Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

by Boswell Joan

  So much for Quigley. Before she became discouraged, she moved to the second name on the list and tapped in the area code and number for a Dr. Andrusiak at the hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene. Andrusiak didn’t have any problem telling Hollis all four of the men and the one woman she’d discussed with Paul remained in the institution.

  The third call, to Toronto’s Don Jail, produced nothing—Viola Fabian was on holidays. Hollis left a voice mail message.

  Three down and nothing gained.

  Next she contacted Mary Beth Cardwell, a psychiatric social worker at Brockville psychiatric hospital. Apparently Ms Cardwell was “in the office but away from her desk.” Again she left a voice message.

  Hollis worked her way down the acknowledgement list and learned many of the individuals Paul had investigated remained in prison or in hospital. It narrowed the field of possible killers, but she still had no way of matching real names with the nicknames Paul had used.

  The phone rang. “Ms Grant, it’s Mary Beth Cardwell returning your call. Actually, you won’t believe this, I’ve always believed I’d hear about my interview with your husband. I feel terrible about something I did, or, more accurately, didn’t do.”

  Listening to her voice, Hollis imagined an earnest face with a frown on her brow and worried creases at the corners of sincere eyes behind round glasses.

  “I’ve worried about this for a long time. It’ll be a relief to tell you what happened. First of all, I liked Reverend Robertson and felt very simpatico to what he was doing. Actually, he made me feel I might help increase tolerance and understanding.” She laughed apologetically, “I probably sound terribly naïve. Little Miss Pollyanna in the flesh. Actually, I’m a really up kind of person, and I’m always hoping that if people were familiar with the facts they’d act better. Of course, I had to keep the information in my files confidential; consequently I spoke to Reverend Robertson in general terms about several cases where I felt quite sure . . .” Ms Cardwell hesitated. “Actually, we have psychiatric reports in the files. Our patients are seriously disturbed. This is a longer-term care facility. I had a number of reports on my desk because I wanted to refresh my memory before Reverend Robertson arrived.”

  When she stopped, Hollis encouraged her to continue.

  “This part embarrasses me. Are you familiar with Crohn’s disease?”

  “No.”

  “Actually, it’s a condition characterized by severe bowel upsets. I’ve had it since my late teens. When Reverend Robertson visited us, I was in the middle of a bad spell. I had to dash to the toilet, and I left him with the files I hadn’t had a chance to put away. When I re-entered the room, I suspected he’d read them. Ever since, I’ve felt absolutely awful. I wondered whether to tell my boss or not, but finally decided not to, because Reverend Robertson had said he would not reveal anyone’s identity in any book he wrote. I figured I’d worked here too long and paranoia had taken over, but I felt terribly guilty.” After a pause she said, “Do you suppose it would have changed things if I had reported what I suspected?”

  No point adding to her distress. “No, I don’t. What could you have said? ‘I think he might have seen the files, but I’m not sure.’ It wouldn’t have solved anything or saved anyone.”

  “It’s nice of you to say that. I suppose you want to know whose files were on the desk but, actually, I’m not permitted to share information—it’s not ethical.”

  “Ms Cardwell, could you at least tell me if the individuals remain in the hospital and/or give me a synopsis of the files’ contents without identifying the people?”

  “Actually, I can’t do a single thing until I clear it with my boss. She’s on a week’s holiday canoeing in Algonquin Park. Can you imagine what the blackflies will be like in May, let alone how cold the water will be if she falls in? But you don’t care about that. I’d need her permission. I’m terribly afraid it will be Monday before I can do anything. But I’ll prepare a précis of each file and have them ready to go first thing Monday if she says I can. I hope that’s okay?”

  “If that’s all you can do—I’ll have to wait.”

  Bingo. The jackpot. The big enchilada. If Hollis found the master list, the field of potential murderers would narrow considerably.

  An idea edged into her mind. She left the folder on the desk to remind herself to deal with it later.

  With her eye on the door, she thought about the writing process. Paul, like every other writer, always collected more information than he used. When you’re in the gathering stage, you aren’t sure what shape your book will take and what information you’ll include in the final product. It happens to everyone—you stumble upon unexpected facts, get a new slant on a subject, or think about an ancillary article or another book.

  She flashed back to a morning in the fall when Paul had walked into the kitchen lugging a bulging briefcase.

  “What on earth is in there? Gold bars?” she’d said.

  He’d reached in, pulled out an elastic wrapped packet of file cards and waved it at her. “You won’t see these again. I’m organizing for another book that’ll be even more controversial than Push.” He stowed the packet in his briefcase. “I should read John LeCarré or Wilbur Smith to figure out how to do it right, but the way I’m arranging it, no one will be able to figure out anything without the keys to my codes.”

  Codes. Would they be in the safety deposit box?

  When Rhona had interviewed Dr. Yantha, his office had been as she’d imagined a psychiatrist’s office would be. She had no idea what to expect in a thoracic surgeon’s office.

  The pleasant-voiced secretary welcomed Rhona and apologized because her boss hadn’t returned. At that moment Dr. Uiska strode in, shook hands with Rhona and motioned her into the inner office. Austere was the word to describe the office. Filing cabinets lined one wall. No personal items, no plants, no paintings allowed the observer to speculate about the doctor’s interests or personality. But an impressive collection of black-framed professional diplomas reassured the timid that they were in good hands.

  Dr. Uiska was all edges and corners. Nothing rounded. Her short, prematurely silver hair sliced aggressively into points framing a thin face. Dark straight brows contrasted with her hair and drew attention to chilly pale blue eyes. She reminded Rhona of a desert fox in the nocturnal animal display at the London Zoo—predatory but finely drawn and perfectly adapted to her environment. When they shook hands, Rhona registered that these fine-boned, strong, supple, fingers belonged to an accomplished surgeon.

  “Your name was in Reverend Robertson’s appointment calendar. What was your relationship with him?”

  With raised eyebrows, Uiska said, “Certainly not an ‘intimate’ one. I’m sure you’ve uncovered the fact that Hollis and I have been friends for more than twenty years?”

  Rhona nodded.

  “It isn’t telling tales out of school to confess I’ve never understood why she married Paul.” An embryonic smile hovered on her lips. “I’ll be frank. I thought Paul Robertson was a reprehensible character or, as my children might say, a ‘jerk’.”

  “Thank you for your frankness. Why did you meet him?”

  Without fidgeting or exhibiting any unease, Uiska looked directly at Rhona. “A good question. I’m sure you wondered. The answer will surprise you.”

  Rhona doubted that. In her job, she heard such a variety of stories, she felt surprise-proof.

  “Kas and Hollis have birthdays close together. I wanted a double celebration, a bang-up party, and I enlisted Paul’s help.”

  Rhona reconsidered: she was surprised. Tessa Uiska didn’t fit the mould of a surprise party type and, from what she’d unearthed about Paul Robertson, planning a surprise party was even more out of character for him. “What did you plan to do?”

  Uiska paused and assessed Rhona before she shifted in her chair, removed a key from her pocket, unlocked the lower desk drawer, extracted her navy leather handbag and withdrew her pocket diary.


  Her actions struck Rhona as theatrical.

  “We settled on a dinner party at the golf club, with Kas thinking it was for Hollis and vice versa.”

  “When would this happen? Why did you decide to have a big celebration this year?”

  Uiska snapped the book shut and dropped it in her bag. “June, mid-June. They’re forty-five.”

  “And why did you see Robertson in early April?”

  The feral glance Uiska darted at Rhona contrasted sharply with her earlier easy, urbane manner.

  “I thought you meant all the visits. It takes time to plan a party. We had to divide the responsibilities.”

  Ignoring the insolence in Uiska’s voice, Rhona said, “How did you plan to divvy it up? How did Robertson feel about the party?”

  Uiska flexed her fingers. “I more or less shamed him into participating. I told him everybody would be coming and implied that the ‘good guys’ would receive brownie points.” She shrugged. “I knew it was a crock, but from what Hollis said, I realized he was a vain man. And Paul had a private income; he could afford it. I wanted a party because Kas would enjoy it, and Kas’s happiness means a great deal to me.”

  “Ms Grant mentioned that your husband said you’ve been worried and preoccupied for about six weeks. Tell me about it.”

  Tessa Uiska frowned. “Hollis said Kas told her that? I’m amazed.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her black brows drew together. She pressed her lips against one another and took several deep audible breaths. She shifted slightly and folded her hands in her lap.

  Rhona waited.

  “It has absolutely nothing to do with Paul Robertson. I can think of no reason why I should tell you my business.” She leaned forward to emphasize the last words.

  Rhona mimicked her body language and they sat like inclined bookends. “I am a police officer investigating a murder. I am the judge of what is or is not appropriate information. What was worrying you?”

  They glared at one another.

  “I’m a surgeon, a cardio-thoracic surgeon. I operate on hearts and lungs.”

  Smug woman. Rhona knew what a cardio-thoracic surgeon did. In fact, two years earlier, when her father’s blocked arteries had required a quadruple bypass, she’d read dozens of articles about heart operations. “I suppose you’re at the Municipal rather than the Heart Institute because you do both?”

  “Yes, that’s right. If you’re familiar with hospital procedure, you’ll remember that when a patient dies, whether the death is expected or not, there’s an investigation, and, if we have permission, there’s an autopsy.”

  With an effort, Rhona resisted the impulse to tell Uiska she’d attended more autopsies and had more to do with pathologists than Uiska could imagine.

  “When a surgical patient of mine dies and I think the patient should have recovered, it upsets me. In the last six weeks, three times the usual number have died, and the pathology department hasn’t pinpointed the reason.”

  “Those were negative autopsies?”

  Uiska blinked like a startled owl. Rhona had the feeling Uiska was affronted by a layman who had the temerity to use correct medical terminology. “Yes. Naturally, I’m concerned about this. My reputation is at stake. It may be a statistical blip, but I repeatedly replay the operations in my mind—analyzing and searching for the causes. I have been preoccupied, but, as you see, it has nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation.” Uiska folded her hands on her desk. “I hope I’ve answered your questions satisfactorily?”

  “Which golf club did you book for the party?”

  If the change in subject disconcerted her, she didn’t give any indication. “The Royal Britannia, but I haven’t yet reserved the dining room.”

  “You’re telling me you met Robertson four times, but you haven’t reserved a room or made any arrangements at the most socially correct club in the city, a month before the date, which happens to be at the height of the wedding season.”

  “I have been a wee bit tardy, but the hospital problem distracted me.”

  “That’s it for now. I’m cognizant of how busy you are, but we will need to talk again.”

  “I can’t imagine what else I can tell you.” Uiska frowned, unlocked her hands and stabbed her index finger repeatedly on the desk to punctuate her comment. “But if you must, I suppose you must.” She jabbed the table once again. “I’m a very busy woman. My appointments are made months in advance.”

  Aware of the faint ringing that, in the past, had presaged a full concert of bells and whistles, Rhona resolved to verify Uiska’s statements.

  Nine

  In Paul’s inner sanctum, Hollis read through several innocuous files on psychiatric research before she gave herself a mental jab in the ribs. What was she doing? This was a murder investigation, not a research project. She set the papers aside and picked up the safety deposit key she’d left on the desk. No matter how much she wanted to clear her name and have the killer arrested, it was Detective Simpson who possessed the tools to do the task. She dialled the old fashioned black phone on Paul’s desk, noting that the number differed from their downstairs number—one more Paul Robertson secret.

  Simpson was out. She left a message and opened a new page in the files.

  Fifteen minutes later, Elsie came up to tell her Simpson was on the phone. Hollis took the call in her bedroom and told Simpson what she’d discovered.

  “I’m coming over to pick up the key. I also want to see your husband’s office and do a quick once-over of his papers. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  Hollis padded downstairs. “Elsie, Detective Simpson will be here momentarily. Will you send her up to Paul’s office.”

  “Will she stay long, dear?” Elsie glanced at the kitchen wall clock. “It’s nearly twelve thirty. I’ll make a plate of sandwiches and brew a pot of coffee. Now dear, don’t argue, you have to keep your strength up and you shouldn’t miss your lunch.”

  Dear Elsie. Hollis’s own mother, out in the Pacific watching for whales, had never been as concerned with her welfare—it was nice.

  Twenty minutes later, Elsie ushered Simpson into the bedroom. Minutes later, carrying a tray of food, she returned. After she’d deposited the tray on the desk, she peered around the room with frank curiosity. “Not too cozy,” she said and headed downstairs.

  “The inner sanctum,” Simpson said.

  Hollis handed her the keys. “I did a quick search for bank or cheque books but came up empty.”

  “Strange. Did you search these two rooms?”

  “In the bedroom, I checked the drawers and the cupboard and found everything extremely neat and tidy—I couldn’t imagine anything hidden here. I’m halfway through the drawers and files in the office. I’m looking for the will.”

  “I’ll search the bedroom first and give you a chance to finish in the office. You do know that you must not remove any documents—that I need to see anything that might help identify the killer or the motive for the murder?”

  “Of course, but you did tell me to find the will.”

  With her chair facing the bedroom, Hollis monitored Simpson’s search—watched her work her way methodically around the room. First, she removed the bureau drawers and examined the contents, which she piled neatly on the bed before turning the drawers over to make sure nothing had been attached to the bottoms and backs. Then she took a small flashlight from her handbag and shone the light on every surface in the chest’s interior. Next, she unhooked the steel engravings and ran her hands over the paper backing.

  As Hollis sorted the papers in the second desk drawer, she found Paul’s parents’ will and Paul’s will. Afraid of what she might read, she slid Paul’s will from the heavy buff envelope stamped with the name and address of a prominent law firm.

  The will was dated September 14, long before Paul had demanded a divorce. She skimmed the legalese until she reached the words “aside from the specific bequests, the remainder of my estate will go to whoever is my wife at the
time, or in the event I have no wife, to the Mission Fund of the United Church of Canada”.

  “Whoever is my wife at the time”—nameless and faceless. No identity. Their marriage had been as okay as it ever had been in September. She was his wife and had been for more than two years. Why had he written something so dismissive, so demeaning?

  Deep breaths failed to calm her. What counsel would the Buddha have given in a situation like this? She ran through several possibilities—none seemed applicable.

  A hand-written codicil stipulated bequests of $5000 to each of seven women as “an acknowledgement for the pleasure they have given me.” Like a deferred payment for services rendered. At least they had names.

  Did she recognize them? The first five—Moira Ross, Bibi Sandstrom, Lynne Davidson, Pierrette Claire and Angela daSilva—were unfamiliar. Not so the last two—Denise Nielsen and Sally Staynor.

  Her face flushed. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her heart thundered a tattoo of rage. Breathing was hard. She felt as if she’d had a two-by-four rammed in her solar plexus. The bastard.

  “What’s wrong?” Detective Simpson asked.

  Beyond words, Hollis handed her the will, open to the appropriate page.

  Simpson read the offending words.

  “My God, no wonder you’re upset. For the moment, I’m sure you want as few people as possible to learn about this, but I need to photocopy it.”

  Upset didn’t begin to cover her reaction. Hollis shook her head. A strangled “Go ahead,” escaped her lips. “I’m getting a drink of water.” She lurched to her feet and out of the room.

  In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, stretched and tried to yawn—anything to relieve the tension. Nothing helped.

  When she returned and collapsed in the chair, Simpson glanced at her and, presumably to give her a moment to regain her composure, returned to her work. Squatting beside the bed, she hoisted each of Paul’s books, fanned its pages, suspended it upside down and shook it. Finally, she hunkered back on her heels.