Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (5 page)

Constable Featherstone met her at the front door of the Carleton gym and led her to an equipment storeroom temporarily converted into an interview area by the addition of a plywood-topped table and two chipped, metal folding chairs. Seven
runners, dressed in regular clothes, waited outside the room. Rhona invited the first man, identified by Featherstone as Carson Macdonald, into the makeshift office.

Macdonald let himself down onto the chair as if each and every muscle, bone and sinew worked independently. Once his body settled, he said, “I'm an editor at the Independent Academic Press.” Absentmindedly, he cracked his knuckles. “Ours is a business relationship. Probably no one's told you Paul Robertson has written three books. The IAP published his first two and has a contract for his third.”

What an unlikely marathoner Macdonald was. About sixty, with a head of receding gray curls topping a spare, six-foot frame, he wore glasses—plain, round and steel rimmed. They would have been classified as National Health spectacles in England. A utilitarian, no-nonsense body belied by the eyes behind his glasses; bright North Atlantic blue eyes with long, thick lashes. His face was spare with a neat nose, neat ears and a tidy mouth. When he spoke, his teeth were precisely aligned and Rhona knew this man cared passionately about the proper deployment of the semicolon and never tolerated the abandoned use of the comma.

“No, I didn't realize he was a writer. Tell me about his books.”

“The first, basically a rewrite of his doctoral thesis, came out ten years ago and did moderately well.” Macdonald paused as if he was running the sales figures through his mind. “We published his second book last year. It was a runaway success. You may have heard of it—
Christians in a Cross World
?”

Rhona shook her head.

“It's a how-to book on practical Christianity. I suspect Robertson made a cynical analysis of the bestsellers in the field and wrote what he thought the public would buy. It didn't matter that it didn't come from the heart; those books,
especially if they're well written—Paul turned a catchy phrase as easily as some use clichés—are always popular, and his certainly were.” He added, “His third book is in process. After we read the first draft, we said it was too long and needed tightening up. We also insisted he have a
bona fide
professional validate his underlying psychological assumptions. Paul's wife, she's written three terrific books and done a good bit of editing, worked on the second draft.” He smiled a tight little smile. “She'd have to be good for Paul to allow her to do that. And he found a psychiatrist at the Royal Ottawa Hospital who agreed to verify the validity of his thesis.”

“What's the book about?”

“It's topical and controversial. The theme is controversial—keeping homosexuals in the closet has, in the past, and will, in the future, provoke individuals to commit crimes to keep their sexual orientation secret. He took actual criminal cases and sensationalized them. We didn't like the title,
When Push Comes to Shove
, and would have insisted on a change.”

Rhona wondered who had the manuscript and which doctor he'd consulted. She didn't yet have much information about Paul, but she didn't think he would have taken criticism well. “How would he have responded?”

“Respond? If we
absolutely
insisted, he'd do it, but he hated being questioned or challenged.”

That fit her impression—a clearer picture of the man was emerging.

“I wouldn't think the people whose stories he dredged up would react well. Did he identify them by name?”

“No, he gave them fanciful handles like ‘the predator' and ‘batman'; those names made them sound like third-rate wrestlers.”

“Can you think of anyone who had a reason to kill Robertson?”

“I wasn't familiar with his personal life. I don't suppose
anyone would kill him because of his books.”

Rhona didn't share Macdonald's conviction. In her experience, men killed to protect secrets. How hard would it be for investigative journalists to unearth the identities of the characters in Paul's forthcoming book?

Macdonald activated his unaligned bones and joints and creaked to his feet. He sounded like he needed oiling as he made his independently articulated way out of the room.

The next two men had not been acquainted with Robertson in any significant way, and their interviews finished quickly.

The fourth runner, an unlikely looking middle-aged marathoner, at least six foot four and carrying an extra fifty pounds up front, charged into the room, stuck out his hand and launched into speech. “I'm Stan Eakins. I'm from Ottawa, but since I'm going out-of-town for the next week, I thought I'd better talk to you.” Eakins rushed on. “I'm a member of St. Mark's and have been acquainted with Paul since he came to Ottawa.” He took a breath. “He preached up a storm. His sermons held together; they stimulated me. He made interesting cross-references and tie-ins to current events and never used tired old clerical jokes.”

Rhona considered inserting a question but decided to allow the river to flow.

“Mind you, they didn't comfort. You watched him perform intellectual arabesques and enjoyed the show. He didn't rely on homilies and had no soft words for the suffering. He viewed everything in terms of ‘Christianity as challenge'. If he'd been a Catholic, he would have been a Jesuit. You know the kind? The only way was his way. When you think of it, those Jesuits martyred by the Iroquois in the sixteenth century endured their torture because they possessed that certainty.”

When Eakins stopped to consider their martyrdom, Rhona
motioned him to sit down. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Reverend Robertson dead?”

Eakins flopped down on a chair that protested as it absorbed his weight. “Many people disliked him. Hard to evaluate the intensity of feeling, but those who oppose the ordination of homosexuals are pretty steamed up. But, fanatical though they are, they must realize that killing one advocate, even an outspoken one, won't change anything.”

He leaned forward, lowered his voice and confided, “He attracted women. His arrogance fascinated them. I'd guess if the women who were,” he paused, quirking an eyebrow, “drawn to him, had, what's the term, ‘significant others', those guys wouldn't have named Robertson ‘man of the year'. You're the expert. Aren't love, hate and jealousy the big reasons for murder?” He relaxed and resumed his normal tone. “He did counselling. Maybe he offered bad advice and the recipient killed the messenger. Nobody comes to mind, but I'll phone if I leap out of the bath shouting ‘Eureka.' ”

After he'd bounded from the room, Rhona considered his words. A womanizer—that put a new slant on things, as did Eakin's reference to counselling. She considered the many sorry tales she'd heard of doctors and clergy abusing their patients and clients. And Eakins himself—hadn't he been a little
too
willing to help? In her experience, those who volunteered volumes of information often did it to divert attention, to send the investigator off on a tangent. Something about Eakins hadn't rung quite true.

Featherstone opened the door for the next runner, a man who extended his hand as he entered the room. “I'm Bill Leach from Cobden.” With his compact body, velvety skin, smooth brown hair, drooping ears and pleading eyes, Leach reminded Rhona of a beagle. Invited to sit down and describe
his connection to Paul Robertson, Leach began immediately in a perfect pulpit voice, a deep beagle baritone.

“I'm a United Church minister. Paul Robertson and I attended theology school at the University of Toronto. In recent years, I've run into him at presbytery meetings.”

Rhona heard the chill in Leach's voice. “Am I right in assuming you did not like Paul Robertson?”

Leach, perched on the edge of his chair, shook his head. “As transparent as that, am I? Well, in a way, Paul was responsible for my life taking the course it did, and for a long time, I thought it was going the wrong way.”

“I'm forming a picture of Robertson. Tell me what happened?”

Leach cocked his head to one side. “Well, I can't imagine it'll help you much.” He pressed the palms of both hands together and raised them as if he was about to pray. “Paul and I were in the same class at theological school. The basic qualification for the ministry is a bachelor of divinity, but, if you aspire to go anywhere in the hierarchy or to be called to a big city church, you require at least one graduate degree. With a basic one, you begin your career with a five-point
charge in Saskatchewan and end up with a one-point charge in a town like Cobden.”

“What's a five-point charge?”

“The number of churches you serve. On the prairies and in the Maritimes, one minister may serve five separated congregations—each is a point. But, to return to my story—for graduate school to be a possibility, I had to win the one large scholarship the theology school offered.” He shook his head. “Paul Robertson wanted it too; not for the money—for the prestige. When the time for scholarship interviews came along a rumour ran through the school saying I'd plagiarized a major paper. You can guess what happened—the college awarded the scholarship to Paul.” He interlocked his fingers. “I took a three-point charge in Manitoba. Paul Robertson didn't ruin my life, but I wonder what I could have done if I'd had more education.”

Why would the interviewers have believed a rumour? Surely, they would have investigated the suggestion of plagiarization. Rhona didn't believe Leach's story, but Leach did and had been pleased to have a chance to tell it.

“Were you aware Robertson ran, and did you expect to see him at the marathon?”

“Because of his darn T-shirt and the number of times he's been on television, I should think almost everyone in the Ottawa Valley would recognize him.” He undid his two forefingers and pointed them at Rhona like six-shooters. “Paul is—was—his own favourite subject and, at church meetings, we heard about his exploits. Did I expect to meet him? No, and I didn't.”

His eyes twinkled, and he pointed his fingers at himself. “Because
I
run faster than Paul, the organizers gave me a number allowing me to start toward the front of the pack.” He lowered his hands. “One of the small and not very admirable things you should know about me—I wrote down his time after his first marathon four years ago, and I've tracked him since then. I was twenty minutes faster when we started, and the gap has grown. This year I cut ten minutes off and ran it in three hours and twenty minutes.”

“Congratulations!”

“In my opinion, Paul Robertson would sink to any level to obtain what he wanted. If he did that to me, you can bet he's done even worse things to other people.”

After Kas left, Hollis made one or two phone calls, but her reaction time had slowed again. Every action required intense concentration and left her exhausted and doubtful she'd ever move easily again. She wondered if this physical reaction would be transitory, or if she'd spend months sporadically operating as if tons of water pressed down on her. The phone rang. She picked it up on the fourth ring.

“Hollis, it's Elsie.”

Hollis wasn't surprised. St. Mark's relied on the practical goodness of Elsie Workman and her husband Roger to match the physical with the emotional needs of the congregation.

“Hollis, dear, we were shocked to hear about Paul. You can count on Roger and me to do whatever we can to help.” She took an audible breath. “You're going to have lots to do in the next few days. I thought, if it's okay, I'd come over every day to answer the door, the phone and organize the food everyone's sure to bring. If you think it'll be an intrusion, just say so. I won't be hurt, dear—everyone reacts to tragedy in a different way . . .”

People could be so kind. Tears threatened to flow, but she took a deep breath and banished them. “Elsie, it would be great. I
do
need you. Come over whenever you're ready.” The prospect of Elsie's cheery intervention in her life lifted Hollis's spirits. Her limbs felt lighter; she dared to hope they soon might resume normal functioning.

Twenty minutes later Elsie arrived, rustled up a toasted tuna sandwich, insisted Hollis eat and then sent her upstairs for a lie-down. When Marguerite phoned late in the afternoon, Elsie intercepted the call, and thinking Hollis would want to talk to Marguerite, trotted upstairs to tell her.

After Marguerite offered sincere conventional words of sympathy, she said, “Is Elsie planning to feed you dinner?”

“Force feed I'm afraid. You know Elsie—she believes food fixes everything. I'm grateful but not hungry.”

“Come over, and we'll eat nachos or popcorn or drink gin. Whatever you want.”

“Gin sounds pretty good.”

“I have two hospital visits left to make before supper. Let's say any time after six.”

Exactly what Hollis needed. Marguerite could answer her questions about Paul. At five thirty, she made herself take MacTee for a decent walk before she changed.

Clothes had always been important to her. Once, in a moment of introspection, she'd figured out the reason: she'd been a large, ungainly child, a great contrast to her pretty, petite mother who, unhappily, had dressed her only daughter in frills and bows, accentuating her size and making her feel even larger. Early on, Hollis had realized what the right clothes did for your self-image and psyche and, ever since, had been obsessed with her appearance. Even so, it shocked her to acknowledge to herself that, even at this moment of crisis, she cared so much.

After she'd tucked herself into a conservative pair of black wool trousers and a black and white patterned silk shirt she vacillated between a black or pink wool blazer before she chose pink. She rejected a large splashy brooch and selected a smaller one—a silver filigree star.