Читать книгу Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Joan Boswell - Страница 8

Her interview with Simpson left Hollis angry, jittery and ready for action. She punched in Marcus’s number.

“Hi, it’s Hollis. Are you busy? I’d like to come over and talk.”

“I haven’t laid eyes on you for ages. And, suddenly, it’s imperative for you to visit this very minute? You haven’t even been in my new apartment.”

Immersed in her own problems, she hadn’t considered how her request might sound. Before she could apologize, he spoke again in a different tone.

“I’m sorry. You must be really upset. I can’t imagine why you want to see me, but you’re welcome. I’ll make coffee.”

On the drive to his new apartment, she thought about their friendship and its beginning years before, when they’d met as two outsiders in an introductory photography course in the fine arts department at the university.

Marcus, enthralled with photography and a prizewinner in several competitions, had not believed he could make a living doing what he loved and enrolled in a practical university program—physical education. Allowed an arts option in his second year, he chose the course to refine his skills.

Although painting obsessed Hollis, and she had a diploma from the Ontario College of Art and Design, she, like Marcus, had chosen a safer route, undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in history. Because she often used reference photos and slides, she took the photography course to improve her skill.

Isolated from the main stream of younger students, each of them delightedly identified a kindred spirit. Initially, they shared coffee and bagels, later, wine and cheap meals. The term progressed and their friendship deepened as they discovered how much they had in common. They remained connected after the course ended.

Three months earlier, Marcus had moved to the third floor of an old house converted into three apartments. Hollis had meant to drop round and bring him a house-warming present, but the weeks passed, and it hadn’t happened. She rang the ground floor bell, climbed the painted brown stairs with the nailed-on black rubber treads and reached a glistening white door. A white cylindrical umbrella stand and its two black umbrellas contrasted with the dirty walls.

The door opened. Marcus, dressed as always in black, white and gray—polished black tassel loafers, black chinos, perfectly creased and belted, and a long-sleeved silvery gray collared shirt anchored with a black leather tie—waved her inside.

Each time she saw Marcus, she marvelled at the intensity of his navy blue eyes. His ginger hair, cropped and trimmed to military shortness, revealed small faun-like ears and complemented a fair complexion. The hand grasping the door was beautiful, with long thin fingers and cared-for nails. She’d always felt protective towards Marcus: his air of vulnerability touched her. But this time it was Marcus patting her back and offering sympathy.

“I’m sorry about Paul. You must be having a terrible time.”

“Not the greatest. Even though we were in the midst of divorce proceedings, it’s been a shock. It was a terrible way to die.” Tears threatened. To distract herself, she removed her glasses and polished them on her sleeve. “It’s been horrible.”

Marcus ushered her into the living room and left to collect the coffee. Hollis examined the white-painted, slope-ceiling room and catalogued the furniture: a black leather sofa and two chairs grouped around a square white coffee table; a white computer centre, a white filing cabinet; and two well-stocked white bookcases in which the books were as precisely aligned as soldiers on a parade square. Except for the book jackets, the room was starkly black and white. White shutters at the window, a hanging white Japanese lantern, and white rug contrasted with the black painted floor, black furniture and a score of black-framed black and white photos on the wall.

A notoriously bad housekeeper, she shuddered when she imagined the frequent dusting and vacuuming the black surfaces and white rug required.

Marcus carried in a black coffee pot and white china on a square black and white checkerboard tray. He set the tray on the table and poured two cups. Of course, he took his black—no colour allowed. She added a splash of milk, a cube of sugar and stirred, Marcus cocked his head to one side.

“Well?”

“The detective in charge of Paul’s murder interviewed me this morning. She asked about you. I didn’t tell her about your knock-down-drag-out battle with Paul, but other people must be aware of how much you hated him. I wanted to warn you.”

Expressionless, Marcus let several seconds elapse before he said, “Warn? Am I to assume you think I have something to hide?”

God. That was exactly what it sounded like. How could she have managed to be so tactless? “Of course not. But you did fight with Paul. At the manse before Christmas, I heard the two of you downstairs. I wasn’t eavesdropping—you were shouting.”

“Why didn’t you come down?”

“Paul hated interference. Later, I questioned him about your visit. He said it was nothing to do with me, so I never found out why you were angry.”

Marcus steepled his long elegant fingers and contemplated the structure. “It wasn’t a secret. For a year and a half, I’ve chaired a committee in our Church.” He paused. “It’s a gay congregation.”

Hollis didn’t comment that his sexual orientation wasn’t news to her.

“They gave me the job of locating a mainstream church where we could meet in regular church surroundings with an organ and all the trappings. Our congregation was familiar with Paul’s reputation as a man sympathetic to our cause, and we thought Paul might persuade his congregation to share their physical space. I warned them I’d had a run-in with Paul in the past and wasn’t the best person to represent them, but they insisted.”

“I was away the weekend of the congregational meeting. What happened?”

“First, I’ll tell you about the events leading up to it. The sorry story began after I phoned Paul and explained what we wanted. He said he’d lay the groundwork and organize an information session for his people to meet our representatives. He predicted that once they saw us as normal human beings—Christians anxious to worship in a Christian setting—the rest would be easy.” Marcus dropped his hands and contemplated them.

“Go on.”

“At the information session, the bigots stayed away and everything went well. Our success lulled us into a false sense of security. I’m sure you’re aware that although the executive council runs the day to day happenings at St. Mark’s, major decisions require the approval of a majority of the whole congregation. And, apparently, allowing our use of the church fell into the ‘major decision’ category.”

His tense stillness told Hollis the subject continued to upset him.

“At the congregational meeting early in December, all hell broke loose. The smell of blood drew the bigots from their dark little caves. Like a school of sharks, they worked themselves into a feeding frenzy. By the time they’d finished, they’d pictured us as a crowd of slavering, AIDS-infected deviants intent on defiling the young boys of St. Mark’s. It was horrible.”

“I can’t even imagine what you must have felt like.”

“Many people from St. Mark’s apologized. We felt used, felt Paul, familiar with the makeup of the church, should have anticipated the outcome. He could have spared us the pain and his congregation the division resulting from the decision. Of course the press happened to be there, and their coverage elevated Paul’s image as our enlightened spokesperson. I steamed for a week or more before I mustered the nerve to charge over and let Paul have it with both barrels. The more I ranted, the cooler he became. I think I finally shouted, ‘someday someone will kill you’.”

“Did other people in the City Church feel like you did about Paul?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. Most were glad to have a champion, glad he was working to legitimize gay ordination.”

“You don’t think Paul believed what he said?”

“He may have believed it, but he used the cause for his own ends.”

A talent of his. The more she learned, the more she realized Paul had specialized in furthering himself. “What exactly do you mean?”

“His crusading polarized people who initially didn’t care much one way or the other. Gay priests and ministers have existed in every church since the year one, but as long as they didn’t hold hands at church socials or flip limp wrists and lisp, congregations identified them as ‘confirmed bachelors’ and left it at that.” He paused, “I disliked Paul because he didn’t really care about us or view us as individuals. By adopting our cause, he gave people who disliked him a rationale for hating him and extending their hate to us. Homophobia doesn’t require any help. I’ve heard Paul adopted his position in order to advance his career with the influential left wing of the church.”

“You said you hated him long before the City Church debacle. How come?”

Marcus refilled their coffee cups. “It’s ancient history, and I don’t see what it’ll change, but . . .” His lip curled upward in a faint smile. “Because I don’t want you suspecting me, thinking I’m hiding anything, I’ll share my pathetic little story.” He crossed his legs at the ankle. “For years I wouldn’t admit I was gay.” He smiled. “You probably had your suspicions, but when we took the course and for a couple of years afterwards, I would have denied it.”

Hollis couldn’t imagine what her opinion had to do with anything and said nothing.

“When I went into teaching, I was in deep denial and, consequently, I was one giant emotional mess. One day after lunch, the teachers were sitting around the lounge at the Carlingstone school where I was teaching and one of the men, whose sister’s life was screwed up, told us she’d gone to Paul for counselling, and Paul had helped her. I was right at the point where I figured if I didn’t talk to somebody, I’d explode. Before I could change my mind, I made an appointment.”

Hollis wanted to reach out to him but forced herself to sit quietly and listen.

“I fault him for how insistent he was. He talked about honesty, confronted me with the reality of my sexual orientation and told me I should come out. He claimed he’d spoken to many gays and was convinced coming out was the right thing for me to do. He didn’t warn me what would happen if I did. He went on and on about facing truth, not living a lie et cetera, et cetera.”

“And.”

“I figured if he’d talked to others, and it had been okay for them, it would be okay for me. I did it.”

Hollis nodded.

“At Carlingstone, they reacted instantly. Most of the teachers, especially the men, shunned me as if I had a contagious disease.” His mouth twisted downward. “I’ve never, ever, had the slightest interest in boys, but after I admitted my orientation, the rest of the staff followed my every move. The principal arbitrarily decided I would not be allowed to accompany the boys on out-of-town trips. An impossible situation—I resigned. The principal wrote a good recommendation, but I didn’t try for another teaching job.”

“I remember asking you why you weren’t teaching, and you mumbled an explanation about better opportunities as a fitness instructor and personal trainer. And said it gave you more time for photography. I guess I sensed you weren’t keen to discuss the subject and dropped it.”

“Economically, I’m doing pretty well, but I loved teaching, and was good at it. I miss it. Kids deserve committed teachers like me.”

“Did you have other problems because of your decision?”

“Are you kidding? My father and brothers are ashamed of me. My mother cries because I’ll never have children. My straight male friends mostly deserted the ship. Men, ‘regular guys’, don’t like having gay friends. It hurts to be dumped by fellows who’ve been your buddies since grade school.”

Hollis moved to the sofa and reached to circle his shoulder, but Marcus shifted away from her.

“I suppose Paul did me a favour. If I hadn’t wanted his advice, I could have rejected it. Hating him is hating the messenger. My life has changed for the better. I’ve found a guy. My family is coming around. But he should have warned me what it would be like. If he did that to me, you can bet he did it to others; told people to do what he thought they should do instead of encouraging them to make their own decisions. His counselling is all about power. He gets off on power.”

He shook his head as if he wanted to shed unhappy thoughts. “But you’re the one with troubles. Can I help?”

“I’m not sure. If it’s confession time, I have to admit I didn’t know much about Paul or his life. When we married, he insisted we lead compartmentalized lives, and I agreed. I didn’t meddle when he warned me off.”

Although his eyes widened, Marcus didn’t comment.

“I feel like an idiot, like I’m guilty because I didn’t insist. If I’d been closer to him, perhaps I might have prevented his death. It’s a little late, but now I’m obsessed with figuring out who Paul was.” Hollis sighed. “The police suspect me, and I hate it. I refuse to sit back and do nothing.”

Marcus picked up her hands and squeezed them. “I understand. Doing nothing can drive you crazy. If you think I can help, you only have to ask.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she hesitated. Marcus had hated Paul, and he had run the marathon.

While Hollis wondered about Marcus and the possibility of his involvement, Rhona Simpson set off to interview JJ Staynor, husband of Paul Robertson’s most recent girlfriend. Staynor had told her his office was at the rear of the building, accessible through the back door. Almost before Rhona’s knuckles contacted the metal, the door opened. A large man, fleshy and red-faced, loomed in the doorway.

“Come in.” But his threatening stance suggested Rhona “keep out.”

She ignored the partial blockage of the doorway and stepped around him into a small hall. On her right, an open door revealed a large room where butchers transformed the sides of meat into sanitized guilt-free trays of chops, steaks and ground meat. In the antiseptically clean room, every knife, mallet and saw had its designated resting-place outlined in black on a pegboard. The room, which resembled a surgical theatre or autopsy room, impressed her with its sterile efficiency.

Staynor led her across the hall to an office as orderly as the surgery. With arms crossed over his chest and his hands pressed against his body, he glowered at her. “I hope you realize this is a busy time of year. I have a big order coming in this afternoon for the twenty-fourth.”

Hostile message received but ignored. “I wasn’t aware people ate anything special on the Victoria Day weekend.”

The big man loosened his grip on himself. “It’s not as big a day as Christmas, Easter or the first of July, but we sell quantities of turkeys and hams for the third weekend in May.” He lumbered behind his desk and sagged down on the well-worn swivel chair, simultaneously waving Rhona to the visitor’s wooden chair.

If the neatly labelled hooks for invoices and receipts, the annotated wall calendar, and the clearly marked loose leaf notebooks lined up on the bookshelf meant anything, Staynor valued order. A collection of china, metal and plastic bulls and steers crowded a plate rail encircling the room. On the otherwise bare desk, a magnificent china bull pitcher stuffed with pens and sharpened pencils drew Rhona’s eye.

The two sat in a silence that stretched like a rubber band and increased in tautness as it lengthened. Staynor snapped the tension. His lips widened into a caricature of a smile, but his gaze didn’t meet Rhona’s. Instead, as if unable to fix on any object, his eyes moved constantly. “ ‘I hated him for he is a Christian’,” he rumbled while his eyes fixed first on one object then on another.

This was not what Rhona had expected.

Staynor’s smile disappeared. His features drooped, along with his body, and he slumped in his chair. He pursed his mouth and twisted his hands, as if imitating Lady MacBeth.

This wasn’t getting them anywhere. Time to shock him.

“Did you kill Paul Robertson?”

Staynor, relentlessly scraping his hands together, shook his head.

“Was your wife having an affair with Reverend Robertson?”

Staynor’s strange smile reappeared when his hands stilled. He leaned forward without meeting Rhona’s eyes. “ ‘The devil having nothing else to do went off to tempt my Lady Poltagrue. My lady, tempted by a private whim, To his extreme annoyance, tempted him,’ ” he recited in a hoarse whisper before he relaxed. His eyes lit up. “The poets know it all. There’s nothing new. Richard the Third, ‘He clothed his naked villainy; with odd old ends of holy writ. And seemed a saint when most he played the devil.’ Was that Paul, or wasn’t it?”

This was one weird man. How did he interact with his customers? Surely he didn’t whisper riddles and quotes when he sold hamburger and pork chops?

Staynor straightened up and spoke in a normal voice. “You’re surprised, aren’t you? You figured since I was a butcher I’d be an illiterate oaf? I wasn’t always a meat chopper. There’s no law against a butcher learning a thing or two about something besides veal cutlets and rack of lamb. Ever since Chaucer, writers have commented on the villainy of the clergy. Recently I’ve savoured the knowledge—Paul was one in a long line.”

Had he been toying with her? Playing the part of a demented man.

“Henry Fielding was acquainted with men like Paul. He said there was, ‘not in the universe a more ridiculous nor contemptible animal than a proud clergyman.’ ” Staynor jerked upward as if an invisible giant had pulled a string. “More to the point, Fielding said there was one fool at least in every married couple.”

After this burst of enthusiasm, the invisible giant released the cord, and Staynor’s vertebrae telescoped. “That’s the important quote. My wife chose to have affairs. Paul wasn’t the first—he won’t be the last. Paul didn’t take her. Women aren’t sides of beef a man can steal. They have to want to go, or they don’t go. I was the fool, and I suppose I hated him because he made me look foolish. Adultery’s not new. It’s not worth killing or being killed for. Shakespeare covered that too; ‘I pardon that man’s life. What was thy crime? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery. No. The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly / Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive.’ I don’t think I’d agree that it should thrive, but it’ll exist. It isn’t worth murder.”

Staynor produced a facsimile smile. “Are you familiar with Auden’s poem about a man who knifed another for holy reasons?” He answered his own question. “You probably aren’t. I’ll give you a bit. ‘He stood above the body, He stood there holding the knife, And the blood ran down the stairs and sang: ‘I’m the Resurrection and the Life’. They tapped Victor on the shoulder. They took him away in a van; He sat as quiet as a lump of moss saying, ‘I am the Son of Man’ / Victor sat in the corner Making a woman of clay; Saying: ‘I’m the Alpha and Omega, I shall come to judge the earth one day.’ ”

His face reflected his astonishment. “Where did that come from? You’ll think I’m as crazy as he was.” At the word “crazy”, Staynor covered his face with his massive hands.

Rhona waited.

After a time, Staynor dropped his hands and spoke in a normal tone. “What else can I tell you?”

“When your wife’s affair with Robertson began, and how you found out?”

Staynor hunched down and mumbled, “Don’t know. How did I find out? She told me.” His lips barely moved. “Telling me gave her a charge.”

“What did you do?”

Staynor flung his head from side to side like a tormented animal, like a caricature of the bulls ringing the room.

“Do. Why would I do anything?” His voice rose, and he continued to shake his head. “Do! I didn’t do anything.”

“Did your wife want a divorce?”

His head steadied. “No.”

“Where were you in the pack when the race began?”

The change of topic disconcerted him. He peered about the room as if searching for the answer on an imaginary prompt board. “In the middle. Remember the Bible tells us to ‘Run with patience the race that is set before us.’ ”

Rhona couldn’t connect the two things.

As if he’d read her mind, Staynor continued, “You must think I’m strange. I can’t help it. I have a photographic memory. Things I read imprint themselves and pop out at the strangest times. My friends ignore it. It’s like having a twitch or Tourette’s syndrome. Are you familiar with Tourette’s?”

Although she nodded, he continued.

“People who are perfectly sane but swear or shout at inappropriate times. They can’t help it. My quotes drive Sally nuts. I try not to do it, but . . .”

It was a relief having a relatively normal exchange. “You said you weren’t always a butcher. What did you do before?”

“I taught high school English.”

“I would have thought that with your passion for literature, teaching would have been the perfect job for you. Where did you teach? Why did you give it up?”

Staynor’s eyes again roamed the room. Although he didn’t answer immediately, Rhona didn’t repeat the question. Obviously, she’d touched on a sensitive topic.

He stared at the floor. “My uncle left me the shop. It was time for a change, ‘The very whirling wheel of change, which all mortal things doth sway’.”

Quotations again. He hid behind them when he didn’t like a topic.

“Where did you teach, and how long were you there?”

Staynor’s restless twisting stopped. “Windsor. Ten years.”

“And why did you leave?”

The hand washing began again. “A change.” His lips snapped together, and his eyes squeezed shut.

No more information would be forthcoming on this subject—she’d use police resources.

“When did you last see Paul Robertson?”

No shifting, no squirming. Instead, his eyes flew open and fixed on her. “Not for months.”

After a few more questions, which Staynor managed to answer without quotes, Rhona handed him her card. “I’ll be back. If you have anything else to tell me, give me a call.”

At the station, she initiated inquiries about Staynor’s teaching career. And filed away Staynor’s quick response when she’d inquired if he’d seen Paul recently.