checked the time. “It amazed me, when I watched the Olympics, to see the top runners finishing in a little over two hours. The first ones whip across the line shortly after eleven. Where’s the medical tent?”
“Over by the finish line.”
“I’m off to see the widow.”
Two
A short, stocky woman dressed in brown and wearing cowboy boots strode purposefully toward Kas and Hollis as they sat side by side on a cot in the medical tent.
“Mrs. Robertson, I’m Rhona Simpson, the detective in charge of the case.”
“It’s Grant, Hollis Grant.”
“Reverend Robertson’s wife?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Kas said.
Simpson lowered herself to a cot facing Hollis and took a long careful look at her.
Hollis thought about her appearance, about how she must seem to someone else. At five-foot-ten, with a big-boned frame, some might catalogue her as “super-sized”. As a large woman and as a curly-haired bottle blonde with wall-to-wall freckles, brown eyes partially hidden behind red-framed prescription spectacles that doubled as sunglasses, she knew her appearance commanded attention. Hollis ignored the detective’s scrutiny and gazed into the middle distance.
Finished with her examination, the detective reached inside her oversize handbag and removed a black notebook. “What a terrible shock you’ve had. I’m truly sorry to bother you at this point, but time is important. Are you able to answer a few questions?” She opened her notebook to a clean page and tested the ballpoint clipped to the front of the book.
“I’ll do my best, but I do feel as if my neurons are scrambled. I can’t tell you much . . .”
“I’ll start with the most obvious question. Who wanted Reverend Robertson dead?”
Dead. Such a final word. Were all words beginning and ending with the same letter as abrupt? Abba, bob, Dad . . . Was she losing her mind? Pay attention. What had the detective said? “I’m sorry, would you repeat the question?”
“Who wanted your husband dead?”
Focus. One thought at a time. “A minister deals with a huge variety of people—some of them pretty strange.”
“Any trouble recently?”
Trouble. How did you define trouble? “No more than usual.”
“He wasn’t nervous or frightened? Didn’t speak about anything worrying him?”
In the three years Hollis had known him, she’d never witnessed a single sign of nervousness or fright. And, given their circumstances, she wouldn’t have had a clue if anything was worrying him. She shook her head.
“Anything out of the ordinary in his personal life?”
Never anything ordinary. Her mind did a hamster run. Confession time. “I don’t think so, but we weren’t doing much talking. We’re getting a divorce.”
Simpson studied Hollis’s face carefully. Hollis hoped the detective didn’t look for the obvious. Anyone who watched TV knew the nearest and dearest were the likeliest killers, and what better motive than divorce—kill him before you lost him, lost his money, lost your status.
“This was a mutual decision?”
When did two people ever agree to divorce? What had Paul said? The words were engraved on her heart. “This was a mistake. The sooner it’s over the sooner we can move on.” Before he’d confronted her, he’d been withdrawn, but she’d attributed it to the pressure of his work. She hadn’t seen the blow coming and felt as if she’d been in a head-on collision. But she didn’t need to confess her pain and shock. “More or less.”
“Were you still living together?”
Co-existing. It certainly wasn’t living. “In the same house.”
Simpson digested this but didn’t pursue the topic. “You hadn’t observed a change in his routine. No strange calls, hang-ups, threats?”
“No.”
“Tell me about this morning?”
“Paul wasn’t home last night. I walked the dog at six this morning. When we came back, he was eating cereal in the kitchen. We didn’t talk. He left ten minutes later.”
“Where was he last night?”
Paul’s last night on earth. Poor Paul. “I don’t know.”
“Can you think of parishioners or others who’d had a run-in with him? If you can, I’d like their names.”
Hollis shivered and reached for the rough gray blanket folded at the end of the cot. “I’m sorry, I’m having difficulty concentrating. Paul met hundreds of people . . . He loved controversy. Paul is . . .” She stopped. “Paul was an advocate for the ordination of homosexual ministers. You noticed his T-shirt?”
“Yes, and I’ve seen him on television. What else might have made someone want to kill him?”
“Hard to say. You know how it is with religion. Even a middle-of-the-road one like the United Church. Lots of passion. Always a debate about something. But it’s one thing to disagree with him and another to kill him.” She pulled the blanket tighter. “I can’t tell you much about his life at St. Mark’s. Paul didn’t encourage my involvement. He said it was because I’m a Buddhist, although one can be both Christian and Buddhist.”
“Had you been a Buddhist for long?”
“Years. I took a course in comparative religion and Buddhism seemed so sensible, straightforward—a religion for one or for millions.” She smiled thinking about the Buddha. “He was such a good man and . . .”
The detective nodded encouragingly.
“Most Sundays I attended church, but I didn’t join the United Church Women or teach Sunday school. Not because I objected. It was Paul. He insisted the church was his bailiwick and told me to stay out.” She heard herself running on like a car with a weight on the gas pedal. She didn’t admit how much his rejection had hurt her.
“St. Mark’s?”
“Yes.”
“You only went to the church services.”
“Mostly. But three weeks ago, after the eleven o’clock service, because I was curious, I stayed for the meeting where the congregation voted on ordaining homosexuals. It was awful. People had strong opinions and said rotten things.”
“Strong enough to make one of them kill your husband?”
How could anyone but the killer know the answer? “I have no idea.”
“Tell
