retrieved the dead file.
A man expertly knifed, and she had two prime suspects with motive, means and expertise. All she had to do was prove her case.
Thirteen
Friday morning, when the first twittering birds woke Hollis at five thirty, she felt compelled to say a private goodbye to Paul. Despite what she’d found out about him, he had been part of her life for three years, and it was time to close the chapter, no matter how painful it had been. The strength of this compulsion shocked her, but she accepted it and realized she had to follow form to banish future regrets. She searched through the writings of the disciples of the Buddha until she located the perfect passages, marked them and prepared for the ceremony.
She ignored the aches and pains, the reminders of her brush with the gunman and the tractor-trailer. Instead, she removed her jewellery, clipped her nails and scrubbed herself clean before she considered her closet.
Depending on your culture, either black or white represented mourning. To please his gods and hers, she chose black silk pants, a black lace camisole and a Nehru-style cream jacquard silk jacket.
Properly prepared, she lit incense and candles and settled in the lotus position on a purple silk cushion in the corner of her bedroom she’d set aside for meditation. She concentrated on her breathing, centred herself and allowed her mind to quiet. Thinking of how life might have been, she mourned for Paul and for herself. She confronted her pity, her rage at him for forcing the killer to believe murder was his only option, and her fear for her own life.
After reading several passages relating to death and to life, she ended her ceremony with a reading from the Tibetan Book of the Dead: “Remember the clear light, the pure clear white light from which everything in the universe comes, to which everything in the universe returns . . . Let go into the clear light, trust it, merge with it. It is your own true nature, it is home.”
When she’d finished, she quietly extinguished the incense and candles. A feeling of peace flowed through her body.
The ring of the doorbell startled her and set her heart thumping; however, almost immediately, she realized Elsie, reliable, coffee-loving Elsie, had arrived.
Hollis joined her in the kitchen, where Elsie had just given MacTee a biscuit. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning, dear? There’s going to be a big crowd at the funeral. They’ll require extra chairs. Maybe even a speaker outside. Paul was popular and that was some nice write-up he got in the Citizen. Have you read it?”
“I only buy the Citizen on Saturday. I wonder why no one mentioned it last night at the visitation.”
“They couldn’t have. It’s in today’s paper. Roger bought it when he went jogging this morning.” Elsie puffed out her ample chest like a pigeon preening in the sun. “I cut it out. I thought you wouldn’t have it, and I knew you’d want it.” She rummaged around in the flowery pink carpetbag that did triple duty as purse, knitting and shopping bag, until she located the article and flourished it with such gusto, Hollis almost heard the trumpets. “Here it is, dear. Keep it. We’ll pick up another copy.” She extended her arm and viewed her sensible watch, a relic from her nursing days. “I’d better get busy.”
“Elsie, thanks for bringing it and for everything you’ve done. You’ve been wonderful. I couldn’t have coped without you.” Hollis waved at the stacks of cookie tins ranged along the kitchen counter. “Help yourself to anything you fancy—there’s enough for the army. If you have a spare moment, I thought we’d freeze packages for the church coffee hour.”
MacTee, whose longing gaze alternated between them, rose as Hollis prepared to leave the kitchen. However, the possibility of treats won out over his devotion to Hollis. He settled down to contemplate the possibility that Elsie might drop or give him a tasty morsel.
Upstairs, she unfolded and read the clipping detailing Paul’s contributions to the community. How sad that his demons had changed him into a Jekyll and Hyde. Whatever his sins, she and Marguerite had planned a baroque spectacle to send him off in style.
The service would open with a bagpipe rendition of “Amazing Grace”. After introductory remarks, a trumpet would accompany “Rock of Ages” sung by a massed choir. Eulogies and prayers would be interspersed with the best and most rousing hymns. The opera society’s leading soprano, backed by the choir would break everyone’s heart with the twenty-third psalm. The King James version resonated in her head, and tears threatened. Remembering her earlier advice to herself, she took a deep, steadying breath and willed herself to cry. Once again, the tactic worked. The service would conclude with a trumpet rendition of “Lord of the Dance”.
Shortly after ten, Hollis walked to St. Mark’s, where she established herself in the narthex, the entrance hall of the church. Black and white photographs of past leaders dominated the dark-panelled hall, lit by tall stained glass windows and a single hanging lamp. The dark maroon-patterned carpet muffled the soft organ music and the voices of the scores of mourners whose numbers stretched out the door and down the steps to the street.
Simpson, accompanied by the same constable who’d been with her the night before, joined the line. Her chocolate brown pantsuit suited her, but Hollis wondered if there was any occasion on which she’d forego 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,