her cowboy boots.
Moments before the service began, Hollis left the narthex and moved to the front pew. On her walk up the aisle, she saw that mourners had filled the church to overflowing.
The service proceeded. At the more difficult moments, she maintained her composure by sliding butterscotch mints surreptitiously into her mouth.
The last silent prayer. The church hummed with the silence of several hundred people concentrating on quiet.
Silence shattered by shock waves.
Even with her back to the congregation, Hollis sensed something had happened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw others swivelling in their seats. When the suspense became too much, she too turned.
Sally Staynor stood in the centre aisle.
Without saying anything, Sally tacked toward the front.
Sally had tried to dress appropriately, but the combination of black strappy sandals, a long black skirt with a side slit, a clinging black sweater and an oversize black patent shoulder bag gave entirely the opposite impression.
With her purse clutched in one hand and her other hand propelling her from the end of one pew to the next, Sally forged up the aisle and lurched to a stop at Paul’s closed coffin. She placed one hand on the coffin and pivoted to face the congregation.
There was a sense of the crowd holding its collective breath.
Sally hugged her purse to her chest and surveyed the churchgoers. Finally, after an audible intake of breath, her voice, rich with venom, resounded through the church.
“It’s wrong,” she shouted, pointing to Hollis, sitting alone in the front row. “She’s sitting there. Ms Smugness. You notice she’s not crying.” Her lips quivered. “Of course, she’s not crying.” Her finger jabbed at Hollis. “Of course not. Why would she cry? She killed him.”
Like a Spanish priest during the inquisition, she rang the changes of bitter accusation. When she finished reciting her charges, she straightened and, like a woman in a trance, moved away from the coffin and toward Hollis.
At the rear of the church, where they’d stationed themselves to survey the crowd, Constable Featherstone and Simpson had been mesmerized by Sally’s attack.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” the constable whispered.
Rhona was wondering the same thing. Although Sally had not threatened Hollis, she was clearly out of control. Rhona pictured her chief’s face as he said, “you sat there and did nothing while a mad woman attacked the victim’s widow”. She stood. Followed by Featherstone, she moved up the centre aisle.
Sally stopped, hung heavily on Hollis’s pew, waved her free arm at her audience and demanded, “What are the police doing?”
No one answered.
Her voice dropped, and she leaned forward, jerkily rotating her head. “She’s fooled them like she fooled you. She’s hypnotized the police.” She pointed at Hollis and a half-smile curled her lip. “She’s so nice.” Her finger thumped her breast and she repeatedly shook her head. “Not—like—me. No one ever said I was nice, but I was the one Paul loved.” Her chin rose, and her tone became belligerent. “He was going to leave her and marry me.”
Her head and eyes lifted, and she peered upward, as if reading an invisible teleprompter. “You people who think he was good were wrong. I know all about him and all his secrets.” Again the half-smile. “Just—you—wait. One of these days, I’ll spill the beans about some of you who pretend you’re holy and better than me.” Her eyes roamed the church, lingering here and there on particular faces.
Dropping the belligerent tone, she spoke conversationally. “Paul and I aren’t the same as you ordinary people. We’re special. But you wouldn’t understand. Hollis did. And Hollis Grant couldn’t tolerate the fact he’d found someone like himself, someone to match him, to challenge him.”
She stopped, raised her chin to expose her white throat and thrust one arm heavenward. “I call on all of you to be my witnesses. She did it. Justice must be done.” She seemed to be imploring God to instantly deliver a lightning bolt of retribution from heaven.
Charged silence filled the church.
Sally swung back to the coffin. “Jesus, why have you done this?” She took three steps, wobbled on her high heels, lost her balance and reached out. Her shiny purse flew from her hand, bounced off the side of the coffin and ricocheted to the floor where it snapped open and emptied. A crash followed by the tinkling of glass and the smell of alcohol.
The two police officers hurried to the front of the church, where Rhona murmured, “Sally, we’re going to give you a hand. You can’t stay here.” The two women positioned themselves on either side, prepared to frog-march her out. Sally shrugged off their hands and supported herself on the front pew.
Hollis straightened, pulled her arms close to her sides, curled her hands into fists and concentrated on the pain of her nails pressing into her palms. This would not be the last straw; she would not allow Sally’s behaviour to send her over the edge. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax to watch the scene as if it was happening in a movie, happening to someone else.
Featherstone, ignoring the shards of glass and pools of alcohol, scooped up the purse’s scattered contents.
“It would be better if you left,” Rhona said in a low voice, tucking her elbow through Sally’s and propelling her to the back of the church.
“No. I have to see it through. Watch her. Watch them. I know things about them. This isn’t the end,” Sally said in a loud voice.
The two officers stayed with her at the rear of the church until the service finished. When the coffin was wheeled down the aisle, Sally struggled to free herself from their grip, but was no match for two determined police officers.
“You can’t detain me, or I’ll charge you.” Her voice rose. As they passed, the parishioners leaving the church goggled at her.
“Oppressors. Fascist pigs. It’s against the law. I haven’t done anything.”
“Be quiet. You’re creating a disturbance and we can charge you if we have to,” Rhona whispered and gripped Sally’s arm.
Finally, the church was empty. “Look at me,” Rhona commanded.
Sally glared at Rhona.
“You have to stop throwing these threats around. It’s dangerous.”
“You think she’s going to kill me too?”
Rhona resisted the urge to slap Sally, but she didn’t need a citation for unlawfully attacking a civilian. “No. But talking about how much you know is going to make trouble if you don’t stop.”
“Good. I want to make trouble. Lots and lots of trouble. Let me go. I’m off to the reception.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“I think it is. And you can’t stop me.”
Rhona
