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 it.” Staynor washed and rewashed.
“What did the student do or say, and what did you do?”
Staynor stared mutinously at his relentlessly moving hands. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything, but I suppose, ‘There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.’ ” The tempo of his restless movements lessened slightly. “We were reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and talking about the cuckolded husband. An over-grown lout said right out loud he guessed the best example stood right in front of them.” Staynor froze in mid-wash. His eyes rolled back in his head.
The sudden change startled Rhona. She wondered if whatever had happened to his eyes preceded a seizure. She ran the text of the first aid manual through her mind and prepared to intervene.
Before she could act, he shook himself, and his eyes returned to normal. “I picked him up, slammed him against the wall and walked out. Apparently, he had a concussion. I never set foot in the school again. I offered no defence when I was charged.” His tone was flat, the words spoken in a monotone, and for the first time he remained motionless. “In retrospect, it wasn’t worth it. I wish I hadn’t done it. The kid was right. The court gave me a suspended sentence dependent on my doing community service and getting psychiatric help. George Bernard Shaw said, ‘A life spent making mistakes is not only more honourable but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.’ If that’s the measure—I’ve had an honourable life.” With elbows glued to his sides, he raised his hands to cover his lowered face. His fingertips pressed into his forehead with enough force to turn them white. Staynor, hunched and bowed, remained locked in position.
“You’re a different man today. What’s happened?”
Staynor’s head came up and he dropped his hands. “Different? Humiliated, finished, done, kaput.” His eyebrows lifted, and he snorted. “You have to ask? My wife howls in church, falls on Paul’s body and acts like Dreyfus, ‘j’accuse’, when she confronts Hollis Grant.”
“You said you were aware of your wife’s infidelities?”
“That’s right, I did.” Staynor glared at Rhona. “And it’s true, my wife has run around for years, but she’s never done anything really blatant.” His lips twisted into a bitter imitation of a smile. “It won’t surprise you to learn I have a toast to sum up my philosophy. ‘If Life’s a lie, and Love’s a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here’s a health to fond deceit.’ ” He shook his head like a bull irritated by clouds of black flies. “Sure I knew; but I felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Yes, guilty, capital G.” Staynor became aware of his hands independently resuming their washing. He crossed his arms and pulled his hands tightly against his body, as if trying to hold himself together. “Did your hotshot detectives unearth the fact I stayed in the long-term hospital for the mentally ill, the loony bin, for quite a few months after the court case?”
With a flash of his old belligerence, he lifted his head and frowned at Rhona. “The great gurus decided I was nuts, crackers, weird: call it what you will. They claimed my mood swings made me dangerous and prescribed a little pink pill. The shrinks have a handle on their pharmacology—I’ll give them that. It worked—a little too well. As Francis Bacon said, ‘There are some remedies worse than the disease.’ It’s a conundrum. If I don’t take the pill, I’m dangerous. If I take it, I’m impotent. What can I expect a beautiful woman like my wife to do? Her affairs have been relatively discreet. Years ago, I offered her a divorce, but she didn’t want one because it would be bad for our son. He needed both of us at home.”
“Did you kill Reverend Robertson?”
“No. You may not believe me, but it never crossed my mind. I hated him, but not enough to kill him.” He sagged on the chair and lowered his head.
Rhona leaned forward, “I have an appointment with your wife for later this afternoon.”
“What for? You’ll rile her up. She’ll do something else stupid and embarrassing.”
“I’m warning her to be careful.”
“Careful? Sally? You must be kidding. Sally thinks ‘Prudence is a rich, old maid courted by incapacity.’ That’s Blake and Sally too.” His forehead furrowed as he appreciated the impact of Rhona’s warning. “Careful about what?”
Rhona debated. If Staynor was the perp, what effect would her explanation have? It wouldn’t do any harm to give a heads up, to say they were closing in.
“At the funeral yesterday, Mrs. Staynor accused Hollis Grant of killing Paul Robertson and claimed she knew Paul’s secrets. We believe the killer murdered Reverend Robertson because of those secrets. Knowing, or claiming to know, what they are could be dangerous. I told Mrs. Staynor to be careful. If you are on speaking terms with your wife, will you impress upon her to take my warning very seriously.”
“Son-of-a-gun!”
Staynor said nothing, and Rhona identified fear in his eyes. She wished intuition would tell her if Staynor feared for Sally or for himself. A man with an assault conviction, a spell of madness, and an obsession with his wife had reason to fear.
At three, she rang the bell at the Staynor’s house. No one responded. She pushed the brass button again and listened to the three-tone chime. After waiting several minutes, she decided she’d wasted her time: Sally had either gone out or passed out. She’d taken three steps toward her car when she heard the door open. A voice mocked her.
“Well, if it isn’t Canada’s answer to Robo-cop.”
Rhona pivoted to face the door. “Hello, Mrs. Staynor—Sally.”
“Hello yourself. Why the hell are you here?” With her arms akimbo and her left shoulder and jaw thrust forward, she resembled a small dog trying to decide which stance would scare away a much larger dog.
Rhona considered Sally. Without make-up, she appeared older but more vulnerable. Her black stretch pants, baggy at the knees, worn with a faded black Grateful Dead T-shirt and black cloth slippers, did nothing to improve her image.
“May