Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t add as much sugar to Hollis’s when he refilled their cups. He picked up the pad of paper sitting by the phone, carried it to the table, sat down and divided the top sheet into three columns: decisions to make; things to do; and, people to call.

      “You can’t set the date for the funeral until the police release Paul’s body, but you can place a notice in the paper and direct people to phone the church office for details.”

      “I wonder how long we’ll have to wait.”

      “A good question without a definite answer, but you can plan the funeral.”

      Paul had loved ceremony and theatrics. “Spectacular. Visitation for two nights before.”

      “What about the service?”

      “The works. The way he’d like it. Loaded with pomp and circumstance.”

      “What about the obituary? Flowers or donations?”

      “Donations.”

      “Which charities?” Kas filled in the columns as she made her decisions.

      “The AIDS hospice, City Church. Are you familiar with it?”

      “No.”

      “They’re a group of gay Christians who applied to use the St. Mark’s building for services. The congregation’s rejection of their application infuriated Paul.”

      “May I make a suggestion?”

      “Sure.”

      “Request donations for St. Mark’s refugee committee. I remember Paul on TV spearheading a drive to sponsor refugees and launch them on new lives.” He added, “I’m suggesting this because I have a feeling many people only knew him in the refugee context. And others who will want to contribute may not feel comfortable donating to the other organizations.”

      “Good idea.”

      “Who should be contacted? Where’s your mother?”

      “On a whale-watching cruise in the Pacific. I won’t tell her, because she’d feel it was her duty to go to great lengths to be here, and it would be a shame to spoil her holiday.”

      “But won’t she feel badly if you don’t tell her? Wouldn’t she want to be here?”

      “She’d feel it was her duty. But, as you know, she disliked Paul and disapproved of my marriage. Although she might not come right out with it, she’d let it slip how clever she’d been to warn me not to act rashly. She’d trot out a homily about ‘being prepared to pay the price’ when you acted quickly.” Hollis caught her lower lip with her top teeth and shook her head. “No, I don’t need her censure; she’s better off in the Pacific.”

      “Paul’s family?”

      “Paul was an only child. His parents are dead. He has distant cousins out west. When we decided to marry, I inquired about family, and he said he hadn’t had anything to do with them for years and wasn’t about to begin. If he hadn’t had any contact, I probably shouldn’t either, but informing them of his death feels like the right thing to do. I’ll unearth his address book and let them know.”

      Kas glanced at the kitchen wall clock, pushed the list toward her and rose. “You won’t mind if I go? I promised Tessa I’d pick her up when she finished the marathon. I want to be waiting for her. You’re probably aware of how withdrawn she’s been lately? She hasn’t told me what’s wrong, but I hate to do anything to upset her any more.”

      Hollis hadn’t known. One of her best friends. Recently, no not recently, at least three or four weeks ago, Tessa had phoned, and they’d had a quick chat. She tried to remember the conversation, but as far as she recalled, it had been a “touching base, I miss you but we’re both so busy let’s do lunch soon” kind of talk. Had Tessa tried to confide in her, to tell her she was struggling with a problem? And being fixated on the dissolution of her marriage, would Hollis have picked up Tessa’s signals? Probably not. She didn’t want to lose her friend. Before too many more days passed, she’d call her.

      “I’ll probably have to wait at the finish line. If you give me names and numbers, I’ll make calls on my cell phone until she arrives.”

      “Of course.” Surprised that her uncooperative body was working again, she ran up to her studio, collected her address book and jotted down a dozen names and numbers. “Thanks for everything. Give Tessa my love and congratulate her for me.” She hugged Kas again. “I have to get involved and keep my name clear.” Hollis held up her hand, policeman style, to stop him from saying anything. “You’re going to say—‘Leave it to the police.’ I should, but I can’t—I feel guilty.”

      “Guilty?”

      “Yes. Guilty. Guilty because I married Paul, guilty because I let him set the terms of our marriage, guilty because I didn’t insist we share our lives. Maybe, if I’d been aware of what was going on, I might have intervened, and he wouldn’t be dead.”

      Kas gripped her shoulder. “Hollis, be sensible. Your marriage may have been a mess, but that isn’t any reason to involve yourself in the investigation. It could be dangerous.”

      “Don’t forget I’m a suspect—I was in the race, I had a divorce pending, and a bizarre married life. I can’t bear the thought of continuing to be a suspect until the police identify the killer.”

      While Kas and Hollis planned the funeral, Rhona drove from St. Mark’s to Carleton. Along the way, she smoked and hummed along with the chorus of Madame Butterfly and wondered how many out-of-town runners would be waiting for her. By this time, close to two o’clock, even the slowest runners would have dragged their weary bones across the finish line.

      Constable Featherstone met her at the front door of the Carleton gym and led her to an equipment storeroom temporarily converted into an interview area by the addition of a plywood-topped table and two chipped, metal folding chairs. Seven runners, dressed in regular clothes, waited outside the room. Rhona invited the first man, identified by Featherstone as Carson Macdonald, into the makeshift office.

      Macdonald let himself down onto the chair as if each and every muscle, bone and sinew worked independently. Once his body settled, he said, “I’m an editor at the Independent Academic Press.” Absentmindedly, he cracked his knuckles. “Ours is a business relationship. Probably no one’s told you Paul Robertson has written three books. The IAP published his first two and has a contract for his third.”

      What an unlikely marathoner Macdonald was. About sixty, with a head of receding gray curls topping a spare, six-foot frame, he wore glasses—plain, round and steel rimmed. They would have been classified as National Health spectacles in England. A utilitarian, no-nonsense body belied by the eyes behind his glasses; bright North Atlantic blue eyes with long, thick lashes. His face was spare with a neat nose, neat ears and a tidy mouth. When he spoke, his teeth were precisely aligned and Rhona knew this man cared passionately about the proper deployment of the semicolon and never tolerated the abandoned use of the comma.

      “No, I didn’t realize he was a writer. Tell me about his books.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ