Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell
part embarrasses me. Are you familiar with Crohn’s disease?”
“No.”
“Actually, it’s a condition characterized by severe bowel upsets. I’ve had it since my late teens. When Reverend Robertson visited us, I was in the middle of a bad spell. I had to dash to the toilet, and I left him with the files I hadn’t had a chance to put away. When I re-entered the room, I suspected he’d read them. Ever since, I’ve felt absolutely awful. I wondered whether to tell my boss or not, but finally decided not to, because Reverend Robertson had said he would not reveal anyone’s identity in any book he wrote. I figured I’d worked here too long and paranoia had taken over, but I felt terribly guilty.” After a pause she said, “Do you suppose it would have changed things if I had reported what I suspected?”
No point adding to her distress. “No, I don’t. What could you have said? ‘I think he might have seen the files, but I’m not sure.’ It wouldn’t have solved anything or saved anyone.”
“It’s nice of you to say that. I suppose you want to know whose files were on the desk but, actually, I’m not permitted to share information—it’s not ethical.”
“Ms Cardwell, could you at least tell me if the individuals remain in the hospital and/or give me a synopsis of the files’ contents without identifying the people?”
“Actually, I can’t do a single thing until I clear it with my boss. She’s on a week’s holiday canoeing in Algonquin Park. Can you imagine what the blackflies will be like in May, let alone how cold the water will be if she falls in? But you don’t care about that. I’d need her permission. I’m terribly afraid it will be Monday before I can do anything. But I’ll prepare a précis of each file and have them ready to go first thing Monday if she says I can. I hope that’s okay?”
“If that’s all you can do—I’ll have to wait.”
Bingo. The jackpot. The big enchilada. If Hollis found the master list, the field of potential murderers would narrow considerably.
An idea edged into her mind. She left the folder on the desk to remind herself to deal with it later.
With her eye on the door, she thought about the writing process. Paul, like every other writer, always collected more information than he used. When you’re in the gathering stage, you aren’t sure what shape your book will take and what information you’ll include in the final product. It happens to everyone—you stumble upon unexpected facts, get a new slant on a subject, or think about an ancillary article or another book.
She flashed back to a morning in the fall when Paul had walked into the kitchen lugging a bulging briefcase.
“What on earth is in there? Gold bars?” she’d said.
He’d reached in, pulled out an elastic wrapped packet of file cards and waved it at her. “You won’t see these again. I’m organizing for another book that’ll be even more controversial than Push.” He stowed the packet in his briefcase. “I should read John LeCarré or Wilbur Smith to figure out how to do it right, but the way I’m arranging it, no one will be able to figure out anything without the keys to my codes.”
Codes. Would they be in the safety deposit box?
When Rhona had interviewed Dr. Yantha, his office had been as she’d imagined a psychiatrist’s office would be. She had no idea what to expect in a thoracic surgeon’s office.
The pleasant-voiced secretary welcomed Rhona and apologized because her boss hadn’t returned. At that moment Dr. Uiska strode in, shook hands with Rhona and motioned her into the inner office. Austere was the word to describe the office. Filing cabinets lined one wall. No personal items, no plants, no paintings allowed the observer to speculate about the doctor’s interests or personality. But an impressive collection of black-framed professional diplomas reassured the timid that they were in good hands.
Dr. Uiska was all edges and corners. Nothing rounded. Her short, prematurely silver hair sliced aggressively into points framing a thin face. Dark straight brows contrasted with her hair and drew attention to chilly pale blue eyes. She reminded Rhona of a desert fox in the nocturnal animal display at the London Zoo—predatory but finely drawn and perfectly adapted to her environment. When they shook hands, Rhona registered that these fine-boned, strong, supple, fingers belonged to an accomplished surgeon.
“Your name was in Reverend Robertson’s appointment calendar. What was your relationship with him?”
With raised eyebrows, Uiska said, “Certainly not an ‘intimate’ one. I’m sure you’ve uncovered the fact that Hollis and I have been friends for more than twenty years?”
Rhona nodded.
“It isn’t telling tales out of school to confess I’ve never understood why she married Paul.” An embryonic smile hovered on her lips. “I’ll be frank. I thought Paul Robertson was a reprehensible character or, as my children might say, a ‘jerk’.”
“Thank you for your frankness. Why did you meet him?”
Without fidgeting or exhibiting any unease, Uiska looked directly at Rhona. “A good question. I’m sure you wondered. The answer will surprise you.”
Rhona doubted that. In her job, she heard such a variety of stories, she felt surprise-proof.
“Kas and Hollis have birthdays close together. I wanted a double celebration, a bang-up party, and I enlisted Paul’s help.”
Rhona reconsidered: she was surprised. Tessa Uiska didn’t fit the mould of a surprise party type and, from what she’d unearthed about Paul Robertson, planning a surprise party was even more out of character for him. “What did you plan to do?”
Uiska paused and assessed Rhona before she shifted in her chair, removed a key from her pocket, unlocked the lower desk drawer, extracted her navy leather handbag and withdrew her pocket diary.
Her actions struck Rhona as theatrical.
“We settled on a dinner party at the golf club, with Kas thinking it was for Hollis and vice versa.”
“When would this happen? Why did you decide to have a big celebration this year?”
Uiska snapped the book shut and dropped it in her bag. “June, mid-June. They’re forty-five.”
“And why did you see Robertson in early April?”
The feral glance Uiska darted at Rhona contrasted sharply with her earlier easy, urbane manner.
“I thought you meant all the visits. It takes time to plan a party. We had to divide the responsibilities.”
Ignoring the insolence in Uiska’s voice, Rhona said, “How did you plan to divvy it up? How did Robertson feel about the party?”
Uiska flexed her fingers. “I more or less shamed him into participating. I told him everybody would be coming and implied that the ‘good guys’ would receive brownie points.” She shrugged. “I knew it was a crock, but from what Hollis said, I realized he was a vain man. And Paul had a private income; he could afford it. I wanted a party because Kas would enjoy it, and Kas’s happiness means a great deal to me.”
“Ms Grant mentioned that your husband said you’ve been worried and preoccupied for about six weeks. Tell me about it.”
Tessa Uiska frowned. “Hollis said Kas told her that? I’m amazed.”
Her eyes narrowed and her black brows drew together. She pressed her lips against one another and took several deep audible breaths. She shifted slightly and folded her hands in her lap.
Rhona waited.
“It has absolutely nothing to do with Paul Robertson. I can think of no reason why I should tell you my business.” She leaned