LITMIR.BIZ

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coffee machine, added water, switched it on and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She forced herself to finish a slice of whole wheat toast and was preparing a mug of coffee when Elsie arrived.

      Coffee in hand, she left Elsie in charge of MacTee and the kitchen and headed for her bedroom to dress before she did the homework for Simpson.

      What to wear? Wrapped in a terry robe, she moved hangers in the closet. Although she favoured dramatic bright outfits and large flashy jewellery, she thought a more conservative outfit would be appropriate. She reached for black leather pants and paired them with a white cable knit sweater. Dressed, she moved to her studio and picked up the race list. It was great to have a job, especially one that might help the police catch the killer.

      At nine thirty, Elsie knocked, opened the door and slipped inside. “Detective Simpson is here. Where would you like to talk to her? How about coffee?”

      “Right here will be fine and coffee or tea, if the detective’s a tea drinker, would be great. I’ll come down and bring up a tray.”

      Elsie rocked back on her sensible shoes. “Nonsense, I’m here to make your life easier. Betty Erickson brought over a loaf of her apricot banana bread and a tin of chocolate chip cookies. They’re still warm. I’ll send the detective up then bring a tray.”

      Hollis disregarded Elsie’s implicit instruction to stay put and followed her downstairs.

      Detective Simpson waited inside the front vestibule.

      As she descended the oak stairs, Hollis watched MacTee, plumed tail wagging, move in on Simpson, who obliged with a pat and a kind word while simultaneously skillfully avoiding the string of saliva hanging from the dog’s mouth.

      If she liked dogs, she couldn’t be all bad.

      Upstairs in the studio office, the sun flooded through the wall of windows in what originally had been the sun porch. The bright light intensified the colours of the pink geraniums and magenta cyclamens crowded together on the white bookshelves and gave Hollis’s huge flower paintings an almost neon vividness.

      Simpson chose an overstuffed chair slip-covered in blue ticking, adjusted the blue and white patchwork cushions and removed the race list from her capacious shoulder bag. She laid it down on the round white painted coffee table, dug in her bag and retrieved a pen.

      Hollis collected her program from the desk, moved the worn but glowing wedding-ring quilt from a second overstuffed chair and sat facing Simpson. Neither had yet said anything.

      Elsie burst the bubble of silence when she bustled in with an oval silver tray loaded with thermos jugs of coffee and tea, mugs, a plate of sweet things and paper napkins.

      “I’d pour for you, but I’m sure you’d rather do it yourself and get on with your work. I’ll leave everything here on the table.”

      After they’d filled their cups, Hollis thumbed through her race book. “I’ve marked the names I recognized.” She reached for her red wire-rimmed glasses parked on top of her head and anchored in her hair. “Are we going over the names, or is the annotated list okay?”

      Simpson placed her cup on the table before she opened her program. “The annotated list is not okay. If that was all I wanted, I would have sent someone to collect your copy. I want you to tell me how each person you’ve marked was connected to your husband.”

      Her tone of voice wasn’t pleasant.

      Hollis wanted to throw the cup at her and scream that she was doing her best, that she wanted the killer caught as much as Simpson did, but she only sighed. What good would a temper tantrum do?

      “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Please go ahead,” Simpson said.

      The two women eyed each other warily.

      Hollis opened her program, identified one person after another and told Simpson what she knew about each one. When she reached Marcus Toberman’s name, she chose her words carefully.

      “Marcus was a spokesperson for the City Church, the homosexual Christian congregation. Before Christmas, they applied for permission to conduct their services at St. Mark’s. Decisions like that are made at a congregational meeting. I wasn’t there, but I heard it was horrible, and their application was rejected.”

      “Did you know Mr. Toberman?”

      “We’ve been friends for years, ever since we took a course together at the University of Ottawa.” Hollis paused. Was this the time to mention Marcus’s visit to the manse a week or ten days after the meeting and the shouting match he’d had with Paul? Marcus had enough problems without Madam Inquisitor having a go at him. She’d talk to Marcus herself. If she had even the tiniest suspicion he might be involved, she’d tell Simpson.

      “How did Toberman take the congregation’s decision?”

      “I don’t know; I wasn’t there.”

      The next underlined name on her list was Tessa Uiska. “She’s the wife of Kas Yantha, the doctor who was with me in the medical tent. Tessa’s a doctor and a good friend of mine.”

      Simpson raised her hand. “Hang on. How did they both get along with Paul?”

      “They didn’t. They had very little to do with him.”

      “How can that be when you say she’s a friend?”

      “It’s not complicated. Three years ago, after our wedding, I arranged for the four of us to have dinner together. As I said, Tessa and I have been friends since we were undergraduates, and when Kas and I met, we hit it off right away. I thought it would be natural to have the four of us together. But, at our one and only dinner, Paul made it clear we wouldn’t be a foursome. He wasn’t unpleasant, but he discouraged any suggestion of future socializing.”

      “Would they connect with him in any other context?”

      “Not socially, but Paul wasn’t shy about using anybody who had information he required. Because he was familiar with Kas’s expertise on deviant behaviour, he was paying him to vet his manuscript.”

      “That was a first draft of the manuscript for the new book.”

      “No, Paul respected my editorial abilities, and I’d gone through it. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to see it until it was nearly perfect.”

      “I’ll be talking to you about the book later. Please continue.”

      “Roger Workman is the husband of Elsie, the woman downstairs. Roger and Paul got along fine.”

      Three more names and they reached the end. Simpson laid the booklet on the table.

      Hollis sat back, wondering what else Simpson would ask.

      “Would you describe your husband’s personality?”

      Where to start? Could she even say he had a single personality? The more she found out, the more she wondered if he had had multiple personalities. Hollis twisted in her chair, tucked her feet under her, clutched her coffee cup and peered into its depths. When she’d seen him lying on the road, she’d felt terrible, but now anger had replaced pity. Her eyes filled with tears of rage.

      Simpson dug in her bag and handed Hollis a small package of Kleenex.

      Hollis put the cup on the table, pulled a tissue from the pack and blew her nose.

      “Let me ask you specific questions. How long had you been married?”

      “Three years.”

      “How did you meet?”

      “I’m a social historian. I teach at a community college.”

      “I’m not sure I know what a social historian does, and I certainly don’t know how that explains how you met.”

      “I’m getting there,” Hollis said. There was a note of annoyance in her voice. This women was so pushy. She could at least listen without

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