“Marcus came for counselling. He was one of those people who always arrive early, and while he waited, we talked about many things.” Absentmindedly, she felt the holders on the back of her large pearl and gold earrings. “Initially, Marcus said he’d heard Paul was pretty good, and he felt confident Paul wouldn’t give him bad advice, but whatever Paul said to him, it must have gone wrong. One day Marcus stormed in and told me he was going to give Paul hell, because Paul had been on an ego trip and manipulated Marcus to make himself feel good. Marcus accused Paul of ruining his life.”
“When did this happen?”
“Three or four years ago.”
A long interval to wait to murder, but for an obsessive person dwelling on a wrong, the passing time might have intensified the hate. “I don’t suppose you know why he wanted counselling?”
“No. But I can tell you Marcus wasn’t the first or the last person upset by Paul’s advice.”
“How come?”
Barbara shifted and searched for a more comfortable position. “A counsellor should listen, rephrase, and feed back what he hears. He should insist the client draw his own conclusions and make his own decisions. Apparently, Paul couldn’t. If all the world’s a stage, he certainly considered himself a director. He didn’t acknowledge the validity of anyone’s opinion if it differed from his own.”
“You didn’t like Reverend Robertson?”
“I didn’t. He preached great sermons but gave no love. He used comforting phrases, but they didn’t warm you because they didn’t come from his heart. He’d have consoled Mrs. Gardner about her budgie, but only just.”
The wife, the butcher, the partners of lovers, and an unhappy young man—the list of suspects grew longer. The killer, man or woman, was out there, out there searching for something, something Rhona intended to identify and locate before he did.
Five
Sunday night, Hollis fell into bed totally exhausted and longing for sleep, but her mind returned again and again to Paul—to a man she hadn’t known. A sexual predator, a liar, a philanderer. As each word echoed in her mind, she tossed and turned. How could she have lived with him and not known? My God, if she could have her way, she’d drop him in a pauper’s grave without a kind word. But she couldn’t do that. She had to go through with this charade, no matter how much she despised him and what he’d done.
Monday morning, she pulled on her jogging clothes, loaded MacTee in the truck and drove to the Experimental Farm, the hundreds of acres in the middle of the city the Federal Department of Agriculture maintained as a huge working farm. Miles of empty space for MacTee to enjoy and for her to run, confident the only other people she’d meet would be other runners intent on their own solitary pleasure.
She parked near the cow barns and set out to jog a three-mile circuit. MacTee, nose to the ground sniffing and following enticing odours, crisscrossed her path. A sun-washed sky arched over brilliant almost fluorescent green fields of newly sprouted winter wheat. Other fields lay ploughed and ready for seeding. A mile and a half into the run, she reached the horse barn where massive Clydesdales soaked up the early rays and waited to accept carrots and lumps of sugar from admirers. Stroking their soft noses, she apologized for forgetting to bring offerings before she ran alongside pastures where cows, newly released from winter bondage, methodically masticated fresh grass. How could anything be wrong amid such tranquillity?
When she returned, she opened the door and ran to answer the ringing phone.
“Hollis, it’s Jim Brown. I hope I didn’t wake you?”
“I gave up trying to sleep at five. I’ve just come in from a run.”
An almost imperceptible pause. Probably, in his worldview, a newly widowed woman didn’t go jogging the morning after her husband had been murdered.
“Yolanda and I are sorry about what happened to Paul. You know we’re available to help out in any possible way.”
“I do, and it’s very kind of you. Right now, there’s nothing I can think of . . .”
“We wondered about the refugee fund. Marguerite told us you’re requesting donations for it. We think it’s a great idea. Yolanda and I, along with the Porters, want to head up a committee to bring another family here as quickly as possible, but we felt we should talk to you to make sure you’d approve of us starting immediately. If you do, we’ll write up the project for Sunday’s Bulletin and schedule an initial planning meeting for Sunday night.”
“That’s terrific. Paul hated how slowly things worked in the church. He’d love the idea of steaming ahead. If I’m up to it, I’ll come to the meeting, at least for the first few minutes, and tell everyone how much it would have meant to him.” She felt like such a hypocrite. Why should she care if Paul would have loved it or not? And all these good people that he’d hoodwinked—she hated to continue the subterfuge.
“I was sure that’s how you’d react—that you’d be positive. Don’t forget to turn to us if there’s anything we can do. You’ll be in our thoughts and prayers.”
The conversation’s ending was prescribed, but Hollis recognized its sincerity. Jim was a mainstay of St. Mark’s. The congregation relied on him to sing a mellow baritone in the choir, to serve on a rotating list of committees, and to involve himself in the many acrimonious debates characteristic of church life, without acting as a lightning rod for one side or the other. In a sense, Jim’s pleasant reliability made him invisible.
Not so with Knox Porter. Even with her limited contact, she was familiar with Knox’s outspoken views. Knox Porter had never wavered in his opposition to Paul’s advocacy of homosexual ordination. And Knox claimed allowing City Church to hold services at St. Mark’s would be a sacrilege.
Knox considered homosexuality a threat to “The Family”, the foundation of stable society which he spoke of in capital letters as “The Institution”. He and Linda worked tirelessly writing letters and composing petitions encouraging church members to stand firm against inroads by the gay community.
Although Hollis wasn’t involved in the daily activities of the church and hadn’t often crossed paths with her, she found Linda annoying. Whenever they met, Linda’s habit of beginning most sentences with “Knox says” and parroting Knox’s opinions on everything, as if Knox were the ultimate authority, drove her crazy.
On occasion, the urge to shake Linda and tell her she needed a life of her own had almost overwhelmed Hollis. And no one had to look as bad as Linda. Overweight, with salt and pepper hair she boasted she cut herself, as if any self-respecting hairdresser would want to be accused of such barbarity, she wore erratically applied, unbecomingly pink lipstick and ill-fitting homemade clothes. She loved brown and always chose brown polyester resembling baby excrement. If she made a print blouse, the muddy colours gave the impression the fabric had run in a too hot wash.
Hollis ordered herself to stop. The Buddha would not be proud of her character assassination. The poor woman had terrible taste—it wasn’t a sin. The insistent ring of the phone interrupted her thoughts.
“Ms Grant, it’s Detective Simpson. Would ten be convenient?”
By the tone of Simpson’s voice, Hollis realized ten had better be convenient. The woman not only didn’t like her but had placed her right at the top of the pyramid of suspects. Eight thirty. Time enough to shower, breakfast and go over the list before Simpson arrived.
“That would be fine.”
While she spoke on the phone, MacTee planted himself in front of his red bowl and fixed her with a pleading gaze.
“I know, I know.” She opened the cupboard, removed the lid from a plastic container and scooped kibble into his dish. Thank goodness for dogs. Looking after MacTee calmed her and helped her deal with tight muscles, pains in her stomach