Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (16 page)

“I'm sorry to ask, but do you know the women he named?”

“Only the last two.”

Detective Simpson rose, walked over and patted Hollis on the shoulder. “You've had too many shocks to absorb. Why don't you go and lie down. I'll finish and let myself out.”

Maybe she wasn't a suspect any more. She doubted it. No, Simpson was merely showing a little human compassion.

“It won't make any difference where I am, and I know you're only doing your job,” Hollis muttered, sinking deeper in the chair and following Simpson's activity almost as if she were sitting in front of a movie or
TV
screen.

Simpson moved from the books to the bedside table, but the single drawer contained only a package of Contac C, aspirins, a notepad and pencils. Next she knelt down, flipped the rug and scrutinized the underside—it revealed nothing. With the rug returned to its place, she unmade the bed, slid the mattress off the old fashioned uncovered metal coil springs and found nothing.

Her survey of the room completed, she moved to the closet, removed and went through the pockets of each suit,
jacket, sweater, shirt and pair of trousers before she laid the clothes on the bed. With the closet empty, she ran her hands along the walls before she carried the straight chair from the bedroom and placed it in the closet, where she stood on it to see the surface of the shelves and the ceiling. She replaced the chair.

Lastly, she turned her attention to Paul's shoes—removing the shoetrees, shaking each shoe and insinuating her hand, searching for anything tucked deep in the shoe or under the insole.

“All clear—that's it for this room. I won't do the office until tomorrow. If you're going to continue in there and you come across any papers pertaining to the account, to the book or to anything else even remotely connected to the case, contact me immediately. Otherwise, I'll be at the funeral home at six thirty.”

“You're coming to the visitation? I thought the police only did that in mobster movies.”

“Of course I'm coming. I'm gathering information about your husband, and you never know who I'll see or what I'll hear.”

At the Staynors' home, Rhona rang the bell several times before Sally, her face tense and guarded, opened the door.

Red curly hair framed a once-pretty face like orphan Annie's. Black circles under her eyes highlighted their bloodshot puffiness. Her clothing revealed a potential for elegance, but an abundance of animal hair and one or two unidentifiable stains destroyed the impact of her fashionable black silk shirt, black linen shorts and Gucci loafers.

“Well, I suppose you'd better come in,” Sally said. She extended her hand, and Rhona grasped short fingers with
cuticles bitten until they'd bled. Rhona had heard a psychologist give a lecture claiming he could tell more about a person by their hands than by anything else. After the talk, Rhona had given up attempting to grow her nails and contented herself with keeping them short and very clean.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Staynor,” she began.

“Never mind the Mrs. Staynor crap. Call me Sally.” She snorted, “Everybody does if they're not calling me something worse.” Sally showed Rhona to a sun porch converted into a glass-enclosed family room. “Well, since you're here, I suppose I'd better do the gracious hostess bit and offer you a drink. Do you want a drink, a beer or tea? I suppose you're on duty, but I'm not. Since the goddam sun got over the yardarm hours ago, I'm having a bloody Mary with lots of Mary and not much bloody.”

“A cup of tea would be great.”

Sally departed, leaving Rhona to marvel at the garden, where more than a dozen stone animals, five grotesque gnomes, two bird baths, and masses of red, purple and orange tulips along with a host of narcissi and daffodils dwarfed a tiny lawn surrounded with painted white stones.

Eyes surfeited with colour, she swung away from the window, sat down on a naughahyde rocker and contemplated the room's strata of artifacts. Rhona identified the earliest layer as the macramé containers of spider plants and worked her way up through topical interests of the eighties and nineties. She concluded the house and garden belonged to a woman who did everything to excess.

Her inspection ended when Sally carried in a loaded tray. Rhona enumerated the items: an extra large Bloody Mary, a can of tomato juice, a bottle of Absolut vodka, an earth-toned pottery tea pot, mismatched cream jug and sugar bowl, a plate of lemon slices, tarnished silver spoons, slightly used paper
Christmas napkins, and a mug with a gritty exterior Rhona sensed would be unpleasant to touch. Sally pushed aside a jumble of unrelated objects to make room for the tray on a stained quilt-covered round table.

“I did the whole nine yards—sugar, lemon, milk and hot water. What the hell, I don't have a cop for tea every day. I've lost the sugar tongs, God knows what I last used them for—I probably cleaned the kitty litter box. What'll it be?”

Rhona repressed a shudder. “Clear will be fine.” The proffered taupe mug felt as nasty as she had anticipated. “I understand you were close to Reverend Robertson. I wonder if you'd tell me about your relationship.”

“Aren't you the coy bugger?” Sally plunked down in a maple rocker. “ ‘Close to'—I thought you'd be very official and say ‘We have been told you knew Reverend Robertson in a carnal way. When did this begin?' but ‘close to'—I'm close to my cat, for Christ's sake.” She swilled her Bloody Mary.

“Whatever the terminology, when did your affair start and was it on-going?”

Sally belted back a third of her drink. “Three years ago, I volunteered for the St. Mark's refugee program. Paul was hot on refugees. I decided an affair would be a hoot—I'd never had a clergyman before . . .” Her eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “It was more than that.”

“What does ‘more than that' mean?”

“God, do cops need everything spelled out? Anyway, why should I tell you?”

“Mrs. Staynor, this is a murder investigation. You were close to the victim. I want information about your relationship.”

“Relationship shamationship—we fell in love. Well, maybe not
love
. We found out how alike we are.” She smirked. “And we were goddam good in bed, too, which sure didn't hurt.”

“How were you alike?”

“Not in an obvious way. I can tell what you're thinking—I'm a crude pig, and what did Paul and I have in common? Gotcha didn't I? I hope to Hell you don't play poker. I can't understand how you can be a cop if even I can tell what you're thinking.”

“How were you and Robertson the same?”

“I'll start by telling you Paul wasn't a . . .” She trolled for words. “. . . a real minister. No, I don't mean exactly that.” She drained her drink and licked her lips. “He gave great sermons, did and said the right things; but, inside, he was like me—restless; always searching for new and exciting things to do and people to meet. People like us are born like we are. There isn't a hell of a lot we can do about it except cover ourselves with a bit of camouflage. I was good for him in bed too—he could do anything he wanted and I went along.” Her eyes challenged Rhona to push for details.

“Had the affair ended?”

“Ended? God no, we spent Saturday night at a motel over in Quebec. I bet him he'd never be able to run the race after what we did.” Astonishment flickered in her eyes before she burst into noisy sobs.

“Mrs. Staynor, I understand this is painful 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.

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.