She picked up the blues and ran her eyes over the tabs identifying the contents: “the role of deviants in rural communities”; “outcasts”; and “standards of behaviour”. If she’d ever had any doubts Paul’s murder was connected to his book, they disappeared.
Files of clippings on research subjects as well as painting and quilting, two of her passions, filled the fourth drawer. No disorder here.
She’d reserved the top drawer for correspondence. The contents of several files lay on the floor. Collecting the letters, she smoothed the paper and made a futile attempt to tidy them up, to square the corners, but she didn’t re-sort them into categories: grant applications; letters from and to colleagues; letters from rural correspondents; exchanges with publishers and editors; and, personal notes. She wouldn’t be able to tell if anything was missing until she sat down and reconstructed the chronology of series of letters. A time consuming process, and it would wait until another day. She set the untidy stack on the desk.
Downstairs, watched by MacTee, holder of a new title—the world’s worst watchdog—she waited for Simpson and the Alcotts. When the detective arrived, she said, “He went through two or three of my academic files, the ones devoted to deviant behaviour and its ramifications in rural communities. He also went through my correspondence files.” She frowned, “I haven’t any idea if he took anything, but I can’t imagine he found anything useful.”
At this point, the Alcotts arrived. Elsie, dressed in a potpourri of blue, radiated concern. “Hollis dear, how dreadful.” Roger, nodding along behind her with his brow furrowed, echoed her words. “Dreadful, perfectly dreadful.”
“The intruder tossed Paul’s downstairs office and my upstairs one. I feel guilty even suggesting this, but it would be wonderful if you cleaned up Paul’s. I have to do mine because I’m the only one who can sort and file my papers, and I know I can’t cope with doing both.” She shrugged apologetically. “It’s stupid, but it gives me the creeps to think of this guy touching my things. I’d be eternally grateful if you’d tidy Paul’s.”
“Of course we will, dear—we’ll start immediately.” Elsie peered at her large watch, “Later, can we cook you a bite of supper?”
“No thanks, Detective Simpson and I are going downtown, but please help yourself to anything in the fridge. Would you feed MacTee at five? If I do it now, he’ll be out of whack and expect his dinner every afternoon at this time.”
At the sound of his name, MacTee sidled over to his red plastic dish and nosed it toward the Alcotts.
“I swear that dog understands every word we say,” Elsie said. With her hands resting on her hips, she addressed MacTee. “You heard what Hollis said—five. You’ll have to wait.”
MacTee cocked his head to one side, regarded Elsie with large, limpid brown eyes and sighed dramatically. Having shared his feelings with them, he walked over to his cedar chip-filled bed and plopped down, but kept his eyes on his dish in the unquenchable hope it would miraculously fill with food.
“What kind of food do you like?” Simpson asked as they pulled away from the curb. Before Hollis could reply, she answered the question. “Because of the Buddha meditation centre in your room, I figured you’d like Asian food.”
Hollis laughed. “More detecting. I do, but it’s because I’ve travelled in Asia, not because I’m Buddhist. I’m not crazy about Chinese food, but I love Thai—I never get tired of it.”
“We have something in common. It’s my favourite as well. Which restaurant?”
“There more than one that I like, but I think Bangkok Gardens is pretty good.”
Inside the small small restaurant, celadon green walls and brass fixtures complemented several dozen dark green pottery fish ranging in size from three feet to tiny table toppers of six inches. The fish balanced on their curved tails and each spouted a profusion of live greenery. Settled at a table covered with a pink tablecloth and inhaling a medley of aromatic spices, they discussed Thai food and finalized their choices—beef satay with peanut sauce, coconut soup and green chicken curry along with Thai beer.
Simpson folded her hands together on the table and leaned forward. “Before the food comes, tell me why Kas Yantha decided to be a psychiatrist and where he trained?”
Kas again. Why was the detective interested in Kas and Tessa? She debated whether to tell Simpson anything but didn’t have any reason to be difficult. Kas’s life wasn’t a secret.
“I didn’t meet Kas until he was in medical school. I’ve heard him say the human mind fascinates him.”
“He attended the University of Toronto. Where did he do his residency?”
Hollis thought about the question. “As far as I can remember, and I could be wrong—a private hospital near London, Ontario, a hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene, and the Queen Street psychiatric hospital in Toronto.”
The satay and beer arrived, and they ate silently for several minutes. Time to distract Simpson. “This is terrific. Didn’t you love the wonderful food you bought on the street in Thailand? Did you ever eat hot peanut brittle or the fried coconut milk concoction sprinkled with green onions and wrapped in banana leaves?”
“At first, I was afraid to eat things prepared by the street vendors, but I changed my mind when I realized no one had a proper kitchen, so everyone bought meals on the street, and the whole nation expected to buy clean, safe food.” Simpson smiled. “I figured the ingredients came right from the farms, and those street braziers threw off enough heat to kill even the toughest germs. I ate everything except the chunks of papaya and pineapple on ice, because the ice made me nervous.”
“Did you ever visit the market at dawn to see the Buddhist monks in their orange robes circulate through the vendors and the buyers, extending their begging bowls for food and alms? It amazed me to learn they depended entirely on the money or food donated to them.”
“It must have been interesting for you to visit a country where Buddhism is the dominant religion.”
“It was and it wasn’t. Here, I always feel like a bit of a pretender. Having grown up in a Christian community, with all the cultural references it makes, you feel phony talking about Buddhism, particularly since the terms are so foreign. Despite my beliefs, I’ve never gone to Buddhist services in Ottawa. And when I was in Thailand, I felt like even more of a pretender—this was their religion—what business did I have to say I was a Buddhist? It’s confusing. I find it comforts and supports me, but I keep my beliefs private.”
“But you loved the country?”
“Except for the pollution in Bangkok—it gave me a headache.”
“I loved Chang Mai, but I though Chang Rai was spooky—probably because I’m a cop, and I know about the evil white guys who go there to prey on young girls, to get involved in drug smuggling—some really bad men. But, to return to business—where did Kas meet his wife?”
Kas again. What did she expect to learn? “In medical school. They married while she was doing her surgical residency.”
The satay had vanished. Pleased with their obvious enjoyment, the smiling waitress replaced their plates with steaming bowls of soup. The tender chicken pieces, ginger, lemon grass, lime leaves and mint mingled in a satisfying way, and the little flecks of innocent looking green peppers, whose heat seared their mouths, noses and sinuses,
