LITMIR.BIZ

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published three books and many articles.” Hollis heard the enthusiasm in her voice. This was one of her favourite topics.

      “I repeat, what does this have to do with meeting your husband?”

      “In July and August I do field work in my specialty—folklore and music. Helen Creighton pioneered the work more than fifty years ago when she traveled the Maritimes making notes and later, when portable recording machines appeared on the market, recording songs, superstitions and folk tales. Three summers ago, I followed her trail around the Maritimes. With her information as a base, I drove the back roads talking to old people and recording their generation’s memories. I also took millions of reference slides for my paintings.”

      Simpson’s legs were crossed, and one cowboy boot jerked faster and faster.

      Time to speed up. “Later in August, after I’d worked for six weeks in Lunenburg County, I drove to Halifax to catch an art exhibit of Linda Climo’s animal paintings.”

      Simpson’s toe tapped more quickly.

      “I spent the weekend with an old school friend who’s married to a United Church minister. Paul was teaching a course at the Pine Hill Divinity School, and my friends invited him to dinner. The next day, we went sailing on the Arm . . . the rest is history.” And it’s not the sort of history I want to write about, Hollis thought, and realized her teeth were clenched, her shoulders lifted, her whole body expressed her rage.

      The tapping toe slowed. “But it didn’t end happily ever after?”

      “No.” Should she confess Paul had accused her of presenting a false image, of hoodwinking him into marrying a fictitious woman? Tell her she’d acted impulsively her entire life and married Paul almost as a lark. “Maybe we were too old, too set in our ways. Paul was difficult, complicated.” Could she say he was a deceitful, lying son of a bitch? Maybe if she was a suspect, that wouldn’t be wise.

      “Ms Grant, telling me unpleasant truths about your husband does not make you disloyal or show lack of respect for the dead. Familiarizing myself with the good and bad aspects of his character will provide me with clues to uncover the motive for his murder.” Simpson’s sharp tone warned Hollis to get on with her story.

      “The sooner the killer is caught . . .” The sound of the closing door in the supposedly empty church echoed in her mind. She’d give this woman all the help she could. “Paul liked power. He was narcissistic and viewed people around him only as they reflected him. His religion came from the Old Testament. He judged sinners harshly.” And he certainly had firsthand knowledge of a variety of sins.

      “Probably not an uncommon trait among the clergy.”

      “No, I suppose not.” Before she revealed the worst of Paul, she’d at least give him credit for what he had done. “On the other side of the ledger, he did measurable amounts of good. He didn’t support an issue or cause unless he was prepared to give a hundred and ten per cent of his energy. Two examples: his enthusiasm and work for refugee resettlement and his commitment to raising the profile of the Christian homosexual community.”

      “I understand he wrote about the gay community and its treatment by society in his most recent book. Are you familiar with the manuscript?”

      “Yes. As I said, I edited the most recent draft before he passed the manuscript to Kas.”

      “Tell me about your husband’s . . .” The detective paused and didn’t quite look Hollis in the eye as she finished the sentence, “extramarital affairs.”

      No quarter from this woman. No sympathy for the newly widowed. However, other than her, who would be more likely to kill Paul than a cuckolded husband? “I think it’s time for me to be frank. Paul was not a good man. Last night Marguerite Day told me,” she paused and looked down at her hands, wishing she didn’t have to share this information. “Paul had sex with one of the women he was counselling.” She raised her eyes and met the detective’s steady gaze. “That is so despicable, but it gets worse—the woman killed herself.”

      “I can understand how painful it must have been to hear that. And what about his affairs?”

      “Sally Staynor was the current one.”

      “Did you know her?”

      “No. Marguerite said you were in church yesterday when Sally, who was with her son Dan, had hysterics. Poor Dan.” Hollis fiddled with a strand of wool hanging from the bottom of her sweater and thought how awful his mom’s scene must have been for him. “But you want to hear about Sally. She and Paul worked together on St. Mark’s most recent project—resettling a Salvadorian family.”

      Simpson picked up the marathon program and flipped through it. “Would the JJ Staynor, Oneida Drive, Ottawa, be her husband?”

      “How did I miss his name?”

      “I can’t imagine.”

      Hollis thought Simpson’s tone implied that Hollis had done it deliberately but she could be wrong.

      “Do you know him?” Simpson asked.

      “Only that he owns The Annex Chop Shop.”

      “What about other women?”

      “I haven’t got a clue. You’ll have to ask Barbara Webb or someone else.” She met Simpson’s gaze, “I’m sure if there was one, there were many, many more. I’m having a hard time adjusting to what I’ve heard and facing the fact that I didn’t know my husband at all.”

      Simpson raised a quizzical eyebrow.

      “Barbara Webb said Reverend Robertson took his private papers to the manse. Where are they, and what volume of paper are we talking about?”

      Did she have to admit her ignorance? “I’m not sure.” She hazarded a guess. “Two, maybe three filing cabinets.”

      “How many drawers in each one?”

      Time to own up. “Actually, I haven’t any idea. This is going to sound bizarre, but Paul keeps his clothes and personal papers and belongings in a locked bedroom, and I’ve never been inside. I could have—his keys are in his downstairs study—but we’d made a deal, and I respected his wishes.”

      Simpson eyebrows rose, and she peered over her tortoiseshell glasses. “You can show me or give me the key. I’ll arrange to have the papers moved to the police station. Two more questions. Did your husband leave a large estate, and who benefits from his death?”

      Ah-ha. The key questions: was there enough money to motivate murder and who would inherit? Her hands trembled again. Simpson would think she was guilty. She crossed her arms and tucked the offending hands out of sight. “His mother left him a sizable amount when she died more than twenty years ago. The invested income allowed him independence from the church. Since we were in the process of divorcing, I imagine if I was the beneficiary, I no longer am.” Time to clarify her position. “I’m aware money is a motive for murder, but I earn a good salary and someday . . .” She unfolded her arms, reached forward and superstitiously touched the wooden table, “someday, I’ll come into a sizeable amount from my mother, who’s a very successful chartered accountant.”

      “Try to find the will—it may be important.”

      Important to her too—Ms Simpson had not moved her to the bottom of the list, and she didn’t like her current status. She’d do her own digging.

      From Rhona’s point of view, Hollis remained a suspect, and she intended to follow up on the information Hollis had provided. But it was time to attend Paul Robertson’s autopsy at the Municipal Hospital.

      After she’d parked, she hurried to the rotunda and followed the main concourse thronged with patients and staff before she turning into the basement corridor leading to the morgue. No sign directed those unfamiliar with the building. Whether patients or professionals, no one

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