“Yes, that would be okay.” Hollis tried a smile, but didn’t quite manage it. “And after what I have to do, it’ll be nice to leave.” A spark of her usual enthusiasm enlivened her voice. “Quid pro quo, if you can pose questions so can I. After all, I’m a social historian, and since I’ve never had dinner with a detective, I’ll have questions too.”
Fifteen
They’d finished looking in Paul’s bedroom when they heard the distant ring of the doorbell. Simpson trotted off to deal with the ident team.
The stress of coping with the break-in had diverted Hollis from thinking about her feet. Now sharp insistent pain clamoured for her attention. She should have expected this—but she always managed to forget past experience. No matter what she did, size ten regular would pinch the wide size ten-and-a-half feet bequeathed to her by peasant ancestors. Every time she put on those shoes, she vaguely remembered the discomfort they caused, but she loved the shoes fanatically and was willing to suffer.
But no longer. She wanted comfort—she craved her fur-lined moccasins. Hollis grinned. In her mind, she’d heard herself whine like a baby whose soother had dropped on the floor.
Later, after the police had finished with her study and left the house, she crept in and allowed herself to survey the mess. A bad taste in her mouth. How could she touch anything after he’d pawed through her papers? She hated the idea of the intruder touching her belongings—hated it, hated it, hated it.
Flopped in her armchair, she tipped the papers at her feet with the toe of her moccasin, bent forward and looked at the nearest piece of paper, a letter from the editor of her last book suggesting she write a more illuminating preface. She supposed the ident team had dusted for fingerprints, but she didn’t expect they’d found any. With the volume of television programs devoted to murder and mayhem, the intruder would have to be an idiot not to have worn gloves.
What did he want? Obviously, an incriminating document related to him, but why would he think she had it? Because she’d been a fool. In her mind, she recalled the number of times in the last few days she’d told people she was editing Paul’s book and wouldn’t have any difficulty because she knew the manuscript. She’d meant she was familiar with the text because she’d done a first draft edit, but the killer must have concluded she’d uncovered the details, the names of the people Paul had written about. She cursed herself for broadcasting her involvement and putting herself in danger, but how could she have known?
Time to identify which files he’d removed.
Being a Virgo, she’d long since sorted and organized her papers in a useful personalized filing system. She’d allocated the three bottom drawers of the white, five-drawer filing cabinet to research material for her articles and books on folklore and regional customs in red, purple and blue file folders.
Several blue folders lay on the floor, but no red or purple ones. She picked up the blues and ran her eyes over the tabs identifying the contents: “the role of deviants in rural communities”; “outcasts”; and “standards of behaviour”. If she’d ever had any doubts Paul’s murder was connected to his book, they disappeared.
Files of clippings on research subjects as well as painting and quilting, two of her passions, filled the fourth drawer. No disorder here.
She’d reserved the top drawer for correspondence. The contents of several files lay on the floor. Collecting the letters, she smoothed the paper and made a futile attempt to tidy them up, to square the corners, but she didn’t re-sort them into categories: grant applications; letters from and to colleagues; letters from rural correspondents; exchanges with publishers and editors; and, personal notes. She wouldn’t be able to tell if anything was missing until she sat down and reconstructed the chronology of series of letters. A time consuming process, and it would wait until another day. She set the untidy stack on the desk.
Downstairs, watched by MacTee, holder of a new title—the world’s worst watchdog—she waited for Simpson and the Alcotts. When the detective arrived, she said, “He went through two or three of my academic files, the ones devoted to deviant behaviour and its ramifications in rural communities. He also went through my correspondence files.” She frowned, “I haven’t any idea if he took anything, but I can’t imagine he found anything useful.”
At this point, the Alcotts arrived. Elsie, dressed in a potpourri of blue, radiated concern. “Hollis dear, how dreadful.” Roger, nodding along behind her with his brow furrowed, echoed her words. “Dreadful, perfectly dreadful.”
“The intruder tossed Paul’s downstairs office and my upstairs one. I feel guilty even suggesting this, but it would be wonderful if you cleaned up Paul’s. I have to do mine because I’m the only one who can sort and file my papers, and I know I can’t cope with doing both.” She shrugged apologetically. “It’s stupid, but it gives me the creeps to think of this guy touching my things. I’d be eternally grateful if you’d tidy Paul’s.”
“Of course we will, dear—we’ll start immediately.” Elsie peered at her large watch, “Later, can we cook you a bite of supper?”
“No thanks, Detective Simpson and I are going downtown, but please help yourself to anything in the fridge. Would you feed MacTee at five? If I do it now, he’ll be out of whack and expect his dinner every afternoon at this time.”
At the sound of his name, MacTee sidled over to his red plastic dish and nosed it toward the Alcotts.
“I swear that dog understands every word we say,” Elsie said. With her hands resting on her hips, she addressed MacTee. “You heard what Hollis said—five. You’ll have to wait.”
MacTee cocked his head to one side, regarded Elsie with large, limpid brown eyes and sighed dramatically. Having shared his feelings with them, he walked over to his cedar chip-filled bed and plopped down, but kept his eyes on his dish in the unquenchable hope it would miraculously fill with food.
“What kind of food do you like?” Simpson asked as they pulled away from the curb. Before Hollis could reply, she answered the question. “Because of the Buddha meditation centre in your room, I figured you’d like Asian food.”
Hollis laughed. “More detecting. I do, but it’s because I’ve travelled in Asia, not because I’m Buddhist. I’m not crazy about Chinese food, but I love Thai—I never get tired of it.”
“We have something in common. It’s my favourite as well. Which restaurant?”
“There more than one that I like, but I think Bangkok Gardens is pretty good.”
Inside the small small restaurant, celadon green walls and brass fixtures complemented several dozen dark green pottery fish ranging in size from three feet to tiny table toppers of six inches. The fish balanced on their curved tails and each spouted a profusion of live greenery. Settled at a table covered with a pink tablecloth and inhaling a medley of aromatic spices, they discussed Thai food and finalized their choices—beef satay with peanut sauce, coconut soup and green chicken curry along with Thai beer.
Simpson folded her hands together on the table and leaned forward. “Before the food comes, tell me why Kas Yantha decided to be a psychiatrist and where he trained?”
Kas again. Why was the detective interested in Kas and Tessa? She debated whether to tell Simpson anything but didn’t have any reason to be difficult. Kas’s life wasn’t a secret.
“I didn’t meet Kas until he was in medical school. I’ve heard him say the human mind fascinates him.”
“He attended the University of Toronto. Where did he do his residency?”
Hollis thought about the question. “As far as I can remember, and I could be wrong—a private hospital near London, Ontario, a hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene, and the Queen Street psychiatric hospital in Toronto.”
The