her left index finger with her right one. “Reverend Martin Cross was vicious. He’s a non-practicing minister who rants of sin, hell and doom and spends his time plotting against ‘The Devil’s Agents’.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t run. And neither of the two Ritter sisters could have done it. Malvena said homosexuality might have existed when she was young, but it certainly never became a topic at congregational meetings.”
Hollis realized the detective wanted her to speed up the narration. But it was impossible. Unless she reran the event, scene by scene like a video, she wouldn’t remember exactly who had spoken and what position each had taken and it might be important, might provide a lead to Paul’s killer.
“There was a crowd of those, well, I call them the Proponents of Family, capital P, capital F. They believe the acknowledgment and acceptance of gays undermines the foundation of Christian family life.”
Detective Simpson shifted and glanced at her watch.
Hollis justified herself. “A number of them do jog. Part of the credo of the healthy mind and body dictates that they keep fit. Frank Youville, Knox Porter and Jim Brown are in good enough shape to run a marathon.”
“Were any of them running in this one?”
“No, not as far as I know.”
“Before the race began, did you stand beside or talk to anyone who could identify you?”
The change of topic disconcerted Hollis. Of course—she was a suspect. What a terrible thought. “No. You don’t talk because you’re concentrating on yourself. Every runner exists in a cocoon.”
If she was a suspect, who else would be on the list? She answered her own question—anyone connected to the church.
The church!
Marguerite Day, Paul’s associate minister, should be told. She extended her left wrist to see her watch. “The service starts at eleven. Please make sure someone informs Marguerite Day. She’s taking the service at St. Mark’s this morning.”
Simpson nodded. “I understand there’s a race program with basic information about each runner. Do you have one?”
“It came with our race package. Mine’s at home.”
“Please underline the name of anyone who had dealings with your husband. It shouldn’t take long. I’m sorry to push you at a time like this, but time is of the essence. I’ll collect it tomorrow morning.”
After the detective had tucked her notebook in her enormous bag, she removed a card. “Can you think of anyone or anything else that might shed light on your husband’s murder?”
“No. I can’t.”
Simpson offered her card. “Take this and contact me if you have any ideas. In an active investigation, my cell phone’s always on. Tomorrow I’ll call before I come over.”
Exactly what Hollis needed—a Monday morning wake-up call from the police.
Because it would be more than two hours before she could interview the runners, who would have to wait for her if she was late, Rhona decided to make a quick trip to St. Mark’s to inform the minister of Paul’s death and learn what she could about the congregation. On the drive to the church, she gave in to temptation, lit a Rothmans and pumped up the volume of Madame Butterfly while she thought about statistics.
Theoretically, many runners, including Hollis Grant, could have murdered Robertson. Hollis hadn’t seemed to be hiding anything, but she wouldn’t remove her from the list of suspects. Big women intimidated her; she’d have to be careful to set the right tone in her interviews—sympathetic but insistent on obtaining the information she needed.
Assuming Ms Grant hadn’t been the murderer, the odds were great Robertson had known his killer, and there was a good chance that person had belonged to St. Mark’s.
Familiar with the church from a previous case, Rhona remembered that in the sanctuary, the church proper, an elevated choir loft faced the congregation. If Reverend Day planned to announce Paul Robertson’s death, Rhona would be in the choir loft, where she’d observe the congregation’s reaction. As long as she borrowed a choir gown, the presence of a new face in St. Mark’s large choir would not attract undue attention.
Rather than entering the church itself, she walked around to the annex where the ministers had their offices. In the vestibule, she pushed through a tide of children flowing downstairs and climbed a half-flight to Reverend Day’s office, where she knocked on the closed door, introduced herself and accepted an invitation to enter. Inside, a woman in her mid-thirties with a round face and a sculpted cap of shining chestnut hair pushed her chair back and stood up. Reverend Day hadn’t been at St. Mark’s when Rhona had worked on the last case.
“I’m here with bad news. I’m sorry to tell you, Paul Robertson is dead.”
“Dead!”
Rhona registered a transitory impression of relief.
“How can he be dead? He was running the marathon this morning. Don’t tell me he had a heart attack? Fitness obsessed him . . .” She stopped. “It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”
“No. He was murdered.”
Day recoiled as if Rhona had slapped her but remained dry-eyed. She shook her head as if the motion might erase her incredulity.
“Murdered? In the marathon? It couldn’t be—not with all those people. What exactly happened? Do you know who did it?”
“It’s hard to believe, but he was stabbed during the opening minutes of the marathon.”
Day covered her mouth with the back of her hand and shook her head repeatedly.
“I’m sorry not to give you more time to absorb the shock. Later, I want to talk to you about Reverend Robertson and the congregation. Do you plan to announce his death during the sermon?”
Day considered the question. “Yes.”
“Would it upset you if I sit in the choir loft to watch the congregation’s reaction when you tell them?”
“Of course not. I can’t believe anyone here had anything to do with it, but if that’s what you want to do—go ahead. You’ll be less conspicuous if you wear a choir gown and . . .” She paused. “The choir. They must be told, but before we go downstairs to the choir lounge I’ll speak to our church secretary, Barbara Webb.” She raised her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth crooked upwards. “If you want to know anything about St. Mark’s, don’t underestimate her. Sometimes she comes across as a bit dithery, but her knowledge about everything and everybody is encyclopedic.”
Day stashed several file cards in the skirt pocket of her Hunter green flannel suit before she led Rhona across the hall to the cluttered church office where a smartly dressed woman of well-preserved, advanced middle age balanced on spindly high heels. When they entered, she glanced up from the sheets of pink paper she was sliding into the copier.
“Barbara, I have something to tell you.” Day raised her voice to compete
