Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell
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for you, but I have a couple more questions.”
Sally gulped convulsively. “Go ahead. I sure as hell want the fucker who killed him caught and locked away forever. Too bad we don’t do public hangings any more.”
“In all likelihood, the person who killed him knew him. Do you remember him mentioning anyone giving him trouble?”
Sally hesitated as if she was weighing information, trying to decide what to tell. She gave her head a tiny shake. “We didn’t talk a lot. Paul isolated the different parts of his life in separate compartments. I was his wild lover, not his confidante. Right now, I can’t think of a thing, but believe you me, I’ll replay every word I can remember and see if I come up with anything. If I want you, I suppose I phone the cop shop.”
Rhona handed Sally her card. “Use these numbers. My cell phone’s always on. Tell me about your husband. Was he aware of your affair?”
“Poor JJ.” There was no pity in Sally’s voice. “Poor JJ, the impotent quote master. I suppose you talked to him? He’d make your ‘most likely’ list.”
Rhona waited.
“Of course, you bloody well won’t say. For all you know, I’m in cahoots with the silly bugger. Well, I’m not—I promise you.” Sally picked up her glass, dribbled in a little tomato juice, topped it with vodka and stirred it with a yellow pencil chewed at the end. She swallowed noisily. “Frankly, he’s driven me crazy for years. He’s nutty as a fruitcake—those damn quotes and mood changes. He’s supposed to take medication for the swings. If he takes it, he can’t screw in a light bulb, let alone me. If he doesn’t take it, he’s so off the wall he can’t concentrate long enough to get it up.”
She thumped her glass on the table, and the liquid sloshed over the rim. “When he talked to you, did you feel like he should be in bloody Hyde Park addressing an crowd? You won’t believe this—but on the rare occasion when the poor bastard actually got it up, he still didn’t shut up. My God, I never want to hear another word from that slimy poet, what was his name, John Donne. That guy was perverted. If it wasn’t Donne, it was the Bible. For God’s sake—the Bible in bed.”
“Is your husband violent?”
“Violent, it’s me who’s bloody violent. JJ, butcher to the stars, is a vegetarian. Can you imagine what it’s like cooking for one of them? It means you cook two bloody meals every night. If I never meet another christless lentil in my life, it’ll be too soon.”
Whether Staynor ate peas, beans, lentils, or rare roast beef didn’t interest Rhona. “Mrs. Staynor, Sally, tell me what kind of a . . .” She hesitated over the word, but no other came to mind “relationship your husband had with Reverend Robertson.”
“Goddam relationships again. He didn’t have one like mine, that’s for sure.”
She raised an eyebrow and slowly ran her tongue over her lips. “Not the kind we had. How the Hell should I know? We lived in the same house and talked about the kids, but for the last . . .” Her voice ran down. She swayed and mumbled, “ten years, ten goddam years. He’s chopped and sliced and quoted away.” She ventured a slurred laugh. “I said he belonged on Jeopardy, but he’d be limited to meat and books.”
Rhona witnessed Sally’s rapid deterioration and guessed she’d begun sloshing Bloody Marys long before the sun crossed the yardarm. Her concentration wouldn’t improve—time for Rhona to leave.
Ten
Wednesday evening—Paul’s visitation began at six thirty. It would be an ordeal. How to prepare? Hollis shifted hangers and considered her clothes. What would make her feel correctly dressed and ready to cope? Respectability was the watchword. She shifted to the end of the cupboard where she stored her on-the-road clothes. Her Jekyll and Hyde wardrobe—peacock bright for Ottawa and wren drab to reassure the nice people she interviewed in the summers.
During their brief courtship, Hollis had worn her conservative summer wardrobe. She’d joined Paul at the altar in a navy linen suit and white cotton shirt.
When they’d returned to Ottawa, she’d collected her regular clothing and moved it to the manse. For her debut at church, she’d chosen what she considered her most flattering outfit—a shocking pink silk suit worn with a black camisole, a large artificial black silk flower and pink sandals with four-inch heels. The shock was hers when she saw Paul’s horrified expression.
That Sunday morning had marked the beginning of their marriage’s collapse. Later, she realized Paul had married her believing she was a conservative professor, a plain little bird, a wren, and she had metamorphosed into a parrot, a noisy raucous bird that gloried in colour.
Respectable. She pulled her wedding suit from the hanger. Symbolic to begin and end in the same outfit. Her Manolo Blahniks—she’d bought them in a thrift shop and kidded herself she’d be okay with a half size smaller than she usually wore. With the shoes on, she reached six feet and willingly risked pain to give herself commanding stature to outface them all.
At the funeral home, Magnum and Shortt, a morning suit-clad young man, suitably solemn, led her to the reception room, where the open satin-lined mahogany coffin set on a black draped trolley dominated the room. Her eyes rested on Paul and filled with tears. Whatever he’d done, whoever he’d been, he hadn’t deserved to die like he had.
What did you do to prevent tears other than load up on tranquillizers and be reduced to a zombie-like state? Somewhere she’d read an article advising those who didn’t want to cry to make a conscious decision to cry and, lo and behold, the tears would refuse to flow. Hollis tried it—miracle of miracles—it worked.
She took a deep breath and gagged. Lilies—she hated the cloying smell. Although the death notice had requested charitable donations in lieu of flowers, a number of large bouquets had sprouted up around the coffin like weeds in a parking lot.
Preparing to receive the visitors, she positioned herself facing away from the coffin. Simpson, accompanied by a young woman whom she introduced as Constable Sheila Featherstone, moved behind her and to her left.
By seven thirty, callers jammed the room. As if it were written on an invisible teleprompter, they followed protocol: sign the guest book sitting on an oak lectern inside the door, line up to look at Paul then to say a few words to Hollis before they moved on and scurried home or stayed and chatted with friends.
She murmured the correct responses to: “such a tragedy”; “great loss”; “if there’s anything we can do, just call”; “wonderful preacher”; “true humanitarian”; and, “our deepest sympathy”. Visitors hugged her. Occasionally, callers deviated from the script and rushed from viewing the body to tell her how “natural” Paul seemed. Fleetingly, she wondered why they felt compelled to share this: did they think it made it easier if a murdered man looked natural?
The number and variety of visitors amazed her. People from the congregation, the wider church, the university, the refugee community and many others who fit in no discernible pigeonholes had come to pay their respects.
Marcus Toberman’s entrance created a minor buzz. No doubt those who belonged to St. Mark’s remembered and felt embarrassed by the humiliating rejection Marcus and City Church had received. Marcus, ramrod straight, waited first for several of Hollis’s college colleagues and the minister from Calvary Free Methodist church to speak to her then for an ancient Vietnamese gentleman, whose family had come to Canada as refugees sponsored by St. Mark’s, to haltingly stammer his gratitude. When Marcus reached the head of the line he hugged Hollis, patted her shoulder and murmured the kind of meaningless words that comfort.
That done, he pulled away and took both her hands. Speaking in a louder than normal voice, he said, “I came because I wanted you and everyone else to realize that although I quarreled with Paul, I’m sorry he’s dead and I’m sorry for your pain.” He squeezed her hands again before he wheeled and marched out of the room.
Shortly after Marcus left, Kas moved to the front of the line.