Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery

JOAN BOSWELL

Text © 2005 by Joan Boswell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

Cover art: Christopher Chuckry

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.

Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

09  08  07  06  05      5  4  3  2  1

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Boswell, Joan

Cut off his tale / Joan Boswell.

“RendezVous Crime”.

ISBN 1-894917-18-9

I. Title.

For my mother, Marion Barlow Dunsford Young, who always believed, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I could do ‘whatever I set my mind to'.

I would like to thank my critiquing group, The Ladies' Killing Circle—Vicki Cameron, Barbara Fradkin, Mary Jane Maffini, Sue Pike, Linda Wiken and the late Audrey Jessup. Their tutelage and friendship made
Cut Off His Tale
possible. Thanks must also be given to Isabel Huggan and the Humber School of Writing and to my publisher, Sylvia McConnell and editor, Allister Thompson at RendezVous Crime—all of whom helped smooth the rough edges and point me in the right direction. My love and appreciation to my supportive and ever-growing family and, of course, to my beloved flat-coated retrievers.

An epiphany—that's how seasoned runners describe their feeling when they complete the twenty-six miles, three hundred and eighty-five yards of the marathon. Hollis Grant's epiphany occurred fifty paces into the race.

She arrived at the National Capital Marathon's starting point fifteen minutes before the eight
AM
race. To ease her pre-race tension and satisfy her curiosity, she pushed through the crowd toward the starting line and focussed on the other runners.

At the front of the pack of more than four thousand, the elite, the lean, mean human greyhounds, skin stretched tautly over bones and muscles, seemed oblivious to their surroundings. As she edged through the men and women with low bib numbers, she scanned the colourful mob, the fluorescent shirts, the brand name jackets and the high-tech shoes. Some runners came equipped with sunglasses, caps, gloves, walkmans, belly bags—they might be spending a day hiking in the Gatineau. Others, minimalists despite the cool morning, barely covered their lean frames with singlets, shorts and shoes.

Kinetic energy rustled from synthetic fabrics, echoed from the soft thud of shoes on the road as people ran on the spot, and rose from the continuing murmur of hundreds psyching themselves up for the twenty-six-mile endurance challenge. The competing odours of sun screen, aftershave, mouthwash and sweat mingled on that chilly Sunday morning in May.

A little further back, her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Paul, an
ordained minister by profession and a runner by avocation, would wear a relatively low number and be positioned with the faster, proven runners. Because she was a first-timer, she had a high bib number and a starting position at the back of the pack. She eased through the throng and considered the race.

It still surprised her to find herself here. When she'd taken up running as part of a weight loss program and to prove to herself and to Paul that she could do it, she never would have anticipated this moment. Although thinking about Paul and her short-lived marriage made her feel bitter, nevertheless, in a perverse way, she had him to thank for challenging her to run. And long distance running had hooked her, given her a goal and pride in her new abilities.

She chose a spot toward the back and jogged quietly on the spot. The growing pack of runners closing around her shared a sense of camaraderie. As they edged ever tighter, she drew warmth and comfort from the press of bodies, twelve or fifteen deep across the width of the street, and caught the crowd's excitement.

Five minutes to go. Taking a deep breath, she considered the day's horoscope (Virgo: diversions abound—keep a steady course), the state of her shoes, shorts, bowels, hydration and psychological readiness to run. Jostling, shifting, bouncing on her toes and stretching, she marvelled at the instinct encouraging everyone to move ever closer, while at the same time isolating each individual in a cocoon of nervous self-absorption.

Three minutes to go. Hollis reviewed the list of pre-race imperatives listed in a recent issue of
Runner's World
. First on the list, the twenty-mile run. The previous Sunday she'd covered the required number of miles, achieved the out-of-body state of euphoria she craved when she ran and reached the mythical breaking point, the twenty-mile marker, without
noticeable distress. Secondly, the night before, to make sure she could repeat this feat and add another six miles on race day, she'd carbohydrate-loaded by devouring a huge plate of spaghetti carbonara.

Before she could consider the other items on the list, the crack of the starting gun pumped adrenaline through her body. The crowd's shuffling accelerated, and the crush tightened. It took several minutes before the front runners cleared out, and those at the rear charged forward.

Fewer than fifty paces later, the racers' pounding rhythm slowed. The river of runners streamed into two channels flowing around an obstacle on the road. Hollis found her feet moving automatically, while she, like everyone else, craned her neck and stared through the moving tide of bodies. Five more steps, and she had a clear view. A man lay face down on the road.

Hollis recognized his unique
T
-shirt. It was Paul.

She stopped as if she'd run into a wall. The runner at her heels thudded into her and sent her crashing to the ground.

She struggled to her feet with Nikes, Adidas and Brooks thundering by and heard someone say, “I'm a doctor. Let me through.”

Impossible. The doctor stepping through the throng was Kas Yantha, the husband of her friend Tessa.

Hollis pushed through the surging tide of runners and fought through the clot of spectators who'd moved out from the curb. Something black stuck out of Paul's back. Kas knelt beside Paul, lifted and turned his head, checked his pulse and air passages, laid his head down and said, almost to himself, “No vital signs.”

That meant he was dead. That couldn't be. Kas must be wrong.

Hollis squatted beside Kas. Intent on Paul, Kas didn't notice.

“Kas, it's me, Hollis.”

Kas's head jerked up. “Hollis.”

“What do you mean ‘no vital signs'? What's happened to Paul?”

Kas glanced at her. She read incredulity in his eyes. He leaned toward her and spoke slowly, as if this would help her understand. “There's a knife in his back. He's been stabbed.”

Turning away, Kas reached into his jacket, pulled out a cell phone and clicked in the numbers. “Reverend Paul Robertson has been killed at the starting line of the marathon. Send the police.”

Without thinking, Hollis reached forward to smooth Paul's shirt, the lime green one with the slogan “If Jesus Were Gay, Where Would He Pray?” emblazoned on a wide pink band, but yanked her hand away before it contacted the spattered black handle protruding from the dark oozing splotch of blood. Around the knife, the pink had darkened to maroon. Kas said Paul was dead. That was impossible. Kas was a doctor. Surely, he could do something.

As if responding to her unspoken words, Kas said, “Hollis, there's nothing we can do. He's dead.”

“There must be something. He can't be dead.” She stroked Paul's hair. How many months had it been since she'd touched him? Poor Paul. No matter what had happened between them, she wasn't abandoning him flopped on the asphalt like a run-over dog.

Crouched on the pavement with the rhythmical thud of runners' footfalls behind her and the forest of spectators' legs shifting and moving in front of her, a wave of dizziness washed through her. She planted her hands on the roadway to steady herself. She felt her body parts and mind should synchronize, but they were jumbled like the pieces of a jig saw. Aware but detached, she half-listened to the conversation of two teenage girls who had pushed through the spectators and loomed above her.

“Did you see what happened?” the first girl said.

The two girls gawked down at Paul. The second one, who had curly hair like Hollis, shifted her weight from left to right in time with her gum-chewing. “No, but I know who it was.”

The first girl, the one with spiky black hair, mumbled something which inspired her curly-headed friend to speak louder, “I don't mean I
know
who did it. How would I know that? I know who he is. We saw him on the CJOH sports news last night and his picture was on the front page of the
Sun
. He's worn that shirt before. Rocky says it's a good slogan.”

Hollis had thought it was a stupid slogan.

With her jaws moving methodically, the girl uttered words Hollis didn't hear, and, in a louder voice, added, “My boyfriend says, what the hell does it matter? Churches aren't relative.”

Relative—that wasn't right. Relief. Here was something she
could
know. Not relative, the word was relevant.

Spiky Hair said something about her father and how he felt. Hollis didn't care what her father had said and tuned out until the other girl inquired if Spiky Hair had seen anyone suspicious. Hollis strained to hear the answer.

“No, in that bunch it was hard enough to watch Rocky. I didn't really look at anybody else. I guess the minister was the only other person I saw, and that's 'cause he was kind of a public figure being on
TV
and all that. As far as I'm concerned, runners are major league weirdos. You ever noticed, before they start, they jiggle around like they have to pee?”

“Yeah, they were packed in like moving sardines. Hey, that's good. That's what they were like.”

The police arrived and shepherded the crowd away from Paul's body.

“The ambulance. Where's the ambulance?” Hollis demanded, although part of her mind had accepted the reality of Paul's death and realized he didn't require an ambulance.

“It'll be along any moment,” one of the officers said. “Maybe you should sit on the curb until it arrives.”

“I'm staying right here with him.” She heard the belligerence in her voice and wondered what was the matter with her.

Kas intervened. “This is Reverend Robertson's wife, Ms Grant. She's suffering from shock.”

Shock. Pity. Horror. And, although she didn't want to admit it, relief.