search—watched her work her way methodically around the room. First, she removed the bureau drawers and examined the contents, which she piled neatly on the bed before turning the drawers over to make sure nothing had been attached to the bottoms and backs. Then she took a small flashlight from her handbag and shone the light on every surface in the chest’s interior. Next, she unhooked the steel engravings and ran her hands over the paper backing.
As Hollis sorted the papers in the second desk drawer, she found Paul’s parents’ will and Paul’s will. Afraid of what she might read, she slid Paul’s will from the heavy buff envelope stamped with the name and address of a prominent law firm.
The will was dated September 14, long before Paul had demanded a divorce. She skimmed the legalese until she reached the words “aside from the specific bequests, the remainder of my estate will go to whoever is my wife at the time, or in the event I have no wife, to the Mission Fund of the United Church of Canada”.
“Whoever is my wife at the time”—nameless and faceless. No identity. Their marriage had been as okay as it ever had been in September. She was his wife and had been for more than two years. Why had he written something so dismissive, so demeaning?
Deep breaths failed to calm her. What counsel would the Buddha have given in a situation like this? She ran through several possibilities—none seemed applicable.
A hand-written codicil stipulated bequests of $5000 to each of seven women as “an acknowledgement for the pleasure they have given me.” Like a deferred payment for services rendered. At least they had names.
Did she recognize them? The first five—Moira Ross, Bibi Sandstrom, Lynne Davidson, Pierrette Claire and Angela daSilva—were unfamiliar. Not so the last two—Denise Nielsen and Sally Staynor.
Her face flushed. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her heart thundered a tattoo of rage. Breathing was hard. She felt as if she’d had a two-by-four rammed in her solar plexus. The bastard.
“What’s wrong?” Detective Simpson asked.
Beyond words, Hollis handed her the will, open to the appropriate page.
Simpson read the offending words.
“My God, no wonder you’re upset. For the moment, I’m sure you want as few people as possible to learn about this, but I need to photocopy it.”
Upset didn’t begin to cover her reaction. Hollis shook her head. A strangled “Go ahead,” escaped her lips. “I’m getting a drink of water.” She lurched to her feet and out of the room.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, stretched and tried to yawn—anything to relieve the tension. Nothing helped.
When she returned and collapsed in the chair, Simpson glanced at her and, presumably to give her a moment to regain her composure, returned to her work. Squatting beside the bed, she hoisted each of Paul’s books, fanned its pages, suspended it upside down and shook it. Finally, she hunkered back on her heels.
“I’m sorry to ask, but do you know the women he named?”
“Only the last two.”
Detective Simpson rose, walked over and patted Hollis on the shoulder. “You’ve had too many shocks to absorb. Why don’t you go and lie down. I’ll finish and let myself out.”
Maybe she wasn’t a suspect any more. She doubted it. No, Simpson was merely showing a little human compassion.
“It won’t make any difference where I am, and I know you’re only doing your job,” Hollis muttered, sinking deeper in the chair and following Simpson’s activity almost as if she were sitting in front of a movie or TV screen.
Simpson moved from the books to the bedside table, but the single drawer contained only a package of Contac C, aspirins, a notepad and pencils. Next she knelt down, flipped the rug and scrutinized the underside—it revealed nothing. With the rug returned to its place, she unmade the bed, slid the mattress off the old fashioned uncovered metal coil springs and found nothing.
Her survey of the room completed, she moved to the closet, removed and went through the pockets of each suit, jacket, sweater, shirt and pair of trousers before she laid the clothes on the bed. With the closet empty, she ran her hands along the walls before she carried the straight chair from the bedroom and placed it in the closet, where she stood on it to see the surface of the shelves and the ceiling. She replaced the chair.
Lastly, she turned her attention to Paul’s shoes—removing the shoetrees, shaking each shoe and insinuating her hand, searching for anything tucked deep in the shoe or under the insole.
“All clear—that’s it for this room. I won’t do the office until tomorrow. If you’re going to continue in there and you come across any papers pertaining to the account, to the book or to anything else even remotely connected to the case, contact me immediately. Otherwise, I’ll be at the funeral home at six thirty.”
“You’re coming to the visitation? I thought the police only did that in mobster movies.”
“Of course I’m coming. I’m gathering information about your husband, and you never know who I’ll see or what I’ll hear.”
At the Staynors’ home, Rhona rang the bell several times before Sally, her face tense and guarded, opened the door.
Red curly hair framed a once-pretty face like orphan Annie’s. Black circles under her eyes highlighted their bloodshot puffiness. Her clothing revealed a potential for elegance, but an abundance of animal hair and one or two unidentifiable stains destroyed the impact of her fashionable black silk shirt, black linen shorts and Gucci loafers.
“Well, I suppose you’d better come in,” Sally said. She extended her hand, and Rhona grasped short fingers with cuticles bitten until they’d bled. Rhona had heard a psychologist give a lecture claiming he could tell more about a person by their hands than by anything else. After the talk, Rhona had given up attempting to grow her nails and contented herself with keeping them short and very clean.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Staynor,” she began.
“Never mind the Mrs. Staynor crap. Call me Sally.” She snorted, “Everybody does if they’re not calling me something worse.” Sally showed Rhona to a sun porch converted into a glass-enclosed family room. “Well, since you’re here, I suppose I’d better do the gracious hostess bit and offer you a drink. Do you want a drink, a beer or tea? I suppose you’re on duty, but I’m not. Since the goddam sun got over the yardarm hours ago, I’m having a bloody Mary with lots of Mary and not much bloody.”
“A cup of tea would be great.”
Sally departed, leaving Rhona to marvel at the garden, where more than a dozen stone animals, five grotesque gnomes, two bird baths, and masses of red, purple and orange tulips along with a host of narcissi and daffodils dwarfed a tiny lawn surrounded with painted white stones.
Eyes surfeited with colour, she swung away from the window, sat down on a naughahyde rocker and contemplated the room’s strata of artifacts. Rhona identified the earliest layer as the macramé containers of spider plants and worked her way up through topical interests of the eighties and nineties. She concluded the house and garden belonged to a woman who did everything to
