considered her most flattering outfit—a shocking pink silk suit worn with a black camisole, a large artificial black silk flower and pink sandals with four-inch heels. The shock was hers when she saw Paul’s horrified expression.
That Sunday morning had marked the beginning of their marriage’s collapse. Later, she realized Paul had married her believing she was a conservative professor, a plain little bird, a wren, and she had metamorphosed into a parrot, a noisy raucous bird that gloried in colour.
Respectable. She pulled her wedding suit from the hanger. Symbolic to begin and end in the same outfit. Her Manolo Blahniks—she’d bought them in a thrift shop and kidded herself she’d be okay with a half size smaller than she usually wore. With the shoes on, she reached six feet and willingly risked pain to give herself commanding stature to outface them all.
At the funeral home, Magnum and Shortt, a morning suit-clad young man, suitably solemn, led her to the reception room, where the open satin-lined mahogany coffin set on a black draped trolley dominated the room. Her eyes rested on Paul and filled with tears. Whatever he’d done, whoever he’d been, he hadn’t deserved to die like he had.
What did you do to prevent tears other than load up on tranquillizers and be reduced to a zombie-like state? Somewhere she’d read an article advising those who didn’t want to cry to make a conscious decision to cry and, lo and behold, the tears would refuse to flow. Hollis tried it—miracle of miracles—it worked.
She took a deep breath and gagged. Lilies—she hated the cloying smell. Although the death notice had requested charitable donations in lieu of flowers, a number of large bouquets had sprouted up around the coffin like weeds in a parking lot.
Preparing to receive the visitors, she positioned herself facing away from the coffin. Simpson, accompanied by a young woman whom she introduced as Constable Sheila Featherstone, moved behind her and to her left.
By seven thirty, callers jammed the room. As if it were written on an invisible teleprompter, they followed protocol: sign the guest book sitting on an oak lectern inside the door, line up to look at Paul then to say a few words to Hollis before they moved on and scurried home or stayed and chatted with friends.
She murmured the correct responses to: “such a tragedy”; “great loss”; “if there’s anything we can do, just call”; “wonderful preacher”; “true humanitarian”; and, “our deepest sympathy”. Visitors hugged her. Occasionally, callers deviated from the script and rushed from viewing the body to tell her how “natural” Paul seemed. Fleetingly, she wondered why they felt compelled to share this: did they think it made it easier if a murdered man looked natural?
The number and variety of visitors amazed her. People from the congregation, the wider church, the university, the refugee community and many others who fit in no discernible pigeonholes had come to pay their respects.
Marcus Toberman’s entrance created a minor buzz. No doubt those who belonged to St. Mark’s remembered and felt embarrassed by the humiliating rejection Marcus and City Church had received. Marcus, ramrod straight, waited first for several of Hollis’s college colleagues and the minister from Calvary Free Methodist church to speak to her then for an ancient Vietnamese gentleman, whose family had come to Canada as refugees sponsored by St. Mark’s, to haltingly stammer his gratitude. When Marcus reached the head of the line he hugged Hollis, patted her shoulder and murmured the kind of meaningless words that comfort.
That done, he pulled away and took both her hands. Speaking in a louder than normal voice, he said, “I came because I wanted you and everyone else to realize that although I quarreled with Paul, I’m sorry he’s dead and I’m sorry for your pain.” He squeezed her hands again before he wheeled and marched out of the room.
Shortly after Marcus left, Kas moved to the front of the line. His brown eyes reflected discomfort. “I’m sorry Tessa isn’t here. She really wanted to come, but she had an urgent hospital call. She sends her love.”
Sending her love didn’t make up for her absence or explain the brief chilliness of her response when Hollis had phoned her. Whatever was wrong with Tessa’s life must be very wrong.
Kas shifted from one foot to the other. “This probably isn’t the time to do this, but I wanted to tell you about Paul’s manuscript. I forgot to give you the notes I made when I read it. Before they’re mislaid, I’ll bring them over for you to file away until you’re ready to finish the book.”
Kas opened his mouth to say more but, before he could speak, Linda Porter, trailing Knox, inserted herself between them.
“I couldn’t help overhearing.” She widened her eyes and gushed, “Is it the manuscript for a book? Is there going to be another wonderful Paul Robertson book? Christians in a Cross World was so-o-o-o inspirational. We gave away six copies for Christmas. Knox will tell you every person we gave it to thought it was divine.” She flowed on. “We hope the contributions to the refugee fund will be so-o-o-o e-nor-mous . . .” With her hands stretched apart like a fisherman exaggerating her catch, she repeated, “So-o-o-o e-nor-mous, we’ll be able to fund hundreds of refugee families.”
Knox edged closer. “Guidance books today are a world away from the evangelical hell and damnation ones I was subjected to as a child. Today, writers acknowledge the temptations we face but promise how good we’ll feel if we do the right thing rather than threatening the fires of hell if we stray.” His eyes shone with a messianic light. “Working with youth groups, I emphasize how great they’ll feel if they do the right thing.”
He subsided, and Linda bent forward to invade Hollis’s space. Her faintly offensive breath was unavoidable. “Isn’t it wonderful Paul’s books and the refugee fund will be his memorials. But how can you finish the book?”
“I don’t have to finish it—it’s done. Since I’ve read it and I’m familiar with the background, I’ll continue doing what Paul did.”
Before Hollis could elaborate, she heard shouting in the hall outside the room. Like everyone else, she swung to face the door.
A wave of shock.
Framed in the doorway with her red curls lit by a spotlight directed downward, Sally Staynor swayed and hesitated for a moment before she lurched inside. Clutching the lectern with her left hand, she signed the guest book with an unsteady flourish.
Sally wore black. A small jewelled black velvet pillbox with a sheer black sequined veil covered but didn’t obscure her face. In fact, it drew attention to her theatrical chalk white make-up, her kohl-rimmed eyes, and her generous mouth debauched and seductive under several heavily applied coats of deep purple lipstick. Her stretch lycra strapless dress topped with a sheer black silk shirt covered her from her neck to knees to finger tips, but the dress was cut low and her breasts threatened to burst loose with every breath she took. Black fishnet stockings and a glittering ankle bracelet drew attention to her legs and rhinestone encrusted sandals. Sally reminded Hollis of one of the characters in the Best Little Whore House in Texas.
A hush fell when she tacked across the room to Hollis.
“It was a fucking shame. Nobody feels worse than me. I hope to hell they arrest the bastard who did it. If they had public hangings, I’d cheer them on.”
With Sally’s first slurred word, Hollis realized how drunk she was.
Simpson stepped forward and grasped Sally’s arm. “Mrs. Staynor, Sally, how about some coffee?”
“Get—your—hand off my arm,
