Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

by Boswell Joan

  “Can you think of anyone who had a reason to kill Robertson?”

  “I wasn’t familiar with his personal life. I don’t suppose anyone would kill him because of his books.”

  Rhona didn’t share Macdonald’s conviction. In her experience, men killed to protect secrets. How hard would it be for investigative journalists to unearth the identities of the characters in Paul’s forthcoming book?

  Macdonald activated his unaligned bones and joints and creaked to his feet. He sounded like he needed oiling as he made his independently articulated way out of the room.

  The next two men had not been acquainted with Robertson in any significant way, and their interviews finished quickly.

  The fourth runner, an unlikely looking middle-aged marathoner, at least six foot four and carrying an extra fifty pounds up front, charged into the room, stuck out his hand and launched into speech. “I’m Stan Eakins. I’m from Ottawa, but since I’m going out-of-town for the next week, I thought I’d better talk to you.” Eakins rushed on. “I’m a member of St. Mark’s and have been acquainted with Paul since he came to Ottawa.” He took a breath. “He preached up a storm. His sermons held together; they stimulated me. He made interesting cross-references and tie-ins to current events and never used tired old clerical jokes.”

  Rhona considered inserting a question but decided to allow the river to flow.

  “Mind you, they didn’t comfort. You watched him perform intellectual arabesques and enjoyed the show. He didn’t rely on homilies and had no soft words for the suffering. He viewed everything in terms of ‘Christianity as challenge’. If he’d been a Catholic, he would have been a Jesuit. You know the kind? The only way was his way. When you think of it, those Jesuits martyred by the Iroquois in the sixteenth century endured their torture because they possessed that certainty.”

  When Eakins stopped to consider their martyrdom, Rhona motioned him to sit down. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Reverend Robertson dead?”

  Eakins flopped down on a chair that protested as it absorbed his weight. “Many people disliked him. Hard to evaluate the intensity of feeling, but those who oppose the ordination of homosexuals are pretty steamed up. But, fanatical though they are, they must realize that killing one advocate, even an outspoken one, won’t change anything.”

  He leaned forward, lowered his voice and confided, “He attracted women. His arrogance fascinated them. I’d guess if the women who were,” he paused, quirking an eyebrow, “drawn to him, had, what’s the term, ‘significant others’, those guys wouldn’t have named Robertson ‘man of the year’. You’re the expert. Aren’t love, hate and jealousy the big reasons for murder?” He relaxed and resumed his normal tone. “He did counselling. Maybe he offered bad advice and the recipient killed the messenger. Nobody comes to mind, but I’ll phone if I leap out of the bath shouting ‘Eureka.’ ”

  After he’d bounded from the room, Rhona considered his words. A womanizer—that put a new slant on things, as did Eakin’s reference to counselling. She considered the many sorry tales she’d heard of doctors and clergy abusing their patients and clients. And Eakins himself—hadn’t he been a little too willing to help? In her experience, those who volunteered volumes of information often did it to divert attention, to send the investigator off on a tangent. Something about Eakins hadn’t rung quite true.

  Featherstone opened the door for the next runner, a man who extended his hand as he entered the room. “I’m Bill Leach from Cobden.” With his compact body, velvety skin, smooth brown hair, drooping ears and pleading eyes, Leach reminded Rhona of a beagle. Invited to sit down and describe his connection to Paul Robertson, Leach began immediately in a perfect pulpit voice, a deep beagle baritone.

  “I’m a United Church minister. Paul Robertson and I attended theology school at the University of Toronto. In recent years, I’ve run into him at presbytery meetings.”

  Rhona heard the chill in Leach’s voice. “Am I right in assuming you did not like Paul Robertson?”

  Leach, perched on the edge of his chair, shook his head. “As transparent as that, am I? Well, in a way, Paul was responsible for my life taking the course it did, and for a long time, I thought it was going the wrong way.”

  “I’m forming a picture of Robertson. Tell me what happened?”

  Leach cocked his head to one side. “Well, I can’t imagine it’ll help you much.” He pressed the palms of both hands together and raised them as if he was about to pray. “Paul and I were in the same class at theological school. The basic qualification for the ministry is a bachelor of divinity, but, if you aspire to go anywhere in the hierarchy or to be called to a big city church, you require at least one graduate degree. With a basic one, you begin your career with a five-point charge in Saskatchewan and end up with a one-point charge in a town like Cobden.”

  “What’s a five-point charge?”

  “The number of churches you serve. On the prairies and in the Maritimes, one minister may serve five separated congregations—each is a point. But, to return to my story—for graduate school to be a possibility, I had to win the one large scholarship the theology school offered.” He shook his head. “Paul Robertson wanted it too; not for the money—for the prestige. When the time for scholarship interviews came along a rumour ran through the school saying I’d plagiarized a major paper. You can guess what happened—the college awarded the scholarship to Paul.” He interlocked his fingers. “I took a three-point charge in Manitoba. Paul Robertson didn’t ruin my life, but I wonder what I could have done if I’d had more education.”

  Why would the interviewers have believed a rumour? Surely, they would have investigated the suggestion of plagiarization. Rhona didn’t believe Leach’s story, but Leach did and had been pleased to have a chance to tell it.

  “Were you aware Robertson ran, and did you expect to see him at the marathon?”

  “Because of his darn T-shirt and the number of times he’s been on television, I should think almost everyone in the Ottawa Valley would recognize him.” He undid his two forefingers and pointed them at Rhona like six-shooters. “Paul is—was—his own favourite subject and, at church meetings, we heard about his exploits. Did I expect to meet him? No, and I didn’t.”

  His eyes twinkled, and he pointed his fingers at himself. “Because I run faster than Paul, the organizers gave me a number allowing me to start toward the front of the pack.” He lowered his hands. “One of the small and not very admirable things you should know about me—I wrote down his time after his first marathon four years ago, and I’ve tracked him since then. I was twenty minutes faster when we started, and the gap has grown. This year I cut ten minutes off and ran it in three hours and twenty minutes.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “In my opinion, Paul Robertson would sink to any level to obtain what he wanted. If he did that to me, you can bet he’s done even worse things to other people.”

  Four

  After Kas left, Hollis made one or two phone calls, but her reaction time had slowed again. Every action required intense concentration and left her exhausted and doubtful she’d ever move easily again. She wondered if this physical reaction would be transitory, or if she’d spend months sporadically operating as if tons of water pressed down on her. The phone rang. She picked it up on the fourth ring.

  “Hollis, it’s Elsie.”

  Hollis wasn’t surprised. St. Mark’s relied on the practical goodness of Elsie Workman and her husband Roger to match the physical with the emotional needs of the congregation.

  “Hollis, dear, we were shocked to hear about Paul. You can count on Roger and me to do whatever we can to help.” She took an audible breath. “You’re going to have lots to do in the next few days. I thought, if it’s okay, I’d come over every day to answer the door, the phone and organize the food everyone’s sure to bring. If you think it’ll be an intrusion, just say so. I won’t be hurt, dear—everyone reacts to tragedy in a different way . . .”

  Peo
ple could be so kind. Tears threatened to flow, but she took a deep breath and banished them. “Elsie, it would be great. I do need you. Come over whenever you’re ready.” The prospect of Elsie’s cheery intervention in her life lifted Hollis’s spirits. Her limbs felt lighter; she dared to hope they soon might resume normal functioning.

  Twenty minutes later Elsie arrived, rustled up a toasted tuna sandwich, insisted Hollis eat and then sent her upstairs for a lie-down. When Marguerite phoned late in the afternoon, Elsie intercepted the call, and thinking Hollis would want to talk to Marguerite, trotted upstairs to tell her.

  After Marguerite offered sincere conventional words of sympathy, she said, “Is Elsie planning to feed you dinner?”

  “Force feed I’m afraid. You know Elsie—she believes food fixes everything. I’m grateful but not hungry.”

  “Come over, and we’ll eat nachos or popcorn or drink gin. Whatever you want.”

  “Gin sounds pretty good.”

  “I have two hospital visits left to make before supper. Let’s say any time after six.”

  Exactly what Hollis needed. Marguerite could answer her questions about Paul. At five thirty, she made herself take MacTee for a decent walk before she changed.

  Clothes had always been important to her. Once, in a moment of introspection, she’d figured out the reason: she’d been a large, ungainly child, a great contrast to her pretty, petite mother who, unhappily, had dressed her only daughter in frills and bows, accentuating her size and making her feel even larger. Early on, Hollis had realized what the right clothes did for your self-image and psyche and, ever since, had been obsessed with her appearance. Even so, it shocked her to acknowledge to herself that, even at this moment of crisis, she cared so much.

  After she’d tucked herself into a conservative pair of black wool trousers and a black and white patterned silk shirt she vacillated between a black or pink wool blazer before she chose pink. She rejected a large splashy brooch and selected a smaller one—a silver filigree star.

  On her way out of the house, she passed through the kitchen and avoided MacTee’s eyes lest he take eye contact for a tacit invitation to throw himself against her and leave a residue of hair. Outside, she climbed into the cab of her ten-year-old Nissan pickup. Once again, as she did every time she faced the mess, she vowed to clean out the winter’s debris. An archeologist could read her history by investigating the layered strata.

  Marguerite lived in a downtown residential area, where developers had converted turn-of-the-century mansions into apartments. Her veranda-wrapped brick building with leaded glass bay windows must once have epitomized the glories of Victorian living. Hollis pressed the bell beside the bevelled glass door and identified herself, and Marguerite buzzed her into the foyer. Inside, Hollis looked up the sweep of the broad mahogany stairs. Marguerite, in blue jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, smiled down.

  At the top of the stairs, they hugged each other. The physical contact touched Hollis. Tears filled her eyes. She sniffed and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.

  “It’s okay. Cry as much as you want.” Marguerite patted her as if she were a colicky baby.

  Hollis pulled away and blew her nose. “If I start, I’ll never stop. It’s . . .” She couldn’t find the words. Instead she pulled in a deep shaky breath. “I need to talk more than I need to cry.” In the hours since Marguerite’s call, she’d worked out the questions she wanted answered.

  Marguerite smiled, “I’ll listen until you’ve said everything you want to say.”

  They stopped in the tiny, functional kitchen where Marguerite poured two drinks—a gin and tonic for Hollis, a gin and orange juice for herself. She loaded the glasses, a large glass bowl of popcorn, a salt shaker, a pottery bowl of salted almonds and paper napkins on a red metal tray. They moved out to a slatted wooden deck sitting atop a flat-roofed addition to the lower floor. Furnished with five sling-back canvas chairs, each covered with different, crayon-bright canvas, planters newly stocked with geraniums and dusty miller, and a round, weathered coffee table, the deck promised to be a sunny summer refuge.

  They sipped and munched in silence for a minute or two.

  “I’m having trouble believing Paul was murdered,” Hollis said. “My mind circles around and around, desperate to deny or to confirm that everything was a bad dream.”

  “I know the feeling. Except when they’re killed in southern states like Georgia or Alabama, you don’t think of ministers as targets.”

  “I need to talk about Paul.”

  Marguerite waited.

  “You must have guessed, or maybe Paul told you, he didn’t want me involved in church activities?”

  Marguerite nodded. “I wondered why, but Paul wasn’t one to explain himself, and I didn’t know you well enough to bring up the subject.”

  “It was an agreement we made when we married. Paul said we both had established ourselves professionally and should maintain our separate public lives. He said we were too old to interweave our careers—I should continue my teaching and research and leave his work to him. I regret being a party to that decision.” She twisted her fingers together. “How could we ever have hoped to have any kind of a marriage when these were the terms?” Hollis stopped and stared at her hands as if they might help her reveal her secrets. “This is hard. I haven’t talked to anyone about Paul. It’s too late for our marriage, but for my peace of mind and because I’m a suspect and could be a target, I must find out more about the parts of Paul’s life he didn’t share with me, starting with the church. How did the two of you get along? How did you divide the responsibilities? To understand him, I’d like to familiarize myself with the details of his daily life.”

  “I don’t understand the connection. Are those the only reasons? “

  “And because I feel guilty. Even though Paul said he didn’t want me to play a role in the church, I shouldn’t have agreed.” Hollis gazed out over the rooftops. “But, to be honest, the setup suited me too. Because I didn’t want him interfering in my profession, I allowed him to dictate the terms. And not only from his ministry. Paul excluded me from other parts of his life.” She unlocked her fingers and traced the blue zigzag pattern on the glass. “It’s probably irrational, but humour me.”

  Marguerite scooped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “I can’t imagine how it’ll help, but here goes. Paul and I belonged to a team, an equal team.” She emphasized ‘equal’. “Paul didn’t like it, and I don’t blame him. I’m younger, a woman, and I have a masters of theology compared to his doctor of divinity. Nevertheless, our contracts spelled out the equality of the team. Fortunately, St. Mark’s hired me six months before Paul, and the intervening time gave me a chance to establish my constituency in the congregation before he arrived. Because we both considered preaching a strength, our contract allocated equal pulpit time.” She smiled wryly. “Paul preached more intellectual sermons, but he didn’t reach people’s emotion the way I do.”

  She considered. “After our initial power plays, we sorted our roles. Paul did counselling, theologically based study groups, work in the larger church, half the visiting and attended half of the committee meetings. I did the other half, supervised the Sunday morning development program, made hospital calls and participated in ‘Roots and Wings’, a study group of Christian feminists working to achieve inclusive language. Incidentally, when I inquired if Paul thought you’d like to join us, he said no. I was sorry because I figured you’d add a lot to our work on the revision of hymns and the prayers to eliminate the endless references to ‘men’, to ‘sons’, to exclusively masculine terms, and the substitution of nonspecific terms like ‘people’ or the addition of ‘daughters’, ‘wives’, ‘women’.”

  “He never said a word to me.” Hollis piled popcorn on a paper napkin.

  “You’re kidding.” With her legs outstretched, Marguerite regarded her intricately beaded moccasins. “Paul and I spoke to each other at the Friday morning meeting with Zena, Barbara and Lewis, or whoever o
ur current custodian was. Paul and I didn’t dislike one another, at least I didn’t dislike Paul, but we staked out our territories.”

  “Can you think of anything different about him or about his routine in the last few weeks?”

  “Because my office is upstairs, and his was downstairs, we didn’t run into each other. People come and go and, although you say hello, you don’t keep track. One thing I can tell you—Paul recorded things. He was detail-oriented, fussy about appointments and punctuality. Paul used his desk calendar . . .” She twinkled at Hollis, “religiously,” and then grimaced. “Sorry, this is no time for levity.” She explained “I guess I joke because I’m sensitive—promptness and strict adherence to schedules definitely are not virtues of mine. Paul never tired of pointing out how a disorganized person wasted her own and other people’s time.”

  This was exactly what Hollis wanted to know. “If he kept good records, they may give me more clues about him. I want to see his office and his daily calendar.” She straightened and added, “Tonight.”

  Marguerite’s eyebrows rose.

  Hollis ignored Marguerite’s surprise. “I expect the church is locked on Sunday night. Do you have keys?”

  “It is. I can lend you mine.” Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t think they’ve secured his office as a crime scene, but if the police are interested in his papers, they may seal it. Never mind, it hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t suppose allowing you to make a quick visit and examine his calendar will make any difference.”

  “I won’t touch anything else or remove the calendar. If I see anything I think is important, I’ll copy it.” Hollis plunked her empty glass on the table.

  “Another one?”

  “No thanks. But tell me more about Paul. His counseling meant a lot to him, didn’t it?” She placed the napkin she’d absentmindedly folded into a tiny rectangle beside her glass. “Of course, you know we met in Halifax when he was giving a course on ministerial counselling at the Nova Scotia School of Theology?”