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