Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (17 page)

She took a deep breath and gagged. Lilies—she hated the cloying smell. Although the death notice had requested charitable donations in lieu of flowers, a number of large bouquets had sprouted up around the coffin like weeds in a parking lot.

Preparing to receive the visitors, she positioned herself facing away from the coffin. Simpson, accompanied by a young woman whom she introduced as Constable Sheila Featherstone, moved behind her and to her left.

By seven thirty, callers jammed the room. As if it were written on an invisible teleprompter, they followed protocol: sign the guest book sitting on an oak lectern inside the door, line up to look at Paul then to say a few words to Hollis before they moved on and scurried home or stayed and chatted with friends.

She murmured the correct responses to: “such a tragedy”; “great loss”; “if there's anything we can do, just call”;
“wonderful preacher”; “true humanitarian”; and, “our deepest sympathy”. Visitors hugged her. Occasionally, callers deviated from the script and rushed from viewing the body to tell her how “natural” Paul seemed. Fleetingly, she wondered why they felt compelled to share this: did they think it made it easier if a murdered man looked natural?

The number and variety of visitors amazed her. People from the congregation, the wider church, the university, the refugee community and many others who fit in no discernible pigeonholes had come to pay their respects.

Marcus Toberman's entrance created a minor buzz. No doubt those who belonged to St. Mark's remembered and felt embarrassed by the humiliating rejection Marcus and City Church had received. Marcus, ramrod straight, waited first for several of Hollis's college colleagues and the minister from Calvary Free Methodist church to speak to her then for an ancient Vietnamese gentleman, whose family had come to Canada as refugees sponsored by St. Mark's, to haltingly stammer his gratitude. When Marcus reached the head of the line he hugged Hollis, patted her shoulder and murmured the kind of meaningless words that comfort.

That done, he pulled away and took both her hands. Speaking in a louder than normal voice, he said, “I came because I wanted you and everyone else to realize that although I quarreled with Paul, I'm sorry he's dead and I'm sorry for your pain.” He squeezed her hands again before he wheeled and marched out of the room.

Shortly after Marcus left, Kas moved to the front of the line. His brown eyes reflected discomfort. “I'm sorry Tessa isn't here. She really wanted to come, but she had an urgent hospital call. She sends her love.”

Sending her love didn't make up for her absence or explain
the brief chilliness of her response when Hollis had phoned her. Whatever was wrong with Tessa's life must be very wrong.

Kas shifted from one foot to the other. “This probably isn't the time to do this, but I wanted to tell you about Paul's manuscript. I forgot to give you the notes I made when I read it. Before they're mislaid, I'll bring them over for you to file away until you're ready to finish the book.”

Kas opened his mouth to say more but, before he could speak, Linda Porter, trailing Knox, inserted herself between them.

“I couldn't help overhearing.” She widened her eyes and gushed, “Is it the manuscript for a book? Is there going to be another wonderful Paul Robertson book?
Christians in a Cross World
was so-o-o-o inspirational. We gave away six copies for Christmas. Knox will tell you
every
person we gave it to thought it was divine.” She flowed on. “We hope the contributions to the refugee fund will be so-o-o-o e-nor-mous . . .” With her hands stretched apart like a fisherman exaggerating her catch, she repeated, “So-o-o-o e-nor-mous, we'll be able to fund hundreds of refugee families.”

Knox edged closer. “Guidance books today are a world away from the evangelical hell and damnation ones I was subjected to as a child. Today, writers acknowledge the temptations we face but promise how good we'll feel if we do the right thing rather than threatening the fires of hell if we stray.” His eyes shone with a messianic light. “Working with youth groups, I emphasize how great they'll feel if they do the right thing.”

He subsided, and Linda bent forward to invade Hollis's space. Her faintly offensive breath was unavoidable. “Isn't it wonderful Paul's books and the refugee fund will be his memorials. But how can you finish the book?”

“I don't have to finish it—it's done. Since I've read it and
I'm familiar with the background, I'll continue doing what Paul did.”

Before Hollis could elaborate, she heard shouting in the hall outside the room. Like everyone else, she swung to face the door.

A wave of shock.

Framed in the doorway with her red curls lit by a spotlight directed downward, Sally Staynor swayed and hesitated for a moment before she lurched inside. Clutching the lectern with her left hand, she signed the guest book with an unsteady flourish.

Sally wore black. A small jewelled black velvet pillbox with a sheer black sequined veil covered but didn't obscure her face. In fact, it drew attention to her theatrical chalk white make-up, her kohl-rimmed eyes, and her generous mouth debauched and seductive under several heavily applied coats of deep purple lipstick. Her stretch lycra strapless dress topped with a sheer black silk shirt covered her from her neck to knees to finger tips, but the dress was cut low and her breasts threatened to burst loose with every breath she took. Black fishnet stockings and a glittering ankle bracelet drew attention to her legs and rhinestone encrusted sandals. Sally reminded Hollis of one of the characters in the
Best Little Whore House in Texas
.

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?”