by Boswell Joan
A hush fell when she tacked across the room to Hollis.
“It was a fucking shame. Nobody feels worse than me. I hope to hell they arrest the bastard who did it. If they had public hangings, I’d cheer them on.”
With Sally’s first slurred word, Hollis realized how drunk she was.
Simpson stepped forward and grasped Sally’s arm. “Mrs. Staynor, Sally, how about some coffee?”
“Get—your—hand off my arm, Ms Detective.” Sally enunciated the words with exaggerated care. “I came to pay my respects to the deceased.”
She addressed her next words to Hollis. “It wasn’t just tits and ass—I was his soul mate. I bet you didn’t know that, Mrs. Professor. I bet you didn’t know we talked about things up to and including you and your tight-assed WASP attitudes. Let me tell you, he knew a thing or two about you and the church.” Her eyes narrowed. “If people realized how much he told me, there’d be a a lot of nervous people out there.” Sally swayed. “Aren’t you going to say anything? I thought professors talked all the time?” She tilted to one side and stepped back as if she needed distance to focus. “Cat’s got your tongue? Tongue, tongue, didn’t Paul have a great one?” She snorted. “Bet you don’t even know what I mean?” Her eyes blinked in time as she swayed. The muscles around her mouth slackened until her face resembled a half-set bowl of jelly.
Sally’s words pinned Hollis in place like a chloroformed butterfly.
Having made her statement Sally tucked her chin down in her neck, but the protective motion didn’t stop her head from wobbling. She suddenly seemed to become aware of the spectators who had crowded closer. “What the hell are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a woman overcome with grief?”
She redirected her attention to Hollis. “You don’t count—I don’t care about you. I came to say goodbye to Paul.” At the mention of Paul, she straightened her hat, twitched her veil and pulled at her skirt, as if preparing for a royal audience, and staggered toward the coffin.
Sally hung over the coffin for a moment or two before her features imploded. “Paul,” she gasped. Her legs folded and as she crashed to the floor, she overturned a large arrangement of gladioli and lilies. Lying in a pool of water soaking into the maroon patterned carpet amid a welter of flowers, Sally resembled a broken, discarded doll.
In the stunned silence that followed this drama, Simpson and Constable Featherstone hoisted Sally to her feet.
She wasn’t unconscious. Despite her limp, unresponsive body and lolling head, she mumbled and muttered as they propelled her toward the door. Most of the words were indistinguishable but, when she reached the door, she revived and reached for the frame as if to prevent them from removing her. “Poor sod, poor me, poor me. What will I do without him?”
Paul’s visitation over, Rhona drove to headquarters, caught up on paperwork and went home. As usual the first thing she did was listen to her messages.
“Hi sweetie, how’s the case going? I’m still on nights, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Think about Toronto. Love ya.”
The day’s tension evaporated. Zack. How lucky she was to have him. She fell into bed and drifted off to sleep, thinking of Toronto and a new life. She’d find time to call him tomorrow.
Before getting into bed, Rhona had thrown the window wide open. She woke in a freezing bedroom with Opie sleeping on her shoulder and numbing her arm. She pushed him aside and, waiting for sensation to return, marshalled her wits and planned her day.
Was she doing everything according to the book, according to correct police procedure? Silly question—of course she was. Her mind worked in a linear fashion and, if police work was anything, it was linear.
After the usual early morning meeting, where the officers involved in the case summarized their progress, she’d go to her office to sort and prioritize what she had to do. Because she hadn’t believed Dr. Uiska’s explanation for her state of anxiety, she’d contact Dr. Axeworthy and ask the pathologist to provide statistics for her to use when she confronted Dr. Uiska. Or not: perhaps it had been a bona fide story. But, true or not, she’d arrange a second interview with Dr. Uiska.
She should dress conservatively in dark trousers and a neutral shirt. But every morning she fought the urge to reach for more flamboyant clothing. Today, she wanted to pull on high-gloss leather pants moulded to her body, hand tooled cream cowboy boots inset with curlicues of red and black leather, a black suede vest studded with brass stars, a red satin shirt and a bolo tie, but resisted the urge. Statements were for her off-duty hours.
Tucked into her brown pinstripe pantsuit, complete with vest, she softened the effect with a brilliant red silk scarf knotted around her neck.
In her office, she surveyed the pile of paper on her desk. The enormous volume of paperwork required in the police force never daunted her, because she realized the importance of order. From bitter court experiences, she knew why cops had mountains of paperwork. She’d had hot-shot lawyers twist her words until only careful documentation had saved her from total disaster.
She created four piles: “toss”, “file”, “consider later” and “deal with immediately”. After she swept the “toss” stuff in the wastebasket, she plugged in her kettle and brewed a pot of Earl Gray tea. Oversize mug in hand, she phoned the hospital switchboard and was patched through to the path lab.
“Dr. Axeworthy, I have a couple of questions about a colleague of yours.”
“My responsibilities do not involve discussing my colleagues with the police. You have heard of confidentiality?”
“It isn’t a question of confidentiality. Dr. Uiska told me she’d had a number of unexpected deaths in the last few weeks. She claimed these patients should have recovered from surgery and didn’t, and their deaths were classified as negative autopsies. Would you check the records and tell me how many of Uiska’s patients died in the last six weeks compared to the same period last year? I’m particularly interested in the number of deaths you classified as negative autopsies.”
“You’d think we had nothing to do but fill out papers. Our patients may be dead but, like everyone else, we operate under money and time constraints.”
“I’m sure you do. With cutbacks, we’re all understaffed, but I do require the figures very soon. I appreciate it. I’m aware of how busy you are.”
Her second call went to Dr. Uiska’s secretary, who connected her to the doctor. “Dr. Uiska, Rhona Simpson here. I’d like you to come in today. It’s important.”
“Good morning, Detective,” Uiska said, underlining both the abruptness of Rhona’s address and Uiska’s inability or unwillingness to use her name. “I can’t imagine what information you want that I can’t tell you on the phone.”
Rhona’s hand tightened on the receiver. “As I said yesterday, this is a murder investigation. I determine who I interview and when. I must meet you today. You surely don’t, or perhaps you do, want me to employ the heavy guns and insist you postpone whatever you’re doing this morning and see me immediately?”
“My dear woman, it’s not necessary to get upset. If you think this is important, well, of course, being a good and concerned citizen, I am at your command. I can be there by six. It’s not something I like to do, but one of my residents can cover my afternoon rounds.” Uiska implied that for some patients, her absence would mean the difference between life and death and maybe it would. Rhona hoped not.
“I’ll expect you.” Rhona said and stuck her tongue out at the phone before she hung up.
Next she called Tessa Uiska’s husband. “Dr. Yantha, I plan to drop by your office after lunch. I remember you said you left a slot open for emergencies, and I want your professional opinion on something.”
“Two would be best. My two o’clock cancelled.”
With her doctors’ appointments set, she removed the tea bags, added hot water to the teapot and poured herself another cup.
Time to skim through When Push Comes to Shove. She picked up the bulky manuscript in its red folder, rested
her feet on the open bottom drawer and opened the book. Years earlier, she’d taken a speed-reading course and had never been sorry. Zipping through the pages, she stopped occasionally to write questions and comments on a yellow legal pad. Two themes emerged: the long-term effects of traumatic childhood sexual molestation; and the lengths to which vulnerable individuals would go to hide stories of molestation, or of secret sexual preferences and practices they considered damaging to their mainstream lives.
A third of the way through the book, she laid the manuscript on her desk. Something was missing. She flipped her pen, a four-colour wonder, up in the air to see if she could catch it before it landed, discovered she couldn’t, and bumped her head when she retrieved it. Somehow the pencil, the flip or the bump reminded her of Tom Masterman, long time crime reporter for the Toronto Star and author of three books on true crime. Once or twice in the past she’d supplied Masterman with information and they’d established a friendly rapport.
Rhona phoned the Star only to be told Masterman had taken early retirement. She flipped through her Rolodex, located the card she wanted and phoned Masterman’s home.
“It’s Rhona Simpson from Ottawa. I’m not sure if you’re doing any consulting, but we have a murder here that may be connected to crimes with which you’re familiar.”
“Good thing you rang today. I’m off on a trip to New Brunswick next week. What exactly do you think I can do?”
“Paul Robertson, the minister murdered on Sunday, has written a book using pseudonyms for real people involved in camouflaged crimes. Could I courier a copy of the manuscript to you and ask you to match the pseudonyms with actual names and crimes? If you can, I’d like you to share any details the press didn’t report, especially if they might have motivated a person to murder to keep information quiet.”
“Shouldn’t be hard. My files are in my computer. Tomorrow’s a good day—the wife’s out at her ‘slim and trim’, then she’s off to buy the grandkids lunch and take them to the zoo. Soon as it arrives, I’ll skim it and see if I can identify the crimes and bring up the information.”
Masterman sounded delighted to have a project. Retirement must be hard for a guy who’d enjoyed his work. She poured herself a final cup of lukewarm tea and fumbled in her top drawer for the box of Smarties she reserved for sugar binges. The hard-coated chocolate-centred candies simultaneously comforted her and gave her the guilts. Sometimes she ate them one by one, telling herself each would be the last, but knowing full well she’d continue to enjoy the melting of the brightly coloured covering and savour the chocolate centres until the bag was empty. This time she bypassed the game and stuffed a handful in her mouth before she reached for the manuscript.
Rhona’s chief, the immaculately dressed Inspector Charlie O’Connor, stuck his head in the room. As usual, his clothing dazzled. He favoured blindingly white Egyptian cotton shirts with French cuffs and distinctive cuff links, well-tailored English wool suits and highly polished brogues. Sadly, even the best of English tailoring failed to hide his bulky Irish body or add grace to his face, which was sinking into the jowly folds of an aging Boxer dog.
“How are you doing? Need more staff? I can free another constable if necessary. I want you at the press conference at noon.”
Hastily swallowing the candy, Rhona choked, grabbed for the tea and tipped the large mug. Mesmerized, her eyes followed the liquid as it flowed around the manuscript, isolating it like an island in a tea dark sea.
The manuscript wasn’t hers.
She reached for the book as O’Connor bent to do the same thing. The red dye in the manuscript cover, freed by the tea, spattered O’Connor’s white cuffs. The tea soaked into Rhona’s neat piles of paper before it dripped on the floor. Red dye coloured her hands and splashed on her brown suit. In one motion, Rhona parked the dripping manuscript in her metal wastebasket, pulled the last three tissues from the box and dropped them in the brown swill.
Three weren’t going to do the job. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’ll get paper towels.” She bolted from the room leaving the chief examining his red-spotted cuffs. Rhona had a horrible feeling those red splotches would forever mark her career.
After the fiasco with Chief O’Connor, Rhona cleaned up the mess, couriered a copy of the manuscript to Masterman and went down to the canteen for a newspaper. Turning to the employment opportunities, she ran through the possibilities, but no one was advertising for a more than slightly spastic cop with confirmed suicidal tendencies. She deposited the newspaper in the red streaked wastebasket. Nothing she could do about the red stains on her clothes. The press interview was in half and hour. She hoped the press officer didn’t direct any questions to her.
She had time to phone Ms Grant. After she identified herself she said, “I’ve been reading the manuscript. When did your husband do his research? Did he talk to you about the men and women he interviewed?”
“He used his holidays, the weekends he didn’t preach, and spare moments at conferences. Occasionally, he mentioned people he met but not often.”
“I don’t see a list of acknowledgements. Did he have one?”
“It’s here.”
“I’ll need a copy.”
“I’ll drop one off at the station.”
“Another question. I’m interested in your finances. Who paid for what? Did you have joint bank accounts?”
“We had separate current accounts. We each paid a share of the bills. Why?”
“Just another lead I’m following.”
Following the conversation, she rotated to the computer and drafted a cover letter requesting the fax recipients to contact her immediately about an urgent police matter. Once she had the list of acknowledgements, she’d fax each of them.
The phone rang.
Dr. Axeworthy, brisk as ever, wasted no time on pleasantries.
“Absolute nonsense. I can’t imagine what you or Dr. Uiska are playing at. Completely normal autopsy results for the last six months. I’ll send you a statistical synopsis. As if my staff doesn’t have enough to do.” She hung up without allowing Rhona to thank her, apologize or say anything at all.
Time for the press conference. With her notes in hand in case she was required to answer questions, she marched down to the interview room.
“I have a prepared statement for you regarding the Reverend Paul Robertson case. We are making technical progress. Reverend Robertson was killed with a single blow from a knife classified as an ordinary kitchen variety but which was, technically, a boning knife, a knife not as long as a standard carving knife. It was well worn and will be difficult to trace unless someone voluntarily identifies it.
“We’re verifying every marathon runner’s name and address as well as any possible connection with Reverend Robertson.”
“Ross, Toronto Star. Have you eliminated the runners ahead of Rev. Robertson?”
“No. Although it would have been impossible for someone to turn against the tide, an elite runner could have positioned himself or herself, we’re not ruling out women, further to the rear in order to kill Robertson and divert suspicion.”
“Belanger, Montreal Gazette. Do you think it’s possible the murderer killed him and went on to finish the race?”
“We’re not eliminating anyone at this stage. We’ll have a complete computer print-out soon.”
“Ramsami, Toronto Sun. Do you have any idea about motive? Did it have anything to do with the Reverend’s crusades?”
“At this point, we’re not ruling out anything. I have nothing else to add and will keep you informed of our progress.”
Not too bad. Because the press had not learned about the break-in at the church and the attempted break-in at the manse, she had more time to uncover the answers.
On the drive through the city to her appointment at the psychiatric hospital, Rhona savoured the sun slanting through the lightly leafed trees and making the grass glow with a brilliance no artist could ever capture. When Rhona entered Dr. Yantha’s waiting room, t
he door to the inner office stood open, and he beckoned her in.
A broad beaming grin lit up his face. “Great day. Come in and tell me what I can do for you?”
This was a different man than the one she’d interviewed the other day. Rhona returned his smile. “Answer questions about Ms. Grant and about men like Reverend Robertson. First, I want your opinion on something you told me yesterday. Do you think the changes in Ms Grant might have been symptoms of a mid-life crisis?” Before Dr. Yantha answered, she amended the question. “How old is Ms Grant?”
“Hollis was forty-four in January.”
“And you, are you forty-four?”
Dr. Yantha grinned. “No. I’m hanging on to forty-three for a couple of weeks. To answer your question, forty-four isn’t a particularly bad year. Forty—that was traumatic. Fifty probably will be too, but there’s nothing special about forty-four. No, I don’t think it was a mid-life crisis.”
“To change the subject. Have you found out why your wife was preoccupied?”
“I’m not clear on why you think it’s any of your business, but, no, I haven’t.”
“How did your wife get along with Robertson?”
The doctor frowned, and Rhona thought she glimpsed a deep uneasiness before his customary professional calm masked whatever she’d seen.
“As far as I know, she met him once and didn’t like him.”
Rhona posed a number of questions about philanderers and obsessive sex. Finally, she thanked Dr. Yantha and left him to his three o’clock, a small, nervous man perched on the edge of one of the waiting room chairs, drumming his fingers on the table.