Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell
three times and then shook her head. “ ‘Lord of the Dance’ isn’t appropriate. We won’t sing it this morning.”
Day pulled the file cards from her pocket and made a note.
“Detective Simpson, you’re welcome to join us,” Zena said. A frown creased her forehead into even deeper furrows. “Has anyone told Hollis?”
“Yes, and a friend is with her,” Rhona said.
Zena nodded. “It’s good to hear that.” She gripped her music like a life raft in a stormy sea.
“Thanks, Zena.” Day radiated warmth and understanding. “I realize this is particularly hard for those of you who had a lot to do with Paul. It’s perfectly understandable if anyone feels he or she can’t manage the service.”
In the choir loft, during the prelude of quiet organ music, Rhona considered the choir’s reaction. With one exception, a pretty dark-haired woman who had wept uncontrollably and excused herself, the news had appeared to shock but not leave them grief-stricken.
The music’s tempo changed. A woman in the front row of the choir rose, lifted a trumpet and produced a stunning volley of sound. While the trumpet’s sounding magnificence summoned the faithful, Reverend Day settled behind the pulpit. When the music ended, the church grew quiet.
Day rose. She didn’t say anything.
Her silence was more effective than speech. Those who hadn’t been paying attention—who’d been quieting children, removing their coats, or reading the announcements in the Bulletin—stopped. Every eye fastened on Day’s face: services did not start this way.
“I’m sorry to tell you Reverend Robertson is dead.”
The multitude rustled and murmured.
A keening “No-o-o-o” drowned out their muted distress and drew everyone’s eyes from Marguerite to a red-haired woman sitting near the front. Her choking sobs shocked them into silence. The teenage boy next to her gripped her arm and whispered in her ear. Seconds later, the two got to their feet and the woman, weeping noisily, allowed the boy to lead her out of the church. The tense rigidity of the boy’s shoulders told the congregation the young man was living out every adolescent’s nightmare; being part of a parent’s publicly humiliating performance.
After they’d gone, the parishioners, whose attention had focussed on this mini drama, turned again to the pulpit. Rhona witnessed reflections of shock, sorrow and greedy curiosity. Death was reaching close: no one was immune to its morbid appeal.
“I have nothing else to tell you, except it was a violent death, and the police are investigating.” She paused for a moment. “Let us pray.”
The hour-long service proceeded. Faces sagged, eyes glazed and a restless wave of coughs betrayed a collective urge to get on with the after-church coffee and share their feelings about the shocking news.
During the last hymn, Rhona’s eyes followed a woman in a too long, too large brown dress and a man of nondescript middle-age leave through the door leading to the annex which contained the kitchen and the church hall. They must be the Porters, slipping out to turn on the coffee, boil the kettles for tea and set out plates of cookies and squares. Rhona hoped they were ready for a busy session. In her experience, proximity to disaster always stimulated appetites.
At five past twelve, after the congregation had meandered through the last hymn, Day had pronounced the benediction, and Zena Adams had launched the choir into a Bach postlude, people turned to one another. The agitated buzz of dozens of conversations filled the air.
Rhona returned with the choir to the choir lounge, where she said, “Thank you for your cooperation. I’m familiarizing myself with the many facets of Reverend Robertson’s life. If you worked with him on committees, or knew him in any other capacity, please share the information with me. Anything you can tell me, and I do mean anything, may be helpful. If you’re doubtful, let me be the judge of the importance of what you have to say. At this moment, it may be hard for you to sort through your thoughts, but please call me when you do.” She placed a handful of business cards on the piano.
Before she’d taken five steps into the adjoining room, where dedicated Sunday school teachers cleaned up the messy aftermath of Christian learning, a babble of voices rose behind her. Rhona made her way to the hall crowded with knots of people talking in hushed voices. When she pushed through the cluster at the door, Marguerite strode toward her.
“Who was the woman in the choir who went home, and who was the hysterical woman in church?” Rhona whispered.
Bending close to Rhona, Day murmured, “Denise Nielsen and Sally Staynor.” Before she could say anything else, an ascetic looking man with a monk’s fringe of dark hair and a willowy blue-eyed blonde joined them.
“Jim, Detective Simpson is interested in Paul’s life,” Day said. “You’re precisely the person to describe Paul’s activities here at St. Mark’s, as well as his and your work with refugees.” She explained, “Jim Brown has belonged to this congregation all his life. He’s worked for non-governmental agencies involved in the third world. He’s familiar from first-hand experience with the situations from which our refugees have escaped. His wife Yolanda . . .” Here she included the woman next to him, “is our fundraiser ‘par excellence’.”
Jim Brown examined Rhona as if he was running a photo ID. “Didn’t you come here when we had trouble a couple of years ago?”
Rhona smiled. “Great memory. I did. Tell me what you do for refugees?”
“We’ve sponsored six families in the last four years and more before them. We care for them in every way for the first year. Because we haven’t had a family recently, I haven’t seen much of Paul.” His eyes didn’t meet hers.
“Any other reason?”
Yolanda Brown broke the lengthening silence. “Jim, everybody here knows what you think of gay ordination.” With her chin high, she said, “Jim isn’t alone. Many of us hated it when Paul made the ordination issue such a sideshow. And I, for one, don’t mind admitting it.” She relaxed a bit. “Sorry, but I’m tired of being made to feel unchristian because I don’t believe gays belong in the pulpit. I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter now. We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Day’s skill at moving Rhona smoothly from group to group led Rhona to wonder if they gave lessons at theological school in working the crowd. Seasoned politicians would envy Day her style. By one o’clock, they’d circled the room, and it was time for Rhona to drive to the university.
On her way out, she stuck her head in the kitchen where the couple who’d left the church early, the Porters, along with a coterie of helpers, washed the dishes.
“I’m Detective Simpson. Sorry not to talk to everyone. I understand a number of you worked closely with Reverend Robertson on various projects. If you think of anything about him or his work that might help us in the investigation, please contact me. I’ll leave my card.” She stacked a pile neatly on the counter.
Knox Porter, distinguished from other middle-aged men by the scraped rawness of his face, shoved a flowered plate into an overhead cupboard, shut the cupboard door and stuck out his right hand. “Knox Porter. Any information I can give you, you can reach me at the Museum of Natural History or at home.” He waved his left hand to include his wife, a study in brown dowdiness, hunched elbow deep in suds at the sink. “We’ll be glad to do what we can.”
Rhona walked to the car mulling over her impressions of the St. Mark’s congregation. What sort of relationship had Denise Nielsen had with Reverend Robertson, and did she have a husband who ran? Did the hysterical Sally Staynor have a husband, and did he run?
Three
After Detective Simpson left the medical tent, Kas rejoined Hollis. “In my professional opinion, you’re fit to drive home if you drive slowly. Take extra care; shock affects your reflexes. I’ll follow.” At the