LITMIR.BIZ

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      At home, waiting for the constable’s call, Rhona said “to hell with cholesterol” and stepped to the fridge. She gave in to her stomach’s demand for a fried bacon and egg sandwich. While the bacon sizzled, she cleared a space on the cluttered kitchen table and considered the entries in her notebook. Opie, who adored bacon, sifted back and forth, rubbed against her legs and loudly complained about the injustice of spoiling his sleep without sharing the booty.

      Rhona ignored him. Instead, she considered the killer’s motive. Had he intended to right an imagined wrong? The trashing of the church office linked the crime to the church. The attempted break-in at the manse suggested the killer’s search continued.

      She drained the crisp bacon on paper towels, set a strip aside for Opie, cracked an egg in the bubbling fat and pushed the bread down in the toaster. As she spooned fat over the egg, her thoughts circled around Robertson.

      Was his widow one smart lady who was diverting attention from herself by faking a break-in? But, if Hollis wasn’t the killer, who was and what had he been searching for? Had Robertson been killed to prevent him from doing something or revealing something? Had the killer miscalculated and, after the murder, discovered whatever he or she had assumed would die with Robertson had been shared with someone? Perhaps it related to the manuscript for the book. She’d pick it up and discuss it with Dr. Yantha.

      Opie satisfied, the sandwich enjoyed with no message from the constable, Rhona tucked the dishes in the dishwasher and went to bed. In the morning, after she interviewed Barbara Webb, she’d talk to Hollis.

      At nine, she entered the office, where Barbara teetered on her high heels in front of a photocopier that was spewing sheets of green paper. When Barbara noticed Rhona, she smiled tentatively and turned off the machine. “I’ve gone through the calendar.” She moved to her desk and picked up the diary. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to match all the initials with names.” She offered it, along with a sheet of initials and names.

      Rhona popped the diary in her bag. “Thanks. Let’s start with the initials you deciphered.”

      “The locksmith’s truck is at the manse. What’s wrong?”

      By noon, everybody in the congregation would have heard—no reason to hide the information. “Nothing. Last night there was an attempted break-in, but nothing was stolen. Ms Grant is fine.”

      “The killer here again—it scares me to death. Especially when often I’m here alone. I feel so vulnerable. And poor Hollis. As if it isn’t enough to have Paul dead.” Her lips set in a straight line. “I hope you have a lot of people working on this. The next thing you know, the killer will strike again. He’s probably a serial killer.”

      Rhona wished people didn’t watch so much TV. After reassuring Barbara that the police were doing everything they could, she turned the discussion to the initials in Reverend Robertson’s diary.

      In her car, she lit a cigarette and read the initials and names. One set of unidentified initials set the bells clanging. T.U. Not many surnames began with U, and an unusual one had registered with her recently. Where? Who? The race program. She removed it from her bag. Uiska, Tessa, Kas Yantha’s wife and Hollis’s friend. T.U., not once but four times. Time to schedule appointments with the doctors.

      The officious voice on the other end of the line informed Rhona that Kas was fully booked for days.

      “I repeat. This is a police investigation. I must meet Dr. Yantha today, this morning if possible. And if you don’t arrange an appointment, Dr. Yantha will come to the station at my convenience.”

      The receptionist slotted Rhona’s meeting for ten.

      Rhona felt a pang of remorse: an unknown individual’s life would be rearranged because of her insistence, but what had to be had to be. Time to contact Kas’s wife, Dr. Tessa Uiska, a cardio-thoracic surgeon at Municipal Hospital.

      “Dr. Uiska is on grand rounds this morning, but she works in her office for an hour before lunch. Why don’t you pop in between eleven and twelve?”

      Done. Now for her visit to the psychiatric hospital, a collection of old brick buildings nestled among lawns and sheltering trees. Rhona wondered if the setting helped the patients’ confrontations with confusion and pain. Inside, she wound through a labyrinth of corridors and ended up in a waiting room, empty except for the receptionist who sat behind glass. When Rhona introduced herself, the receptionist nodded and buzzed the doctor.

      The door to the suite beyond the reception area opened. Dr. Yantha, wearing a navy blue suit with a faint purple stripe, a white shirt and a subdued patterned green tie stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

      Psychiatrists made Rhona nervous, but she sternly told herself her battered psyche did not interest the doctor and thanked him for rearranging his schedule and seeing her on short notice.

      In the office shades of sand, cream and white soothed and comforted. Every object, from the corner grouping of oatmeal upholstered chairs to the solid stoneware lamps resting on uncluttered oval pine tables and the muted beige sisal carpeting, contributed to the creation of calm. Nothing stopped the eye or jarred the soul. On the walls, muted misty watercolours of sea and mountains drew the mind to contemplate the solitude of the wilderness. Only a bulky red folder plunked on Yantha’s desk appeared out of place. Rhona assumed it contained Paul’s manuscript.

      When they sat facing each other, Dr. Yantha pushed the folder toward her. “Here’s the manuscript.”

      “Have you read it?”

      “Yes.”

      Helpful fellow. “Tell me again why you were reading it?”

      “I don’t remember telling you in the first place.”

      This man annoyed her. “Ms Grant told me her husband had asked you to read it.”

      “Yes. He did.” Dr. Yantha eyed her, and a faint smile curved his lips. It infuriated her to realize he was toying with her like a talk show host with an unimportant guest.

      “Why did he want you to read it?”

      “To verify that his psychological insights were in line with current psychiatric thinking.”

      “And were they?”

      “As much as a layman can be.”

      What a snot. She’d read it herself. No point asking him if he’d identified a motive for murder. On to a new topic.

      “Tell me what you did when you found Reverend Robertson?”

      “I told you in the medical tent after you interviewed Hollis and, to correct you again, I didn’t find him. After the starter fired the gun and my wife began running, I headed for the parking lot. I was walking along behind the crowd when someone called for a doctor.” Yantha lowered his chin and peered over his fashionable half spectacles. “As I’m sure you can figure out for yourself, we psychiatrists don’t usually do emergency first aid.”

      Rhona longed to make a smart retort but confined herself to a nod.

      “When I peered over the spectators’ shoulders at the man on the road, I decided if he’d had a heart attack, I’d clear his airways and do CPR.”

      “Did you recognize Paul Robertson?”

      “Not until I lifted his head. I’m not even sure if I knew then, but a voice in the crowd identified him.”

      “You mean you didn’t know him well enough to recognize him?”

      “Would you recognize an acquaintance lying face down on the road?” His lip lifted slightly. “Not likely.”

      “Had you had much to do with him when he was alive?”

      “No.”

      “Did you ever go to his office?”

      “No.” He let the silence lengthen before he added. “My friendship with Hollis

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