with salt and pepper hair she boasted she cut herself, as if any self-respecting hairdresser would want to be accused of such barbarity, she wore erratically applied, unbecomingly pink lipstick and ill-fitting homemade clothes. She loved brown and always chose brown polyester resembling baby excrement. If she made a print blouse, the muddy colours gave the impression the fabric had run in a too hot wash.
Hollis ordered herself to stop. The Buddha would not be proud of her character assassination. The poor woman had terrible taste—it wasn’t a sin. The insistent ring of the phone interrupted her thoughts.
“Ms Grant, it’s Detective Simpson. Would ten be convenient?”
By the tone of Simpson’s voice, Hollis realized ten had better be convenient. The woman not only didn’t like her but had placed her right at the top of the pyramid of suspects. Eight thirty. Time enough to shower, breakfast and go over the list before Simpson arrived.
“That would be fine.”
While she spoke on the phone, MacTee planted himself in front of his red bowl and fixed her with a pleading gaze.
“I know, I know.” She opened the cupboard, removed the lid from a plastic container and scooped kibble into his dish. Thank goodness for dogs. Looking after MacTee calmed her and helped her deal with tight muscles, pains in her stomach and a threatening headache. Realization dawned; the stomach pains and headache came from hunger.
While MacTee inhaled the food, she spooned coffee into the basket of the coffee machine, added water, switched it on and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She forced herself to finish a slice of whole wheat toast and was preparing a mug of coffee when Elsie arrived.
Coffee in hand, she left Elsie in charge of MacTee and the kitchen and headed for her bedroom to dress before she did the homework for Simpson.
What to wear? Wrapped in a terry robe, she moved hangers in the closet. Although she favoured dramatic bright outfits and large flashy jewellery, she thought a more conservative outfit would be appropriate. She reached for black leather pants and paired them with a white cable knit sweater. Dressed, she moved to her studio and picked up the race list. It was great to have a job, especially one that might help the police catch the killer.
At nine thirty, Elsie knocked, opened the door and slipped inside. “Detective Simpson is here. Where would you like to talk to her? How about coffee?”
“Right here will be fine and coffee or tea, if the detective’s a tea drinker, would be great. I’ll come down and bring up a tray.”
Elsie rocked back on her sensible shoes. “Nonsense, I’m here to make your life easier. Betty Erickson brought over a loaf of her apricot banana bread and a tin of chocolate chip cookies. They’re still warm. I’ll send the detective up then bring a tray.”
Hollis disregarded Elsie’s implicit instruction to stay put and followed her downstairs.
Detective Simpson waited inside the front vestibule.
As she descended the oak stairs, Hollis watched MacTee, plumed tail wagging, move in on Simpson, who obliged with a pat and a kind word while simultaneously skillfully avoiding the string of saliva hanging from the dog’s mouth.
If she liked dogs, she couldn’t be all bad.
Upstairs in the studio office, the sun flooded through the wall of windows in what originally had been the sun porch. The bright light intensified the colours of the pink geraniums and magenta cyclamens crowded together on the white bookshelves and gave Hollis’s huge flower paintings an almost neon vividness.
Simpson chose an overstuffed chair slip-covered in blue ticking, adjusted the blue and white patchwork cushions and removed the race list from her capacious shoulder bag. She laid it down on the round white painted coffee table, dug in her bag and retrieved a pen.
Hollis collected her program from the desk, moved the worn but glowing wedding-ring quilt from a second overstuffed chair and sat facing Simpson. Neither had yet said anything.
Elsie burst the bubble of silence when she bustled in with an oval silver tray loaded with thermos jugs of coffee and tea, mugs, a plate of sweet things and paper napkins.
“I’d pour for you, but I’m sure you’d rather do it yourself and get on with your work. I’ll leave everything here on the table.”
After they’d filled their cups, Hollis thumbed through her race book. “I’ve marked the names I recognized.” She reached for her red wire-rimmed glasses parked on top of her head and anchored in her hair. “Are we going over the names, or is the annotated list okay?”
Simpson placed her cup on the table before she opened her program. “The annotated list is not okay. If that was all I wanted, I would have sent someone to collect your copy. I want you to tell me how each person you’ve marked was connected to your husband.”
Her tone of voice wasn’t pleasant.
Hollis wanted to throw the cup at her and scream that she was doing her best, that she wanted the killer caught as much as Simpson did, but she only sighed. What good would a temper tantrum do?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Please go ahead,” Simpson said.
The two women eyed each other warily.
Hollis opened her program, identified one person after another and told Simpson what she knew about each one. When she reached Marcus Toberman’s name, she chose her words carefully.
“Marcus was a spokesperson for the City Church, the homosexual Christian congregation. Before Christmas, they applied for permission to conduct their services at St. Mark’s. Decisions like that are made at a congregational meeting. I wasn’t there, but I heard it was horrible, and their application was rejected.”
“Did you know Mr. Toberman?”
“We’ve been friends for years, ever since we took a course together at the University of Ottawa.” Hollis paused. Was this the time to mention Marcus’s visit to the manse a week or ten days after the meeting and the shouting match he’d had with Paul? Marcus had enough problems without Madam Inquisitor having a go at him. She’d talk to Marcus herself. If she had even the tiniest suspicion he might be involved, she’d tell Simpson.
“How did Toberman take the congregation’s decision?”
“I don’t know; I wasn’t there.”
The next underlined name on her list was Tessa Uiska. “She’s the wife of Kas Yantha, the doctor who was with me in the medical tent. Tessa’s a doctor and a good friend of mine.”
Simpson raised her hand. “Hang on. How did they both get along with Paul?”
“They didn’t. They had very little to do with him.”
“How can that be when you say she’s a friend?”
“It’s not complicated. Three years ago, after our wedding, I arranged for the four of us to have dinner together. As I said, Tessa and I have been friends since we were undergraduates, and when Kas and I met, we hit it off right away. I thought it would be natural to have the four of us together. But, at our one and only dinner, Paul made it clear we wouldn’t be a foursome. He wasn’t unpleasant, but he discouraged any
