Robertson on various projects. If you think of anything about him or his work that might help us in the investigation, please contact me. I’ll leave my card.” She stacked a pile neatly on the counter.

  Knox Porter, distinguished from other middle-aged men by the scraped rawness of his face, shoved a flowered plate into an overhead cupboard, shut the cupboard door and stuck out his right hand. “Knox Porter. Any information I can give you, you can reach me at the Museum of Natural History or at home.” He waved his left hand to include his wife, a study in brown dowdiness, hunched elbow deep in suds at the sink. “We’ll be glad to do what we can.”

  Rhona walked to the car mulling over her impressions of the St. Mark’s congregation. What sort of relationship had Denise Nielsen had with Reverend Robertson, and did she have a husband who ran? Did the hysterical Sally Staynor have a husband, and did he run?

  Three

  After Detective Simpson left the medical tent, Kas rejoined Hollis. “In my professional opinion, you’re fit to drive home if you drive slowly. Take extra care; shock affects your reflexes. I’ll follow.” At the manse, an ugly pile of red brick next to St. Mark’s, Hollis disarmed the security system on the wall inside the back door. It had amused Paul to use chapter twenty, verse fifteen of the book of Exodus, the commandment, “Thou shalt not steal”, for the four digit code number.

  MacTee, Hollis’s golden retriever, noted for his beauty, not his brains, welcomed them to the cheery yellow kitchen, an oasis in a dismal house. Hollis had defied the church manse committee and their choice of institutional green for the kitchen and repainted it. Besides hanging ferns and blooming cyclamen, two of her own large acrylic paintings of masses of exuberant oversized flowers added colour and joy to the room.

  The rest of the house, with the exception of two rooms—her study, where she’d supplied her own white wicker furniture and glowing paintings, and Paul’s private bedroom and office—had been furnished and decorated by the manse property committee. The first time she’d been in the manse, a quick look around the house with its yellow oak floors, dark woodwork, cast-off religious pictures in heavy black frames and ugly furniture had confirmed Hollis’s impression that this group, no matter its membership, specialized in collecting cast-off mismatched furniture and always chose institutional beige or bilious green paint.

  MacTee behaved as if he’d been deserted for days. He moaned, whined, rolled on the floor and gladdened her heart with the totally fatuous pleasure he took in her return. After they’d patted him and rewarded him with a biscuit, he lay on the kitchen floor, eyes open and body alert to any possibility of treats coming his way. The house settled into its customary morning quiet.

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Hollis tried to think what to do. “I can’t twist my mind around what happened—it’s unimaginable.” She shivered and pushed her shaking hands into her pockets. “But I realize I’ll have decisions to make.” Kas leaned against a counter, nodding sympathetically.

  She waved her hand at the empty kitchen counters. “One thing for sure—once Marguerite Day informs the congregation, these will fill with food. I’ll need boxes of aluminum foil to make packages of food for the freezer.” She shrugged. “But not yet. Right now I know I have things to attend to, but I can’t think what they are or where to start.”

  “A list is always good. If you like, I’ll give you a hand.” Kas rubbed his hands together. “This house is chilly. Look at you. You’re frozen.”

  Hollis stood in the middle of the room. Her teeth chattered, and she was still shivering.

  “Go and change. You don’t like tea, do you? I’ll make coffee.”

  Hollis made an effort. “Help and coffee sound great. The coffee and the milk foamer are in the cupboard above the coffee maker. You’re right. I am cold. I’ll change.”

  Before she was out of the kitchen, Kas had reached for the can of Tim Hortons fine grind.

  Upstairs, Hollis slid a periwinkle blue mohair turtleneck over her head and pulled on her favourite black leather pants. Comfort, she needed comfort. She wobbled back to the kitchen and collapsed at the table.

  “I’m warm, but I’m feeling disoriented—like I’m floating above my body. My thoughts agitate and whirl but go nowhere.”

  “It’s shock. A hot coffee loaded with sugar will help.” Kas filled two large mugs and laced one with three teaspoons of sugar.

  Hollis drank quickly. Almost immediately she felt the effect of the heavily sugared liquid. Kas reheated the milk in the microwave, removed the gl
ass container and energetically pumped the foamer’s plunger up and down. She watched him and thought back over the years.

  Kas had married her friend, Tessa, while both were medical residents. She’d liked him then and liked him now. One of the reasons she’d accepted a teaching position in Ottawa had been their presence in the city. Kas worked as a psychiatrist at the Royal Ottawa Hospital and Tessa as a thoracic surgeon at the Municipal hospital.

  When she’d married Paul, she’d hoped they’d all become friends, but Paul had showed no interest in widening his circle to include Kas and Tessa.

  “You were right. The sugar has done its stuff.”

  Kas didn’t add as much sugar to Hollis’s when he refilled their cups. He picked up the pad of paper sitting by the phone, carried it to the table, sat down and divided the top sheet into three columns: decisions to make; things to do; and, people to call.

  “You can’t set the date for the funeral until the police release Paul’s body, but you can place a notice in the paper and direct people to phone the church office for details.”

  “I wonder how long we’ll have to wait.”

  “A good question without a definite answer, but you can plan the funeral.”

  Paul had loved ceremony and theatrics. “Spectacular. Visitation for two nights before.”

  “What about the service?”

  “The works. The way he’d like it. Loaded with pomp and circumstance.”

  “What about the obituary? Flowers or donations?”

  “Donations.”

  “Which charities?” Kas filled in the columns as she made her decisions.

  “The AIDS hospice, City Church. Are you familiar with it?”

  “No.”

  “They’re a group of gay Christians who applied to use the St. Mark’s building for services. The congregation’s rejection of their application infuriated Paul.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Request donations for St. Mark’s refugee committee. I remember Paul on TV spearheading a drive to sponsor refugees and launch them on new lives.” He added, “I’m suggesting this because I have a feeling many people only knew him in the refugee context. And others who will want to contribute may not feel comfortable donating to the other organizations.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Who should be contacted? Where’s your mother?”

  “On a whale-watching cruise in the Pacific. I won’t tell her, because she’d feel it was her duty to go to great lengths to be here, and it would be a shame to spoil her holiday.”

  “But won’t she feel badly if you don’t tell her? Wouldn’t she want to be here?”

  “She’d feel it was her duty. But, as you know, she disliked Paul and disapproved of my marriage. Although she might not come right out with it, she’d let it slip how clever she’d been to warn me not to act rashly. She’d trot out a homily about ‘being prepared to pay the price’ when you acted quickly.” Hollis caught her lower lip with her top teeth and shook her head. “No, I don’t need her censure; she’s better off in the Pacific.”

  “Paul’s family?”

  “Paul was an only child. His parents are dead. He has distant cousins out west. When we decided to marry, I inquired about family, and he said he hadn’t had anything to do with them for years and wasn’t about to begin. If he hadn’t had any contact, I probably shouldn’t either, but informing them of his death feels like the right thing to do. I’ll unearth his address book and let them know.”

  Kas glanced at the kitchen wall clock, pushed the list toward her and rose. “You won’t mind if I go? I promised Tessa I’d pick her up when she finished the marathon. I want to be waiting for her. You’re probably aware of how withdrawn she’s been lately? She hasn’t told me what’s wrong, but I hate to do anything to upset her any more.”

  Hollis hadn’t known. One of her best friends. Recently, no not recently, at least three or four weeks ago, Tessa had phoned, and they’d had a quick chat. She tried to remember the conversation, but as far as she recalled, it had been a “touching base, I miss you but we’re both so busy let’s do lunch soon” kind of talk. Had Tessa tried to confide in her, to tell her she was struggling with a problem? And being fixated on the dissolution of her marriage, would Hollis have picked up Tessa’s signals? Probably not. She didn’t want to lose her friend. Before too many more days passed, she’d call her.

  “I’ll probably have to wait at the finish line. If you give me names and numbers, I’ll make calls on my cell phone until she arrives.”

  “Of course.” Surprised that her uncooperative body was working again, she ran up to her studio, collected her address book and jotted down a dozen names and numbers. “Thanks for everything. Give Tessa my love and congratulate her for me.” She hugged Kas again. “I have to get involved and keep my name clear.” Hollis held up her hand, policeman style, to stop him from saying anything. “You’re going to say—‘Leave it to the police.’ I should, but I can’t—I feel guilty.”

  “Guilty?”

  “Yes. Guilty. Guilty because I married Paul, guilty because I let him set the terms of our marriage, guilty because I didn’t insist we share our lives. Maybe, if I’d been aware of what was going on, I might have intervened, and he wouldn’t be dead.”

  Kas gripped her shoulder. “Hollis, be sensible. Your marriage may have been a mess, but that isn’t any reason to involve yourself in the investigation. It could be dangerous.”

  “Don’t forget I’m a suspect—I was in the race, I had a divorce pending, and a bizarre married life. I can’t bear the thought of continuing to be a suspect until the police identify the killer.”

  While Kas and Hollis planned the funeral, Rhona drove from St. Mark’s to Carleton. Along the way, she smoked and hummed along with the chorus of Madame Butterfly and wondered how many out-of-town runners would be waiting for her. By this time, close to two o’clock, even the slowest runners would have dragged their weary bones across the finish line.

  Constable Featherstone met her at the front door of the Carleton gym and led her to an equipment storeroom temporarily converted into an interview area by the addition of a plywood-topped table and two chipped, metal folding chairs. Seven runners, dressed in regular clothes, waited outside the room. Rhona invited the first man, identified by Featherstone as Carson Macdonald, into the makeshift office.

  Macdonald let himself down onto the chair as if each and every muscle, bone and sinew worked independently. Once his body settled, he said, “I’m an editor at the Independent Academic Press.” Absentmindedly, he cracked his knuckles. “Ours is a business relationship. Probably no one’s told you Paul Robertson has written three books. The IAP published his first two and has a contract for his third.”

  What an unlikely marathoner Macdonald was. About sixty, with a head of receding gray curls topping a spare, six-foot frame, he wore glasses—plain, round and steel rimmed. They would have been classified as National Health spectacles in England. A utilitarian, no-nonsense body belied by the eyes behind his glasses; bright North Atlantic blue eyes with long, thick lashes. His face was spare with a neat nose, neat ears and a tidy mouth. When he spoke, his teeth were precisely aligned and Rhona knew this man cared passionately about the proper deployment of the semicolon and never tolerated the abandoned use of the comma.

  “No, I didn’t realize he was a writer. Tell me about his books.”

  “The first, basically a rewrite of his doctoral thesis, came out ten years ago and did moderately well.” Macdonald paused as if he was running the sales figures through his mind. “We published his second book last year. It was a runaway success. You may have heard of it—Christians in a Cross World?”

  Rhona shook her head.

  “It’s a how-to book on practical Christianity. I suspect Robertson made a cynical analysis of the bestsellers in the field and wrote what he thought the public would buy. It didn’t matter that it didn’t come from the heart; those books, especially
if they’re well written—Paul turned a catchy phrase as easily as some use clichés—are always popular, and his certainly were.” He added, “His third book is in process. After we read the first draft, we said it was too long and needed tightening up. We also insisted he have a bona fide professional validate his underlying psychological assumptions. Paul’s wife, she’s written three terrific books and done a good bit of editing, worked on the second draft.” He smiled a tight little smile. “She’d have to be good for Paul to allow her to do that. And he found a psychiatrist at the Royal Ottawa Hospital who agreed to verify the validity of his thesis.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  “It’s topical and controversial. The theme is controversial—keeping homosexuals in the closet has, in the past, and will, in the future, provoke individuals to commit crimes to keep their sexual orientation secret. He took actual criminal cases and sensationalized them. We didn’t like the title, When Push Comes to Shove, and would have insisted on a change.”

  Rhona wondered who had the manuscript and which doctor he’d consulted. She didn’t yet have much information about Paul, but she didn’t think he would have taken criticism well. “How would he have responded?”

  “Respond? If we absolutely insisted, he’d do it, but he hated being questioned or challenged.”

  That fit her impression—a clearer picture of the man was emerging.

  “I wouldn’t think the people whose stories he dredged up would react well. Did he identify them by name?”

  “No, he gave them fanciful handles like ‘the predator’ and ‘batman’; those names made them sound like third-rate wrestlers.”