detective smiled faintly.
“Whatever it was, I didn’t contact you last night because you couldn’t do anything about it until morning.”
“Anything to do with the safety deposit key?”
“Of course. That’s it. When sleep evaded me last night, I decided to write thank-you letters. All I had in my office were note cards with flowers or puppies; I needed plain stationery. I tried the desk in Paul’s study—not his inner sanctum desk—the one on the main floor. In his top drawer, in plain sight, I found a bundle of chequebooks. Isn’t that what they, whoever they are, tell you to do—hide things in plain sight, and no one will spot them.”
“What bank?”
“A branch of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce in Gloucester. And the interesting thing about them—as you know chequebooks normally have your name and address printed in the upper left hand corner—these books have no identifying information. As far as I ever knew, Paul dealt with the Bank of Nova Scotia at the corner of Fourth and Bank.”
At this point the bomb squad, dressed in futuristic gear, arrived, and, after preliminary preparation, sent their robotic machine in to retrieve the letter.
“Do you have someone coming in, or can I take you somewhere?”
“I’m okay. Not great, but okay.”
“If you’re sure, I’ll collect the cheque book and move along.”
Following Simpson’s departure, Hollis brewed coffee, filled a thermos and took it to her bedroom.
She’d changed and washed her face at Kas’s, but it hadn’t been enough; she wanted a shower. She stripped and looked at the bandage high on her thigh. She wanted to remove it and examine the scrape. But, if she did, she’d have to replace it, or she wouldn’t be able to shower.
Hollis grabbed her dressing gown from its hook on the bathroom door, retraced her steps to the kitchen, unearthed the plastic wrap and swathed her bandaged thigh. After a soothing shower, she dressed in comfortable buckskin pants and a cable knit black turtleneck. In the bathroom, she trained the hair dryer on her hair and watched in the mirror as a halo of blonde curls emerged.
Not too bad for a nearly killed, nearly run-over, nearly blown-up survivor.
Something niggled at her mind. With a second cup of coffee clutched in her hand she paced the room. Denise Nielsen—the will.
The first morning she’d attended St. Mark’s, Denise had hurried over to her at coffee hour and said, “Welcome to St. Mark’s. I want to thank you on behalf of our family. Because my niece enrolled in your course at the college and heard you emphasize the importance of oral history, she rushed out and tape-recorded my parents’ stories of their childhood and early days. My dad died shortly after she finished, and we have you to thank for the wonderful tapes. You must feel good knowing what an impact you’ve had.”
Hollis smiled as she remembered the conversation. Denise had chosen the exact moment when Hollis, uncertain in her new role as minister’s wife and upset by Paul’s reaction to her pink suit, had longed for positive reinforcement. How would Denise react when the terms of Paul’s will became public? How would anyone feel if they’d had an affair and the man left them money for ‘the pleasure they have given me’?
Denise’s husband, Stan Eakins, also attended church. He reminded Hollis of an Aberdeen Angus bull: range-fed, dominant and totally lacking in subtlety. A man who would hate the role of cuckolded husband.
Had he known about his wife’s affair? Did Hollis have a responsibility? The Buddha, like Jesus, encouraged his followers to “do unto others”. If she hadn’t thought so before, the surprises she’d received since Paul’s murder told her Denise would want to be told before there was any chance of the terms becoming public. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she found their number, pushed the buttons and nurtured a tiny hope that Denise, an emergency room nurse, might be at work.
Denise answered.
Hollis blurted her message like a kid asking for a first date. “It’s Hollis Grant, and I have something I must talk to you about. If you’re going to be home in the next hour and if you’re alone, may I come over?”
“Hollis, how mysterious. I can’t imagine what you can’t talk about over the phone,” Denise said in a tone of voice indicating she was indulging a woman who’d suffered a little too much stress. “I’m working the four to eleven. I’ll make coffee.”
Hollis didn’t have the will—Simpson had taken it to photocopy. But Denise wouldn’t need to see it in black and white.
Denise, comfortable in blue jeans and a denim shirt, ushered Hollis into the kitchen. A plate of brownies and two mugs with “I love my mommy” and “I love my daddy” sat on the highly polished pine kitchen table. They chatted while Denise filled the cups and offered cream, sugar and cookies.
“Well, what is this mysterious meeting about?”
Hollis couldn’t meet her eyes. “Paul’s will provided five thousand dollars for you, the same amount for six other women, and said it was ‘for the pleasure they have given me’. If he’d made a provision like that for me, I’d want to hear about it before the terms of the will became common knowledge, so I came to tell you. I wouldn’t have if Stan had been home.”
Silence.
Hollis risked a glance and saw Denise, eyes downcast, twisting her wedding ring round and round.
“He knows.”
“Since when?” Hollis said before her inner monitor told her it was none of her business.
“A month ago. It ended before you married Paul, but when it was going on . . .” She released a long breathy sigh. “Paul was a sexy man and very persuasive. I went to him for counselling, and one thing led . . . Anyway, I cat-sit for a friend of mine who travels on business, and I had access to her house and Paul and I did, no, I’d better take the blame. I set up a new camera—the kind you can arrange the setting and run from behind the camera, and it takes a delayed shot. I got carried away and wondered if with a run and a leap it would look as if we’d been at it for hours.” She gave Hollis a sheepish grin. “It worked. I was proud of my photographic skill, and I didn’t destroy the print, because I didn’t expect Stan to go through my things. He never has, but he was searching for a photo of his mother to give to a local historical society and . . .” She shrugged. “You get the picture.” She giggled. “It’s not funny, but it was Stan who got the picture.”
“How awful.”
“Too right. Stan went bananas. He threatened divorce, threatened to take the kids, threatened to kill Paul. It was ugly. Really, really ugly.”
“Didn’t I see Stan’s name in the marathon program?”
“He finished in four and a half hours.”
“Did the police talk to him about Paul?”
Denise tilted her head to one side and regarded Hollis with a quizzical half-smile. “Saying he’d kill Paul and doing it are two different things. He’s verbally abusive, but he’s never done anything physical.” She hunched her shoulders. “He volunteered
