Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (11 page)

“Did other people in the City Church feel like you did about Paul?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. Most were glad to have a champion, glad he was working to legitimize gay ordination.”

“You don't think Paul believed what he said?”

“He may have believed it, but he used the cause for his own ends.”

A talent of his. The more she learned, the more she realized Paul had specialized in furthering himself. “What exactly do you mean?”

“His crusading polarized people who initially didn't care much one way or the other. Gay priests and ministers have existed in every church since the year one, but as long as they didn't hold hands at church socials or flip limp wrists and lisp,
congregations identified them as ‘confirmed bachelors' and left it at that.” He paused, “I disliked Paul because he didn't
really
care about us or view us as individuals. By adopting our cause, he gave people who disliked him a rationale for hating him and extending their hate to us. Homophobia doesn't require any help. I've heard Paul adopted his position in order to advance his career with the influential left wing of the church.”

“You said you hated him long before the City Church debacle. How come?”

Marcus refilled their coffee cups. “It's ancient history, and I don't see what it'll change, but . . .” His lip curled upward in a faint smile. “Because I don't want you suspecting me, thinking I'm hiding anything, I'll share my pathetic little story.” He crossed his legs at the ankle. “For years I wouldn't admit I was gay.” He smiled. “You probably had your suspicions, but when we took the course and for a couple of years afterwards, I would have denied it.”

Hollis couldn't imagine what her opinion had to do with anything and said nothing.

“When I went into teaching, I was in deep denial and, consequently, I was one giant emotional mess. One day after lunch, the teachers were sitting around the lounge at the Carlingstone school where I was teaching and one of the men, whose sister's life was screwed up, told us she'd gone to Paul for counselling, and Paul had helped her. I was right at the point where I figured if I didn't talk to somebody, I'd explode. Before I could change my mind, I made an appointment.”

Hollis wanted to reach out to him but forced herself to sit quietly and listen.

“I fault him for how insistent he was. He talked about honesty, confronted me with the reality of my sexual orientation and told me I should come out. He claimed he'd spoken to many
gays and was convinced coming out was the right thing for me to do. He didn't warn me what would happen if I did. He went on and on about facing truth, not living a lie et cetera, et cetera.”

“And.”

“I figured if he'd talked to others, and it had been okay for them, it would be okay for me. I did it.”

Hollis nodded.

“At Carlingstone, they reacted instantly. Most of the teachers, especially the men, shunned me as if I had a contagious disease.” His mouth twisted downward. “I've never, ever, had the
slightest
interest in boys, but after I admitted my orientation, the rest of the staff followed my every move. The principal arbitrarily decided I would not be allowed to accompany the boys on out-of-town trips. An impossible situation—I resigned. The principal wrote a good recommendation, but I didn't try for another teaching job.”

“I remember asking you why you weren't teaching, and you mumbled an explanation about better opportunities as a fitness instructor and personal trainer. And said it gave you more time for photography. I guess I sensed you weren't keen to discuss the subject and dropped it.”

“Economically, I'm doing pretty well, but I loved teaching, and was good at it. I miss it. Kids deserve committed teachers like me.”

“Did you have other problems because of your decision?”

“Are you kidding? My father and brothers are ashamed of me. My mother cries because I'll never have children. My straight male friends mostly deserted the ship. Men, ‘regular guys', don't like having gay friends. It hurts to be dumped by fellows who've been your buddies since grade school.”

Hollis moved to the sofa and reached to circle his shoulder, but Marcus shifted away from her.

“I suppose Paul did me a favour. If I hadn't wanted his
advice, I could have rejected it. Hating him is hating the messenger. My life has changed for the better. I've found a guy. My family is coming around. But he should have warned me what it would be like. If he did that to me, you can bet he did it to others; told people to do what
he
thought they should do instead of encouraging them to make their own decisions. His counselling is all about power. He gets off on power.”

He shook his head as if he wanted to shed unhappy thoughts. “But you're the one with troubles. Can I help?”

“I'm not sure. If it's confession time, I have to admit I didn't know much about Paul or his life. When we married, he insisted we lead compartmentalized lives, and I agreed. I didn't meddle when he warned me off.”

Although his eyes widened, Marcus didn't comment.

“I feel like an idiot, like I'm guilty because I didn't insist. If I'd been closer to him, perhaps I might have prevented his death. It's a little late, but now I'm obsessed with figuring out who Paul was.” Hollis sighed. “The police suspect me, and I hate it. I refuse to sit back and do nothing.”

Marcus picked up her hands and squeezed them. “I understand. Doing nothing can drive you crazy. If you think I can help, you only have to ask.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she hesitated. Marcus had hated Paul, and he
had
run the marathon.

While Hollis wondered about Marcus and the possibility of his involvement, Rhona Simpson set off to interview JJ Staynor, husband of Paul Robertson's most recent girlfriend. Staynor had told her his office was at the rear of the building, accessible through the back door. Almost before Rhona's
knuckles contacted the metal, the door opened. A large man, fleshy and red-faced, loomed in the doorway.

“Come in.” But his threatening stance suggested Rhona “keep out.”

She ignored the partial blockage of the doorway and stepped around him into a small hall. On her right, an open door revealed a large room where butchers transformed the sides of meat into sanitized guilt-free trays of chops, steaks and ground meat. In the antiseptically clean room, every knife, mallet and saw had its designated resting-place outlined in black on a pegboard. The room, which resembled a surgical theatre or autopsy room, impressed her with its sterile efficiency.

Staynor led her across the hall to an office as orderly as the surgery. With arms crossed over his chest and his hands pressed against his body, he glowered at her. “I hope you realize this is a busy time of year. I have a big order coming in this afternoon for the twenty-fourth.”

Hostile message received but ignored. “I wasn't aware people ate anything special on the Victoria Day weekend.”

The big man loosened his grip on himself. “It's not as big a day as Christmas, Easter or the first of July, but we sell quantities of turkeys and hams for the third weekend in May.” He lumbered behind his desk and sagged down on the well-worn swivel chair, simultaneously waving Rhona to the visitor's wooden chair.

If the neatly labelled hooks for invoices and receipts, the annotated wall calendar, and the clearly marked loose leaf notebooks lined up on the bookshelf meant anything, Staynor valued order. A collection of china, metal and plastic bulls and steers crowded a plate rail encircling the room. On the otherwise bare desk, a magnificent china bull pitcher stuffed with pens and sharpened pencils drew Rhona's eye.

The two sat in a silence that stretched like a rubber band
and increased in tautness as it lengthened. Staynor snapped the tension. His lips widened into a caricature of a smile, but his gaze didn't meet Rhona's. Instead, as if unable to fix on any object, his eyes moved constantly. “ ‘I hated him for he is a Christian',” he rumbled while his eyes fixed first on one object then on another.

This was not what Rhona had expected.

Staynor's smile disappeared. His features drooped, along with his body, and he slumped in his chair. He pursed his mouth and twisted his hands, as if imitating Lady MacBeth.

This wasn't getting them anywhere. Time to shock him.

“Did you kill Paul Robertson?”

Staynor, relentlessly scraping his hands together, shook his head.

“Was your wife having an affair with Reverend Robertson?”

Staynor's strange smile reappeared when his hands stilled. He leaned forward without meeting Rhona's eyes. “ ‘The devil having nothing else to do went off to tempt my Lady Poltagrue. My lady, tempted by a private whim, To his extreme annoyance, tempted him,' ” he recited in a hoarse whisper before he relaxed. His eyes lit up. “The poets know it all. There's nothing new. Richard the Third, ‘He clothed his naked villainy; with odd old ends of holy writ. And seemed a saint when most he played the devil.' Was that Paul, or wasn't it?”

This was one weird man. How did he interact with his customers? Surely he didn't whisper riddles and quotes when he sold hamburger and pork chops?

Staynor straightened up and spoke in a normal voice. “You're surprised, aren't you? You figured since I was a butcher I'd be an illiterate oaf? I wasn't always a meat chopper. There's no law against a butcher learning a thing or two about something besides veal cutlets and rack of lamb. Ever since Chaucer, writers
have commented on the villainy of the clergy. Recently I've savoured the knowledge—Paul was one in a long line.”

Had he been toying with her? Playing the part of a demented man.

“Henry Fielding was acquainted with men like Paul. He said there was, ‘not in the universe a more ridiculous nor contemptible animal than a proud clergyman.' ” Staynor jerked upward as if an invisible giant had pulled a string. “More to the point, Fielding said there was one fool at least in every married couple.”

After this burst of enthusiasm, the invisible giant released the cord, and Staynor's vertebrae telescoped. “That's the important quote. My wife
chose
to have affairs. Paul wasn't the first—he won't be the last. Paul didn't
take
her. Women aren't sides of beef a man can steal. They have to want to go, or they don't go. I was the fool, and I suppose I hated him because he made me look foolish. Adultery's not new. It's not worth killing or being killed for. Shakespeare covered that too; ‘I pardon that man's life. What was thy crime? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery. No. The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly / Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive.' I don't think I'd agree that it should thrive, but it'll exist. It isn't worth murder.”

Staynor produced a facsimile smile. “Are you familiar with Auden's poem about a man who knifed another for holy reasons?” He answered his own question. “You probably aren't. I'll give you a bit. ‘He stood above the body, He stood there holding the knife, And the blood ran down the stairs and sang: ‘I'm the Resurrection and the Life'. They tapped Victor on the shoulder. They took him away in a van; He sat as quiet as a lump of moss saying, ‘I am the Son of Man' / Victor sat in the corner Making a woman of clay; Saying: ‘I'm the Alpha and Omega, I shall come to judge the earth one day.' ”

His face reflected his astonishment. “Where did that come
from? You'll think I'm as crazy as he was.” At the word “crazy”, Staynor covered his face with his massive hands.

Rhona waited.

After a time, Staynor dropped his hands and spoke in a normal tone. “What else can I tell you?”

“When your wife's affair with Robertson began, and how you found out?”

Staynor hunched down and mumbled, “Don't know. How did I find out? She told me.” His lips barely moved. “Telling me gave her a charge.”

“What did you do?”

Staynor flung his head from side to side like a tormented animal, like a caricature of the bulls ringing the room.

“Do. Why would I
do
anything?” His voice rose, and he continued to shake his head. “Do! I didn't do anything.”

“Did your wife want a divorce?”

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?”