They glared at one another.
“I’m a surgeon, a cardio-thoracic surgeon. I operate on hearts and lungs.”
Smug woman. Rhona knew what a cardio-thoracic surgeon did. In fact, two years earlier, when her father’s blocked arteries had required a quadruple bypass, she’d read dozens of articles about heart operations. “I suppose you’re at the Municipal rather than the Heart Institute because you do both?”
“Yes, that’s right. If you’re familiar with hospital procedure, you’ll remember that when a patient dies, whether the death is expected or not, there’s an investigation, and, if we have permission, there’s an autopsy.”
With an effort, Rhona resisted the impulse to tell Uiska she’d attended more autopsies and had more to do with pathologists than Uiska could imagine.
“When a surgical patient of mine dies and I think the patient should have recovered, it upsets me. In the last six weeks, three times the usual number have died, and the pathology department hasn’t pinpointed the reason.”
“Those were negative autopsies?”
Uiska blinked like a startled owl. Rhona had the feeling Uiska was affronted by a layman who had the temerity to use correct medical terminology. “Yes. Naturally, I’m concerned about this. My reputation is at stake. It may be a statistical blip, but I repeatedly replay the operations in my mind—analyzing and searching for the causes. I have been preoccupied, but, as you see, it has nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation.” Uiska folded her hands on her desk. “I hope I’ve answered your questions satisfactorily?”
“Which golf club did you book for the party?”
If the change in subject disconcerted her, she didn’t give any indication. “The Royal Britannia, but I haven’t yet reserved the dining room.”
“You’re telling me you met Robertson four times, but you haven’t reserved a room or made any arrangements at the most socially correct club in the city, a month before the date, which happens to be at the height of the wedding season.”
“I have been a wee bit tardy, but the hospital problem distracted me.”
“That’s it for now. I’m cognizant of how busy you are, but we will need to talk again.”
“I can’t imagine what else I can tell you.” Uiska frowned, unlocked her hands and stabbed her index finger repeatedly on the desk to punctuate her comment. “But if you must, I suppose you must.” She jabbed the table once again. “I’m a very busy woman. My appointments are made months in advance.”
Aware of the faint ringing that, in the past, had presaged a full concert of bells and whistles, Rhona resolved to verify Uiska’s statements.
Nine
In Paul’s inner sanctum, Hollis read through several innocuous files on psychiatric research before she gave herself a mental jab in the ribs. What was she doing? This was a murder investigation, not a research project. She set the papers aside and picked up the safety deposit key she’d left on the desk. No matter how much she wanted to clear her name and have the killer arrested, it was Detective Simpson who possessed the tools to do the task. She dialled the old fashioned black phone on Paul’s desk, noting that the number differed from their downstairs number—one more Paul Robertson secret.
Simpson was out. She left a message and opened a new page in the files.
Fifteen minutes later, Elsie came up to tell her Simpson was on the phone. Hollis took the call in her bedroom and told Simpson what she’d discovered.
“I’m coming over to pick up the key. I also want to see your husband’s office and do a quick once-over of his papers. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
Hollis padded downstairs. “Elsie, Detective Simpson will be here momentarily. Will you send her up to Paul’s office.”
“Will she stay long, dear?” Elsie glanced at the kitchen wall clock. “It’s nearly twelve thirty. I’ll make a plate of sandwiches and brew a pot of coffee. Now dear, don’t argue, you have to keep your strength up and you shouldn’t miss your lunch.”
Dear Elsie. Hollis’s own mother, out in the Pacific watching for whales, had never been as concerned with her welfare—it was nice.
Twenty minutes later, Elsie ushered Simpson into the bedroom. Minutes later, carrying a tray of food, she returned. After she’d deposited the tray on the desk, she peered around the room with frank curiosity. “Not too cozy,” she said and headed downstairs.
“The inner sanctum,” Simpson said.
Hollis handed her the keys. “I did a quick search for bank or cheque books but came up empty.”
“Strange. Did you search these two rooms?”
“In the bedroom, I checked the drawers and the cupboard and found everything extremely neat and tidy—I couldn’t imagine anything hidden here. I’m halfway through the drawers and files in the office. I’m looking for the will.”
“I’ll search the bedroom first and give you a chance to finish in the office. You do know that you must not remove any documents—that I need to see anything that might help identify the killer or the motive for the murder?”
“Of course, but you did tell me to find the will.”
With her chair facing the bedroom, Hollis monitored Simpson’s search—watched her work her way methodically around the room. First, she removed the bureau drawers and examined the contents, which she piled neatly on the bed before turning the drawers over to make sure nothing had been attached to the bottoms and backs. Then she took a small flashlight from her handbag and shone the light on every surface in the chest’s interior. Next, she unhooked the steel engravings and ran her hands over the paper backing.
As Hollis sorted the papers in the second desk drawer, she found Paul’s parents’ will and Paul’s will. Afraid of what she might read, she slid Paul’s will from the heavy buff envelope stamped with the name and address of a prominent law firm.
The will was dated September 14, long before Paul had demanded a divorce. She skimmed the legalese until she reached the words “aside from the specific bequests, the remainder of my estate will go to whoever is my wife at the time, or in the event I have no wife, to the Mission Fund of the United Church of Canada”.
“Whoever is my wife at the time”—nameless and faceless. No identity. Their marriage had been as okay as it ever had been in September. She was his wife and had been for more than two years. Why had he written something so dismissive, so demeaning?
Deep breaths failed to calm her. What counsel would the Buddha have given in a situation like this? She ran through several possibilities—none seemed applicable.
A hand-written codicil stipulated bequests of $5000 to each of seven women as “an acknowledgement for the pleasure they have given me.” Like a deferred payment for services rendered. At least they had names.
Did she recognize them? The first five—Moira Ross, Bibi Sandstrom, Lynne Davidson, Pierrette Claire and Angela daSilva—were unfamiliar. Not so the last two—Denise Nielsen and Sally Staynor.
Her face flushed. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her heart thundered a tattoo of rage. Breathing was hard. She felt as if she’d had a two-by-four rammed in her solar plexus. The bastard.
“What’s wrong?” Detective Simpson asked.
Beyond words, Hollis handed her the will, open to the appropriate page.
Simpson read the offending words.
“My God, no wonder you’re upset. For the moment, I’m sure you want as few people as possible to learn about this, but I need to photocopy it.”
Upset didn’t begin to cover her reaction.