Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (27 page)

“You sure?” Daniel's chin lifted belligerently. “My Dad's a great guy. He doesn't always talk like everyone else, but he's okay.”

Touched by the teenager's protective defense of his father, Rhona smiled at him. “It's okay Daniel, I'm not the Gestapo.” Mentally, she crossed her fingers and hoped she was telling the truth. The possibility of this young man losing his father as well as his mother saddened her. Police work had its bad moments.

Daniel, with a backward glance at his father, who nodded reassuringly at him, left the room.

“Mr. Staynor, tell me about finding your wife.”

JJ's hands resumed their washing. He twisted and shifted in his chair. “There isn't much to tell. I came down about seven. The store is closed Mondays, but I often go in to catch up on orders. I filled the coffee maker and heard the
TV
in the garden room. Leaving the coffee to drip, I went in to switch the
TV
off. That's when I saw her. I said, ‘Sally, what are you doing here at this hour?' When she didn't answer, I took a good look at her and realized something was wrong. I touched her—she felt cold.” His hands stopped moving. He sat still and silent.

“And then?”

“I punched in 911 and went upstairs to warn Daniel. I didn't want him to wake up to a house full of strangers.”

He hadn't quoted a single line of poetry, and his voice was as flat as a spiked tire.

“What about the basket?”

He frowned and his hands resumed their washing.

“The basket I mentioned to Daniel—the one sitting on the table beside your wife.”

“I didn't notice.”

“When did you last see your wife?”

JJ's hands stilled, his chin lifted and he thought for a moment. “Friday night. We're open late Friday, and I arrived
here about nine thirty. Sally called me, and I talked to her in the garden room. She was pretty drunk, but not too drunk to tell me
every
gory detail of the funeral.”

“How did that make you feel?'

“How did it make me feel? How did it ever make me feel when she twisted the knife, tormented me? Bad. Bloody bad. Like it was my fault, like I should have been able to do something.”

“What did you say when she told you?”

JJ didn't answer.

Rhona repeated the question.

“I'm not sure.” JJ avoided her eyes. “Probably nothing. Long ago, I read, ‘Be silent and safe—silence never betrays you.' But I wanted to paraphrase Hosea, ‘You have sown the wind, and you shall reap the whirlwind.' She loved to mock me. It's been getting worse and worse.” He paused and shook his head like a bull tormented by insects. “I don't think we said any more. When I left, she was watching
TV
.”

Rhona was convinced they'd said a lot more, and he remembered
every
word.

“And that was it? That was your last contact?”

“The truth is—I avoided her. Since she practically lived in the sunroom, I stayed out. I have no idea where she went on Saturday. I don't think she went to church yesterday. Around noon, I heard her moving around in her bedroom. She slammed her closet door and threw stuff. When she has a hangover, she's always in a terrible mood. If I had a hangover, I'd want to be quiet, but she slams and crashes. Anyway, before I went out for my long Sunday run, I heard her again. When I came home, I napped, caught the Blue Jays on
TV
and at about five, slapped together a grilled cheese sandwich. At eight thirty, I went to bed and tuned in to
Masterpiece Theatre
. I
heard her come in as I ate my supper.”

“Was she alone?”

“I didn't hear anyone else.”

“Did you hear the doorbell ring?”

“I don't think so. Why?”

“Were you in the sun room yesterday? “

Staynor thought. Rhona saw him mentally retracing his route through his day. “No.” His face contorted. “Friday night, the last time I was there was Friday night when I talked to her. The truth is . . .” He began twisting his hands.

“Mr Staynor, no one scrunches up his face like that unless he's thinking about something particularly unpleasant. Please tell me more about your Friday conversation.”

Silence.

“Did you threaten her?”

“No.”

“Mr. Staynor, tell me.”

“I don't remember.”

“Sooner or later, you'll have to spell it out. I'll contact you when we learn the cause of death. When I return, I want a verbatim account of
exactly
what both of you said in your last conversation.”

Poor Sally. Rhona wouldn't be absolutely sure until the medical report arrived, but she'd put money on the vodka. Sally had told her she always drank Bloody Marys with lots of Mary and not much bloody, or had it been the other way around? If she'd told her, she'd told everyone else. Certainly, JJ was familiar with what and how much she drank. It wouldn't have been hard to slip her a doctored bottle.

Because Sally felt sorry for herself, the sympathy basket of goodies would have touched her heart and made her maudlin, glad someone, anyone, acknowledged the depth of her sorrow.
Rhona visualized her unscrewing the bottle, mixing a drink and raising a toast to her anonymous benefactor, to Paul, and to herself.

Rhona reviewed the memorial service and her surveillance of the congregation. When Sally attacked Hollis and threatened to reveal hidden secrets, Rhona had scrutinized the captive audience, who had been mesmerized by the dramatic performance. Universally, the mourners had gaped and goggled, but no one had blanched or given her reason to pay particular attention to his or her reaction. Had she missed something crucial?

When the phone rang on Monday morning, Hollis shifted the pile of old linen—a varied assortment of embroidered tablecloths, percale pillow cases with hand-tatted borders, yellowing linen sheets—to the kitchen counter and picked up the receiver.

“Rhona Simpson here. Sorry to bother you at such an early hour. I didn't wake you, did I?”

“No. I've been up a couple of hours. I was sorting linens to give to the refugee committee. Knox Porter, you remember him, called half an hour ago suggesting I come over tonight. He and Linda want to show me what they have and what they still require for the refugee family.”

“Why are you going to his place?”

With the phone scrunched between her shoulder and ear, Hollis talked and simultaneously sorted the linens into two piles—one for the refugees, one for the Salvation Army. “I always assume you're all-knowing. Knox and Linda have an apartment in the attic of their house on Roxborough. Several times in the past, they've donated it for the use of refugee families. It has its own entrance and is on a main bus route. When a family's ready to leave, we give them as much of the contents of the apartment—furnishings, linen, dishes—as they want. Then, when another family arrives, we appeal for a list of items. Someone's always moving or downsizing, and the congregation has been incredibly generous.”

“Something's happened—I have questions for you. I'd like to come over.”

“It's 10:45. In a few minutes, I'm on my way to the Memorial Gardens to choose a plot for Paul's ashes. After that, I'm meeting the lawyer. Why can't you ask me over the phone?”

“I'd like to speak to you face-to-face. What time do you go to the Porter's?”

“Knox suggested seven. He said it wouldn't take long.”

“You should be home by eight—I'll drop by then.”

“You sound
very
serious. Has something else happened?”

“I am serious. You'll hear the news sooner or later. Sally Staynor is dead. We aren't sure what killed her, but we suspect her death is linked to your husband's.”

“Oh, my God.” Hollis wanted Simpson to deny it, to say she'd been kidding—as if anyone kidded about a thing like that. If the killer had murdered Sally, was she next on the list? “Am I in danger?”

“I hope not. But it's better to assume the worst. Be careful today.”

“What exactly does
careful
mean?”

“Don't go off by yourself. Keep your security system on. Don't open the door unless you know who it is.”

“You do think he'll go after me next, don't you?”

“I don't want you taking any chances. Would you feel better if I assigned an officer to spend the day with you?”

“No. I'd feel as if I was giving in to terror. Maybe tonight a police car outside would be comforting, but I should be fine today. Are you any closer to identifying the killer?”

“We have several promising leads. We're convinced we're on the right track. I'm sure we'll make an arrest soon.”

“I'm supposed to be mollified, aren't I? But to me those sound like the evasive statements the police give when they're at a loss and aren't progressing.”

“Not true—we are getting somewhere. I'll be there at eight.”

Paul and Sally dead. Who would be next? Her heart pounded, and her mouth was Sahara-dry. She had to deal with her panic.

She'd keep busy, organize the linens, think about the refugees.

Should she have overridden Hollis' objections and assigned an officer for the day? Surely a patrol car outside at night would be sufficient. Rhona straightened the pile of messages and faxes on her desk. Before she attacked them, she listened to her voice mail.

“It's Mary Beth Cardwell from the Brockville psychiatric hospital. It's eight thirty on Monday morning. Please call me.”

Ms Cardwell had said she'd request permission to talk about the case histories in the files she suspected Robertson had seen when her supervisor returned. She'd promised to phone on Monday after her supervisor gave her the okay.

Rhona dialled Brockville.

“I'm terribly sorry. Would you be Detective Simpson?”

“Yes.”

“I'm the secretary, Jean Rice. Mary Beth wanted you to know she's in a meeting and won't be available until eleven.”

Two hours to wait. She wanted a cigarette. To give in or not to give in? No, she wouldn't demean herself by huddling outside with other weak-willed souls. She'd wait until after lunch. She buzzed Constable Featherstone, located her in her office and trundled down the hall to see her.

“Any problems?”

“No, and we're making progress.”

“Bring me up to speed.”

Featherstone leaned forward on her elbows and ticked the items off on her fingers. “First. The castings of the prints out by the barn on the farm narrowed the shoe down to size ten Adidas running shoes worn on the outer edges. All of his shoes will show the same pattern.” She ticked again. “The shell casing can be matched to the barrel of a particular rifle.” A third tick. “From the flap of the envelope, we've saved saliva traces for a
DNA
test.” Her chair squeaked as she rocked forward. “Not bad, eh?”

Rhona grinned. “Not bad at all.”

“As for the addresses, we've verified all but a couple and should have the list done by late this afternoon. I'll leave a copy on your desk.”

“That's great. I think Mary Beth Cardwell, the psychiatric social worker at Brockville, will have information to narrow the field. She's phoning later.”

At four minutes to eleven, Mary Beth Cardwell phoned. “I'm sorry I've taken a long time getting back to you.
Actually
, I'm sending you a fax, but I thought you'd like to hear the stories in case you have questions. Interrupt at any point. I had four files on my desk. The top one was a case history of a woman with multiple personalities. I suppose you've read how childhood abuse splinters personalities—they sometimes coexist uneasily for years. Then some incident triggers a conflict and anything can happen.”

“I've seen
The Three Faces of Eve
and read a fair amount about the disorder.”

“In this case, a woman with several personalities flipped out in her teens. Actually, she killed her uncle, who was her guardian and her abuser. Her dominant personality, the nice obedient conforming child, knew nothing about the murder. The judge ruled she wasn't responsible and sent her to us for
treatment. She received extensive psychiatric help, and, eventually, the dominant personality amalgamated the others.”

“Can you tell me her age and where she lives?'

“
Actually
, we haven't had an update on her whereabouts for years. When last we heard, she lived in western Canada—Alberta I think. She'd be, let me see, she'd be thirty-five.”

“What about the other three.”

“I can say with absolute certainty the man whose case is in the second file didn't commit your murder. He's in Kingston Pen, and he'll be there for a long time.”

“How do you know?”

“About six months ago, he gave the prison psychiatrist permission to obtain his file from us because he hoped to receive better treatment if the authorities realized he'd been abused as a child. In the correspondence with the psychiatrist, I learned he'd killed a policeman in an armed robbery and had ten years to serve before he was eligible for parole.”