Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (18 page)

“My dear woman, it's not necessary to get upset. If you think this is important, well, of course, being a good and concerned citizen, I am at your command. I can be there by six. It's not something I like to do, but one of my residents can
cover my afternoon rounds.” Uiska implied that for some patients, her absence would mean the difference between life and death and maybe it would. Rhona hoped not.

“I'll expect you.” Rhona said and stuck her tongue out at the phone before she hung up.

Next she called Tessa Uiska's husband. “Dr. Yantha, I plan to drop by your office after lunch. I remember you said you left a slot open for emergencies, and I want your professional opinion on something.”

“Two would be best. My two o'clock cancelled.”

With her doctors' appointments set, she removed the tea bags, added hot water to the teapot and poured herself another cup.

Time to skim through
When Push Comes to Shove
. She picked up the bulky manuscript in its red folder, rested her feet on the open bottom drawer and opened the book. Years earlier, she'd taken a speed-reading course and had never been sorry. Zipping through the pages, she stopped occasionally to write questions and comments on a yellow legal pad. Two themes emerged: the long-term effects of traumatic childhood sexual molestation; and the lengths to which vulnerable individuals would go to hide stories of molestation, or of secret sexual preferences and practices they considered damaging to their mainstream lives.

A third of the way through the book, she laid the manuscript on her desk. Something was missing. She flipped her pen, a four-colour wonder, up in the air to see if she could catch it before it landed, discovered she couldn't, and bumped her head when she retrieved it. Somehow the pencil, the flip or the bump reminded her of Tom Masterman, long time crime reporter for the
Toronto Star
and author of three books on true crime. Once or twice in the past she'd supplied Masterman with information
and they'd established a friendly rapport.

Rhona phoned the
Star
only to be told Masterman had taken early retirement. She flipped through her Rolodex, located the card she wanted and phoned Masterman's home.

“It's Rhona Simpson from Ottawa. I'm not sure if you're doing any consulting, but we have a murder here that may be connected to crimes with which you're familiar.”

“Good thing you rang today. I'm off on a trip to New Brunswick next week. What exactly do you think I can do?”

“Paul Robertson, the minister murdered on Sunday, has written a book using pseudonyms for real people involved in camouflaged crimes. Could I courier a copy of the manuscript to you and ask you to match the pseudonyms with actual names and crimes? If you can, I'd like you to share any details the press didn't report, especially if they might have motivated a person to murder to keep information quiet.”

“Shouldn't be hard. My files are in my computer. Tomorrow's a good day—the wife's out at her ‘slim and trim', then she's off to buy the grandkids lunch and take them to the zoo. Soon as it arrives, I'll skim it and see if I can identify the crimes and bring up the information.”

Masterman sounded delighted to have a project. Retirement must be hard for a guy who'd enjoyed his work. She poured herself a final cup of lukewarm tea and fumbled in her top drawer for the box of Smarties she reserved for sugar binges. The hard-coated chocolate-centred candies simultaneously comforted her and gave her the guilts. Sometimes she ate them one by one, telling herself each would be the last, but knowing full well she'd continue to enjoy the melting of the brightly coloured covering and savour the chocolate centres until the bag was empty. This time she bypassed the game and stuffed a handful in her mouth before she reached for the manuscript.

Rhona's chief, the immaculately dressed Inspector Charlie O'Connor, stuck his head in the room. As usual, his clothing dazzled. He favoured blindingly white Egyptian cotton shirts with French cuffs and distinctive cuff links, well-tailored English wool suits and highly polished brogues. Sadly, even the best of English tailoring failed to hide his bulky Irish body or add grace to his face, which was sinking into the jowly folds of an aging Boxer dog.

“How are you doing? Need more staff? I can free another constable if necessary. I want you at the press conference at noon.”

Hastily swallowing the candy, Rhona choked, grabbed for the tea and tipped the large mug. Mesmerized, her eyes followed the liquid as it flowed around the manuscript, isolating it like an island in a tea dark sea.

The manuscript wasn't hers.

She reached for the book as O'Connor bent to do the same thing. The red dye in the manuscript cover, freed by the tea, spattered O'Connor's white cuffs. The tea soaked into Rhona's neat piles of paper before it dripped on the floor. Red dye coloured her hands and splashed on her brown suit. In one motion, Rhona parked the dripping manuscript in her metal wastebasket, pulled the last three tissues from the box and dropped them in the brown swill.

Three weren't going to do the job. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I'll get paper towels.” She bolted from the room leaving the chief examining his red-spotted cuffs. Rhona had a horrible feeling those red splotches would forever mark her career.

After the fiasco with Chief O'Connor, Rhona cleaned up the mess, couriered a copy of the manuscript to Masterman and went down to the canteen for a newspaper. Turning to the employment opportunities, she ran through the possibilities,
but no one was advertising for a more than slightly spastic cop with confirmed suicidal tendencies. She deposited the newspaper in the red streaked wastebasket. Nothing she could do about the red stains on her clothes. The press interview was in half and hour. She hoped the press officer didn't direct any questions to her.

She had time to phone Ms Grant. After she identified herself she said, “I've been reading the manuscript. When did your husband do his research? Did he talk to you about the men and women he interviewed?”

“He used his holidays, the weekends he didn't preach, and spare moments at conferences. Occasionally, he mentioned people he met but not often.”

“I don't see a list of acknowledgements. Did he have one?”

“It's here.”

“I'll need a copy.”

“I'll drop one off at the station.”

“Another question. I'm interested in your finances. Who paid for what? Did you have joint bank accounts?”

“We had separate current accounts. We each paid a share of the bills. Why?”

“Just another lead I'm following.”

Following the conversation, she rotated to the computer and drafted a cover letter requesting the fax recipients to contact her immediately about an urgent police matter. Once she had the list of acknowledgements, she'd fax each of them.

The phone rang.

Dr. Axeworthy, brisk as ever, wasted no time on pleasantries.

“Absolute nonsense. I can't imagine what you or Dr. Uiska are playing at. Completely normal autopsy results for the last six months. I'll send you a statistical synopsis. As if my staff
doesn't have enough to do.” She hung up without allowing Rhona to thank her, apologize or say anything at all.

Time for the press conference. With her notes in hand in case she was required to answer questions, she marched down to the interview room.

“I have a prepared statement for you regarding the Reverend Paul Robertson case. We are making technical progress. Reverend Robertson was killed with a single blow from a knife classified as an ordinary kitchen variety but which was, technically, a boning knife, a knife not as long as a standard carving knife. It was well worn and will be difficult to trace unless someone voluntarily identifies it.

“We're verifying every marathon runner's name and address as well as any possible connection with Reverend Robertson.”

“Ross,
Toronto Star
. Have you eliminated the runners ahead of Rev. Robertson?”

“No. Although it would have been impossible for someone to turn against the tide, an elite runner could have positioned himself or herself, we're not ruling out women, further to the rear in order to kill Robertson and divert suspicion.”

“Belanger,
Montreal Gazette
. Do you think it's possible the murderer killed him and went on to finish the race?”

“We're not eliminating anyone at this stage. We'll have a complete computer print-out soon.”

“Ramsami,
Toronto Sun
. Do you have any idea about motive? Did it have anything to do with the Reverend's crusades?”

“At this point, we're not ruling out anything. I have nothing else to add and will keep you informed of our progress.”

Not too bad. Because the press had not learned about the break-in at the church and the attempted break-in at the manse, she had more time to uncover the answers.

On the drive through the city to her appointment at the
psychiatric hospital, Rhona savoured the sun slanting through the lightly leafed trees and making the grass glow with a brilliance no artist could ever capture. When Rhona entered Dr. Yantha's waiting room, the door to the inner office stood open, and he beckoned her in.

A broad beaming grin lit up his face. “Great day. Come in and tell me what I can do for you?”

This was a different man than the one she'd interviewed the other day. Rhona returned his smile. “Answer questions about Ms. Grant and about men like Reverend Robertson. First, I want your opinion on something you told me yesterday. Do you think the changes in Ms Grant might have been symptoms of a mid-life crisis?” Before Dr. Yantha answered, she amended the question. “How old is Ms Grant?”

“Hollis was forty-four in January.”

“And you, are you forty-four?”

Dr. Yantha grinned. “No. I'm hanging on to forty-three for a couple of weeks. To answer your question, forty-four isn't a particularly bad year. Forty—that was traumatic. Fifty probably will be too, but there's nothing special about forty-four. No, I don't think it was a mid-life crisis.”

“To change the subject. Have you found out why your wife was preoccupied?”

“I'm not clear on why you think it's any of your business, but, no, I haven't.”

“How did your wife get along with Robertson?”

The doctor frowned, and Rhona thought she glimpsed a deep uneasiness before his customary professional calm masked whatever she'd seen.

“As far as I know, she met him once and didn't like him.”

Rhona posed a number of questions about philanderers and obsessive sex. Finally, she thanked Dr. Yantha and left him to his
three o'clock, a small, nervous man perched on the edge of one of the waiting room chairs, drumming his fingers on the table.

At five to six, the commissionaire at the reception desk downstairs buzzed to say Dr. Uiska was on her way up.

By the time she arrived, Rhona had risen. Dr. Uiska paused in the doorway, and they appraised one another.

Again the doctor's clothes revealed her insistence on perfection: everything pressed, unsullied by hard labour and perfectly matched. After Rhona's fiasco with the tea and the red dye, she wished she could hide under the desk.

“Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”

Silence hung in the air. Rhona was in no hurry, and Dr. Uiska seemed prepared to wait. Only the persistent twisting of her wedding ring revealed any impatience.

“Would you tell me again about the party you and Robertson were planning?” Rhona said.

“I can't imagine it has any bearing on the murder.”

“Nevertheless, I'd like to hear about it. Tell me as much as you can remember about your meetings with Robertson.”

“It was a while ago. I called and said I'd drop by his office.”

“When you phoned, did you tell him why you wanted to have an appointment?”

“No, I don't think I did.”

“And he wasn't curious? Wasn't surprised to hear from you? I expect he realized you disliked him?”

“He didn't sound surprised. I had the impression he was a super egotist. It probably didn't occur to him that I disliked him. If it did, I don't suppose it bothered him.”

“And how did the discussion go?”

“I made sure he not only realized it was a big birthday but also understood it was important to have a joint party because Hollis and Kas had been friends for twenty years.”

“What birthday did you say it was?”

“Their forty-fifth.”

“Your husband says it isn't going to be his forty-fifth, it's his forty-fourth and of no significance whatsoever to him.”

Dr. Uiska started, recovered her poise, opened her eyes wide and said, “But it
is
his forty-fifth. I know that perfectly well. He must have been joking.”

Not a bad performance, but how could she expect to bluff it through? “Actually I ran his name through the Ministry of Transport computer, and he will be forty-four.”

“You mean I've lived with Kas all these years and got it wrong?” She shook her head.

“Odd to think Paul Robertson wouldn't know his wife's age.”

“Well, apparently he didn't, because he agreed we should throw the party.”

“Before we discuss this hypothetical party, tell me the dates of the two birthdays.”

“A couple of weeks apart. Kas's is on June 24th.”

“True, but Hollis's was in January.”

“I was really off base, wasn't I? I can't imagine how I muddled the information.”

Rhona allowed the doctor's lame explanation to resonate for several seconds. “Assuming you really were confused and your reason for meeting Robertson was to plan a party, I'd like to hear what you decided to do.”

“I've told you. We were throwing a surprise party at the golf club.”

“You did tell me. I don't believe it this time any more than I did the last time. How about cutting the crap—why did you see Robertson?”