you ever been or are you now a member of . . .’ Kas and Tessa, Tessa and Kas. “I can’t imagine why you’re hung up on Kas and Tessa. Why you think two respectable doctors, one a close friend of mine for more than twenty years, would have anything to do with Paul’s murder. And I can’t in my wildest imaginings think of either of them shooting at me or trashing the house. Next thing, you’ll want to know if they were part of a larger conspiracy, a cabal plotting to do God knows what. You must have more likely suspects.”
“Take it easy. I’m sorting out where particular individuals fitted in the jig-saw of your husband’s life. You told me how he compartmentalized everything and everybody.”
“Point made. To answer your question, Paul studied theology at the U of T. I doubt their paths ever crossed, but I can’t swear to it.”
By this time, plates of curry and rice awaited their attention. Once again, they ate in silence for several minutes before Hollis spoke. “My turn for questions. How did your family react when you told them you planned to be a police officer?”
“Sociological research, eh? Does the officer come from a lower socioeconomic background where police work offered an out or from a religious right background, where the establishment and enforcement of the law etc etc? My reason—pretty prosaic. I chose police work because I didn’t want to pursue any of the traditional avenues—social work, teaching etc. Why did you become a professor?”
“It wasn’t my first choice—I dreamed of being a painter—but I didn’t think I could earn a living. Since grade school, social history has fascinated me.” Hollis climbed on her soapbox. “For generations, social history was largely untold because historians were men, and they thought history was politics, war and business. But men absorb their attitudes and their mindsets from their parents, their lives and their culture—these are women’s areas of expertise and power. Teaching provides me with an income, a forum,” she grinned, “for my feminist propaganda and gives me summers free for an equal measure of research and painting.”
“Interesting. Now for a little give and take. I visited the Bank of Commerce in Gloucester. The safety deposit box key opened a box there, but the box was empty, and although we don’t have a total record of activity, I don’t think your husband used it very often. On the other hand, his account there had a large number of deposits and withdrawals. You don’t remember your husband mentioning banking there?”
“No. We dealt with the local Bank of Nova Scotia.” Hollis scraped the last grains of curry and rice from her plate. “Subconsciously, I still have a niggling feeling I know something. I’ve racked my brains.” Fork in hand, she paused. “What an odd expression. English is a strange language. Anyway, I puzzle over the fact the killer obviously wants to hear me say I won’t spill whatever information he thinks I have. If I know something, I don’t know what it is, and I certainly don’t know whom to contact. I am convinced it has something to do with Paul’s book.”
Simpson tilted her head and considered Hollis’s words. “Maybe . . .”
“They say your subconscious works on problems while you sleep. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an answer,” Hollis said.
Opie woke Rhona early on Saturday morning. In the bathroom, she applied makeup and skinned her hair into a ponytail instead of its usual chignon. Maybe it was time to have it cropped, have the whole mess sheared, maybe have a buzz cut. She tried to visualize herself with inch-long hair and failed. Because she’d been home infrequently, she decided Opie merited a tuna fish treat. When the electric can opener sliced through the aluminum and released the delectable aroma of fish, Opie twined around her legs, vocalizing his anticipation. She upended the can into the cat’s yellow ceramic bowl with the word “cat” in bas relief on the side and wondered, as she had many times, if this was to enable the cat to recognize his bowl or prevent people from eating from the cat dish. Rhona left Opie crouched over his bowl smacking and chomping his way through his breakfast.
At the station, the team investigating Robertson’s murder met first thing in the morning. Once she’d brought them up to speed, Rhona closeted herself in her office, where she spent her morning on the phone and completing the paper work necessitated by the demands of the courts. Later, the six-sided, oak-framed wall clock reminded her she’d have to eat at a restaurant near the station to be on time for her one o’clock appointment with JJ Staynor.
She regretted she cared so much about what and where she ate. That morning when she’d left home, she’d planned to leave time to drive across town and treat herself to a chopped liver sandwich on rye with a side order of Kosher dills at Nate’s Deli. She definitely had not intended to eat near the station, where most of the restaurants catered to the grouping instincts of thirty-year-olds and emphasized conviviality rather than food.
Resigned to a tasteless lunch, she dropped coins in a newspaper box and withdrew the hefty bulk of the Saturday Citizen. Even if the meal was a disappointment, she’d catch up on local news.
With little to distinguish one from another—neither had a smoking area or decent food—she hurried the two blocks to the nearest restaurant. At the Daily Bistro, she perched uncomfortably on a rickety bentwood chair at a wobbly marble-topped table so small it made reading anything bigger than a postcard impossible. With a sigh, she folded the paper and tucked it under the chair. A waiter who introduced himself as “Jim” handed her a large plasticized menu printed in mulberry ink.
Rhona shuddered. Deep fried zucchini, stuffed potato skins, Greek salad, and burgers with cute names—it was totally predictable. She chose the Greek salad. When Jim presented a large glass bowl overflowing with dark greens, Rhona dared to hope; a closer examination revealed one solitary piece of feta cheese, two black olives and a mass of tough Romaine lettuce. All self-respecting Greeks would deny any association with the imposter and protest the defamation of the good name of Greece. Dejectedly, she chewed her way through the tasteless salad.
Outside the restaurant, she lit a cigarette. It was bad for her, bad for everyone, but why was she and every other addicted soul made to feel guilty? Didn’t people realize most smokers would quit in a minute if it wasn’t so damn hard?
Back in her office, feeling disgruntled and undernourished, she’d just had time to sit down when the desk downstairs buzzed to say Staynor was on his way up. Rhona locked her fingers behind her head and stretched. She recalled their first interview, when the butcher’s quotation laden speech had thrown her off balance. A diffident knock interrupted her musings.
Staynor pushed the door open and peered at her. “ ‘Here I am, ready willing and able, standing on the burning deck where all but I have fled.’ ” He stepped inside. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m trying not to do it.” He shambled forward and dropped onto the armless visitor’s chair. Once seated, he twisted, shifted, clasped and unclasped his hands and fixed sad eyes on Rhona. During the first interview, Staynor had spoken in erratic bursts and spewed quotations like confetti at a wedding. Today, he writhed and turned his torso like a man with swimmer’s itch.
Rhona felt uneasy. He was much more agitated than he’d been the last time she’d spoken to him. What had happened to pump up his anxiety level? “We’ve tracked down your information. You said you left teaching because a business opportunity arose, but we learned you were charged with assaulting a student and required to resign.”
Staynor’s restless movements persisted. Ceaselessly, he went through the motions of washing his hands.
“I’d like to hear about it,” Rhona said.
“That’s
