Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (14 page)

She poured a third cup of coffee, rummaged around in Paul's downstairs study, picked the ring of keys out of his desk drawer and marched upstairs. The coffee parked on the straight chair outside Paul's door, she remembered how he'd insisted she leave his clean laundry there for him to deal with. She tried keys until she found one that worked.

The door swung open. A gray room. No, two rooms. A second small, windowless room opened out of the first. She flipped on the overhead light and stepped through the bedroom into the smaller room rigged out as an office. The small, windowless space closed around her like a coffin.

Claustrophobia, a problem she'd coped with since her childhood, raised her temperature and made breathing difficult. It would be possible to work here only if she gritted her teeth, breathed deeply and always faced the door.

Gray dominated: gray walls, government surplus gray filing cabinets, gray steel shelving, gray metal desk and a gray waste basket. No pictures decorated the walls and no carpet covered the floor. Three cardboard bankers' boxes, a black typewriter case and a black desk chair completed the dismal ensemble.

Claustrophobia triumphed.

She rushed from the windowless room to the bedroom, snapped the roller blind, which clattered to the top of the frame, and threw the window open. Deep breaths of sparkling
spring air. She filled her lungs repeatedly. Gradually, her panic abated as the air worked its magic.

Before she pushed herself to re-enter the monastic cell to investigate the desk and read the files, she surveyed the bedroom. Paul had once told her his bedroom furniture had belonged to his father.

A worn navy and red oriental carpet lay beside the bed. A pair of black-framed steel engravings of battlefield scenes saved the gray walls from monotony. An old-fashioned tailored maroon spread piped with gray shrouded the narrow bed. On the bedside table, Paul had pushed aside a lamp with a clear glass bead base and a once-white silk shade to accommodate a pile of books. More books stacked on the floor beside the bed provided the single deviant note in a room devoted to rigid order.

Nothing cluttered the heavily varnished yellow oak dresser. Inside, socks, rolled and arranged by colour, handkerchiefs with corners neatly aligned, a wooden box with cuff links lined up like soldiers: anal retentive didn't begin to do Paul justice. In the cupboard, the shirts, jackets and trousers were each grouped together facing to the right, with the hangers' hooks turned in. All the shoes, polished with laces tied in symmetrical bows, maintained their shape with the help of wooden shoetrees.

Interesting though this might be, the files weren't in the bedroom. Time to ignore her claustrophobia and force herself into the office. Inside, she swivelled to face the open doorway, sucked down the tepid coffee and began.

The top drawer revealed serried ranks of pens, pencils and paper clips. Deeper in the drawer, wrapped in a piece of chamois, she found a black leather key case with a key she judged to be for a safety deposit box. With frequent glances to assure herself the escape route remained clear, she searched the other drawers for bankbooks or anything else to indicate the
location of the safety deposit box and found nothing.

In the second drawer, Paul had stashed a draft of
When Push Comes To Shove
but no file cards or research material. He'd once confessed he used file cards rather than a computer because he deeply distrusted computers and believed nosy troublemakers and hackers accessed them at will. Her eyes swept along the bookshelves. The bankers' boxes held promise, but they were filled with files—dozens and dozens of files. She was certain the cards existed: a compulsive researcher like Paul didn't destroy anything he took the trouble to write down.

Personal documents filled the third drawer. She knew she should read them instead of searching for Paul's file cards, but this was where she might find more damning evidence of Paul's character and she had to work up her courage. Instead, she rolled her chair backward to a filing cabinet.

The first file folder in the top drawer, labelled “Acknowledgements”, held a list of the people Paul had intended to thank for their help in researching
When Push Comes to Shove
. Running her eye down the list of names, addresses and phone numbers, she wondered if Paul had included everyone he'd interviewed. Carson MacDonald, Paul's editor at the Independent Academic Press, would know. She'd phone him. Before she could change her mind, she dialled the old-fashioned black phone.

Macdonald sounded surprised to hear from her. No wonder. What kind of a woman would make a call like this before her husband was buried? She soldiered on and inquired whether Paul would have included everyone he'd consulted when he made his list.

“Paul was punctilious about thanking everyone.” There was an edge to his voice. “Not because he was afraid one of his interviewees
would feel left out, but to ensure the individual would be there if he required his expertise again.” He must have realized how nasty the remark sounded, particularly in the circumstances. “Sorry, I've had a bad morning. Never mind me, how are you coping?”

“As the cliché goes—as well as can be expected. Don't apologize. I'm sure you nailed Paul's motives exactly.”

They briefly discussed the book and its possible publication date before the conversation ended.

The list was long. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Phoning each person would take ages and probably yield nothing. When she read names and addresses of correctional institution employees, social workers, psychiatrists, professionals employed by the Elizabeth Fry and John Howard societies, teachers, counsellors at half-way houses and staff at several psychiatric hospitals, she marvelled at the variety and shuddered to think how much work lay ahead.

The list was chronological rather than alphabetical. Quentin Quigley, chief of psychiatry at Kingston's maximum-security prison, Kingston Pen, was first. No stopping now. Sleep would have to wait. But, given Macdonald's reaction, she rethought her approach: she wasn't a cold, calculating woman, and she didn't want to come across that way.

She fought through the secretarial defensive shield and reached Dr. Quigley.

“I'm the widow of Rev. Paul Robertson, who was murdered on the weekend. When he died, he'd finished a book on the relationship between a society which forces homosexuals to hide their sexual orientation and individuals who commit crimes to protect the secret. I suspect the police think he was murdered because he knew too much about someone. I believe Paul's killer thought Paul possessed incriminating evidence and killed Paul to shut him up.”

“I'm sorry, sorry about your husband, but what does this have to do with me?”

“I'm coming to that. Because I edited the first draft of his work, the Independent Academic Press has suggested I prepare Paul's book,
When Push Comes to Shove
, for publication. Even though this is a bad time for me, I feel an obligation to Paul to complete the work and have it published while people remember him.” Should she confess? She twisted the phone cord around her finger. Better to be honest. “The truth is, I'm terrified. I'm afraid if the killer learns I'm working on it, he'll think I'm familiar with whatever my husband knew and kill me too.”

“You're basing a lot on supposition. And . . . I still don't see what this has to do with me.”

“Your name is first on the list of people Paul wanted to thank for helping him. I understand about patient confidentiality, but if you could tell me if you talked about specific men and women . . .”

Hollis heard him clear his throat and, before he said anything, she rushed on. “I don't mean you should provide names, but if you tell me whether the individuals you discussed are in prison or in the community, it would help me narrow the search. I haven't unearthed the code to match the fictitious names with real names and, until I do, this is the only way I can think to proceed. If you tell me about your conversation with my husband, I may be able to isolate the name of the person who gave him information that provided a motive for murder. I realize it's months since he spoke to you, and you may not recall the conversation.”

“It sounds impractical.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Rather like the proverbial needle in the haystack.”

She felt like congratulating him for his originality but said nothing.

“As a matter of fact, I do remember Reverend Robertson. I questioned his motives. His interest struck me as prurient. We didn't hit if off. I'm amazed my name was on his acknowledgement list. I don't tolerate his kind. It was a short interview. I didn't tell him anything.”

So much for Quigley. Before she became discouraged, she moved to the second name on the list and tapped in the area code and number for a Dr. Andrusiak at the hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene. Andrusiak didn't have any problem telling Hollis all four of the men and the one woman she'd discussed with Paul remained in the institution.

The third call, to Toronto's Don Jail, produced nothing—Viola Fabian was on holidays. Hollis left a voice mail message.

Three down and nothing gained.

Next she contacted Mary Beth Cardwell, a psychiatric social worker at Brockville psychiatric hospital. Apparently Ms Cardwell was “in the office but away from her desk.” Again she left a voice message.

Hollis worked her way down the acknowledgement list and learned many of the individuals Paul had investigated remained in prison or in hospital. It narrowed the field of possible killers, but she still had no way of matching real names with the nicknames Paul had used.

The phone rang. “Ms Grant, it's Mary Beth Cardwell returning your call.
Actually
, you won't believe this, I've always believed I'd hear about my interview with your husband. I feel terrible about something I did, or, more accurately, didn't do.”

Listening to her voice, Hollis imagined an earnest face with a frown on her brow and worried creases at the corners of sincere eyes behind round glasses.

“I've worried about this for a long time. It'll be a relief to tell you what happened. First of all, I liked Reverend
Robertson and felt
very simpatico
to what he was doing.
Actually
, he made me feel I might help increase tolerance and understanding.” She laughed apologetically, “I probably sound
terribly
naïve. Little Miss Pollyanna in the flesh.
Actually
, I'm a really up kind of person, and I'm
always
hoping that if people were familiar with the facts they'd act better. Of course, I had to keep the information in my files confidential; consequently I spoke to Reverend Robertson in general terms about several cases where I felt quite sure . . .” Ms Cardwell hesitated. “
Actually
, we have psychiatric reports in the files. Our patients are
seriously
disturbed. This is a longer-term care facility. I had a number of reports on my desk because I wanted to refresh my memory before Reverend Robertson arrived.”

When she stopped, Hollis encouraged her to continue.

“This part embarrasses me. Are you familiar with Crohn's disease?”

“No.”

“
Actually
, it's a condition characterized by severe bowel upsets. I've had it since my late teens. When Reverend Robertson visited us, I was in the middle of a bad spell. I had to
dash
to the toilet, and I left him with the files I hadn't had a chance to put away. When I re-entered the room, I suspected he'd read them. Ever since, I've felt
absolutely
awful. I wondered whether to tell my boss or not, but finally decided not to, because Reverend Robertson had said he would not reveal anyone's identity in any book he wrote. I figured I'd worked here too long and paranoia had taken over, but I felt
terribly
guilty.” After a pause she said, “Do you suppose it would have changed things if I had reported what I suspected?”

No point adding to her distress. “No, I don't. What could you have said? ‘I think he might have seen the files, but I'm not sure.' It wouldn't have solved anything or saved anyone.”

“It's nice of you to say that. I suppose you want to know whose files were on the desk but,
actually
, I'm not permitted to share information—it's not ethical.”

“Ms Cardwell, could you at least tell me if the individuals remain in the hospital and/or give me a synopsis of the files' contents without identifying the people?”

“
Actually
, I can't do a
single
thing until I clear it with my boss. She's on a week's holiday canoeing in Algonquin Park. Can you imagine what the blackflies will be like in May, let alone how cold the water will be if she falls in? But you don't care about that. I'd need her permission. I'm
terribly
afraid it will be Monday before I can do anything. But I'll prepare a précis of each file and have them ready to go first thing Monday if she says I can. I hope that's okay?”

“If that's all you can do—I'll have to wait.”

Bingo. The jackpot. The big enchilada. If Hollis found the master list, the field of potential murderers would narrow considerably.

An idea edged into her mind. She left the folder on the desk to remind herself to deal with it later.

With her eye on the door, she thought about the writing process. Paul, like every other writer, always collected more information than he used. When you're in the gathering stage, you aren't sure what shape your book will take and what information you'll include in the final product. It happens to everyone—you stumble upon unexpected facts, get a new slant on a subject, or think about an ancillary article or another book.

She flashed back to a morning in the fall when Paul had walked into the kitchen lugging a bulging briefcase.

“What on earth is in there? Gold bars?” she'd said.