Mine’s at home.”
“Please underline the name of anyone who had dealings with your husband. It shouldn’t take long. I’m sorry to push you at a time like this, but time is of the essence. I’ll collect it tomorrow morning.”
After the detective had tucked her notebook in her enormous bag, she removed a card. “Can you think of anyone or anything else that might shed light on your husband’s murder?”
“No. I can’t.”
Simpson offered her card. “Take this and contact me if you have any ideas. In an active investigation, my cell phone’s always on. Tomorrow I’ll call before I come over.”
Exactly what Hollis needed—a Monday morning wake-up call from the police.
Because it would be more than two hours before she could interview the runners, who would have to wait for her if she was late, Rhona decided to make a quick trip to St. Mark’s to inform the minister of Paul’s death and learn what she could about the congregation. On the drive to the church, she gave in to temptation, lit a Rothmans and pumped up the volume of Madame Butterfly while she thought about statistics.
Theoretically, many runners, including Hollis Grant, could have murdered Robertson. Hollis hadn’t seemed to be hiding anything, but she wouldn’t remove her from the list of suspects. Big women intimidated her; she’d have to be careful to set the right tone in her interviews—sympathetic but insistent on obtaining the information she needed.
Assuming Ms Grant hadn’t been the murderer, the odds were great Robertson had known his killer, and there was a good chance that person had belonged to St. Mark’s.
Familiar with the church from a previous case, Rhona remembered that in the sanctuary, the church proper, an elevated choir loft faced the congregation. If Reverend Day planned to announce Paul Robertson’s death, Rhona would be in the choir loft, where she’d observe the congregation’s reaction. As long as she borrowed a choir gown, the presence of a new face in St. Mark’s large choir would not attract undue attention.
Rather than entering the church itself, she walked around to the annex where the ministers had their offices. In the vestibule, she pushed through a tide of children flowing downstairs and climbed a half-flight to Reverend Day’s office, where she knocked on the closed door, introduced herself and accepted an invitation to enter. Inside, a woman in her mid-thirties with a round face and a sculpted cap of shining chestnut hair pushed her chair back and stood up. Reverend Day hadn’t been at St. Mark’s when Rhona had worked on the last case.
“I’m here with bad news. I’m sorry to tell you, Paul Robertson is dead.”
“Dead!”
Rhona registered a transitory impression of relief.
“How can he be dead? He was running the marathon this morning. Don’t tell me he had a heart attack? Fitness obsessed him . . .” She stopped. “It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”
“No. He was murdered.”
Day recoiled as if Rhona had slapped her but remained dry-eyed. She shook her head as if the motion might erase her incredulity.
“Murdered? In the marathon? It couldn’t be—not with all those people. What exactly happened? Do you know who did it?”
“It’s hard to believe, but he was stabbed during the opening minutes of the marathon.”
Day covered her mouth with the back of her hand and shook her head repeatedly.
“I’m sorry not to give you more time to absorb the shock. Later, I want to talk to you about Reverend Robertson and the congregation. Do you plan to announce his death during the sermon?”
Day considered the question. “Yes.”
“Would it upset you if I sit in the choir loft to watch the congregation’s reaction when you tell them?”
“Of course not. I can’t believe anyone here had anything to do with it, but if that’s what you want to do—go ahead. You’ll be less conspicuous if you wear a choir gown and . . .” She paused. “The choir. They must be told, but before we go downstairs to the choir lounge I’ll speak to our church secretary, Barbara Webb.” She raised her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth crooked upwards. “If you want to know anything about St. Mark’s, don’t underestimate her. Sometimes she comes across as a bit dithery, but her knowledge about everything and everybody is encyclopedic.”
Day stashed several file cards in the skirt pocket of her Hunter green flannel suit before she led Rhona across the hall to the cluttered church office where a smartly dressed woman of well-preserved, advanced middle age balanced on spindly high heels. When they entered, she glanced up from the sheets of pink paper she was sliding into the copier.
“Barbara, I have something to tell you.” Day raised her voice to compete with the mechanical hum.
Barbara switched off the copier.
“There’s no easy way to do this,” Day gained two inches when she took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “This is Detective Simpson. It’s unbelievable, but she’s here because Paul was murdered earlier this morning.” She looked as if she wanted to soften the blow but hadn’t quite figured out what words to use.
Barbara searched their faces, probably for a sign she was hearing a macabre joke. Finding none, her body sagged, her arms swung limply, and her mouth hung slightly open.
Day stepped forward and hugged Barbara.
“Dead.” Barbara pronounced the word as if it came from an unfamiliar foreign language. “Dead. How can he be dead?” She spoke slowly. “Not—just—dead—murdered. Who would do such a thing?”
Day grasped Barbara’s hands. “Barbara, it’s terrible, but we have to cope. The congregation will be upset. After church, everyone will want to talk. We’ll drink gallons of coffee. Who’s in charge of the coffee hour?”
Barbara concentrated. “The Porters. Linda brought oatmeal cookies and butterscotch squares. Knox has nipped out to buy milk and cream. I’ll make sure there’s a full coffee urn and fill the kettles with water for the tea. This morning Linda was terribly flustered, because she was almost late. She said it was the first time she can remember them sleeping in until ten fifteen. Wait till you see Knox. He’s shaved off his beard.” A flush mottled her neck as she realized the irrelevance of her last remark.
“I’m glad coffee hour’s under control,” Day said. “Now, I’ll tell Zena.”
In the hall, she turned to Rhona. “Give me a moment before we go downstairs.”
She left the door of her office ajar, dashed inside, plucked a surplice and embroidered stole from the coat tree inside the door and shrugged them on. Then, together they descended to the choir lounge, a mouldy smelling basement room, where the choir, more than thirty strong, chattered as they donned their powder blue choir gowns. The buzz of conversation died away as the visitors entered the lounge.
“Hello, everyone,” Day said. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to lead up to what I have to say. I wish I could soften the blow. Reverend Robertson died this morning.” She paused. “He was murdered. This is Detective Simpson—she requires a surplice because she’s going to join you in the choir.”
The choir goggled at them like fish in oxygen-deficient water. Mouths moved, but no one said anything.
“I hope my presence won’t upset you. After the service, I’ll have questions for you,” Rhona said.
Day addressed a frail woman whose faded transparency reminded Rhona of a coloured photo left too long in the sun. “Zena, are the hymns appropriate?”
Zena clutched her music to her concave chest and thought for a minute before she spoke in a whispering voice matching her ephemeral