When she returned and collapsed in the chair, Simpson glanced at her and, presumably to give her a moment to regain her composure, returned to her work. Squatting beside the bed, she hoisted each of Paul’s books, fanned its pages, suspended it upside down and shook it. Finally, she hunkered back on her heels.
“I’m sorry to ask, but do you know the women he named?”
“Only the last two.”
Detective Simpson rose, walked over and patted Hollis on the shoulder. “You’ve had too many shocks to absorb. Why don’t you go and lie down. I’ll finish and let myself out.”
Maybe she wasn’t a suspect any more. She doubted it. No, Simpson was merely showing a little human compassion.
“It won’t make any difference where I am, and I know you’re only doing your job,” Hollis muttered, sinking deeper in the chair and following Simpson’s activity almost as if she were sitting in front of a movie or TV screen.
Simpson moved from the books to the bedside table, but the single drawer contained only a package of Contac C, aspirins, a notepad and pencils. Next she knelt down, flipped the rug and scrutinized the underside—it revealed nothing. With the rug returned to its place, she unmade the bed, slid the mattress off the old fashioned uncovered metal coil springs and found nothing.
Her survey of the room completed, she moved to the closet, removed and went through the pockets of each suit, jacket, sweater, shirt and pair of trousers before she laid the clothes on the bed. With the closet empty, she ran her hands along the walls before she carried the straight chair from the bedroom and placed it in the closet, where she stood on it to see the surface of the shelves and the ceiling. She replaced the chair.
Lastly, she turned her attention to Paul’s shoes—removing the shoetrees, shaking each shoe and insinuating her hand, searching for anything tucked deep in the shoe or under the insole.
“All clear—that’s it for this room. I won’t do the office until tomorrow. If you’re going to continue in there and you come across any papers pertaining to the account, to the book or to anything else even remotely connected to the case, contact me immediately. Otherwise, I’ll be at the funeral home at six thirty.”
“You’re coming to the visitation? I thought the police only did that in mobster movies.”
“Of course I’m coming. I’m gathering information about your husband, and you never know who I’ll see or what I’ll hear.”
At the Staynors’ home, Rhona rang the bell several times before Sally, her face tense and guarded, opened the door.
Red curly hair framed a once-pretty face like orphan Annie’s. Black circles under her eyes highlighted their bloodshot puffiness. Her clothing revealed a potential for elegance, but an abundance of animal hair and one or two unidentifiable stains destroyed the impact of her fashionable black silk shirt, black linen shorts and Gucci loafers.
“Well, I suppose you’d better come in,” Sally said. She extended her hand, and Rhona grasped short fingers with cuticles bitten until they’d bled. Rhona had heard a psychologist give a lecture claiming he could tell more about a person by their hands than by anything else. After the talk, Rhona had given up attempting to grow her nails and contented herself with keeping them short and very clean.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Staynor,” she began.
“Never mind the Mrs. Staynor crap. Call me Sally.” She snorted, “Everybody does if they’re not calling me something worse.” Sally showed Rhona to a sun porch converted into a glass-enclosed family room. “Well, since you’re here, I suppose I’d better do the gracious hostess bit and offer you a drink. Do you want a drink, a beer or tea? I suppose you’re on duty, but I’m not. Since the goddam sun got over the yardarm hours ago, I’m having a bloody Mary with lots of Mary and not much bloody.”
“A cup of tea would be great.”
Sally departed, leaving Rhona to marvel at the garden, where more than a dozen stone animals, five grotesque gnomes, two bird baths, and masses of red, purple and orange tulips along with a host of narcissi and daffodils dwarfed a tiny lawn surrounded with painted white stones.
Eyes surfeited with colour, she swung away from the window, sat down on a naughahyde rocker and contemplated the room’s strata of artifacts. Rhona identified the earliest layer as the macramé containers of spider plants and worked her way up through topical interests of the eighties and nineties. She concluded the house and garden belonged to a woman who did everything to excess.
Her inspection ended when Sally carried in a loaded tray. Rhona enumerated the items: an extra large Bloody Mary, a can of tomato juice, a bottle of Absolut vodka, an earth-toned pottery tea pot, mismatched cream jug and sugar bowl, a plate of lemon slices, tarnished silver spoons, slightly used paper Christmas napkins, and a mug with a gritty exterior Rhona sensed would be unpleasant to touch. Sally pushed aside a jumble of unrelated objects to make room for the tray on a stained quilt-covered round table.
“I did the whole nine yards—sugar, lemon, milk and hot water. What the hell, I don’t have a cop for tea every day. I’ve lost the sugar tongs, God knows what I last used them for—I probably cleaned the kitty litter box. What’ll it be?”
Rhona repressed a shudder. “Clear will be fine.” The proffered taupe mug felt as nasty as she had anticipated. “I understand you were close to Reverend Robertson. I wonder if you’d tell me about your relationship.”
“Aren’t you the coy bugger?” Sally plunked down in a maple rocker. “ ‘Close to’—I thought you’d be very official and say ‘We have been told you knew Reverend Robertson in a carnal way. When did this begin?’ but ‘close to’—I’m close to my cat, for Christ’s sake.” She swilled her Bloody Mary.
“Whatever the terminology, when did your affair start and was it on-going?”
Sally belted back a third of her drink. “Three years ago, I volunteered for the St. Mark’s refugee program. Paul was hot on refugees. I decided an affair would be a hoot—I’d never had a clergyman before . . .” Her eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “It was more than that.”
“What does ‘more than that’ mean?”
“God, do cops need everything spelled out? Anyway, why should I tell you?”
“Mrs. Staynor, this is a murder investigation. You were close to the victim. I want information about your relationship.”
“Relationship shamationship—we fell in love. Well, maybe not love. We found out how alike we are.” She smirked. “And we were goddam good in bed, too, which sure didn’t hurt.”
“How were you alike?”
“Not in an obvious way. I can tell what you’re thinking—I’m a crude pig, and what did Paul and I have in common? Gotcha didn’t I? I hope to Hell you don’t play poker. I can’t understand how you can be a cop if even I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“How were you and Robertson the same?”
“I’ll start by telling you Paul wasn’t a . . .” She trolled for words. “. . . a real minister. No, I don’t mean exactly that.” She drained her drink and licked her lips. “He gave great sermons, did and said the right things; but, inside, he was like me—restless; always searching for new and exciting things to do and people to meet. People like us are born like we are. There isn’t a hell of a lot we can do about it except cover ourselves with a bit of camouflage. I was good for him in bed too—he could do anything he wanted and I went along.” Her eyes challenged Rhona to push for details.
“Had the affair ended?”
“Ended? God no, we spent Saturday night at a motel