Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery Read online

  Finished with her examination, the detective reached inside her oversize handbag and removed a black notebook. “What a terrible shock you’ve had. I’m truly sorry to bother you at this point, but time is important. Are you able to answer a few questions?” She opened her notebook to a clean page and tested the ballpoint clipped to the front of the book.

  “I’ll do my best, but I do feel as if my neurons are scrambled. I can’t tell you much . . .”

  “I’ll start with the most obvious question. Who wanted Reverend Robertson dead?”

  Dead. Such a final word. Were all words beginning and ending with the same letter as abrupt? Abba, bob, Dad . . . Was she losing her mind? Pay attention. What had the detective said? “I’m sorry, would you repeat the question?”

  “Who wanted your husband dead?”

  Focus. One thought at a time. “A minister deals with a huge variety of people—some of them pretty strange.”

  “Any trouble recently?”

  Trouble. How did you define trouble? “No more than usual.”

  “He wasn’t nervous or frightened? Didn’t speak about anything worrying him?”

  In the three years Hollis had known him, she’d never witnessed a single sign of nervousness or fright. And, given their circumstances, she wouldn’t have had a clue if anything was worrying him. She shook her head.

  “Anything out of the ordinary in his personal life?”

  Never anything ordinary. Her mind did a hamster run. Confession time. “I don’t think so, but we weren’t doing much talking. We’re getting a divorce.”

  Simpson studied Hollis’s face carefully. Hollis hoped the detective didn’t look for the obvious. Anyone who watched TV knew the nearest and dearest were the likeliest killers, and what better motive than divorce—kill him before you lost him, lost his money, lost your status.

  “This was a mutual decision?”

  When did two people ever agree to divorce? What had Paul said? The words were engraved on her heart. “This was a mistake. The sooner it’s over the sooner we can move on.” Before he’d confronted her, he’d been withdrawn, but she’d attributed it to the pressure of his work. She hadn’t seen the blow coming and felt as if she’d been in a head-on collision. But she didn’t need to confess her pain and shock. “More or less.”

  “Were you still living together?”

  Co-existing. It certainly wasn’t living. “In the same house.”

  Simpson digested this but didn’t pursue the topic. “You hadn’t observed a change in his routine. No strange calls, hang-ups, threats?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about this morning?”

  “Paul wasn’t home last night. I walked the dog at six this morning. When we came back, he was eating cereal in the kitchen. We didn’t talk. He left ten minutes later.”

  “Where was he last night?”

  Paul’s last night on earth. Poor Paul. “I don’t know.”

  “Can you think of parishioners or others who’d had a run-in with him? If you can, I’d like their names.”

  Hollis shivered and reached for the rough gray blanket folded at the end of the cot. “I’m sorry, I’m having difficulty concentrating. Paul met hundreds of people . . . He loved controversy. Paul is . . .” She stopped. “Paul was an advocate for the ordination of homosexual ministers. You noticed his T-shirt?”

  “Yes, and I’ve seen him on television. What else might have made someone want to kill him?”

  “Hard to say. You know how it is with religion. Even a middle-of-the-road one like the United Church. Lots of passion. Always a debate about something. But it’s one thing to disagree with him and another to kill him.” She pulled the blanket tighter. “I can’t tell you much about his life at St. Mark’s. Paul didn’t encourage my involvement. He said it was because I’m a Buddhist, although one can be both Christian and Buddhist.”

  “Had you been a Buddhist for long?”

  “Years. I took a course in comparative religion and Buddhism seemed so sensible, straightforward—a religion for one or for millions.” She smiled thinking about the Buddha. “He was such a good man and . . .”

  The detective nodded encouragingly.

  “Most Sundays I attended church, but I didn’t join the United Church Women or teach Sunday school. Not because I objected. It was Paul. He insisted the church was his bailiwick and told me to stay out.” She heard herself running on like a car with a weight on the gas pedal. She didn’t admit how much his rejection had hurt her.

  “St. Mark’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “You only went to the church services.”

  “Mostly. But three weeks ago, after the eleven o’clock service, because I was curious, I stayed for the meeting where the congregation voted on ordaining homosexuals. It was awful. People had strong opinions and said rotten things.”

  “Strong enough to make one of them kill your husband?”

  How could anyone but the killer know the answer? “I have no idea.”

  “Tell me who said what.” Simpson’s pen hovered over the page.

  The blanket slid off Hollis’s shoulders. “They perched in a group like vultures.” She tapped her left index finger with her right one. “Reverend Martin Cross was vicious. He’s a non-practicing minister who rants of sin, hell and doom and spends his time plotting against ‘The Devil’s Agents’.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t run. And neither of the two Ritter sisters could have done it. Malvena said homosexuality might have existed when she was young, but it certainly never became a topic at congregational meetings.”

  Hollis realized the detective wanted her to speed up the narration. But it was impossible. Unless she reran the event, scene by scene like a video, she wouldn’t remember exactly who had spoken and what position each had taken and it might be important, might provide a lead to Paul’s killer.

  “There was a crowd of those, well, I call them the Proponents of Family, capital P, capital F. They believe the acknowledgment and acceptance of gays undermines the foundation of Christian family life.”

  Detective Simpson shifted and glanced at her watch.

  Hollis justified herself. “A number of them do jog. Part of the credo of the healthy mind and body dictates that they keep fit. Frank Youville, Knox Porter and Jim Brown are in good enough shape to run a marathon.”

  “Were any of them running in this one?”

  “No, not as far as I know.”

  “Before the race began, did you stand beside or talk to anyone who could identify you?”

  The change of topic disconcerted Hollis. Of course—she was a suspect. What a terrible thought. “No. You don’t talk because you’re concentrating on yourself. Every runner exists in a cocoon.”

  If she was a suspect, who else would be on the list? She answered her own question—anyone connected to the church.

  The church!

  Marguerite Day, Paul’s associate minister, should be told. She extended her left wrist to see her watch. “The service starts at eleven. Please make sure someone informs Marguerite Day. She’s taking the service at St. Mark’s this morning.”

  Simpson nodded. “I understand there’s a race program with basic information about each runner. Do you have one?”

  “It came with our race package. Mine’s at home.”

  “Please underline the name of anyone who had dealings with your husband. It shouldn’t take long. I’m sorry to push you at a time like this, but time is of the essence. I’ll collect it tomorrow morning.”

  After the detective had tucked her notebook in her enormous bag, she removed a card. “Can you think of anyone or anything else that might shed light on your husband’s murder?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  Simpson offered her card. “Take this and contact me if you have any ideas. In an active investigation, my cell phone’s always on. Tomorrow I’ll call before I come over.”

  Exactly what Hollis needed—a Monday morning wake-up call from the police.

&nb
sp; Because it would be more than two hours before she could interview the runners, who would have to wait for her if she was late, Rhona decided to make a quick trip to St. Mark’s to inform the minister of Paul’s death and learn what she could about the congregation. On the drive to the church, she gave in to temptation, lit a Rothmans and pumped up the volume of Madame Butterfly while she thought about statistics.

  Theoretically, many runners, including Hollis Grant, could have murdered Robertson. Hollis hadn’t seemed to be hiding anything, but she wouldn’t remove her from the list of suspects. Big women intimidated her; she’d have to be careful to set the right tone in her interviews—sympathetic but insistent on obtaining the information she needed.

  Assuming Ms Grant hadn’t been the murderer, the odds were great Robertson had known his killer, and there was a good chance that person had belonged to St. Mark’s.

  Familiar with the church from a previous case, Rhona remembered that in the sanctuary, the church proper, an elevated choir loft faced the congregation. If Reverend Day planned to announce Paul Robertson’s death, Rhona would be in the choir loft, where she’d observe the congregation’s reaction. As long as she borrowed a choir gown, the presence of a new face in St. Mark’s large choir would not attract undue attention.

  Rather than entering the church itself, she walked around to the annex where the ministers had their offices. In the vestibule, she pushed through a tide of children flowing downstairs and climbed a half-flight to Reverend Day’s office, where she knocked on the closed door, introduced herself and accepted an invitation to enter. Inside, a woman in her mid-thirties with a round face and a sculpted cap of shining chestnut hair pushed her chair back and stood up. Reverend Day hadn’t been at St. Mark’s when Rhona had worked on the last case.

  “I’m here with bad news. I’m sorry to tell you, Paul Robertson is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  Rhona registered a transitory impression of relief.

  “How can he be dead? He was running the marathon this morning. Don’t tell me he had a heart attack? Fitness obsessed him . . .” She stopped. “It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”

  “No. He was murdered.”

  Day recoiled as if Rhona had slapped her but remained dry-eyed. She shook her head as if the motion might erase her incredulity.

  “Murdered? In the marathon? It couldn’t be—not with all those people. What exactly happened? Do you know who did it?”

  “It’s hard to believe, but he was stabbed during the opening minutes of the marathon.”

  Day covered her mouth with the back of her hand and shook her head repeatedly.

  “I’m sorry not to give you more time to absorb the shock. Later, I want to talk to you about Reverend Robertson and the congregation. Do you plan to announce his death during the sermon?”

  Day considered the question. “Yes.”

  “Would it upset you if I sit in the choir loft to watch the congregation’s reaction when you tell them?”

  “Of course not. I can’t believe anyone here had anything to do with it, but if that’s what you want to do—go ahead. You’ll be less conspicuous if you wear a choir gown and . . .” She paused. “The choir. They must be told, but before we go downstairs to the choir lounge I’ll speak to our church secretary, Barbara Webb.” She raised her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth crooked upwards. “If you want to know anything about St. Mark’s, don’t underestimate her. Sometimes she comes across as a bit dithery, but her knowledge about everything and everybody is encyclopedic.”

  Day stashed several file cards in the skirt pocket of her Hunter green flannel suit before she led Rhona across the hall to the cluttered church office where a smartly dressed woman of well-preserved, advanced middle age balanced on spindly high heels. When they entered, she glanced up from the sheets of pink paper she was sliding into the copier.

  “Barbara, I have something to tell you.” Day raised her voice to compete with the mechanical hum.

  Barbara switched off the copier.

  “There’s no easy way to do this,” Day gained two inches when she took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “This is Detective Simpson. It’s unbelievable, but she’s here because Paul was murdered earlier this morning.” She looked as if she wanted to soften the blow but hadn’t quite figured out what words to use.

  Barbara searched their faces, probably for a sign she was hearing a macabre joke. Finding none, her body sagged, her arms swung limply, and her mouth hung slightly open.

  Day stepped forward and hugged Barbara.

  “Dead.” Barbara pronounced the word as if it came from an unfamiliar foreign language. “Dead. How can he be dead?” She spoke slowly. “Not—just—dead—murdered. Who would do such a thing?”

  Day grasped Barbara’s hands. “Barbara, it’s terrible, but we have to cope. The congregation will be upset. After church, everyone will want to talk. We’ll drink gallons of coffee. Who’s in charge of the coffee hour?”

  Barbara concentrated. “The Porters. Linda brought oatmeal cookies and butterscotch squares. Knox has nipped out to buy milk and cream. I’ll make sure there’s a full coffee urn and fill the kettles with water for the tea. This morning Linda was terribly flustered, because she was almost late. She said it was the first time she can remember them sleeping in until ten fifteen. Wait till you see Knox. He’s shaved off his beard.” A flush mottled her neck as she realized the irrelevance of her last remark.

  “I’m glad coffee hour’s under control,” Day said. “Now, I’ll tell Zena.”

  In the hall, she turned to Rhona. “Give me a moment before we go downstairs.”

  She left the door of her office ajar, dashed inside, plucked a surplice and embroidered stole from the coat tree inside the door and shrugged them on. Then, together they descended to the choir lounge, a mouldy smelling basement room, where the choir, more than thirty strong, chattered as they donned their powder blue choir gowns. The buzz of conversation died away as the visitors entered the lounge.

  “Hello, everyone,” Day said. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to lead up to what I have to say. I wish I could soften the blow. Reverend Robertson died this morning.” She paused. “He was murdered. This is Detective Simpson—she requires a surplice because she’s going to join you in the choir.”

  The choir goggled at them like fish in oxygen-deficient water. Mouths moved, but no one said anything.

  “I hope my presence won’t upset you. After the service, I’ll have questions for you,” Rhona said.

  Day addressed a frail woman whose faded transparency reminded Rhona of a coloured photo left too long in the sun. “Zena, are the hymns appropriate?”

  Zena clutched her music to her concave chest and thought for a minute before she spoke in a whispering voice matching her ephemeral appearance. “We’re singing ‘Now the Green Blade Rises’, ‘How Firm a Foundation’, ‘Hail the Day That Sees Him Rise’ and ‘Lord of the Dance’.” Her lips moved as if she was running the words of each hymn through her mind as she nodded three times and then shook her head. “ ‘Lord of the Dance’ isn’t appropriate. We won’t sing it this morning.”

  Day pulled the file cards from her pocket and made a note.

  “Detective Simpson, you’re welcome to join us,” Zena said. A frown creased her forehead into even deeper furrows. “Has anyone told Hollis?”

  “Yes, and a friend is with her,” Rhona said.

  Zena nodded. “It’s good to hear that.” She gripped her music like a life raft in a stormy sea.

  “Thanks, Zena.” Day radiated warmth and understanding. “I realize this is particularly hard for those of you who had a lot to do with Paul. It’s perfectly understandable if anyone feels he or she can’t manage the service.”

  In the choir loft, during the prelude of quiet organ music, Rhona considered the choir’s reaction. With one exception, a pretty dark-haired woman who had wept uncontrollably and excused herself, the news had appeared to shock but not leave them grief-strick
en.

  The music’s tempo changed. A woman in the front row of the choir rose, lifted a trumpet and produced a stunning volley of sound. While the trumpet’s sounding magnificence summoned the faithful, Reverend Day settled behind the pulpit. When the music ended, the church grew quiet.

  Day rose. She didn’t say anything.

  Her silence was more effective than speech. Those who hadn’t been paying attention—who’d been quieting children, removing their coats, or reading the announcements in the Bulletin—stopped. Every eye fastened on Day’s face: services did not start this way.

  “I’m sorry to tell you Reverend Robertson is dead.”

  The multitude rustled and murmured.

  A keening “No-o-o-o” drowned out their muted distress and drew everyone’s eyes from Marguerite to a red-haired woman sitting near the front. Her choking sobs shocked them into silence. The teenage boy next to her gripped her arm and whispered in her ear. Seconds later, the two got to their feet and the woman, weeping noisily, allowed the boy to lead her out of the church. The tense rigidity of the boy’s shoulders told the congregation the young man was living out every adolescent’s nightmare; being part of a parent’s publicly humiliating performance.

  After they’d gone, the parishioners, whose attention had focussed on this mini drama, turned again to the pulpit. Rhona witnessed reflections of shock, sorrow and greedy curiosity. Death was reaching close: no one was immune to its morbid appeal.

  “I have nothing else to tell you, except it was a violent death, and the police are investigating.” She paused for a moment. “Let us pray.”

  The hour-long service proceeded. Faces sagged, eyes glazed and a restless wave of coughs betrayed a collective urge to get on with the after-church coffee and share their feelings about the shocking news.

  During the last hymn, Rhona’s eyes followed a woman in a too long, too large brown dress and a man of nondescript middle-age leave through the door leading to the annex which contained the kitchen and the church hall. They must be the Porters, slipping out to turn on the coffee, boil the kettles for tea and set out plates of cookies and squares. Rhona hoped they were ready for a busy session. In her experience, proximity to disaster always stimulated appetites.