Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell
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eyes were drawn upward to the black windows threatening her like the eyes of a loathsome creature staring down at its prey. Anyone might be peering down, watching what she was doing—a blob of matter under a microscope. She lurched across the room, snatched the dangling cords and yanked the curtains shut.
This panic was ridiculous. Taking deep breaths, concentrating on the air entering and leaving her lungs, focussing on meditating, she worked to clear her mind.
Impossible.
She told herself as long as she was able to breathe she was fine; to stop being an idiot and do the job—read Paul’s calendar. She dropped into the high-backed pseudo-leather office chair and, wrecking the symmetry of the desk, picked up the calendar, flipping back to March and forward to late May. No names—only initials. Today’s entry. Paul had been meeting SS at seven. SS. Sally Staynor.
So many entries. So many repeats. She made a two page list, ticked each time the same ones appeared and replaced the calendar. Tilted in the chair, she surveyed the room. What else could it reveal?
The drawers of the desk and the filing cabinet were unlocked. She sifted through the contents and realized why—the minutes of church council, congregational and presbytery meetings as well as his clerical correspondence deserved a triple dull rating and contained nothing of a confidential nature. Crammed with dry reference books—concordances, biblical analyses, famous sermons, dictionaries—the bookshelves offered no clues.
She concluded Paul had stowed his personal papers in his locked bedroom.
Time to go home.
While she’d worked, her heartbeat had slowed to normal, as had her breathing. The idea of facing the silence and shadows in the hall elevated her heart rate and caused her breath to catch in her throat.
To fool any onlooker, she’d leave the curtains closed and the light on. If it hadn’t been her imagination and someone really was watching her, this would give her an advantage. Whoever might be lurking out there wouldn’t be aware she’d left, unless “they”, no not “they”, “he”, waited outside the door.
At the thought of someone in the hall, she considered sleeping in the chair and slipping home in the morning when daylight and Barbara Webb arrived. But she couldn’t subject MacTee to a night of discomfort.
Nothing for it. She had to go.
Hollis flung the door open, assured herself the hall was empty, sped past the dark gaping doorways, raced up the stairs and wrenched the outside door open.
A door closed somewhere behind her.
The sound froze her hand on the half-open outside door. She must have dreamed it—too much shock—her imagination was running away with her.
She bolted.
While Hollis searched Paul’s church office, Rhona toiled at the station. Sometime after one AM, she allowed herself to go home.
When she arrived, the first thing she did was check the message machine.
“It’s me. It’s three thirty, and I’m heading out. I’ve got the night shift this week. Pretty dull Sunday. Wish you’d been here. By the way, I talked to a friend on the Toronto Police. They’re recruiting women and visible minorities. Think about it. Toronto is a great city—you’d love it here, and I’d love it if you were here. Call me when you can.”
She could buzz him on his cell phone. Not a good idea. Toronto was looking better and better. She wasn’t exactly a visible minority. Having a Cree grandmother didn’t precisely qualify her, although she knew people looked at her and wondered about her genetic mix. In Toronto, the city of hundreds of languages and nationalities, she’d be part of the majority, not the minority.
In her bedroom, she stripped off her clothes and reached for a flannel night shirt. She brushed her hand over the soft comforting fabric and knew it was one thing she’d have to give up if she moved—Zack was a guy who liked sexy lingerie.
She tried to relax but had her usual trouble shutting down. Warm milk, the time-honoured soporific, did nothing. Back in her bedroom, she popped Casablanca in the VCR. Together she and Opie snuggled down under the down-filled comforter. She lip-synched the dialogue but fell asleep before Bogart did the noble thing.
The demands of a murder case leave detectives severely sleep deprived, and Rhona was no exception. At seven thirty in the morning, her aching body and gritty eyes demanded more sleep. Instead, she reviewed her day’s schedule. The day seldom evolved as she wished, but she preferred starting with a plan.
At St. Mark’s, she’d talk to Barbara Webb and make a quick sortie through Paul’s files. Already she thought of him as “Paul” and his wife as “Hollis”. She’d have to be careful to use formal terms of address and maintain her distance.
Following her stop at St. Mark’s, she’d review the race program with Hollis and attend Paul’s autopsy. Finally, after lunch, she’d interview JJ Staynor at the Chop Shop.
Up and dressed in a black pantsuit and hand-tooled black cowboy boots, she scooped Meow Meow Chow Chow into Opie’s bowl. He rewarded her with a disdainful sniff. Opie preferred fresh cooked salmon, or a lesser but acceptable substitute, canned salmon. Rhona smiled at him. “If you’re hungry, you’ll eat it,” she said.
Opie sneered, raised his tail, swished it from side to side and stalked from the room.
In the St. Mark’s church office, Barbara Webb, hair upswept and fastened with a rhinestone comb, cradled the phone on her shoulder and murmured sympathetically while she did paperwork. She waved a greeting and changed the tone of her voice. “I have to go, Sandra. A police officer is here to talk to me. I’m terribly sorry about your Herbert. I know what he meant to you, how much you loved him.”
After replacing the receiver, she said, “Being the secretary is like being ‘Dear Abby’ without ten million readers.” She grimaced, “Poor Sandra Gardner has suffered a double blow. First Paul and now Herbert, her beloved budgie.”
Rhona smiled, “I bet your contract and your job description don’t say a word about sympathetic listening.”
“You’re absolutely right—it takes hours every day. But it’s important, and I love doing it. By the way, call me Barbara—everyone does.” She stood up. “A friend is waiting to substitute for me. I’ll fetch her, then we can talk.”
“I thought we’d use Reverend Robertson’s office. By the way, did you make his appointments and keep his calendar?”
“He mostly did his own. I informed him of upcoming church meetings, and he notified me of the ones he planned to attend.”
“Since you’re familiar with the congregation, would you go over his calendar with me?”
Barbara nodded and clicked out of the room on her red snake-skin high heels. She trotted back with a myopic, wren-like woman who acknowledged introductions and settled herself behind the desk, saying, “Go on. I’ll be fine, not as good as Barbara, a disappointment to the callers, but just fine.” The phone rang.
Jaunty in a red wool suit with a nipped-in waist, Barbara preceded Rhona down the stairs to Paul’s office. Strands of yellow tape trailed from the doorframe. The door was open. Barbara stopped abruptly, seemingly unaware of her ring of keys, which might have belonged to the chatelaine of a medieval castle, rattling like a chandelier in an earthquake. Inside the room crowded with furniture, chaos prevailed. Someone had dumped the drawers from the filing cabinet and the desk.
“Oh my goodness, it was locked yesterday,” Barbara said. “What a mess. Whatever was he looking for?”
Rhona gripped Barbara’s shaking arm reassuringly and turned her away from the doorway.
“A good question and one we’ll talk about in a minute, but not here. This is a crime scene,