Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell
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rotating her head. “She’s fooled them like she fooled you. She’s hypnotized the police.” She pointed at Hollis and a half-smile curled her lip. “She’s so nice.” Her finger thumped her breast and she repeatedly shook her head. “Not—like—me. No one ever said I was nice, but I was the one Paul loved.” Her chin rose, and her tone became belligerent. “He was going to leave her and marry me.”
Her head and eyes lifted, and she peered upward, as if reading an invisible teleprompter. “You people who think he was good were wrong. I know all about him and all his secrets.” Again the half-smile. “Just—you—wait. One of these days, I’ll spill the beans about some of you who pretend you’re holy and better than me.” Her eyes roamed the church, lingering here and there on particular faces.
Dropping the belligerent tone, she spoke conversationally. “Paul and I aren’t the same as you ordinary people. We’re special. But you wouldn’t understand. Hollis did. And Hollis Grant couldn’t tolerate the fact he’d found someone like himself, someone to match him, to challenge him.”
She stopped, raised her chin to expose her white throat and thrust one arm heavenward. “I call on all of you to be my witnesses. She did it. Justice must be done.” She seemed to be imploring God to instantly deliver a lightning bolt of retribution from heaven.
Charged silence filled the church.
Sally swung back to the coffin. “Jesus, why have you done this?” She took three steps, wobbled on her high heels, lost her balance and reached out. Her shiny purse flew from her hand, bounced off the side of the coffin and ricocheted to the floor where it snapped open and emptied. A crash followed by the tinkling of glass and the smell of alcohol.
The two police officers hurried to the front of the church, where Rhona murmured, “Sally, we’re going to give you a hand. You can’t stay here.” The two women positioned themselves on either side, prepared to frog-march her out. Sally shrugged off their hands and supported herself on the front pew.
Hollis straightened, pulled her arms close to her sides, curled her hands into fists and concentrated on the pain of her nails pressing into her palms. This would not be the last straw; she would not allow Sally’s behaviour to send her over the edge. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax to watch the scene as if it was happening in a movie, happening to someone else.
Featherstone, ignoring the shards of glass and pools of alcohol, scooped up the purse’s scattered contents.
“It would be better if you left,” Rhona said in a low voice, tucking her elbow through Sally’s and propelling her to the back of the church.
“No. I have to see it through. Watch her. Watch them. I know things about them. This isn’t the end,” Sally said in a loud voice.
The two officers stayed with her at the rear of the church until the service finished. When the coffin was wheeled down the aisle, Sally struggled to free herself from their grip, but was no match for two determined police officers.
“You can’t detain me, or I’ll charge you.” Her voice rose. As they passed, the parishioners leaving the church goggled at her.
“Oppressors. Fascist pigs. It’s against the law. I haven’t done anything.”
“Be quiet. You’re creating a disturbance and we can charge you if we have to,” Rhona whispered and gripped Sally’s arm.
Finally, the church was empty. “Look at me,” Rhona commanded.
Sally glared at Rhona.
“You have to stop throwing these threats around. It’s dangerous.”
“You think she’s going to kill me too?”
Rhona resisted the urge to slap Sally, but she didn’t need a citation for unlawfully attacking a civilian. “No. But talking about how much you know is going to make trouble if you don’t stop.”
“Good. I want to make trouble. Lots and lots of trouble. Let me go. I’m off to the reception.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“I think it is. And you can’t stop me.”
Rhona released Sally’s arm. It was true. Sally was breaking no laws. They’d accompany her and try to head off any confrontations.
Outside the church, Sally, her high heels sinking in the sod, traced a zigzag path across the lawn, tearing out chunks of the soft spring grass in her advance on the hall.
Fourteen
With her head high, Hollis concentrated on her breathing while the pallbearers removed Paul’s casket. He was to be cremated after the service and his ashes interred later.
Accompanied by quiet organ music, she marched down the long aisle. Sally, her arms pinioned by the two police officers, hissed at her as she passed. In the church hall, Marguerite hurried to her side. Together they wove their way through the throng who’d followed them.
Sally, along with the two officers, followed them into the hall. When Sally arrived, the crowd drew away from Marguerite and Hollis and, almost as if two circles had been drawn on the floor, left them isolated in their little circle and Sally in hers. Like spectators at a tennis match, the crowd waited for the first serve and volley.
Time to maintain rigid control. Their handlers always instructed politicians to keep their hands quiet. Clamped behind like Prince Phillip’s or locked in front? Hollis opted for the latter. “Wasn’t that a scene?” she whispered to Marguerite.
“When we planned a baroque spectacle, we obviously should have consulted Sally. What a finale!”
“And, if she has her way, it may not be over. I’m not staying here waiting for her to move—I’m going over to speak to the UCW women.” Conscious of the many eyes watching her, Hollis forced her raised rigid shoulders to relax and strolled across the room to a long table, where serried ranks of cups and saucers almost covered the white cloth. Two women presided over the service of tea and coffee.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” she said and followed up with inconsequential small talk.
Once the crowd saw her carrying on as if nothing untoward had happened, they approached in ones and twos. She accepted a flowing stream of condolences. Sally, flanked by Detective Simpson’s sidekick, hunkered on the far side of the room, glowering at everyone.
The crowd ebbed and flowed around the three long tables laden with egg, ham and tuna sandwiches, cut-up vegetables, pickles and a variety of cookies and squares. Instead of the irrelevancies usually heard at funerals (the opening of bass season, the number of papers a colleague had marked, the problems of talking to teenagers), Hollis overheard snatches of whispered conversations about “that woman” and “what the police have found”.
Eventually, having lunched on the UCW’s sandwiches and cakes, the numbers thinned. Sally, who hadn’t moved from her chair, lurched to her feet.
“Hey, Ms Detective,” she shouted, “you’ll be happy to hear I’m getting the hell out of here. And you, Mrs. Smugface, you haven’t heard the end of me. You’re not going to get away with murder even if you do have the cops in your pocket.” A lascivious grin curled the corners of her lips but didn’t reach her eyes, “A dyke, you’re a fucking dyke. No wonder your marriage was dead.”
She careened out of the hall.
Thank God she’d gone. Hollis’s feet hurt. The necessity of maintaining a brave front had ended. It was time to go home.
What an awful day. Sally had really crossed the line—she’d been totally out of control. Hollis should hate her; instead, she pitied her. And Sally was right. Paul had been as over-the-top as she was.
They’d wanted a memorable funeral. After Sally’s performance, no one would forget it any time soon. She’d made it “an affair to remember”. Great choice