“At first, I was afraid to eat things prepared by the street vendors, but I changed my mind when I realized no one had a proper kitchen, so everyone bought meals on the street, and the whole nation expected to buy clean, safe food.” Simpson smiled. “I figured the ingredients came right from the farms, and those street braziers threw off enough heat to kill even the toughest germs. I ate everything except the chunks of papaya and pineapple on ice, because the ice made me nervous.”
“Did you ever visit the market at dawn to see the Buddhist monks in their orange robes circulate through the vendors and the buyers, extending their begging bowls for food and alms? It amazed me to learn they depended entirely on the money or food donated to them.”
“It must have been interesting for you to visit a country where Buddhism is the dominant religion.”
“It was and it wasn’t. Here, I always feel like a bit of a pretender. Having grown up in a Christian community, with all the cultural references it makes, you feel phony talking about Buddhism, particularly since the terms are so foreign. Despite my beliefs, I’ve never gone to Buddhist services in Ottawa. And when I was in Thailand, I felt like even more of a pretender—this was their religion—what business did I have to say I was a Buddhist? It’s confusing. I find it comforts and supports me, but I keep my beliefs private.”
“But you loved the country?”
“Except for the pollution in Bangkok—it gave me a headache.”
“I loved Chang Mai, but I though Chang Rai was spooky—probably because I’m a cop, and I know about the evil white guys who go there to prey on young girls, to get involved in drug smuggling—some really bad men. But, to return to business—where did Kas meet his wife?”
Kas again. What did she expect to learn? “In medical school. They married while she was doing her surgical residency.”
The satay had vanished. Pleased with their obvious enjoyment, the smiling waitress replaced their plates with steaming bowls of soup. The tender chicken pieces, ginger, lemon grass, lime leaves and mint mingled in a satisfying way, and the little flecks of innocent looking green peppers, whose heat seared their mouths, noses and sinuses, offset the blandness of the coconut milk.
“Did Kas or Tessa know your husband before you married him?”
‘Have you ever been or are you now a member of . . .’ Kas and Tessa, Tessa and Kas. “I can’t imagine why you’re hung up on Kas and Tessa. Why you think two respectable doctors, one a close friend of mine for more than twenty years, would have anything to do with Paul’s murder. And I can’t in my wildest imaginings think of either of them shooting at me or trashing the house. Next thing, you’ll want to know if they were part of a larger conspiracy, a cabal plotting to do God knows what. You must have more likely suspects.”
“Take it easy. I’m sorting out where particular individuals fitted in the jig-saw of your husband’s life. You told me how he compartmentalized everything and everybody.”
“Point made. To answer your question, Paul studied theology at the U of T. I doubt their paths ever crossed, but I can’t swear to it.”
By this time, plates of curry and rice awaited their attention. Once again, they ate in silence for several minutes before Hollis spoke. “My turn for questions. How did your family react when you told them you planned to be a police officer?”
“Sociological research, eh? Does the officer come from a lower socioeconomic background where police work offered an out or from a religious right background, where the establishment and enforcement of the law etc etc? My reason—pretty prosaic. I chose police work because I didn’t want to pursue any of the traditional avenues—social work, teaching etc. Why did you become a professor?”
“It wasn’t my first choice—I dreamed of being a painter—but I didn’t think I could earn a living. Since grade school, social history has fascinated me.” Hollis climbed on her soapbox. “For generations, social history was largely untold because historians were men, and they thought history was politics, war and business. But men absorb their attitudes and their mindsets from their parents, their lives and their culture—these are women’s areas of expertise and power. Teaching provides me with an income, a forum,” she grinned, “for my feminist propaganda and gives me summers free for an equal measure of research and painting.”
“Interesting. Now for a little give and take. I visited the Bank of Commerce in Gloucester. The safety deposit box key opened a box there, but the box was empty, and although we don’t have a total record of activity, I don’t think your husband used it very often. On the other hand, his account there had a large number of deposits and withdrawals. You don’t remember your husband mentioning banking there?”
“No. We dealt with the local Bank of Nova Scotia.” Hollis scraped the last grains of curry and rice from her plate. “Subconsciously, I still have a niggling feeling I know something. I’ve racked my brains.” Fork in hand, she paused. “What an odd expression. English is a strange language. Anyway, I puzzle over the fact the killer obviously wants to hear me say I won’t spill whatever information he thinks I have. If I know something, I don’t know what it is, and I certainly don’t know whom to contact. I am convinced it has something to do with Paul’s book.”
Simpson tilted her head and considered Hollis’s words. “Maybe . . .”
“They say your subconscious works on problems while you sleep. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an answer,” Hollis said.
Opie woke Rhona early on Saturday morning. In the bathroom, she applied makeup and skinned her hair into a ponytail instead of its usual chignon. Maybe it was time to have it cropped, have the whole mess sheared, maybe have a buzz cut. She tried to visualize herself with inch-long hair and failed. Because she’d been home infrequently, she decided Opie merited a tuna fish treat. When the electric can opener sliced through the aluminum and released the delectable aroma of fish, Opie twined around her legs, vocalizing his anticipation. She upended the can into the cat’s yellow ceramic bowl with the word “cat” in bas relief on the side and wondered, as she had many times, if this was to enable the cat to recognize his bowl or prevent people from eating from the cat dish. Rhona left Opie crouched over his bowl smacking and chomping his way through his breakfast.
At the station, the team investigating Robertson’s murder met first thing in the morning. Once she’d brought them up to speed, Rhona closeted herself in her office, where she spent her morning on the phone and completing the paper work necessitated by the demands of the courts. Later, the six-sided, oak-framed wall clock reminded her she’d have to eat at a restaurant near the station to be on time for her one o’clock appointment with JJ Staynor.
She regretted she cared so much about what and where she ate. That morning when she’d left home, she’d planned to leave time to drive across town and treat herself to a chopped liver sandwich on rye with a side order of Kosher dills at Nate’s Deli. She definitely had not intended to eat near the station, where most of the restaurants catered to the grouping instincts of thirty-year-olds and emphasized conviviality rather than food.
Resigned to a tasteless lunch, she dropped coins in a newspaper box and withdrew the hefty bulk of the Saturday Citizen. Even if the meal was a disappointment, she’d catch up on local news.
With little to distinguish one from another—neither had a smoking area or decent food—she hurried the two blocks to the nearest restaurant. At the Daily Bistro, she perched uncomfortably on a rickety bentwood chair at a wobbly marble-topped table so small it made reading anything bigger than a postcard impossible. With a sigh, she folded the paper and tucked it under the chair. A waiter who introduced himself as “Jim” handed her a large plasticized menu printed in mulberry ink.
Rhona shuddered. Deep fried zucchini, stuffed potato skins, Greek salad,