Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (6 page)

On her way out of the house, she passed through the kitchen
and avoided MacTee's eyes lest he take eye contact for a tacit invitation to throw himself against her and leave a residue of hair. Outside, she climbed into the cab of her ten-year-old Nissan pickup. Once again, as she did every time she faced the mess, she vowed to clean out the winter's debris. An archeologist could read her history by investigating the layered strata.

Marguerite lived in a downtown residential area, where developers had converted turn-of-the-century mansions into apartments. Her veranda-wrapped brick building with leaded glass bay windows must once have epitomized the glories of Victorian living. Hollis pressed the bell beside the bevelled glass door and identified herself, and Marguerite buzzed her into the foyer. Inside, Hollis looked up the sweep of the broad mahogany stairs. Marguerite, in blue jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, smiled down.

At the top of the stairs, they hugged each other. The physical contact touched Hollis. Tears filled her eyes. She sniffed and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.

“It's okay. Cry as much as you want.” Marguerite patted her as if she were a colicky baby.

Hollis pulled away and blew her nose. “If I start, I'll never stop. It's . . .” She couldn't find the words. Instead she pulled in a deep shaky breath. “I need to talk more than I need to cry.” In the hours since Marguerite's call, she'd worked out the questions she wanted answered.

Marguerite smiled, “I'll listen until you've said everything you want to say.”

They stopped in the tiny, functional kitchen where Marguerite poured two drinks—a gin and tonic for Hollis, a gin and orange juice for herself. She loaded the glasses, a large glass bowl of popcorn, a salt shaker, a pottery bowl of salted almonds and paper napkins on a red metal tray. They moved
out to a slatted wooden deck sitting atop a flat-roofed addition to the lower floor. Furnished with five sling-back canvas chairs, each covered with different, crayon-bright canvas, planters newly stocked with geraniums and dusty miller, and a round, weathered coffee table, the deck promised to be a sunny summer refuge.

They sipped and munched in silence for a minute or two.

“I'm having trouble believing Paul was murdered,” Hollis said. “My mind circles around and around, desperate to deny or to confirm that everything was a bad dream.”

“I know the feeling. Except when they're killed in southern states like Georgia or Alabama, you don't think of ministers as targets.”

“I
need
to talk about Paul.”

Marguerite waited.

“You must have guessed, or maybe Paul told you, he didn't want me involved in church activities?”

Marguerite nodded. “I wondered why, but Paul wasn't one to explain himself, and I didn't know you well enough to bring up the subject.”

“It was an agreement we made when we married. Paul said we both had established ourselves professionally and should maintain our separate public lives. He said we were too old to interweave our careers—I should continue my teaching and research and leave his work to him. I regret being a party to that decision.” She twisted her fingers together. “How could we ever have hoped to have any kind of a marriage when these were the terms?” Hollis stopped and stared at her hands as if they might help her reveal her secrets. “This is hard. I haven't talked to anyone about Paul. It's too late for our marriage, but for my peace of mind and because I'm a suspect and could be a target, I
must
find out more about the parts of Paul's life he
didn't share with me, starting with the church. How did the two of you get along? How did you divide the responsibilities? To understand him, I'd like to familiarize myself with the details of his daily life.”

“I don't understand the connection. Are those the only reasons? “

“And because I feel guilty. Even though Paul said he didn't want me to play a role in the church, I shouldn't have agreed.” Hollis gazed out over the rooftops. “But, to be honest, the setup suited me too. Because I didn't want him interfering in my profession, I allowed him to dictate the terms. And not only from his ministry. Paul excluded me from other parts of his life.” She unlocked her fingers and traced the blue zigzag pattern on the glass. “It's probably irrational, but humour me.”

Marguerite scooped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “I can't imagine how it'll help, but here goes. Paul and I belonged to a team, an equal team.” She emphasized ‘equal'. “Paul didn't like it, and I don't blame him. I'm younger, a woman, and I have a masters of theology compared to his doctor of divinity. Nevertheless, our contracts spelled out the equality of the team. Fortunately, St. Mark's hired me six months before Paul, and the intervening time gave me a chance to establish my constituency in the congregation before he arrived. Because we both considered preaching a strength, our contract allocated equal pulpit time.” She smiled wryly. “Paul preached more intellectual sermons, but he didn't reach people's emotion the way I do.”

She considered. “After our initial power plays, we sorted our roles. Paul did counselling, theologically based study groups, work in the larger church, half the visiting and attended half of the committee meetings. I did the other half, supervised the Sunday morning development program, made hospital calls and participated in ‘Roots and Wings', a study group of Christian
feminists working to achieve inclusive language. Incidentally, when I inquired if Paul thought you'd like to join us, he said no. I was sorry because I figured you'd add a lot to our work on the revision of hymns and the prayers to eliminate the endless references to ‘men', to ‘sons', to exclusively masculine terms, and the substitution of nonspecific terms like ‘people' or the addition of ‘daughters', ‘wives', ‘women'.”

“He never said a word to me.” Hollis piled popcorn on a paper napkin.

“You're kidding.” With her legs outstretched, Marguerite regarded her intricately beaded moccasins. “Paul and I spoke to each other at the Friday morning meeting with Zena, Barbara and Lewis, or whoever our current custodian was. Paul and I didn't dislike one another, at least I didn't dislike Paul, but we staked out our territories.”

“Can you think of anything different about him or about his routine in the last few weeks?”

“Because my office is upstairs, and his was downstairs, we didn't run into each other. People come and go and, although you say hello, you don't keep track. One thing I can tell you—Paul recorded things. He was detail-oriented, fussy about appointments and punctuality. Paul used his desk calendar . . .” She twinkled at Hollis, “religiously,” and then grimaced. “Sorry, this is no time for levity.” She explained “I guess I joke because I'm sensitive—promptness and strict adherence to schedules definitely are not virtues of mine. Paul never tired of pointing out how a disorganized person wasted her own and other people's time.”

This was exactly what Hollis wanted to know. “If he kept good records, they may give me more clues about him. I want to see his office and his daily calendar.” She straightened and added, “Tonight.”

Marguerite's eyebrows rose.

Hollis ignored Marguerite's surprise. “I expect the church is locked on Sunday night. Do you have keys?”

“It is. I can lend you mine.” Her brow wrinkled. “I don't think they've secured his office as a crime scene, but if the police are interested in his papers, they may seal it. Never mind, it hasn't happened yet, and I don't suppose allowing you to make a quick visit and examine his calendar will make any difference.”

“I won't touch anything else or remove the calendar. If I see anything I think is important, I'll copy it.” Hollis plunked her empty glass on the table.

“Another one?”

“No thanks. But tell me more about Paul. His counseling meant a lot to him, didn't it?” She placed the napkin she'd absentmindedly folded into a tiny rectangle beside her glass. “Of course, you know we met in Halifax when he was giving a course on ministerial counselling at the Nova Scotia School of Theology?”

“You could have knocked me over when Paul phoned from Halifax and told me you'd been married. For a confirmed bachelor, and especially for a man like Paul, to be swept off his feet and marry within three weeks blew me away.”

“You knew about our upcoming divorce?”

Marguerite's eye widened. “No. I had no idea. Since when?”

“Christmas. It was Paul's idea. Things hadn't been great, but I thought we could work out our problems.”

Marguerite started to speak and stopped.

“What were you going to say?”

“This is absolutely none of my business, but why did you marry Paul?”

Talking about Paul helped, but how much should she tell? Minister or not, Hollis didn't intend to reveal her forty-four-year-old
soul. But, given Paul's tall, commanding presence, his magnetic blue eyes and his smile, it was easy enough to explain in terms of his sex appeal, to admit lust had played a role. “It mortifies me to admit it, but physical attraction . . .” Unable to finish the sentence she changed the topic. “The question is, why did he marry me? He said it was time to settle down . . . I think he believed marriage would give him more freedom.”

“Physical attraction.” Marguerite nodded her head. “He certainly had that, and he used his sexual magnetism to exert power.”

“You're right about the power. Although I'm realizing how little I knew my husband, I do know power motivated him. I suspect he maintained his compartmentalized life to prevent any one person from finding out enough about him to exercise power over him.” They sat for a moment in silence. “Did he try to control you?”

“Tried, but didn't succeed,” Marguerite said with a wry smile.

“Maybe control and power were the factors attracting him to counselling?”

Marguerite's face froze. She rose and paced slowly. The third board squeaked every time she stepped on it. She stopped in front of Hollis.

“It's a shocking thing to say to anyone let alone his widow, but I'm relieved Paul is dead. A situation arose recently. I had to act, but I procrastinated.” Her eyes filled, and she collapsed into her chair, slumped forward with her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled. “God, if only I'd been decisive.”

Her dramatic emotional reaction alarmed Hollis. “What happened?”

“I don't want to think about it, let alone talk about it . . .” For moments, Marguerite didn't say anything. Finally, she lifted her head and revealed eyes filled with pain.

Hollis couldn't imagine what Marguerite would reveal and didn't know if she was strong enough to hear whatever Marguerite was going to say.

“Almost a month ago,” Marguerite said in a low voice, “a woman who'd been seeing Paul professionally came to me in a terrible state. She said Paul had initiated sex during a counselling session and, although she hadn't wanted to because she felt it was wrong, she gave in. She'd ended the counselling sessions and wanted me to know what had happened.

“I believed her charge, agreed he'd been way out of line and said I'd speak to him and report what he'd done. I intended to confront Paul immediately, but I put it off. He would have challenged the woman's story, said she was unstable, made light of the allegation. I
did
intend to act, to take the matter to Presbytery.” Marguerite's voice quivered. “It's no good saying what I
would
have done, I didn't do anything and she committed suicide. If I'd acted promptly and reassured her Presbytery would consider her complaint, she might be alive.”

A sexual predator. Hollis wanted the words to go back in Marguerite's mouth. “How horrible,” she said and thought what an inadequate word it was.

“The problem didn't end with her death. I've considered what I should do—she probably wasn't an isolated case—and I knew I had to track down other victims and bring Paul to justice. It's cowardly of me, but you realize why I'm relieved.”

Hollis swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. She thought of Paul in his office, seducing an endless line of needy, damaged women and felt sick. Not now. Time to share her suspicions. “I think he also was having an affair.” She avoided Marguerite's eyes. “He often stayed out all night. The first time it happened, I asked him where he'd been, and he told me it was none of my business.” Hollis met Marguerite's
gaze. “Do you know who she was?”

“Hollis, you don't want to know. What good will it do?”

“Yes, I do. Everything. I have to know everything.”

Marguerite peered at her moccasins.

“Really, it will help me,” Hollis said in what she hoped sounded like a reasonable tone of voice.

“I can't imagine how, but I suppose if I don't tell you, someone else will.” Marguerite leaned forward and addressed her moccasins. “Sally Staynor.” She concentrated on drawing a circle with her toe. “And there's more. She made a scene in church this morning when I informed the congregation of Paul's death.”

Great. Anyone who hadn't heard would figure it out. Who was she kidding? Probably she'd been one of the few
not
to have heard about Sally and Paul's relationship. “Is there a Mr. Staynor?”

Marguerite, looking as if she regretted telling Hollis, bent forward to pick up their glasses and place them on the tray. “He's a butcher and owns the Chop Shop.” Marguerite shivered. “It isn't summer yet. Now that the sun's gone, it's chilling down. Let me scramble or boil a couple of eggs. My mom always made a soft-boiled egg with toast fingers when we were sick or unhappy.”

Get up. Go. No more talk, no more revelations. She stood. If she didn't get out of here, she'd explode, howl—she didn't know what she'd do. How could he have done what he'd done? How could she have been so stupid, so unaware? She pulled her pink jacket tightly around her as if to contain her rage. Taking a deep breath, she relied on forty-four years of training in civil behaviour. “Thanks, but if you'll loan me the keys, I'll check Paul's appointment calendar.”