ruin my life, but I wonder what I could have done if I’d had more education.”
Why would the interviewers have believed a rumour? Surely, they would have investigated the suggestion of plagiarization. Rhona didn’t believe Leach’s story, but Leach did and had been pleased to have a chance to tell it.
“Were you aware Robertson ran, and did you expect to see him at the marathon?”
“Because of his darn T-shirt and the number of times he’s been on television, I should think almost everyone in the Ottawa Valley would recognize him.” He undid his two forefingers and pointed them at Rhona like six-shooters. “Paul is—was—his own favourite subject and, at church meetings, we heard about his exploits. Did I expect to meet him? No, and I didn’t.”
His eyes twinkled, and he pointed his fingers at himself. “Because I run faster than Paul, the organizers gave me a number allowing me to start toward the front of the pack.” He lowered his hands. “One of the small and not very admirable things you should know about me—I wrote down his time after his first marathon four years ago, and I’ve tracked him since then. I was twenty minutes faster when we started, and the gap has grown. This year I cut ten minutes off and ran it in three hours and twenty minutes.”
“Congratulations!”
“In my opinion, Paul Robertson would sink to any level to obtain what he wanted. If he did that to me, you can bet he’s done even worse things to other people.”
Four
After Kas left, Hollis made one or two phone calls, but her reaction time had slowed again. Every action required intense concentration and left her exhausted and doubtful she’d ever move easily again. She wondered if this physical reaction would be transitory, or if she’d spend months sporadically operating as if tons of water pressed down on her. The phone rang. She picked it up on the fourth ring.
“Hollis, it’s Elsie.”
Hollis wasn’t surprised. St. Mark’s relied on the practical goodness of Elsie Workman and her husband Roger to match the physical with the emotional needs of the congregation.
“Hollis, dear, we were shocked to hear about Paul. You can count on Roger and me to do whatever we can to help.” She took an audible breath. “You’re going to have lots to do in the next few days. I thought, if it’s okay, I’d come over every day to answer the door, the phone and organize the food everyone’s sure to bring. If you think it’ll be an intrusion, just say so. I won’t be hurt, dear—everyone reacts to tragedy in a different way . . .”
People could be so kind. Tears threatened to flow, but she took a deep breath and banished them. “Elsie, it would be great. I do need you. Come over whenever you’re ready.” The prospect of Elsie’s cheery intervention in her life lifted Hollis’s spirits. Her limbs felt lighter; she dared to hope they soon might resume normal functioning.
Twenty minutes later Elsie arrived, rustled up a toasted tuna sandwich, insisted Hollis eat and then sent her upstairs for a lie-down. When Marguerite phoned late in the afternoon, Elsie intercepted the call, and thinking Hollis would want to talk to Marguerite, trotted upstairs to tell her.
After Marguerite offered sincere conventional words of sympathy, she said, “Is Elsie planning to feed you dinner?”
“Force feed I’m afraid. You know Elsie—she believes food fixes everything. I’m grateful but not hungry.”
“Come over, and we’ll eat nachos or popcorn or drink gin. Whatever you want.”
“Gin sounds pretty good.”
“I have two hospital visits left to make before supper. Let’s say any time after six.”
Exactly what Hollis needed. Marguerite could answer her questions about Paul. At five thirty, she made herself take MacTee for a decent walk before she changed.
Clothes had always been important to her. Once, in a moment of introspection, she’d figured out the reason: she’d been a large, ungainly child, a great contrast to her pretty, petite mother who, unhappily, had dressed her only daughter in frills and bows, accentuating her size and making her feel even larger. Early on, Hollis had realized what the right clothes did for your self-image and psyche and, ever since, had been obsessed with her appearance. Even so, it shocked her to acknowledge to herself that, even at this moment of crisis, she cared so much.
After she’d tucked herself into a conservative pair of black wool trousers and a black and white patterned silk shirt she vacillated between a black or pink wool blazer before she chose pink. She rejected a large splashy brooch and selected a smaller one—a silver filigree star.
On her way out of the house, she passed through the kitchen and avoided MacTee’s eyes lest he take eye contact for a tacit invitation to throw himself against her and leave a residue of hair. Outside, she climbed into the cab of her ten-year-old Nissan pickup. Once again, as she did every time she faced the mess, she vowed to clean out the winter’s debris. An archeologist could read her history by investigating the layered strata.
Marguerite lived in a downtown residential area, where developers had converted turn-of-the-century mansions into apartments. Her veranda-wrapped brick building with leaded glass bay windows must once have epitomized the glories of Victorian living. Hollis pressed the bell beside the bevelled glass door and identified herself, and Marguerite buzzed her into the foyer. Inside, Hollis looked up the sweep of the broad mahogany stairs. Marguerite, in blue jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, smiled down.
At the top of the stairs, they hugged each other. The physical contact touched Hollis. Tears filled her eyes. She sniffed and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.
“It’s okay. Cry as much as you want.” Marguerite patted her as if she were a colicky baby.
Hollis pulled away and blew her nose. “If I start, I’ll never stop. It’s . . .” She couldn’t find the words. Instead she pulled in a deep shaky breath. “I need to talk more than I need to cry.” In the hours since Marguerite’s call, she’d worked out the questions she wanted answered.
Marguerite smiled, “I’ll listen until you’ve said everything you want to say.”
They stopped in the tiny, functional kitchen where Marguerite poured two drinks—a gin and tonic for Hollis, a gin and orange juice for herself. She loaded the glasses, a large glass bowl of popcorn, a salt shaker, a pottery bowl of salted almonds and paper napkins on a red metal tray. They moved out to a slatted wooden deck sitting atop a flat-roofed addition to the lower floor. Furnished with five sling-back canvas chairs, each covered with different, crayon-bright canvas, planters newly stocked with geraniums and dusty miller, and a round, weathered coffee table, the deck promised to be a sunny summer refuge.
They sipped and munched in silence for a minute or two.
“I’m having trouble believing Paul was murdered,” Hollis said. “My mind circles around and around, desperate to deny or to confirm that everything was a bad dream.”
“I know the feeling. Except when they’re killed in southern states like Georgia or Alabama, you don’t think of ministers as targets.”
“I need to talk about Paul.”
Marguerite waited.
“You must have
