by Boswell Joan
In front of the house, she hesitated—she still hadn’t convinced herself a visit was necessary, but since the Porters had spearheaded the refugee project, she would have felt churlish if she’d refused. And, it was true, given Paul’s, his mother’s and some of her own possessions, she did have a pile of items to donate. This visit would tell her which things to earmark for the refugees and which to donate to the Salvation Army.
There were two front doors—one to the Porters and one for the third floor apartment. She rang the Porters’ bell.
The solid, highly varnished oak door opened before she removed her finger from the black button. Involuntarily, she stepped back. She felt as if Knox had been lying in wait. Fleetingly, she thought of the unwary moth lured into a spider’s web.
“Hollis.” Knox’s eyes glittered. “Thank you for coming.”
“It was nice to have an excuse to walk and enjoy this beautiful evening. As I said last night at church, I do appreciate the speed with which you’ve launched this project.”
“Linda had to go out—I’ll take you right up.” Knox stepped outside onto the porch and unlocked the door leading up to the apartment on the top floor. He moved inside and held the door open for her.
An urge to turn and run almost overwhelmed her, but she told herself not to be silly. Knox struck her as acting simultaneously furtive and threatening, but it probably wasn’t Knox as much as her own reaction to the multitude of shocks she’d suffered in the last few days. After all, Knox, a stalwart of the church, was an innocuous man by anyone’s standards.
“I won’t keep you long. I’m sure you have more work to do on Paul’s papers.”
What did Paul’s papers have to do with anything?
“Yes, there’s lots to do,” she agreed and followed him up three flights of steep uncarpeted stairs and along a dark hall.
Inside the apartment, the rooms exuded the musty leftover-living smell of furnished apartments everywhere. Old white chenille bedspreads, draped over what she assumed were pieces of upholstered furniture, converted the unseen objects into ghostly threatening presences.
Knox, breathing as if he’d climbed the CN Tower instead of three flights of stairs, moved restlessly to and fro or stood in one spot, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “We have quite a bit of furniture. The last family didn’t want it—they both got good jobs and left it for others who might be less fortunate.”
“That was nice of them.”
To take her mind off her uneasiness, Hollis suggested they get to work. She removed a green notebook and ballpoint pen from her handbag. “I’ll prepare two columns. In one, I’ll jot down everything you need at the moment. In the other, I’ll list everything you can store or use to set up future refugee families.”
Knox continued to move restlessly, but he fixed a disconcerting, unblinking stare at her face. Her apprehension increased, but she resolved to try for an attitude of “business as usual”.
“Do you have a place here or at the church to store extras for other families?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Do you want me to make a second list of extra things I have?”
After a lengthy pause, her question penetrated Knox’s agitation. “Yes. But we’ll organize for this family before we worry about the next one.” He jerked himself over to a massive chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room, bent over, and pulled the bottom drawer halfway out. “Here are the bed linens. Why don’t you make an inventory.”
He left the drawer gaping open and took four robot-like steps to the window, where he turned away from her and peered outside.
Alarmed by his twitchy movements and rigidly hunched shoulders, Hollis wondered if he was having a neurological attack, and if there was something she should do. The best thing would be to rush through the job and escape the claustrophobic apartment.
Edging over to the chest, she kept an eye on Knox, who remained at the window, shifting from one foot to the other. She hated to have her back to him, but unless she swung around, she couldn’t examine the drawer’s contents. She squatted down and drew out a yellowed pillowcase, dropped it on the floor and, using both hands, fished a heavy linen sheet from the drawer. She lifted it and sensed Knox’s sudden movement.
By five o’clock on Monday, Rhona sat at a desk piled high with paper and worried she wouldn’t plough through the urgent items in time to meet Hollis at eight. Late in the day, the work she classified as urgent had tripled when the autopsy results and lab reports confirmed Sally Staynor’s murder—the killer had spiked her vodka with digitalis. A large amount of residue remained in the bottle.
Sally and only Sally had left prints on the vodka bottle and everything else in the mourning basket. Rhona visualized her lovingly removing each item, examining it closely and finally proposing a toast to the sender.
The basket itself and its contents offered few clues. The killer might have owned the basket for years or bought it new, and he could have purchased each item in the basket without raising any sales clerk’s suspicion. And, finally, since the bereavement card’s envelope had not been sealed, the lab had no saliva for DNA testing. Poor Sally.
Rhona reread Mary Beth Cardwell’s fax. If the killer fit the childhood Cardwell had described, Dr. Tessa Uiska did not match the profile. She wouldn’t eliminate her—Cardwell’s lead could be a wild goose chase. Rhona still considered Dr. Uiska a primary suspect and blackmail a possible motive.
She had a number of voice mail messages dealing with bank accounts. The bank manager of the Gloucester branch promised a detailed printout of the activity in Robertson’s account by Tuesday. Calls from the various banks where Uiska, Staynor and Toberman had accounts also promised complete printouts by Tuesday evening at the latest. Why did everything have to happen so slowly—she needed answers immediately.
Her frustration increased when she read a fax from Masterman—he’d been unable to add any information about the subjects of Robertson’s books.
Everything hinged on Cardwell’s suspect. Yantha, Staynor, Eakins and Toberman headed the list. She’d begin with Yantha. Since Hollis had met Yantha after his engagement to Uiska, she hadn’t professed any familiarity about his early years. Time to talk. She contacted the hospital and told Yantha’s secretary to have the doctor phone at the first opportunity.
The thought of the second call troubled her. Throughout her career, she’d worked to retain her humanity, and phoning the husband of a murdered woman seemed an act of extreme insensitivity. In her gut, she believed Staynor had not killed his wife and had enough to contend with without fending off probing questions about his past. Nevertheless, she mustn’t overlook such an obvious suspect.
A woman, who didn’t give her name, answered Staynor’s phone and informed Rhona he wasn’t accepting calls. Rhona politely identified herself and insisted on speaking to him. After a long pause, during which Rhona heard snatches of conversation about the impossibility of contacting Sally’s brother, who apparently worked as a field geologist in the North West Territories, Staynor came on the line.
“Mr. Staynor? Detective Simpson speaking. I’m sorry to intrude, but I have one or two questions. If you’ll bear with me, they won’t appear to be relevant to your wife’s murder, but they are.”
“What else can I do? Shoot.”
“Where did you grow up, and are your parents alive?”
“Are you crazy? A killer’s running around, and you’re interested in my mother and father?”
“I am—it is relevant.”
Rhona was talking to a dead phone. She punched “redial” several times and was rewarded with repeated busy signals—the phone must be off the hook. She’d drop in later in the day.
Two down and no information. She tried Marcus Toberman.
“This is detective Simpson. I have a couple of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About your childhood and your parents.”
“What for?”
“The
investigation of Paul Robertson’s death.”
“Should I call a lawyer before I say anything?”
“Your hesitancy makes me wonder.”
“Ask me your questions, and I’ll decide.”
“Where did you grow up? Are your parents alive? Do you have siblings, and what position do you occupy in the family birth order?”
“I can’t imagine why you want the information. I have one mother and one father, both alive, one older and one younger brother. I’ve lived in Ottawa since I was twelve. Before that we lived in Montreal. Is that it?”
“It is. Thank you for your help.”
Two question marks to be dealt with later. Toberman did not slot into Cardwell’s profile. She wouldn’t write him off yet but, if Cardwell was leading her down the right path, he was an unlikely suspect. She’d move on to the second string of suspects. She called them in alphabetical order and, one by one, each man answered her questions without hesitation. No one fit the pattern.
Rhona finished at two o’clock and left the station to grab a quick chili dog, heavy on the onions, from George’s mobile cart before she drove over to the Staynors.
Three cars in the driveway and another on the street told her a support group had gathered. When she rang the bell, she felt no surprise when one of the women she’d last seen bustling around the church hall after Robertson’s funeral opened the door and said, “It’s Detective Simpson, isn’t it? Come in.”
Rhona smiled at her and waited inside the front entrance. Moments later, Staynor shambled into the hall and raised red eyes. “You never give up, do you?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but if you’d tell me briefly about your childhood, I’ll be on my way.”
Staynor didn’t invite Rhona to come further or to sit down. In a low voice he said, “Did you ever read J.M. Barrie? He wrote Peter Pan. Well, he also said the only thing to motivate anyone to return from beyond would be the wish of a mother who had died young to return and reassure herself about the fate of her child. My mother died young; I’m hoping she never returned.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Ten.”
“What happened then?”
“We buried her.”
“Did your father remarry.”
“Eventually.”
“Where were you living when your mother died?”
“Windsor.”
“Do you remember much from those years.”
Two big tears rolled slowly down Staynor’s cheeks as he shook his head.
“I am sorry. I will have to talk to you again, but that’s it for today.”
Wordlessly, Staynor opened the door and showed her out.
Four thirty. Did she have time to drive to the station and speak to Ms Cardwell again?
Nineteen
A dusty cloth covered her head and swirled around her as it was pulled tight.
“What the hell? What are you doing? Let me go.” Hollis coughed, choked and fought panic.
Knox responded by twisting the material more tightly.
She flailed, twisted and tried to scramble to her feet.
“I’m claustrophobic. I can’t bear this. Let me out. I can’t breathe.” She sobbed and sucked in dusty air. Her legs sagged and gave way. She fell forward, with nothing to break her fall.
Everything went black.
A kick in the ribs.
“Goddamn it, don’t pass out. I have to move you downstairs to the car.” Another kick.
“Uncover my head,” she whispered before another spasm of coughing took her breath away.
Silence. Knox shoved her around, pulling and tugging at whatever he’d thrown over her. He yanked the fabric back. Her glasses flew off her nose. Her skull snapped forward and her face banged against the floor.
Pain. Her nose felt like it was broken.
Knox pushed her hard and worked to tie her arms to her sides. Somehow he pinned her left arm behind her.
“Knox, stop. Why, why are you doing this?”
He strained to flip her from one side to the other.
“Roll over.”
Hollis turned her head and regarded his distorted face. “Take it easy. What’s the problem? Let me help with whatever’s wrong. Please give me my glasses.”
Knox stepped away. With his eyes on her face, he lifted his foot and crashed it down on her glasses. “You know very well what’s wrong. And where you’re going, you won’t need your glasses.” Knox spoke in a level, unemotional voice.
“Knox, I haven’t any idea why you’ve done this. Please, please, if this is some kind of sick joke, stop right now.”
“You are going to receive what your dear . . .” His voice altered. She heard the hatred.
The penny dropped.
Knox—innocuous, fervent, boring Knox, had killed Paul and planned to kill her.
She screamed. “Help, someone help.”
Knox grabbed a large white linen napkin from the half-open drawer, stuffed it in her mouth and tied it behind her head. He continued as if she hadn’t interrupted him. “Receive what your dear husband did, and good riddance to both of you.”
The same frightening unemotional tone.
“You thought you’d pick up where he left off, didn’t you?” His voice changed—it menaced and threatened before his kick inflicted real pain.
Assimilating the knowledge that Knox had murdered Paul and intended to murder her, she absorbed the blow soundlessly. Ideas flipped and flashed through her mind like landed fish frantically seeking escape. She tried to talk around the gag and tell him he had it all wrong—she had no idea why he’d killed Paul.
“Are you going to scream?”
When she shook her head, he loosened the napkin.
Before he changed his mind and tightened it, she said, “Let me go, and we’ll forget tonight ever happened.”
“Very funny. You’d bleed me dry. As it is, your dear . . . your dear husband drained me of almost four thousand dollars.”
“Paul blackmailed you?”
“As if you didn’t know. Wednesday, at the visitation, you told us you’d be continuing his work. You said you knew everything he’d done. Right then I decided to give you a scare, to warn you I was serious, and then to drop a letter on your door step informing you that you had one chance to stop, to warn you, you’d get what Paul got if you continued.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong. Think about it—it’s simple. I didn’t respond to your threats or the letter because I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know anything. I still don’t.”
“I’d like to believe you. But, even if I did, it’s too late. I’ve told you I killed Paul, I have to kill you too.” He sounded resigned, but sure of his course. “Rationally, Hollis, you have to face the fact—it’s impossible. You’d go to the police, and I’d be finished. No, I’m sorry, but you have to die.”
The reasonable tone of his speech terrified her. Clearly, he saw no alternative. Rhona Simpson’s face flashed into her mind. What time was it? When Simpson arrived at eight and she wasn’t there, would she wait or come here? Time—she needed time.
Somewhere she’d read criminals loved to gloat and relate the details of a successful crime. Might an appeal to Knox’s vanity, a request for him to share the details of his clever scheme buy her minutes and improve the odds that Simpson would arrive?
“Knox, how did you organize it? Why don’t you tell me.”
“You’re stalling, but it doesn’t matter. Linda’s taken the kids to her sister’s overnight. I have hours. Once you’re dead, I’ll never be able to tell anyone else.”
Once she was dead. If Detective Simpson didn’t arrive . . .
“I devised the plan months ago, when Paul said he wanted higher payments. Impossible to raise more money without Linda catching on—Paul forced me to act and, if I do say so myself, I worked out the perfect plot.”
She shuddered at the complacency and pride in Knox’s voice but suppressed her revulsion. “Tell me how you did it.”
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br /> “I decided if I dressed like everyone else at the marathon, no one would notice one more runner. I practiced bending down to tie my shoe and then straightening up, lurching a little, and driving in the knife. I’m a zoologist and very good with knives.” Knox’s voice had lost its tonelessness. He spoke quickly and with animation in a self-congratulatory tone.
Hollis pictured her body slashed, chopped in small pieces and stuffed in green garbage bags but resolutely pushed the image away. “Weren’t you afraid someone would recognize you?”
“Oh no. Runners resemble one another. I wore one of my son’s baseball caps, dark glasses and, what was most important—I shaved off my beard. I’ve worn it ten years, and I look very different without it.”
“Yes, you do. But what about Linda? Didn’t she suspect?”
“That was easiest of all.” Contempt. “She’s such a creature of habit. She always drinks a cup of warm cocoa before bed. Quite often, if she’s plunked in front of the TV or sewing, I prepare it. On Saturday evening I added seconal the doctor prescribed for me in January when I had back spasms.” Pride resonated in his voice. “I was home by nine forty-five and by then I’d killed Paul, disposed of my runner’s bib and changed into street clothes. The stupid cops were interviewing the dropouts. I told them I hadn’t been in the race, I’d only run along with my son to encourage him. I said I was going out to the turnaround point to cheer him on, and they bought it. Hell, they didn’t even ask my name.”
He stopped as if he expected her to commend him, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“When I woke Linda at ten fifteen, I said I’d just come in from a jog and couldn’t believe she was still in bed. What with being late and seeing me beardless, she didn’t ask any questions.”
“I suppose you didn’t register for the race?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I did. At the beginning, not having a bib number would have made me conspicuous. I gave a phony name, and the address is this apartment—very simple. I dropped out at the first go-hut, where I stuffed the bib and my gloves into the tank. I did my research ahead of time and read running magazines. I’d thought of one problem—I needed to wear gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. I was afraid they would make me noticeable, but in the magazines’ photos, many runners wore gloves. I also read how tightly runners pack at the beginning—how it took many minutes for those at the rear to actually begin. It was a gamble, but I knew if I stabbed Paul in exactly the right spot, he wouldn’t cry out, and the press of the crowd would hold him upright until I moved away.”
