Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (24 page)

“No thanks, Detective Simpson and I are going downtown, but please help yourself to anything in the fridge. Would you feed MacTee at five? If I do it now, he'll be out of whack and
expect his dinner every afternoon at this time.”

At the sound of his name, MacTee sidled over to his red plastic dish and nosed it toward the Alcotts.

“I swear that dog understands every word we say,” Elsie said. With her hands resting on her hips, she addressed MacTee. “You heard what Hollis said—five. You'll have to wait.”

MacTee cocked his head to one side, regarded Elsie with large, limpid brown eyes and sighed dramatically. Having shared his feelings with them, he walked over to his cedar chip-filled bed and plopped down, but kept his eyes on his dish in the unquenchable hope it would miraculously fill with food.

“What kind of food do you like?” Simpson asked as they pulled away from the curb. Before Hollis could reply, she answered the question. “Because of the Buddha meditation centre in your room, I figured you'd like Asian food.”

Hollis laughed. “More detecting. I do, but it's because I've travelled in Asia, not because I'm Buddhist. I'm not crazy about Chinese food, but I love Thai—I never get tired of it.”

“We have something in common. It's my favourite as well. Which restaurant?”

“There more than one that I like, but I think Bangkok Gardens is pretty good.”

Inside the small small restaurant, celadon green walls and brass fixtures complemented several dozen dark green pottery fish ranging in size from three feet to tiny table toppers of six inches. The fish balanced on their curved tails and each spouted a profusion of live greenery. Settled at a table covered with a pink tablecloth and inhaling a medley of aromatic spices, they discussed Thai food and finalized their choices—beef satay with peanut sauce, coconut soup and green chicken curry along with Thai beer.

Simpson folded her hands together on the table and leaned
forward. “Before the food comes, tell me why Kas Yantha decided to be a psychiatrist and where he trained?”

Kas again. Why was the detective interested in Kas and Tessa? She debated whether to tell Simpson anything but didn't have any reason to be difficult. Kas's life wasn't a secret.

“I didn't meet Kas until he was in medical school. I've heard him say the human mind fascinates him.”

“He attended the University of Toronto. Where did he do his residency?”

Hollis thought about the question. “As far as I can remember, and I could be wrong—a private hospital near London, Ontario, a hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene, and the Queen Street psychiatric hospital in Toronto.”

The satay and beer arrived, and they ate silently for several minutes. Time to distract Simpson. “This is terrific. Didn't you love the wonderful food you bought on the street in Thailand? Did you ever eat hot peanut brittle or the fried coconut milk concoction sprinkled with green onions and wrapped in banana leaves?”

“At first, I was afraid to eat things prepared by the street vendors, but I changed my mind when I realized no one had a proper kitchen, so everyone bought meals on the street, and the whole nation expected to buy clean, safe food.” Simpson smiled. “I figured the ingredients came right from the farms, and those street braziers threw off enough heat to kill even the toughest germs. I ate everything except the chunks of papaya and pineapple on ice, because the ice made me nervous.”

“Did you ever visit the market at dawn to see the Buddhist monks in their orange robes circulate through the vendors and the buyers, extending their begging bowls for food and alms? It amazed me to learn they depended entirely on the money or food donated to them.”

“It must have been interesting for you to visit a country where Buddhism is the dominant religion.”

“It was and it wasn't. Here, I always feel like a bit of a pretender. Having grown up in a Christian community, with all the cultural references it makes, you feel phony talking about Buddhism, particularly since the terms are so foreign. Despite my beliefs, I've never gone to Buddhist services in Ottawa. And when I was in Thailand, I felt like even more of a pretender—this was their religion—what business did I have to say I was a Buddhist? It's confusing. I find it comforts and supports me, but I keep my beliefs private.”

“But you loved the country?”

“Except for the pollution in Bangkok—it gave me a headache.”

“I loved Chang Mai, but I though Chang Rai was spooky—probably because I'm a cop, and I know about the evil white guys who go there to prey on young girls, to get involved in drug smuggling—some really bad men. But, to return to business—where did Kas meet his wife?”

Kas again. What did she expect to learn? “In medical school. They married while she was doing her surgical residency.”

The satay had vanished. Pleased with their obvious enjoyment, the smiling waitress replaced their plates with steaming bowls of soup. The tender chicken pieces, ginger, lemon grass, lime leaves and mint mingled in a satisfying way, and the little flecks of innocent looking green peppers, whose heat seared their mouths, noses and sinuses, offset the blandness of the coconut milk.

“Did Kas or Tessa know your husband before you married him?”

‘Have you ever been or are you now a member of . . .' Kas and Tessa, Tessa and Kas. “I can't imagine why you're hung up
on Kas and Tessa. Why you think two respectable doctors, one a close friend of mine for more than twenty years, would have anything to do with Paul's murder. And I can't in my wildest imaginings think of either of them shooting at me or trashing the house. Next thing, you'll want to know if they were part of a larger conspiracy, a cabal plotting to do God knows what. You
must
have more likely suspects.”

“Take it easy. I'm sorting out where particular individuals fitted in the jig-saw of your husband's life. You told me how he compartmentalized everything and everybody.”

“Point made. To answer your question, Paul studied theology at the U of T. I doubt their paths ever crossed, but I can't swear to it.”

By this time, plates of curry and rice awaited their attention. Once again, they ate in silence for several minutes before Hollis spoke. “My turn for questions. How did your family react when you told them you planned to be a police officer?”

“Sociological research, eh? Does the officer come from a lower socioeconomic background where police work offered an out or from a religious right background, where the establishment and enforcement of the law etc etc? My reason—pretty prosaic. I chose police work because I didn't want to pursue any of the traditional avenues—social work, teaching etc. Why did you become a professor?”

“It wasn't my first choice—I dreamed of being a painter—but I didn't think I could earn a living. Since grade school, social history has fascinated me.” Hollis climbed on her soapbox. “For generations, social history was largely untold because historians were men, and they thought history was politics, war and business. But men absorb their attitudes and their mindsets from their parents, their lives and their culture—these are women's areas of expertise and power.
Teaching provides me with an income, a forum,” she grinned, “for my feminist propaganda and gives me summers free for an equal measure of research and painting.”

“Interesting. Now for a little give and take. I visited the Bank of Commerce in Gloucester. The safety deposit box key opened a box there, but the box was empty, and although we don't have a total record of activity, I don't think your husband used it very often. On the other hand, his account there had a large number of deposits and withdrawals. You don't remember your husband mentioning banking there?”

“No. We dealt with the local Bank of Nova Scotia.” Hollis scraped the last grains of curry and rice from her plate. “Subconsciously, I still have a niggling feeling I know something. I've racked my brains.” Fork in hand, she paused. “What an odd expression. English is a strange language. Anyway, I puzzle over the fact the killer obviously wants to hear me say I won't spill whatever information he thinks I have. If I know something, I don't know what it is, and I certainly don't know whom to contact. I
am
convinced it has something to do with Paul's book.”

Simpson tilted her head and considered Hollis's words. “Maybe . . .”

“They say your subconscious works on problems while you sleep. Maybe tomorrow I'll have an answer,” Hollis said.

Opie woke Rhona early on Saturday morning. In the bathroom, she applied makeup and skinned her hair into a ponytail instead of its usual chignon. Maybe it was time to have it cropped, have the whole mess sheared, maybe have a buzz cut. She tried to visualize herself with inch-long hair and failed. Because she'd been home infrequently, she decided
Opie merited a tuna fish treat. When the electric can opener sliced through the aluminum and released the delectable aroma of fish, Opie twined around her legs, vocalizing his anticipation. She upended the can into the cat's yellow ceramic bowl with the word “cat” in bas relief on the side and wondered, as she had many times, if this was to enable the cat to recognize his bowl or prevent people from eating from the cat dish. Rhona left Opie crouched over his bowl smacking and chomping his way through his breakfast.

At the station, the team investigating Robertson's murder met first thing in the morning. Once she'd brought them up to speed, Rhona closeted herself in her office, where she spent her morning on the phone and completing the paper work necessitated by the demands of the courts. Later, the six-sided, oak-framed wall clock reminded her she'd have to eat at a restaurant near the station to be on time for her one o'clock appointment with JJ Staynor.

She regretted she cared so much about what and where she ate. That morning when she'd left home, she'd planned to leave time to drive across town and treat herself to a chopped liver sandwich on rye with a side order of Kosher dills at Nate's Deli. She definitely had not intended to eat near the station, where most of the restaurants catered to the grouping instincts of thirty-year-olds and emphasized conviviality rather than food.

Resigned to a tasteless lunch, she dropped coins in a newspaper box and withdrew the hefty bulk of the Saturday
Citizen
. Even if the meal was a disappointment, she'd catch up on local news.

With little to distinguish one from another—neither had a smoking area or decent food—she hurried the two blocks to the nearest restaurant. At the Daily Bistro, she perched uncomfortably on a rickety bentwood chair at a wobbly
marble-topped table so small it made reading anything bigger than a postcard impossible. With a sigh, she folded the paper and tucked it under the chair. A waiter who introduced himself as “Jim” handed her a large plasticized menu printed in mulberry ink.

Rhona shuddered. Deep fried zucchini, stuffed potato skins, Greek salad, and burgers with cute names—it was totally predictable. She chose the Greek salad. When Jim presented a large glass bowl overflowing with dark greens, Rhona dared to hope; a closer examination revealed one solitary piece of feta cheese, two black olives and a mass of tough Romaine lettuce. All self-respecting Greeks would deny any association with the imposter and protest the defamation of the good name of Greece. Dejectedly, she chewed her way through the tasteless salad.

Outside the restaurant, she lit a cigarette. It was bad for her, bad for everyone, but why was she and every other addicted soul made to feel guilty? Didn't people realize most smokers would quit in a minute if it wasn't so damn hard?

Back in her office, feeling disgruntled and undernourished, she'd just had time to sit down when the desk downstairs buzzed to say Staynor was on his way up. Rhona locked her fingers behind her head and stretched. She recalled their first interview, when the butcher's quotation laden speech had thrown her off balance. A diffident knock interrupted her musings.

Staynor pushed the door open and peered at her. “ ‘Here I am, ready willing and able, standing on the burning deck where all but I have fled.' ” He stepped inside. “Sorry,” he said. “I'm trying not to do it.” He shambled forward and dropped onto the armless visitor's chair. Once seated, he twisted, shifted, clasped and unclasped his hands and fixed sad eyes on Rhona. During the first interview, Staynor had spoken in
erratic bursts and spewed quotations like confetti at a wedding. Today, he writhed and turned his torso like a man with swimmer's itch.

Rhona felt uneasy. He was much more agitated than he'd been the last time she'd spoken to him. What had happened to pump up his anxiety level? “We've tracked down your information. You said you left teaching because a business opportunity arose, but we learned you were charged with assaulting a student and required to resign.”

Staynor's restless movements persisted. Ceaselessly, he went through the motions of washing his hands.