Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell
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spoke quietly, “I’m here to warn you—you may be in danger.”
“Danger. From who—Hollis Grant? Did she send you?”
“Mrs. Staynor, this is serious.”
“She did it. Goddam it, she sent you. You go right the hell back and tell her I’m not afraid of her or anyone else.”
Rhona, who had pushed her hands deep in the pockets of her brown tweed pants, rocked on the heels of her cowboy boots and regarded Sally without moving or saying anything. Under Rhona’s unblinking gaze, Sally’s belligerence drained away.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why am I in danger?”
“Because at the memorial service, you claimed you were privy to Paul Robertson’s secrets. We think he was killed to prevent him from telling or using secret information.”
“But, I was bluffing—I don’t really know anything.” Sally’s arms dropped to her sides, and her body sagged against the doorframe.
“The killer doesn’t realize that. Be careful. Don’t go anywhere where you’re away from other people. Lock your doors.” Rhona examined the door. The presence of both a deadbolt and an ordinary lock reassured her. “Do you have a security system?”
“Yes,” Sally said in a tiny voice.
“Turn it on when you’re alone. And that means day and night.”
“Do you still want to come in?”
“No. I came to warn you.” Rhona turned to walk down the steps, swivelled around and said, “By the way, I’ve told your husband you may be in danger.”
“Great, that’s great. What if he’s the goddam killer?”
“If he is, he’s aware we’re concerned and on the lookout—that’s your best protection. Take care.”
Sixteen
On Sunday morning, when Hollis opened her eyes, she was grateful that she’d slept through the night. She felt much better than she had for days. She rolled over and inspected the day. The intensity of the blue patch of sky and the intoxicating air wafting in the open window also lifted her spirits. She stretched. The scrape on her leg throbbed, and her body ached as if a giant had beaten her with iron rods. Stress did that to you. Time for restorative action. Beginning with the big toe on her right foot and gradually working her way up, she focussed on each separate part of her body as she stretched and breathed deeply. It helped.
While she applied these tension-relieving exercises, she thought about the murder. Detective Simpson hadn’t uncovered a lot or, if she had, hadn’t shared the information. The bank account was suspicious, but she hadn’t connected it to anyone. Hollis thought Simpson was flailing about, particularly with her fixation on Tessa and Kas, whom Hollis absolutely did not believe had had any role in Paul’s murder. In her opinion, Paul’s manuscript held the key, but Simpson didn’t appear to share her conviction.
MacTee would have to forego his usual Sunday morning trip to the farm; she didn’t plan to set foot there until the murderer was caught and stashed in jail. Instead, she and MacTee walked sedately through their neighbourhood to Dow’s Lake, where sweeping beds of massed tulips flowed along the east side of the lake. Tour buses disgorged hordes of tulip watchers. Photographers, equipped with tripods and a multitude of lenses, waited for the slanted rays of the early sun to provide the exact light for the perfect shot. Parents pushed strollers, joggers and dog-walkers crowded the paths and admired the blocks of glowing jewel-coloured flowers.
The tulips, along with the happy crowd, cheered her. Back at home, she brewed a pot of coffee, toasted a pumpernickel bagel, spread apricot jam and low fat cream cheese on it and wondered what to do with the day. She felt an urge to accomplish something concrete. She’d always been a woman who liked making decisions, admittedly not always good ones, but she prided herself on getting on with life. No one had ever accused her of indecisiveness.
A glance at the wall calendar in the kitchen reminded her—in two weeks time, at the beginning of June, she was scheduled to drive to Newfoundland for her summer fieldwork. The arrangements had been made and, if the police had caught Paul’s killer or had at least finished with her, she planned to go. Work would be good therapy.
The two-week window before her departure would be a good time to sort out and pack her possessions. Soon the church would want the manse for a new minister.
The process of selection would take months: first the congregation would appoint a committee to choose the new minister, then, the group would decide on the criteria. Finally they’d advertise, interview and choose Paul’s successor, who would not arrive until at least September. Although she didn’t have to rush, she had no reason to linger or postpone dealing with Paul’s belongings. Indeed, cleaning and sorting in preparation for leaving the manse would be cathartic.
Her eyes rested on a green depression glass cream and sugar squeezed beside a stack of assorted plates in a glass-fronted kitchen cupboard. With surprise, she realized how much she disliked that particular shade of green. Mismatched plates and other bits and pieces of china and glass Paul had inherited from his mother crowded the shelves. This was her chance: she’d give everything she didn’t want to the refugee committee.
Thoughts of the committee reminded her that Jim Brown and Knox Porter would announce the details of the memorial refugee fund at the eleven o’clock service. If she wanted to hear, she’d better get ready.
Shoulders back, she entered the narthex of St. Mark’s a while later. Sudden tears surprised her as they welled into her eyes. She forced the corners of her mouth to curve and told herself she wanted a rain of tears to shower down on the maroon carpet. Reverse strategy worked again.
Head high, she walked stiffly, favouring the leg the bullet had grazed, up the aisle to her usual seat. Because she’d forgotten her glasses, the faces, whether they belonged to friends, acquaintances or strangers, blurred in her vision. She nodded and smiled faintly and indiscriminately before she slid into the third pew from the front. Once there, she reached into her purse for a tissue and there they were—the missing glasses. Parked on her nose, they enabled her to see the choir and, if she looked around, to distinguish friend from stranger.
After a brief prayer, the organist’s soothing Bach prelude calmed and restored.
At announcement time, Knox Porter, spine erect and pace ponderous, proceeded to the pulpit, allowed a moment of silence and arranged his already doleful face into an even more lugubrious mask. “As you may have read in the Citizen and in this morning’s Bulletin, St. Mark’s, in honour of the late Reverend Paul Robertson, has established a memorial fund to further the work of bringing refugees to Canada, a cause dear to Reverend Robertson’s heart. The church and society committee will use the income from the fund to initiate and support refugee projects. Because it is unlikely there will ever be a time when there are no refugees in the world, we regard this fund as an ongoing perpetual memorial.” He paused to adjust his papers and continued: “Even before we receive donations, we’re initiating action to have a Central American family join us at the end of the month. Tonight, in the lounge, we’ll get together at eight to organize volunteers, to canvass the congregation for everything the family will require—clothes, furnishings, linen—the works. We’ll also enlist volunteers to help the family enroll in language classes, register for school et cetera, et cetera.”
Porter produced one of the tightly controlled smiles Hollis had always thought made him resemble a ventriloquist’s dummy with an activated hinged jaw.
“We hope many of you who wish to do something in memory of Reverend Robertson will make this project your own and come to tonight’s meeting.”
With the morning’s inventory-taking fresh in her mind, she remembered her earlier conversation with Jim Brown and resolved to attend—to thank the volunteers.
After supper