Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

by Boswell Joan

  His head steadied. “No.”

  “Where were you in the pack when the race began?”

  The change of topic disconcerted him. He peered about the room as if searching for the answer on an imaginary prompt board. “In the middle. Remember the Bible tells us to ‘Run with patience the race that is set before us.’ ”

  Rhona couldn’t connect the two things.

  As if he’d read her mind, Staynor continued, “You must think I’m strange. I can’t help it. I have a photographic memory. Things I read imprint themselves and pop out at the strangest times. My friends ignore it. It’s like having a twitch or Tourette’s syndrome. Are you familiar with Tourette’s?”

  Although she nodded, he continued.

  “People who are perfectly sane but swear or shout at inappropriate times. They can’t help it. My quotes drive Sally nuts. I try not to do it, but . . .”

  It was a relief having a relatively normal exchange. “You said you weren’t always a butcher. What did you do before?”

  “I taught high school English.”

  “I would have thought that with your passion for literature, teaching would have been the perfect job for you. Where did you teach? Why did you give it up?”

  Staynor’s eyes again roamed the room. Although he didn’t answer immediately, Rhona didn’t repeat the question. Obviously, she’d touched on a sensitive topic.

  He stared at the floor. “My uncle left me the shop. It was time for a change, ‘The very whirling wheel of change, which all mortal things doth sway’.”

  Quotations again. He hid behind them when he didn’t like a topic.

  “Where did you teach, and how long were you there?”

  Staynor’s restless twisting stopped. “Windsor. Ten years.”

  “And why did you leave?”

  The hand washing began again. “A change.” His lips snapped together, and his eyes squeezed shut.

  No more information would be forthcoming on this subject—she’d use police resources.

  “When did you last see Paul Robertson?”

  No shifting, no squirming. Instead, his eyes flew open and fixed on her. “Not for months.”

  After a few more questions, which Staynor managed to answer without quotes, Rhona handed him her card. “I’ll be back. If you have anything else to tell me, give me a call.”

  At the station, she initiated inquiries about Staynor’s teaching career. And filed away Staynor’s quick response when she’d inquired if he’d seen Paul recently.

  Seven

  On Tuesday morning, except for walking MacTee, Hollis remained in her room. She hadn’t slept until almost morning. Her mind had torn at and worried about Paul’s infidelity. Who else had he had an affair with? And what of his predatory seductions of vulnerable women? How could she have lived with him and not suspected? Finally, she slept but woke unrefreshed and knowing she needed solitude and quiet to sort herself out.

  She had to collect herself and think through the decisions relating to Paul’s death and her own future. She didn’t make much progress; often she sat for endless minutes doing nothing.

  At noon she slipped downstairs, collected the ham sandwich Elsie had made, poured herself a glass of milk and carried them, along with the mail, to her studio. She didn’t feel like eating; she felt slightly nauseous. She parked the sandwich on her desk and sorted through the mail, separating the conventional sympathy notes, the printed cards with signatures or the cards with a line or two from the longer letters.

  “One bite” she told herself. “Just one bite.” It was hard to swallow, but it had to be done. She managed a second mouthful. To distract herself from mealy tasting bread and slimy ham, she read the letters while slowly working her way through the sandwich. Paul’s network of connections had spread across the country.

  A note from Tessa.

  Why wouldn’t she have called? And the wording was formal—as if they were mere acquaintances—not as if they’d been friends for years. Something was wrong. Had she done something to upset or alienate her? She glanced at the wall clock. One o’clock. She’d wait until one thirty, phone Tessa’s office and insist on speaking to her.

  “I’m sorry, but Dr. Uiska is out of the office for the rest of the day.”

  Hollis worked spasmodically through the afternoon, but her thoughts returned repeatedly to Tessa. Finally, at seven, she tapped in Tessa’s home number.

  “Thank you for writing.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How are you?”

  “Okay, but the question is, how are you?”

  This was not the warm, friendly conversation Hollis had been hoping for. She tried again. “I’d love to see you. I’m feeling pretty beleaguered.”

  “I’m sorry. We’ll have a long chat as soon as I have a minute.”

  No help here. Whatever was wrong was really wrong. Time to bow out graciously. “Thanks again for the note, give me a ring whenever you have a minute.” She’d bet a substantial amount Tessa’s call wouldn’t come any time soon.

  The conversation depressed Hollis, and she spent that evening wandering around the bleak mausoleum of a manse thinking random gloomy thoughts. At nine, whistling with bravado, she hurried MacTee through his evening walk. Safely back in the house, she set the security system and considered the switches beside the door. Should she douse the lights and allow the frightening darkness to swallow the house or leave every light blazing like the Titanic on party night? What nonsense. Before she gave in to irrational fear, she flipped off the lights and forced herself to walk sedately upstairs.

  In her bedroom, feeling self-conscious, she copied what she’d seen in a thousand movies and wedged a chair under the doorknob. Collapsed on her bed, she distracted herself with TV, but a quick flick through the channels brought her to True Life Crime: America’s Unsolved Murders. She zapped it.

  If TV wouldn’t work, she’d read until she felt sleepy. But, no matter what book she opened, her eyes, like errant butterflies, refused to settle. Perhaps a bath might calm her jangled nerves. She ran the water and lay in the tub with her body submerged and her toes manipulating the taps to release a trickle of hot water whenever the bath cooled.

  Eventually, sleepy and warm, she emerged, dropped a Mozart tape into the cassette recorder and allowed it to lull her to sleep.

  At two thirty, she awoke. With consciousness came the memory of Sunday’s events. She reached for the bedside lamp.

  As if she’d triggered an invisible trip wire, a blast of noise jolted her arm.

  The alarm.

  A fire or a break-in. She sniffed but didn’t smell smoke. She wanted it to be a fire—to hear the crackle, see the flames, watch the hated manse burn to the ground. A fire, it had to be a fire, because if it was a break-in, it wouldn’t be a garden variety one: it would be the murderer, knife in hand, creeping up the stairs to finish her off.

  MacTee slept on the mat outside her door. MacTee would save her. Fat chance. No help from MacTee.

  The security firm would call. What was their code number? They’d installed the system a year ago. Paul had demanded an ecclesiastical code. They ended up with twenty-fifteen for the verse in Exodus commanding us not to steal. No, that was their secret code to open the door. The security company had given them a password to use to identify themselves. What was it?

  The phone rang. “Hello,” she croaked,

  “Central Four Security. Identify yourself and give your password.”

  “I think someone’s downstairs.”

  “What is your name and password?”

  The password. Biblical. Exodus—that was it. “Hollis Grant. Exodus.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  “Stay there. The alarm will continue to ring. It’s probably scared off the intruder, but the police are on the way.”

  She hung up. The incessant, overwhelming noise confused her, but she was determined not to lie in bed and wait for the killer. She raced to the cupbo
ard and threw on the first things she laid her hands on. The alarm shrilled on. Enveloped in the surreal waves of noise, she sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes fixed on the doorknob.

  The alarm stopped. Heavy footsteps clomped about downstairs. More adrenaline flushed through her body.

  “Mrs. Robertson, it’s the police. The door was open, and we came in. There’s no one else here.” After a pause, the voice shouted, “It’s okay to come out.”

  Hollis removed the chair and stuck her head out the door. MacTee yawned at the top of the stairs. He had not distinguished himself by rushing down to attack either the intruder or the police.

  When he spotted her, MacTee dived to pick up a stuffed toy elephant lying beside him and ambled toward her to present his prize. Even in her state of jangled nerves, she observed his genetically coded compulsion to retrieve. Fleetingly, she remembered an occasion when he had presented her black lace bikini briefs to a particularly austere Roman Catholic prelate visiting Paul on ecumenical business.

  With her arms and legs feeling soft and formless like play dough, she took tiny experimental steps. When she was sure her legs would support her, she wobbled downstairs.

  Two Ottawa police officers waited in the kitchen.

  The younger of the two said, “I’m Constable Bledsoe, and this is Constable Parico. We’ve had a quick gander at the ground floor. There’s nobody here. Except for the open door, it doesn’t appear anything’s been disturbed. Would you walk through the house with us and check if anything’s missing? Did you hear anything before the alarm went off?”

  “Something woke me.” She wanted them to stay until she regained her equilibrium. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Both men brightened. Constable Bledsoe said, “That’s very kind of you. We certainly won’t say no, will we, Bill?”

  She filled the kettle, opened three of the many cookie tins stacked on the counter and unpacked butterscotch squares, shortbread, and chocolate macaroons. The congregation had supplied enough sweet morsels to satisfy a hungry horde, let alone two policemen.

  After the men had pulled out the yellow painted chairs and sat down, Bledsoe withdrew his notebook from his breast pocket and prepared to write up a report. Once she’d set out the cups, napkins, spoons and tea along with a plate of cookies and squares, he picked up his ballpoint. “The security people told us you were in the house, Mrs. Robertson, but they didn’t say how many people live here and if you’ve had break-ins before. Occasionally, the same person breaks in repeatedly when they know what they’re after. It’s usually kids who want money for drugs, and they take whatever they can sell easily.”

  No intelligent burglar would choose a minister’s house; “poor as church mice” usually applied to the resident clergy as well as the rodents.

  “I’m Hollis Grant, not Robertson, and this is the manse, the minister’s house, for St. Mark’s.” No glimmer of recognition flickered across the faces of the two as they wolfed the dwindling mound of sweets. “Reverend Paul Robertson was my husband. He . . .”

  At the word “reverend”, both men stopped chewing. Bledsoe, whose cheeks bulged with the last macaroon, swallowed noisily. “We didn’t make the connection. This is a different matter. I’ll contact the detective in charge right away.” He clambered to his feet. “Would you have his name and number?”

  Hollis unpinned Simpson’s card from the cork bulletin board above the phone. “Her name is Simpson, but why are you phoning her? If nothing has been taken, why can’t it wait until morning?”

  Bledsoe shook his head. “Oh no, Mrs. Robertson, it would be worth our heads if we didn’t tell her. Time is important in a murder investigation. When it’s murder, we often work around the clock.”

  He took the card and dialled Simpson’s home number.

  “Detective Simpson, sorry to wake you. It’s Constable Ralph Bledsoe here. There’s been a ‘b and e’ at the home of Reverend Paul Robertson.”

  Bledsoe listened and said, “No, the back door had been pried open, but I’d guess when the alarm went off it scared him away.” The constable paused, “Well, we haven’t asked her yet. We thought we should tell you before we did anything else.” He jotted in his notebook. “Of course, ma’am. Yes, if we find anything, we’ll call immediately.” He replaced the phone and made another notation. “It was the right thing to do. Detective Simpson will be over if we uncover anything unusual. If not, she’ll be by in the morning. She wants us to take a good look around without touching anything. Mrs. Robertson, she wants you to take a gander to see if anything’s different. She said we should make sure the door was secured, and you should reset the alarm.”

  During Bledsoe’s phone conversation, Constable Parico re-attacked the cookies. Having sampled each variety, he’d designated the butterscotch squares “taste treat of the evening” and systematically eaten all of them before Bledsoe had finished his call.

  Hollis swivelled from one man to the other and considered Bledsoe’s instructions. “She doesn’t think this was an ordinary break-in. She thinks it was connected to the murder, doesn’t she?” She shivered. “It isn’t over.”

  Bledsoe reassured her. “It most likely was a regular burglar who happened to pick this house. Because the alarm went off, he probably didn’t even set foot inside, but we’ll walk through the rooms and have a gander. If you don’t feel up to it—wait here.”

  Although the thought repulsed her, she led the way through the downstairs rooms, flicking on the ceiling lights and glancing around in each room. Nothing appeared out of place. In the kitchen again, she said, “Everything seems the same.”

  “Yeah, it looks in order,” Bledsoe agreed. He strode over to the damaged door. “I’d suggest you install a deadbolt tomorrow. Tonight you can hook it and reset the alarm.”

  “I’m sorry to be a nervous Nelly, but would you check the basement and the upstairs too? I don’t have the courage to do it myself, and unless we do, I’ll think of Psycho and imagine a homicidal maniac lurking behind the furnace or the shower curtain.”

  “Of course we will,” Bledsoe said. “I should have suggested it myself. And why wouldn’t you be afraid, with the terrible time you’ve had and being woken in the middle of the night and all? You wait here. We’ll investigate every nook and cranny, and before we leave, we’ll make sure you’re safely locked in.”

  They tramped from the most distant corner of the cellar to the unfurnished third floor. At one point, Bledsoe returned for the key to Paul’s bedroom, and she handed him the ring of keys from the desk in the downstairs study. Once they’d satisfied themselves that nothing bigger than a small hamster could be hidden in the house, the officers left.

  Hollis reset the alarm, tidied the kitchen and went to bed. Whatever the killer was searching for must be here. First thing in the morning, she’d investigate Paul’s bedroom. The inner sanctum might hold the clue to his murder.

  At home, waiting for the constable’s call, Rhona said “to hell with cholesterol” and stepped to the fridge. She gave in to her stomach’s demand for a fried bacon and egg sandwich. While the bacon sizzled, she cleared a space on the cluttered kitchen table and considered the entries in her notebook. Opie, who adored bacon, sifted back and forth, rubbed against her legs and loudly complained about the injustice of spoiling his sleep without sharing the booty.

  Rhona ignored him. Instead, she considered the killer’s motive. Had he intended to right an imagined wrong? The trashing of the church office linked the crime to the church. The attempted break-in at the manse suggested the killer’s search continued.

  She drained the crisp bacon on paper towels, set a strip aside for Opie, cracked an egg in the bubbling fat and pushed the bread down in the toaster. As she spooned fat over the egg, her thoughts circled around Robertson.

  Was his widow one smart lady who was diverting attention from herself by faking a break-in? But, if Hollis wasn’t the killer, who was and what had he been searching for? Had Robertson been killed to prevent him from d
oing something or revealing something? Had the killer miscalculated and, after the murder, discovered whatever he or she had assumed would die with Robertson had been shared with someone? Perhaps it related to the manuscript for the book. She’d pick it up and discuss it with Dr. Yantha.

  Opie satisfied, the sandwich enjoyed with no message from the constable, Rhona tucked the dishes in the dishwasher and went to bed. In the morning, after she interviewed Barbara Webb, she’d talk to Hollis.

  At nine, she entered the office, where Barbara teetered on her high heels in front of a photocopier that was spewing sheets of green paper. When Barbara noticed Rhona, she smiled tentatively and turned off the machine. “I’ve gone through the calendar.” She moved to her desk and picked up the diary. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to match all the initials with names.” She offered it, along with a sheet of initials and names.

  Rhona popped the diary in her bag. “Thanks. Let’s start with the initials you deciphered.”

  “The locksmith’s truck is at the manse. What’s wrong?”

  By noon, everybody in the congregation would have heard—no reason to hide the information. “Nothing. Last night there was an attempted break-in, but nothing was stolen. Ms Grant is fine.”

  “The killer here again—it scares me to death. Especially when often I’m here alone. I feel so vulnerable. And poor Hollis. As if it isn’t enough to have Paul dead.” Her lips set in a straight line. “I hope you have a lot of people working on this. The next thing you know, the killer will strike again. He’s probably a serial killer.”

  Rhona wished people didn’t watch so much TV. After reassuring Barbara that the police were doing everything they could, she turned the discussion to the initials in Reverend Robertson’s diary.

  In her car, she lit a cigarette and read the initials and names. One set of unidentified initials set the bells clanging. T.U. Not many surnames began with U, and an unusual one had registered with her recently. Where? Who? The race program. She removed it from her bag. Uiska, Tessa, Kas Yantha’s wife and Hollis’s friend. T.U., not once but four times. Time to schedule appointments with the doctors.