Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (13 page)

Hollis reset the alarm, tidied the kitchen and went to bed. Whatever the killer was searching for must be here. First thing in the morning, she'd investigate Paul's bedroom. The inner sanctum might hold the clue to his murder.

At home, waiting for the constable's call, Rhona said “to hell with cholesterol” and stepped to the fridge. She gave in to her stomach's demand for a fried bacon and egg sandwich. While the bacon sizzled, she cleared a space on the cluttered kitchen table and considered the entries in her notebook. Opie, who adored bacon, sifted back and forth, rubbed against her legs and loudly complained about the injustice of spoiling his sleep without sharing the booty.

Rhona ignored him. Instead, she considered the killer's motive. Had he intended to right an imagined wrong? The trashing of the church office linked the crime to the church. The attempted break-in at the manse suggested the killer's search continued.

She drained the crisp bacon on paper towels, set a strip aside for Opie, cracked an egg in the bubbling fat and pushed the bread down in the toaster. As she spooned fat over the egg,
her thoughts circled around Robertson.

Was his widow one smart lady who was diverting attention from herself by faking a break-in? But, if Hollis wasn't the killer, who was and what had he been searching for? Had Robertson been killed to prevent him from doing something or revealing something? Had the killer miscalculated and, after the murder, discovered whatever he or she had assumed would die with Robertson had been shared with someone? Perhaps it related to the manuscript for the book. She'd pick it up and discuss it with Dr. Yantha.

Opie satisfied, the sandwich enjoyed with no message from the constable, Rhona tucked the dishes in the dishwasher and went to bed. In the morning, after she interviewed Barbara Webb, she'd talk to Hollis.

At nine, she entered the office, where Barbara teetered on her high heels in front of a photocopier that was spewing sheets of green paper. When Barbara noticed Rhona, she smiled tentatively and turned off the machine. “I've gone through the calendar.” She moved to her desk and picked up the diary. “I'm sorry, I wasn't able to match all the initials with names.” She offered it, along with a sheet of initials and names.

Rhona popped the diary in her bag. “Thanks. Let's start with the initials you deciphered.”

“The locksmith's truck is at the manse. What's wrong?”

By noon, everybody in the congregation would have heard—no reason to hide the information. “Nothing. Last night there was an attempted break-in, but nothing was stolen. Ms Grant is fine.”

“The killer here again—it scares me to death. Especially when often I'm here alone. I feel so vulnerable. And poor Hollis. As if it isn't enough to have Paul dead.” Her lips set in a straight line. “I hope you have a
lot
of people working on this. The next thing
you know, the killer will strike again. He's probably a serial killer.”

Rhona wished people didn't watch so much
TV
. After reassuring Barbara that the police were doing everything they could, she turned the discussion to the initials in Reverend Robertson's diary.

In her car, she lit a cigarette and read the initials and names. One set of unidentified initials set the bells clanging. T.U. Not many surnames began with U, and an unusual one had registered with her recently. Where? Who? The race program. She removed it from her bag. Uiska, Tessa, Kas Yantha's wife and Hollis's friend. T.U., not once but four times. Time to schedule appointments with the doctors.

The officious voice on the other end of the line informed Rhona that Kas was fully booked for days.

“I repeat. This is a police investigation. I must meet Dr. Yantha today, this morning if possible. And if you don't arrange an appointment, Dr. Yantha will come to the station at
my
convenience.”

The receptionist slotted Rhona's meeting for ten.

Rhona felt a pang of remorse: an unknown individual's life would be rearranged because of her insistence, but what had to be had to be. Time to contact Kas's wife, Dr. Tessa Uiska, a cardio-thoracic surgeon at Municipal Hospital.

“Dr. Uiska is on grand rounds this morning, but she works in her office for an hour before lunch. Why don't you pop in between eleven and twelve?”

Done. Now for her visit to the psychiatric hospital, a collection of old brick buildings nestled among lawns and sheltering trees. Rhona wondered if the setting helped the patients' confrontations with confusion and pain. Inside, she wound through a labyrinth of corridors and ended up in a
waiting room, empty except for the receptionist who sat behind glass. When Rhona introduced herself, the receptionist nodded and buzzed the doctor.

The door to the suite beyond the reception area opened. Dr. Yantha, wearing a navy blue suit with a faint purple stripe, a white shirt and a subdued patterned green tie stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

Psychiatrists made Rhona nervous, but she sternly told herself her battered psyche did not interest the doctor and thanked him for rearranging his schedule and seeing her on short notice.

In the office shades of sand, cream and white soothed and comforted. Every object, from the corner grouping of oatmeal upholstered chairs to the solid stoneware lamps resting on uncluttered oval pine tables and the muted beige sisal carpeting, contributed to the creation of calm. Nothing stopped the eye or jarred the soul. On the walls, muted misty watercolours of sea and mountains drew the mind to contemplate the solitude of the wilderness. Only a bulky red folder plunked on Yantha's desk appeared out of place. Rhona assumed it contained Paul's manuscript.

When they sat facing each other, Dr. Yantha pushed the folder toward her. “Here's the manuscript.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

Helpful fellow. “Tell me again why you were reading it?”

“I don't remember telling you in the first place.”

This man annoyed her. “Ms Grant told me her husband had asked you to read it.”

“Yes. He did.” Dr. Yantha eyed her, and a faint smile curved his lips. It infuriated her to realize he was toying with her like a talk show host with an unimportant guest.

“Why did he want you to read it?”

“To verify that his psychological insights were in line with current psychiatric thinking.”

“And were they?”

“As much as a layman can be.”

What a snot. She'd read it herself. No point asking him if he'd identified a motive for murder. On to a new topic.

“Tell me what you did when you found Reverend Robertson?”

“I told you in the medical tent after you interviewed Hollis and, to correct you again, I didn't
find
him. After the starter fired the gun and my wife began running, I headed for the parking lot. I was walking along behind the crowd when someone called for a doctor.” Yantha lowered his chin and peered over his fashionable half spectacles. “As I'm sure you can figure out for yourself, we psychiatrists don't usually do emergency first aid.”

Rhona longed to make a smart retort but confined herself to a nod.

“When I peered over the spectators' shoulders at the man on the road, I decided if he'd had a heart attack, I'd clear his airways and do
CPR
.”

“Did you recognize Paul Robertson?”

“Not until I lifted his head. I'm not even sure if I knew then, but a voice in the crowd identified him.”

“You mean you didn't know him well enough to recognize him?”

“Would you recognize an acquaintance lying face down on the road?” His lip lifted slightly. “Not likely.”

“Had you had much to do with him when he was alive?”

“No.”

“Did you ever go to his office?”

“No.” He let the silence lengthen before he added. “My friendship with Hollis began when Tessa, my wife, introduced us at university. I met Paul once or twice, but he wasn't a friend.”

Rhona didn't expect he'd answer the next question any more helpfully than he had the others. “Tell me about the Robertson's marriage.”

“I wasn't privy to the state of their marriage.”

“I want your perceptions, not a verbatim account.”

Dr. Yantha, who'd been sitting erect, relaxed slightly. Perhaps he was about to drop his obstructionist attitude.

“They never met my criteria for classification as a ‘happy family'.”

From the movies, Rhona realized psychiatrists didn't offer opinions but waited until their patients couldn't bear the silence and spilled out their troubles. She tried the technique. They sat and stared at one another.

“As I told you, Hollis is Tessa's friend more than mine, but we both agreed Hollis married Paul because she thought it was time to marry and, according to my wife, he was a handsome man with sex appeal. Tessa said Hollis has been preoccupied and depressed recently, but she didn't pry. She figured eventually Hollis would confide in her about whatever was bothering her.”

“I thought prying was a professional skill you psychiatrists prided yourselves on having.”

The doctor bristled. “My wife is
not
a psychiatrist—she's a surgeon and, incidentally, psychiatrists do not
pry
. Anyway, Hollis was not my patient, she's our friend. Friends exchange confidences, but it has to go both ways or it doesn't work,” he lectured. “Tessa and I relate so very, very splendidly—Tessa would never have anything to confide. If there was trouble in the Robertsons' relationship, I expect loyalty to Paul and the Anglo-Saxon stiff upper lip tradition prevented Hollis from sharing the details with Tessa.”

His tone of voice when he asserted how successful his marriage was alerted Rhona, and she made a mental note to
keep his comment in mind when she interviewed his wife.

“Was your wife a friend of Reverend Robertson's?”

“No.”

“Would she have contacted Reverend Robertson in any professional capacity?”

“Professional capacity,” he repeated, and shook his head. “Tessa is a cardio-thoracic surgeon. She isn't the sort of doctor a man who runs marathons has anything to do with.”

“One more question. I have heard Reverend Robertson characterized as a judgmental Old Testament Christian. Speaking as a psychiatrist, give me an idea how such a man rationalized his womanizing?”

“I didn't know Paul. I don't generalize about people I don't know.”

Time to appeal to his professional acumen. Nothing like a little ego stroking. “I realize that, but I'm at a loss to understand how a minister lived with himself knowing he was a womanizer.”

Dr. Yantha randomly tapped the fingers of both hands on the desk as if playing a piece of music audible only to him. “I can't speak about Paul, but, if he's like most of us, a traumatic event in his childhood probably shaped him.” He warmed to his theme. “Perhaps he required rigid boundaries around his life to protect himself from himself. He may have needed women to constantly reassure him of his desirability, or he may have considered sex a means of exerting power. In a convoluted way, he may have told himself he was ministering to the women. I've dealt with more than my share of philanderers and sex offenders, and power is most often the motivating force.”

His fingers stopped, and he ostentatiously lifted his arm to bend his head over his watch.

Message received. Rhona had more questions, but first she wanted to delve more deeply into his past.

Being jarred awake in the middle of the night by her alarm left Hollis feeling even more sleep deprived and grouchy than she'd felt after Sunday's and Monday's insomnia. Her bones ached. She felt as if a monster magnet anchored her to the mattress. Nervy and gritty-eyed, she groaned when MacTee's whining dragged her out of bed.

Wednesday, the day she'd promised herself she'd investigate her husband's bedroom, the inner sanctum, the forbidden room she'd never visited when he was alive. She had to do it—no matter what dark secrets awaited her. Wednesday was also the first of the two evenings Paul would lie in state in the funeral home.

Out of bed, she wavered in front of her cupboard. Indecisiveness washed over her. What was appropriate?

The doorbell heralded Elsie's arrival.

Hollis shrugged into her dressing gown and dragged herself to the kitchen, where she said hello to Elsie and stepped outside with MacTee promising him a longer walk later. When she came back in, she found Elsie tracing the broken door frame.

“What happened here, dear?” Elsie poked her finger into a deep gouge.

“An attempted break-in, but the burglar set off the alarm. I'm calling the locksmith.”

“Poor dear, as if you haven't had enough to contend with—I'll deal with the locksmith.”

An hour later, she'd dressed, walked MacTee, sipped two
cups of coffee, eaten a poached egg and watched the locksmith install a deadbolt. She felt better. Her organizing Virgo kicked in and said
enough procrastination
. Detective Simpson had said she'd send someone around to pick up his papers, but Hollis wanted to have a look at them first. Wanted to have time to unearth more of Paul's secret life, no matter how horrible. Something was hidden in the house, something the killer wanted, and she intended to find out what that something was.