and plaster. The weathered red brick first storey complemented the taupe stucco and wood second storey. Unfortunately, the lavish use of flat, mud-brown paint on the wood trim destroyed the potential charm of the building, which drooped despondently under its depressing paint.
In front of the house, she hesitated—she still hadn’t convinced herself a visit was necessary, but since the Porters had spearheaded the refugee project, she would have felt churlish if she’d refused. And, it was true, given Paul’s, his mother’s and some of her own possessions, she did have a pile of items to donate. This visit would tell her which things to earmark for the refugees and which to donate to the Salvation Army.
There were two front doors—one to the Porters and one for the third floor apartment. She rang the Porters’ bell.
The solid, highly varnished oak door opened before she removed her finger from the black button. Involuntarily, she stepped back. She felt as if Knox had been lying in wait. Fleetingly, she thought of the unwary moth lured into a spider’s web.
“Hollis.” Knox’s eyes glittered. “Thank you for coming.”
“It was nice to have an excuse to walk and enjoy this beautiful evening. As I said last night at church, I do appreciate the speed with which you’ve launched this project.”
“Linda had to go out—I’ll take you right up.” Knox stepped outside onto the porch and unlocked the door leading up to the apartment on the top floor. He moved inside and held the door open for her.
An urge to turn and run almost overwhelmed her, but she told herself not to be silly. Knox struck her as acting simultaneously furtive and threatening, but it probably wasn’t Knox as much as her own reaction to the multitude of shocks she’d suffered in the last few days. After all, Knox, a stalwart of the church, was an innocuous man by anyone’s standards.
“I won’t keep you long. I’m sure you have more work to do on Paul’s papers.”
What did Paul’s papers have to do with anything?
“Yes, there’s lots to do,” she agreed and followed him up three flights of steep uncarpeted stairs and along a dark hall.
Inside the apartment, the rooms exuded the musty leftover-living smell of furnished apartments everywhere. Old white chenille bedspreads, draped over what she assumed were pieces of upholstered furniture, converted the unseen objects into ghostly threatening presences.
Knox, breathing as if he’d climbed the CN Tower instead of three flights of stairs, moved restlessly to and fro or stood in one spot, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “We have quite a bit of furniture. The last family didn’t want it—they both got good jobs and left it for others who might be less fortunate.”
“That was nice of them.”
To take her mind off her uneasiness, Hollis suggested they get to work. She removed a green notebook and ballpoint pen from her handbag. “I’ll prepare two columns. In one, I’ll jot down everything you need at the moment. In the other, I’ll list everything you can store or use to set up future refugee families.”
Knox continued to move restlessly, but he fixed a disconcerting, unblinking stare at her face. Her apprehension increased, but she resolved to try for an attitude of “business as usual”.
“Do you have a place here or at the church to store extras for other families?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Do you want me to make a second list of extra things I have?”
After a lengthy pause, her question penetrated Knox’s agitation. “Yes. But we’ll organize for this family before we worry about the next one.” He jerked himself over to a massive chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room, bent over, and pulled the bottom drawer halfway out. “Here are the bed linens. Why don’t you make an inventory.”
He left the drawer gaping open and took four robot-like steps to the window, where he turned away from her and peered outside.
Alarmed by his twitchy movements and rigidly hunched shoulders, Hollis wondered if he was having a neurological attack, and if there was something she should do. The best thing would be to rush through the job and escape the claustrophobic apartment.
Edging over to the chest, she kept an eye on Knox, who remained at the window, shifting from one foot to the other. She hated to have her back to him, but unless she swung around, she couldn’t examine the drawer’s contents. She squatted down and drew out a yellowed pillowcase, dropped it on the floor and, using both hands, fished a heavy linen sheet from the drawer. She lifted it and sensed Knox’s sudden movement.
By five o’clock on Monday, Rhona sat at a desk piled high with paper and worried she wouldn’t plough through the urgent items in time to meet Hollis at eight. Late in the day, the work she classified as urgent had tripled when the autopsy results and lab reports confirmed Sally Staynor’s murder—the killer had spiked her vodka with digitalis. A large amount of residue remained in the bottle.
Sally and only Sally had left prints on the vodka bottle and everything else in the mourning basket. Rhona visualized her lovingly removing each item, examining it closely and finally proposing a toast to the sender.
The basket itself and its contents offered few clues. The killer might have owned the basket for years or bought it new, and he could have purchased each item in the basket without raising any sales clerk’s suspicion. And, finally, since the bereavement card’s envelope had not been sealed, the lab had no saliva for DNA testing. Poor Sally.
Rhona reread Mary Beth Cardwell’s fax. If the killer fit the childhood Cardwell had described, Dr. Tessa Uiska did not match the profile. She wouldn’t eliminate her—Cardwell’s lead could be a wild goose chase. Rhona still considered Dr. Uiska a primary suspect and blackmail a possible motive.
She had a number of voice mail messages dealing with bank accounts. The bank manager of the Gloucester branch promised a detailed printout of the activity in Robertson’s account by Tuesday. Calls from the various banks where Uiska, Staynor and Toberman had accounts also promised complete printouts by Tuesday evening at the latest. Why did everything have to happen so slowly—she needed answers immediately.
Her frustration increased when she read a fax from Masterman—he’d been unable to add any information about the subjects of Robertson’s books.
Everything hinged on Cardwell’s suspect. Yantha, Staynor, Eakins and Toberman headed the list. She’d begin with Yantha. Since Hollis had met Yantha after his engagement to Uiska, she hadn’t professed any familiarity about his early years. Time to talk. She contacted the hospital and told Yantha’s secretary to have the doctor phone at the first opportunity.
The thought of the second call troubled her. Throughout her career, she’d worked to retain her humanity, and phoning the husband of a murdered woman seemed an act of extreme insensitivity. In her gut, she believed Staynor had not killed his wife and had enough to contend with without fending off probing questions about his past. Nevertheless, she mustn’t overlook such an obvious suspect.
A woman, who didn’t give her name, answered Staynor’s phone and informed Rhona he wasn’t accepting calls. Rhona politely identified herself and insisted on speaking to him. After a long pause, during which Rhona heard snatches of conversation about
