Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

by Boswell Joan

  “Yes,” Sally said in a tiny voice.

  “Turn it on when you’re alone. And that means day and night.”

  “Do you still want to come in?”

  “No. I came to warn you.” Rhona turned to walk down the steps, swivelled around and said, “By the way, I’ve told your husband you may be in danger.”

  “Great, that’s great. What if he’s the goddam killer?”

  “If he is, he’s aware we’re concerned and on the lookout—that’s your best protection. Take care.”

  Sixteen

  On Sunday morning, when Hollis opened her eyes, she was grateful that she’d slept through the night. She felt much better than she had for days. She rolled over and inspected the day. The intensity of the blue patch of sky and the intoxicating air wafting in the open window also lifted her spirits. She stretched. The scrape on her leg throbbed, and her body ached as if a giant had beaten her with iron rods. Stress did that to you. Time for restorative action. Beginning with the big toe on her right foot and gradually working her way up, she focussed on each separate part of her body as she stretched and breathed deeply. It helped.

  While she applied these tension-relieving exercises, she thought about the murder. Detective Simpson hadn’t uncovered a lot or, if she had, hadn’t shared the information. The bank account was suspicious, but she hadn’t connected it to anyone. Hollis thought Simpson was flailing about, particularly with her fixation on Tessa and Kas, whom Hollis absolutely did not believe had had any role in Paul’s murder. In her opinion, Paul’s manuscript held the key, but Simpson didn’t appear to share her conviction.

  MacTee would have to forego his usual Sunday morning trip to the farm; she didn’t plan to set foot there until the murderer was caught and stashed in jail. Instead, she and MacTee walked sedately through their neighbourhood to Dow’s Lake, where sweeping beds of massed tulips flowed along the east side of the lake. Tour buses disgorged hordes of tulip watchers. Photographers, equipped with tripods and a multitude of lenses, waited for the slanted rays of the early sun to provide the exact light for the perfect shot. Parents pushed strollers, joggers and dog-walkers crowded the paths and admired the blocks of glowing jewel-coloured flowers.

  The tulips, along with the happy crowd, cheered her. Back at home, she brewed a pot of coffee, toasted a pumpernickel bagel, spread apricot jam and low fat cream cheese on it and wondered what to do with the day. She felt an urge to accomplish something concrete. She’d always been a woman who liked making decisions, admittedly not always good ones, but she prided herself on getting on with life. No one had ever accused her of indecisiveness.

  A glance at the wall calendar in the kitchen reminded her—in two weeks time, at the beginning of June, she was scheduled to drive to Newfoundland for her summer fieldwork. The arrangements had been made and, if the police had caught Paul’s killer or had at least finished with her, she planned to go. Work would be good therapy.

  The two-week window before her departure would be a good time to sort out and pack her possessions. Soon the church would want the manse for a new minister.

  The process of selection would take months: first the congregation would appoint a committee to choose the new minister, then, the group would decide on the criteria. Finally they’d advertise, interview and choose Paul’s successor, who would not arrive until at least September. Although she didn’t have to rush, she had no reason to linger or postpone dealing with Paul’s belongings. Indeed, cleaning and sorting in preparation for leaving the manse would be cathartic.

  Her eyes rested on a green depression glass cream and sugar squeezed beside a stack of assorted plates in a glass-fronted kitchen cupboard. With surprise, she realized how much she disliked that particular shade of green. Mismatched plates and other bits and pieces of china and glass Paul had inherited from his mother crowded the shelves. This was her chance: she’d give everything she didn’t want to the refugee committee.

  Thoughts of the committee reminded her that Jim Brown and Knox Porter would announce the details of the memorial refugee fund at the eleven o’clock service. If she wanted to hear, she’d better get ready.

  Shoulders back, she entered the narthex of St. Mark’s a while later. Sudden tears surprised her as they welled into her eyes. She forced the corners of her mouth to curve and told herself she wanted a rain of tears to shower down on the maroon carpet. Reverse strategy worked again.

  Head high, she walked stiffly, favouring the leg the bullet had grazed, up the aisle to her usual seat. Because she’d forgotten her glasses, the faces, whether they belonged to friends, acquaintances or strangers, blurred in her vision. She nodded and smiled faintly and indiscriminately before she slid into the third pew from the front. Once there, she reached into her purse for a tissue and there they were—the missing glasses. Parked on her nose, they enabled her to see the choir and, if she looked around, to distinguish friend from stranger.

  After a brief prayer, the organist’s soothing Bach prelude calmed and restored.

  At announcement time, Knox Porter, spine erect and pace ponderous, proceeded to the pulpit, allowed a moment of silence and arranged his already doleful face into an even more lugubrious mask. “As you may have read in the Citizen and in this morning’s Bulletin, St. Mark’s, in honour of the late Reverend Paul Robertson, has established a memorial fund to further the work of bringing refugees to Canada, a cause dear to Reverend Robertson’s heart. The church and society committee will use the income from the fund to initiate and support refugee projects. Because it is unlikely there will ever be a time when there are no refugees in the world, we regard this fund as an ongoing perpetual memorial.” He paused to adjust his papers and continued: “Even before we receive donations, we’re initiating action to have a Central American family join us at the end of the month. Tonight, in the lounge, we’ll get together at eight to organize volunteers, to canvass the congregation for everything the family will require—clothes, furnishings, linen—the works. We’ll also enlist volunteers to help the family enroll in language classes, register for school et cetera, et cetera.”

  Porter produced one of the tightly controlled smiles Hollis had always thought made him resemble a ventriloquist’s dummy with an activated hinged jaw.

  “We hope many of you who wish to do something in memory of Reverend Robertson will make this project your own and come to tonight’s meeting.”

  With the morning’s inventory-taking fresh in her mind, she remembered her earlier conversation with Jim Brown and resolved to attend—to thank the volunteers.

  After supper that evening, she slipped down to the basement freezer and collected three loaves of banana bread.

  The meeting was in the lounge, the largest furnished meeting room in the church hall. Hollis disliked the room because she thought it reflected a committee decision to offend no one and choose beige. The carpet, nearer brown than beige, complemented the walls that were nearer pink than beige. The recently upholstered chairs defied description. The rough, serviceable tweed raised welts on exposed flesh. The colour, with its unidentifiable flecks of orange and green, most closely resembled vomit. Four paintings relieved the neutrality of the room, but in these landscapes, water tilted uphill and the sky’s blue would never have been tolerated by a kind Creator.

  She carried the banana bread into the adjoining kitchen, where Grace Goodfellow and Bessie Ross organized the refreshments, always a feature of United Church get-togethers. Grace hovered before the stove, waiting to remove one of the three kettles about to come to the boil. Marion stacked a large tray with cups and saucers. Plates of cookies, squares and fruit bread arranged with geometrical precision marched along the counter.

  “Marion, Grace, how are you both?”

  Marion, her expression reflecting both concern and a degree of disconcertedness, spoke first. “Hollis dear, we didn’t expect you to come.”

  “I’m here to thank everyone. I brought three loaves of banana bread from the freezer. I’m sorry they’re froze
n. I didn’t think of them until a few minutes ago. I hope they thaw.”

  Hollis, anxious to have something to do while she waited for the meeting to begin, volunteered to carry a tray of china into the lounge. After she’d deposited a stack of dessert plates on the solid Loyalist maple table positioned at the rear of the room, she turned away to speak to Jim Brown, who was busily unfolding and setting out extra chairs.

  Jim removed a chair from the pile. “Great that you felt up to coming. As you can tell by the number of chairs, we expect a crowd.”

  Knox and Linda Porter joined them. Linda widened her eyes and raised her hands in a theatrical gesture of amazement, “Good heavens, Hollis, whatever are you doing here? Knox said you must be ab-so-lute-ly pros-trate with grief, and here you are all dressed up in a bea-u-ti-ful outfit.”

  Knox glowered and interrupted the flow. “What Linda means—we’re honoured you came, but realize it must be a strain for you.”

  Jim Brown intervened. “It’s great you’re here. I’m sure you want to feel part of the planning process. Every one will be delighted to see you. Come and sit down, and I’ll bring you up to date.”

  During their conversation, people in ones and twos moved into the room, milled about, filled tea cups, hoovered up the squares and cookies and chose a place to sit.

  Although Jim’s welcome had sounded sincere, Hollis realized by the covert glances and lowered voices that her presence unsettled the crowd. A wave of fatigue threatened to overwhelm her, and she faced reality—she hadn’t factored the shock factor into her equation.

  “Jim, could I say a word or two before you begin? I hadn’t realized quite how exhausted I am, and I know I won’t be able to stay all evening.”

  After Marguerite Day drew the group together with a short prayer, she turned the meeting over to Jim. He moved to the front of the semi-circle of chairs. “I’m sure we’re delighted Hollis has joined us, and even happier she’ll speak to us about our project.”

  Hollis eased herself to her feet, brushed crumbs from her lap and joined Jim at the front. Once again, she regretted her hypocrisy, the necessity of pretending Paul had been an upright citizen and a role model. “I’m touched to see you all here. Paul would have appreciated the turnout. The plight of refugees, particularly those from Africa and Central America, was near and dear to his heart, and no memorial would mean more to him than this. He’d be impressed with how rapidly you began the job, for I hardly need tell you . . .” This group would appreciate her next remark. “Paul was not a patient man. He thought a good idea deserved immediate action. I’m not staying, but I wanted to express my approval for the plans Jim Brown and Knox Porter have formulated. Like most of you, I have many things I want to donate, but my priority at the moment is sorting through Paul’s papers.”

  Perhaps they deserved more explanation. “The police are working around the clock to identify Paul’s,” she paused again and finally managed to say, “Paul’s killer. I’m going through his papers deciphering and interpreting them for the police.” She elaborated, because her grandmother always said any story profited from a little embroidery. “It’s a big task, and it will take me several days. Thank you again for your kindness and for your enthusiasm for this project.”

  Jim Brown thanked her on everyone’s behalf and walked her to the door. She felt a rush of gratitude: people had been kind. Surely, there wouldn’t be any more trouble.

  Early on Monday morning, Rhona gave in to Opie’s loudly voiced demands for her breakfast and slid out of bed. She missed Zack. Brunch aficionados, they’d sampled the wares of most of Ottawa’s well-known restaurants. If she moved to Toronto, with its wonderful ethnic restaurants, it would take them years to try them all. She sighed. Being on the case, she wouldn’t have had time to go out even if Zack had been in town, but she’d make up for it this morning. She’d prepare her own Monday super brunch. She assembled the ingredients of a perfect omelet—chopped green chilies, cheddar and eggs. Rhona drained the chilies, sliced open a package of grated cheese and thanked God for convenience foods. She dropped a chunk of butter into the frying pan, following its erratic course around the pan and listening to it sizzle before she poured in the beaten eggs. The phone rang.

  “Simpson, O’Connor here. We have a suspicious death connected to the Robertson case.”

  “Not Ms Grant?”

  “No. This woman was involved with Robertson; her husband said you’d warned her to be careful . . .”

  “Sally Staynor.”

  “This morning Mr. Staynor discovered her in their garden room. He thought she’d fallen asleep in front of the TV but, when he touched her and felt how cold she was, he dialled 911.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Too early to say. Her husband said he thought she’d been drinking—there was an overturned glass and spilled liquid. Apparently, no sign of violence.”

  A screaming siren.

  “Damn, I’ve set off the smoke detector.” The connection was broken. She rushed to the stove, grabbed the charred omelet, thrust it under the tap, drowned the mess and cranked the window open. By flapping a dishtowel repeatedly at the smoke detector, she stopped the howling.

  The phone rang. Testily, she assured the security systems rep everything was under control. Everything except her stomach, she grumbled to herself. A bagel would have to do. She mourned the ruined omelet and slathered the bagel with thick peel orange marmalade, topped with a handful of the grated cheddar, wrapped it in a paper napkin and headed for the scene of the crime.

  Three police cars parked on the Staynor’s quiet street had drawn the neighbours out of their urban solitude. Avid curiosity knotted them together to chat and probably speculate about what disaster had happened in the house of the notorious Sally and her eccentric husband.

  After she’d identified herself to the constable at the door, Rhona moved to the garden room. Sally, open-eyed, her head listing to one side, slumped in the rocking chair. Death had caught her looking surprised. Her left hand, palm up, lay on the table next to an overturned glass. A red stain had spread erratically on the quilt-covered table.

  On her last visit, Rhona had remarked on the mélange of items crowding the surface. Now, the dried flowers, stack of magazines, chipped crystal ashtray filled with pins and elastics had been jumbled to the back to make room for a large gift basket. Originally indistinguishable from a million others woven somewhere in Asia, the basket’s decorations and contents set it apart. The handle, wrapped with a wide purple velvet ribbon and anchored by a large satin bow, drew the eye, as did the assortment of purple, black and silver packages, decorated with purple or black bows, nestled in masses of mauve tissue paper. Rhona’s eyes rested on a clear cellophane bag tied with curly purple ribbon and packed with black jellybeans and licorice. Eternity cologne leaned against a silver coloured box of facial tissue. A large, black-bordered card with a hand lettered message, “Deepest sympathy”, caught her eye.

  Beside the basket, an open bottle of Smirnoff vodka stood alongside its cap sporting a purple bow. The tab and a small black bow had been pulled from one can of Clamato juice.

  If the sender had poisoned the vodka or the mix, he’d exhibited a bizarre sense of humour by including Eternity. Had he intended to warn Sally, to give her a fifty-fifty chance to suspect treachery and forego the hemlock? Whoever had created the basket had been familiar with Sally’s susceptibility to drama, to the exaggerated gesture. Rhona berated herself for not having had more imagination—not having warned Sally to be suspicious of anything out-of-the-ordinary.

  The police photographer interrupted her musings to inform her he’d finished. Although Rhona didn’t really expect the medical examiner, Bert Singh, an old friend of hers, to answer her questions, she asked him, “Can you give me an idea of the cause of death or tell me when she died?”

  “No to both questions. Rigor mortis has set in. Since the house isn’t excessively hot or cold, I’d hazard a guess she probably died some time last evening. But I wo
uldn’t want to swear to it in court until I have more information.” He packed his gear away. “I won’t speculate about the cause until we’ve done the autopsy. We’ll begin immediately.” He zipped the case shut. “The husband and son are in the living room.”

  The Staynors, removed as far as possible from the sunroom, huddled in matching rather dirty green brocade chairs. When Rhona entered the room, they rose and faced her with identical sad blue eyes.

  Innocent until guilty, Rhona told herself and extended her hand to Mr. Staynor. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Staynor. It’s a terrible time for you, but I have important questions.” She directed her next words to the young man. “We haven’t met.” She extended her hand. “I’m Detective Rhona Simpson. I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “I’m Daniel.” The boy gulped and turned away to collect himself.

  Rhona surveyed the room, searching for an easily moveable seat. A dark green velvet ottoman with gold fringe and tassels filled the bill. She pulled it over to the two wing chairs. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  “Would you rather sit here?” Daniel asked.

  “No. This is fine.” Rhona spoke again to Daniel. “Tell me when you last saw your mother?”

  Daniel swallowed several times. “I was at my friend Mike’s cottage this weekend. We were late coming home because of the traffic.” He sniffed and his eyes filled with tears. “Because I didn’t especially want to listen to a speech, when I came in the side door and saw the light in the sunroom and heard the TV, I shouted ‘I’m home’ and went upstairs. My mother doesn’t much care about my coming or going, but sometimes . . .” He paused and studied his hands. “Sometimes, Mom wants to talk about life and stuff, and I really didn’t want to have one of those talks.” In a small voice, he said, “I wish I had come in. I’ll never have another chance.” His face contorted, and tears spilled down his cheeks. He took a deep shaky breath, rubbed his sleeve across his face and continued to rub until he gained control. “Do you want me to tell you anything else?”