Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

by Boswell Joan

  Day’s attention fixed on the desktop, on the daily calendar open amid a confusion of paper. An expression of relief passed swiftly over her face. “No idea,” she said.

  Why had she seemed relieved? Rhona removed latex gloves from her large shoulder bag, drew them on and stepped cautiously through the drifts of paper to the desk, where she picked up the calendar and flipped through several pages. “Reverend Robertson used initials. Any chance you can match initials with names to enable me to track down the individuals who had appointments with him?”

  Day shook her head. “No, Barbara is the one to do that.” She glanced at the oak-framed wall clock. “If there isn’t anything else, will you excuse me? Right this minute I’m due at a meeting.” She turned and left.

  Rhona extracted a plastic bag from her purse, tucked the calendar inside and dropped it in her bag. She made her calls and climbed the stairs to join Barbara, who led her to a small library tucked underneath the choir loft. Before they perched on slippery downward sloping leather side chairs, Rhona removed the calendar and handed it to Barbara along with a pair of thin plasic gloves.

  “Please go ahead a month and back two and compile a list of the people with whom he had appointments. It’s a nuisance, but please use the gloves, because later we’ll check for fingerprints.”

  A worried frown creased Barbara’s forehead.

  “Don’t worry if you can’t match all the initials with names. If you think you’ll be finished, I’ll drop in after lunch to pick it up along with your notes.”

  Barbara placed the calendar on the floor beside her chair. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Reverend Day claims what you don’t know isn’t worth knowing—she says you’re the heart of St. Mark’s.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that, but it’s nice of Marguerite to say so.”

  The two sat on the uncomfortable chairs that threatened to catapult them to the floor. Rhona extricated her black notebook from her shoulder bag. “I have to ask questions you may feel uncomfortable answering. I’ll understand your reluctance, but the sooner I familiarize myself with the details of Reverend Robertson’s life, the sooner we’ll identify his killer.” Rhona unhooked the ballpoint from the notebook’s cover and turned to a fresh page.

  “He had extramarital affairs. I want the names of as many of those women as you can remember.”

  Barbara squirmed and grabbed the edges of the chair to prevent herself from sliding to the rose-patterned carpet. Stabilized, she said, “You’re absolutely right. I don’t like doing this one little bit, but when I think of the murderer running amok in here last night, it gives me the heebie jeebies.” She released one hand from the side of the chair and patted a stray hair into position. “I’m often here alone. I won’t have a moment’s peace until you catch the killer. I’m prepared to give you any information—no matter how unpleasant—to help catch him.”

  “Thank you. I know I’m asking you to do something difficult.”

  Barbara acknowledged Rhona’s words with a tiny nod. Her chin lifted like someone about to testify in court where her words would decide the outcome of a murder trial.

  “Here goes. I’m sure you know the current woman was Sally Staynor?”

  “I do. What can you tell me about her husband?”

  “He owns a butcher shop and has a reputation for being ‘weird’. I don’t have first-hand experience; he isn’t a churchgoer. Have you met Sally?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a woman you won’t soon forget. She holds opinions about everything, and she expresses herself like a stevedore.” Barbara made a moue of distaste. “Bad language is one of my hang-ups. I’ve never understood why people use profanity.” She shrugged, “But that’s my problem. Sally was the latest moth drawn to Paul’s flame . . .” The briefest flick of her turquoise shadowed eyes. “Let’s see, before Sally it was Denise Nielsen.”

  Rhona jotted Denise’s name. Denise had been the one person in the choir who’d been visibly upset.

  Barbara shrugged. “There were many women. He was a matou.”

  Rhona’s puzzlement must have been obvious.

  “A tom cat.” Barbara crossed her ankles and readjusted herself. “The United Church should classify extramarital sex as an occupational hazard for male ministers.” She spoke in a low and confiding voice. “Ministers attract women with emotional needs, and because many ministers have a sense of themselves as a little out of the ordinary, they come to consider the dependence and attention these women display as perfectly normal. When the men age, they have a hard . . .” She paused and flicked her glance at Rhona, “hard time resisting the siren songs.”

  Paul’s office flashed into Rhona’s mind. No wonder the couch was worn-out. “Can you remember other women with whom he had affairs?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “To change the subject, yesterday, when Marguerite told you Reverend Robertson had been murdered, did you immediately think of any particular person as a likely suspect?”

  Barbara recoiled. “You’re suggesting I should accuse a specific person of murder?”

  “I expressed myself badly. I’ll rephrase the question. The subconscious mind knows more than the conscious. When I posed the question, I hoped to hear whose name popped uninvited into your head. I didn’t want accusations.”

  “And you won’t get any from me. This is distasteful.” She shifted again on the slippery chair. “Well, if you must know, the first person I thought of was Marcus Toberman.”

  “Who is Marcus Toberman?”

  “Are you familiar with City Church?”

  “City Church. Isn’t it a congregation of gays and lesbians?”

  “That’s right. They’re Christians who want to share space in a regular church, want to have their own services and use our facilities. Earlier this year I was surprised when Marcus Toberman represented City Church when it applied to use St. Mark’s. Marcus and Paul had a run-in a couple of years ago, and I didn’t expect him to darken our door again, because he hated Paul. Anyway, Paul supported the proposal, but the congregation vetoed it.”

  “And Toberman was angry?”

  “I can’t say how Toberman reacted, but Paul was furious.”

  “Because the congregation went against him?”

  “He hated to be crossed.”

  “Tell me about the earlier trouble between Toberman and Reverend Robertson.”

  “Marcus came for counselling. He was one of those people who always arrive early, and while he waited, we talked about many things.” Absentmindedly, she felt the holders on the back of her large pearl and gold earrings. “Initially, Marcus said he’d heard Paul was pretty good, and he felt confident Paul wouldn’t give him bad advice, but whatever Paul said to him, it must have gone wrong. One day Marcus stormed in and told me he was going to give Paul hell, because Paul had been on an ego trip and manipulated Marcus to make himself feel good. Marcus accused Paul of ruining his life.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Three or four years ago.”

  A long interval to wait to murder, but for an obsessive person dwelling on a wrong, the passing time might have intensified the hate. “I don’t suppose you know why he wanted counselling?”

  “No. But I can tell you Marcus wasn’t the first or the last person upset by Paul’s advice.”

  “How come?”

  Barbara shifted and searched for a more comfortable position. “A counsellor should listen, rephrase, and feed back what he hears. He should insist the client draw his own conclusions and make his own decisions. Apparently, Paul couldn’t. If all the world’s a stage, he certainly considered himself a director. He didn’t acknowledge the validity of anyone’s opinion if it differed from his own.”

  “You didn’t like Reverend Robertson?”

  “I didn’t. He preached great sermons but gave no love. He used comforting phrases, but they didn’t warm you because they didn’t come from his heart. He’d have consoled Mrs. Gardner about her budgie
, but only just.”

  The wife, the butcher, the partners of lovers, and an unhappy young man—the list of suspects grew longer. The killer, man or woman, was out there, out there searching for something, something Rhona intended to identify and locate before he did.

  Five

  Sunday night, Hollis fell into bed totally exhausted and longing for sleep, but her mind returned again and again to Paul—to a man she hadn’t known. A sexual predator, a liar, a philanderer. As each word echoed in her mind, she tossed and turned. How could she have lived with him and not known? My God, if she could have her way, she’d drop him in a pauper’s grave without a kind word. But she couldn’t do that. She had to go through with this charade, no matter how much she despised him and what he’d done.

  Monday morning, she pulled on her jogging clothes, loaded MacTee in the truck and drove to the Experimental Farm, the hundreds of acres in the middle of the city the Federal Department of Agriculture maintained as a huge working farm. Miles of empty space for MacTee to enjoy and for her to run, confident the only other people she’d meet would be other runners intent on their own solitary pleasure.

  She parked near the cow barns and set out to jog a three-mile circuit. MacTee, nose to the ground sniffing and following enticing odours, crisscrossed her path. A sun-washed sky arched over brilliant almost fluorescent green fields of newly sprouted winter wheat. Other fields lay ploughed and ready for seeding. A mile and a half into the run, she reached the horse barn where massive Clydesdales soaked up the early rays and waited to accept carrots and lumps of sugar from admirers. Stroking their soft noses, she apologized for forgetting to bring offerings before she ran alongside pastures where cows, newly released from winter bondage, methodically masticated fresh grass. How could anything be wrong amid such tranquillity?

  When she returned, she opened the door and ran to answer the ringing phone.

  “Hollis, it’s Jim Brown. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “I gave up trying to sleep at five. I’ve just come in from a run.”

  An almost imperceptible pause. Probably, in his worldview, a newly widowed woman didn’t go jogging the morning after her husband had been murdered.

  “Yolanda and I are sorry about what happened to Paul. You know we’re available to help out in any possible way.”

  “I do, and it’s very kind of you. Right now, there’s nothing I can think of . . .”

  “We wondered about the refugee fund. Marguerite told us you’re requesting donations for it. We think it’s a great idea. Yolanda and I, along with the Porters, want to head up a committee to bring another family here as quickly as possible, but we felt we should talk to you to make sure you’d approve of us starting immediately. If you do, we’ll write up the project for Sunday’s Bulletin and schedule an initial planning meeting for Sunday night.”

  “That’s terrific. Paul hated how slowly things worked in the church. He’d love the idea of steaming ahead. If I’m up to it, I’ll come to the meeting, at least for the first few minutes, and tell everyone how much it would have meant to him.” She felt like such a hypocrite. Why should she care if Paul would have loved it or not? And all these good people that he’d hoodwinked—she hated to continue the subterfuge.

  “I was sure that’s how you’d react—that you’d be positive. Don’t forget to turn to us if there’s anything we can do. You’ll be in our thoughts and prayers.”

  The conversation’s ending was prescribed, but Hollis recognized its sincerity. Jim was a mainstay of St. Mark’s. The congregation relied on him to sing a mellow baritone in the choir, to serve on a rotating list of committees, and to involve himself in the many acrimonious debates characteristic of church life, without acting as a lightning rod for one side or the other. In a sense, Jim’s pleasant reliability made him invisible.

  Not so with Knox Porter. Even with her limited contact, she was familiar with Knox’s outspoken views. Knox Porter had never wavered in his opposition to Paul’s advocacy of homosexual ordination. And Knox claimed allowing City Church to hold services at St. Mark’s would be a sacrilege.

  Knox considered homosexuality a threat to “The Family”, the foundation of stable society which he spoke of in capital letters as “The Institution”. He and Linda worked tirelessly writing letters and composing petitions encouraging church members to stand firm against inroads by the gay community.

  Although Hollis wasn’t involved in the daily activities of the church and hadn’t often crossed paths with her, she found Linda annoying. Whenever they met, Linda’s habit of beginning most sentences with “Knox says” and parroting Knox’s opinions on everything, as if Knox were the ultimate authority, drove her crazy.

  On occasion, the urge to shake Linda and tell her she needed a life of her own had almost overwhelmed Hollis. And no one had to look as bad as Linda. Overweight, with salt and pepper hair she boasted she cut herself, as if any self-respecting hairdresser would want to be accused of such barbarity, she wore erratically applied, unbecomingly pink lipstick and ill-fitting homemade clothes. She loved brown and always chose brown polyester resembling baby excrement. If she made a print blouse, the muddy colours gave the impression the fabric had run in a too hot wash.

  Hollis ordered herself to stop. The Buddha would not be proud of her character assassination. The poor woman had terrible taste—it wasn’t a sin. The insistent ring of the phone interrupted her thoughts.

  “Ms Grant, it’s Detective Simpson. Would ten be convenient?”

  By the tone of Simpson’s voice, Hollis realized ten had better be convenient. The woman not only didn’t like her but had placed her right at the top of the pyramid of suspects. Eight thirty. Time enough to shower, breakfast and go over the list before Simpson arrived.

  “That would be fine.”

  While she spoke on the phone, MacTee planted himself in front of his red bowl and fixed her with a pleading gaze.

  “I know, I know.” She opened the cupboard, removed the lid from a plastic container and scooped kibble into his dish. Thank goodness for dogs. Looking after MacTee calmed her and helped her deal with tight muscles, pains in her stomach and a threatening headache. Realization dawned; the stomach pains and headache came from hunger.

  While MacTee inhaled the food, she spooned coffee into the basket of the coffee machine, added water, switched it on and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She forced herself to finish a slice of whole wheat toast and was preparing a mug of coffee when Elsie arrived.

  Coffee in hand, she left Elsie in charge of MacTee and the kitchen and headed for her bedroom to dress before she did the homework for Simpson.

  What to wear? Wrapped in a terry robe, she moved hangers in the closet. Although she favoured dramatic bright outfits and large flashy jewellery, she thought a more conservative outfit would be appropriate. She reached for black leather pants and paired them with a white cable knit sweater. Dressed, she moved to her studio and picked up the race list. It was great to have a job, especially one that might help the police catch the killer.

  At nine thirty, Elsie knocked, opened the door and slipped inside. “Detective Simpson is here. Where would you like to talk to her? How about coffee?”

  “Right here will be fine and coffee or tea, if the detective’s a tea drinker, would be great. I’ll come down and bring up a tray.”

  Elsie rocked back on her sensible shoes. “Nonsense, I’m here to make your life easier. Betty Erickson brought over a loaf of her apricot banana bread and a tin of chocolate chip cookies. They’re still warm. I’ll send the detective up then bring a tray.”

  Hollis disregarded Elsie’s implicit instruction to stay put and followed her downstairs.

  Detective Simpson waited inside the front vestibule.

  As she descended the oak stairs, Hollis watched MacTee, plumed tail wagging, move in on Simpson, who obliged with a pat and a kind word while simultaneously skillfully avoiding the string of saliva hanging from the dog’s mouth.

  If she liked dog
s, she couldn’t be all bad.

  Upstairs in the studio office, the sun flooded through the wall of windows in what originally had been the sun porch. The bright light intensified the colours of the pink geraniums and magenta cyclamens crowded together on the white bookshelves and gave Hollis’s huge flower paintings an almost neon vividness.

  Simpson chose an overstuffed chair slip-covered in blue ticking, adjusted the blue and white patchwork cushions and removed the race list from her capacious shoulder bag. She laid it down on the round white painted coffee table, dug in her bag and retrieved a pen.

  Hollis collected her program from the desk, moved the worn but glowing wedding-ring quilt from a second overstuffed chair and sat facing Simpson. Neither had yet said anything.

  Elsie burst the bubble of silence when she bustled in with an oval silver tray loaded with thermos jugs of coffee and tea, mugs, a plate of sweet things and paper napkins.

  “I’d pour for you, but I’m sure you’d rather do it yourself and get on with your work. I’ll leave everything here on the table.”

  After they’d filled their cups, Hollis thumbed through her race book. “I’ve marked the names I recognized.” She reached for her red wire-rimmed glasses parked on top of her head and anchored in her hair. “Are we going over the names, or is the annotated list okay?”

  Simpson placed her cup on the table before she opened her program. “The annotated list is not okay. If that was all I wanted, I would have sent someone to collect your copy. I want you to tell me how each person you’ve marked was connected to your husband.”

  Her tone of voice wasn’t pleasant.

  Hollis wanted to throw the cup at her and scream that she was doing her best, that she wanted the killer caught as much as Simpson did, but she only sighed. What good would a temper tantrum do?

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Please go ahead,” Simpson said.

  The two women eyed each other warily.

  Hollis opened her program, identified one person after another and told Simpson what she knew about each one. When she reached Marcus Toberman’s name, she chose her words carefully.