records, research material for sermons, nothing secret.” Barbara closed her hand around the keys to stop the jangling. “Paul was a strange man in many ways. I always suspected he had secrets and believed everyone, me included, intended to discover what they were. I did his filing, and I can tell you with absolute certainty there was nothing significant in those drawers.” She released the keys and allowed them to swing from the ring. “Whenever he left his office before I finished for the day, he would stick his head in to say goodnight, and he almost always carried a lawyer’s briefcase. I’d guess he took home anything personal or confidential.”
Rhona removed her cell phone from her shoulder bag. “Give me a few minutes to report this. You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea? I’ll join you upstairs after the team arrives, and we’ll chat in whatever quiet corner you choose.”
When Barbara trotted off, Rhona surveyed the room. Stained beige furniture badly needing re-upholstering, flaking institutional green paint and dark oak-framed reproductions of third rate religious paintings. What a cheerless stage for Christian living.
She jumped when a hand touched her elbow.
“What on earth happened here?” Marguerite Day asked.
Rhona observed Day’s soft-soled shoes and realized why she hadn’t heard her approach. “The intruder wanted something. I don’t suppose you have any idea what he might have been searching for?”
Day’s attention fixed on the desktop, on the daily calendar open amid a confusion of paper. An expression of relief passed swiftly over her face. “No idea,” she said.
Why had she seemed relieved? Rhona removed latex gloves from her large shoulder bag, drew them on and stepped cautiously through the drifts of paper to the desk, where she picked up the calendar and flipped through several pages. “Reverend Robertson used initials. Any chance you can match initials with names to enable me to track down the individuals who had appointments with him?”
Day shook her head. “No, Barbara is the one to do that.” She glanced at the oak-framed wall clock. “If there isn’t anything else, will you excuse me? Right this minute I’m due at a meeting.” She turned and left.
Rhona extracted a plastic bag from her purse, tucked the calendar inside and dropped it in her bag. She made her calls and climbed the stairs to join Barbara, who led her to a small library tucked underneath the choir loft. Before they perched on slippery downward sloping leather side chairs, Rhona removed the calendar and handed it to Barbara along with a pair of thin plasic gloves.
“Please go ahead a month and back two and compile a list of the people with whom he had appointments. It’s a nuisance, but please use the gloves, because later we’ll check for fingerprints.”
A worried frown creased Barbara’s forehead.
“Don’t worry if you can’t match all the initials with names. If you think you’ll be finished, I’ll drop in after lunch to pick it up along with your notes.”
Barbara placed the calendar on the floor beside her chair. “I’ll do my best.”
“Reverend Day claims what you don’t know isn’t worth knowing—she says you’re the heart of St. Mark’s.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that, but it’s nice of Marguerite to say so.”
The two sat on the uncomfortable chairs that threatened to catapult them to the floor. Rhona extricated her black notebook from her shoulder bag. “I have to ask questions you may feel uncomfortable answering. I’ll understand your reluctance, but the sooner I familiarize myself with the details of Reverend Robertson’s life, the sooner we’ll identify his killer.” Rhona unhooked the ballpoint from the notebook’s cover and turned to a fresh page.
“He had extramarital affairs. I want the names of as many of those women as you can remember.”
Barbara squirmed and grabbed the edges of the chair to prevent herself from sliding to the rose-patterned carpet. Stabilized, she said, “You’re absolutely right. I don’t like doing this one little bit, but when I think of the murderer running amok in here last night, it gives me the heebie jeebies.” She released one hand from the side of the chair and patted a stray hair into position. “I’m often here alone. I won’t have a moment’s peace until you catch the killer. I’m prepared to give you any information—no matter how unpleasant—to help catch him.”
“Thank you. I know I’m asking you to do something difficult.”
Barbara acknowledged Rhona’s words with a tiny nod. Her chin lifted like someone about to testify in court where her words would decide the outcome of a murder trial.
“Here goes. I’m sure you know the current woman was Sally Staynor?”
“I do. What can you tell me about her husband?”
“He owns a butcher shop and has a reputation for being ‘weird’. I don’t have first-hand experience; he isn’t a churchgoer. Have you met Sally?”
“No.”
“She’s a woman you won’t soon forget. She holds opinions about everything, and she expresses herself like a stevedore.” Barbara made a moue of distaste. “Bad language is one of my hang-ups. I’ve never understood why people use profanity.” She shrugged, “But that’s my problem. Sally was the latest moth drawn to Paul’s flame . . .” The briefest flick of her turquoise shadowed eyes. “Let’s see, before Sally it was Denise Nielsen.”
Rhona jotted Denise’s name. Denise had been the one person in the choir who’d been visibly upset.
Barbara shrugged. “There were many women. He was a matou.”
Rhona’s puzzlement must have been obvious.
“A tom cat.” Barbara crossed her ankles and readjusted herself. “The United Church should classify extramarital sex as an occupational hazard for male ministers.” She spoke in a low and confiding voice. “Ministers attract women with emotional needs, and because many ministers have a sense of themselves as a little out of the ordinary, they come to consider the dependence and attention these women display as perfectly normal. When the men age, they have a hard . . .” She paused and flicked her glance at Rhona, “hard time resisting the siren songs.”
Paul’s office flashed into Rhona’s mind. No wonder the couch was worn-out. “Can you remember other women with whom he had affairs?”
“Not offhand.”
“To change the subject, yesterday, when Marguerite told you Reverend Robertson had been murdered, did you immediately think of any particular person as a likely suspect?”
Barbara recoiled. “You’re suggesting I should accuse a specific person of murder?”
“I expressed myself badly. I’ll rephrase the question. The subconscious mind knows more than the conscious. When I posed the question, I hoped to hear whose name popped uninvited into your head. I didn’t want accusations.”
“And you won’t get any from me. This is distasteful.” She shifted again on the slippery chair. “Well, if you must know, the first person I thought of was Marcus Toberman.”
“Who
