Cut to the Quick (11 page)

“That is new information. Thanks, I'll follow up.”

She hung up and contemplated the phone. Should they interview him immediately? Of course. She went straight to Canada411 on her computer. Where had Sebastien Lefevbre been on the evening before Ivan's crash, she wondered.

“Mr. Lefevbre, it's Detective Simpson from the Toronto Police. My partner and I want to talk to you. Will you be home for the next hour?”

“You spoke to me after the funeral. I have nothing to add to what I said then.”

“It's about your daughter and...”

“Goddamn Curt. He had to go running to you. But what could I expect? Yes, I'll be here.”

Sebastien Lefevbre lived in the Annex, a downtown neighbourhood of large old houses. Unlike its well-kept neighbours, his tall, thin semi-detached house was neglected. The garden needed watering and weeding. A black plastic flat of petunias, dried out and unplanted, lay on ragged overgrown grass. Someone had stabbed a rusty trowel into the dirt beside it. The hedge marking the property's edge sprouted a forest of unkempt tendrils.

Duct tape covered the doorbell. Rhona lifted the tarnished brass knocker and heard its banging echo inside. A small man with a bushy grey beard, as untidy as his hedge, peered out before he opened the door and beckoned them in. They followed him down a dim hall hung top to bottom with paintings. He waved them into one of the untidiest rooms Rhona had ever seen.

Too many pieces of heavy furniture crowded the space. Paintings, mostly portraits, hung one above another. Sheer curtains flanked by heavy side panels and overwhelmed by dark green satin swags allowed in little light. Unpolished silver bibelots, framed photos and ornate Victorian china dishes jostled for room on every horizontal surface.

An old spaniel with bleary eyes and matted coat staggered to his feet and barked once. Once he'd performed his guard dog duty, the dog sagged to the carpet. Lefevbre indicated that they should sit on the sofa.

They pushed aside several week's worth of newspapers and lowered themselves gingerly. Zee Zee removed her notebook and tape recorder from her bag.

“I'd offer you a drink, but I forgot to buy anything,” Lefevbre said. “I'm the house husband, and I've let things slide since...” His words faded.

“Your daughter died.” Rhona finished his sentence.

He nodded. Tears slid down his cheeks into his beard.

The claustrophobic room motivated Rhona to get straight to the point. “Why do you blame Curt Hartman?”

Lefevbre's back straightened. His lips turned back in a snarl. “He had an affair with her. The police should have charged him. The school should have fired him.”

“How old was your daughter?”

“Twenty-two, but like an innocent, trusting child.”

“She wasn't a child,” Rhona said mildly.

“Maybe not chronologically. She admired—no, I need a stronger word—she revered Curt. He must have taken advantage.”

Rhona wasn't going to argue. But it still took two to tango. “He told her she should have the baby. Notice I do not say he promised to divorce his wife to marry her, did not offer to go with her if she wanted an abortion.”

“Did she identify him as the father?”

“And who else would it have been? Curt this, Curt that, Curt says—blah, blah, blah.”

“But you don't know for sure?”

“I do. I confronted Curt this morning.” He slumped. “She did finally see sense and went to arrange for an abortion. Too late. No reputable doctor or clinic performs them in the third trimester. She called me, really upset. On the way home she missed a stop sign, crashed into an
SUV
and died.”

“I am sorry,” Rhona said. “Where were you on Sunday evening June 26th?”

Lefevbre had disappeared down a rabbit hole in his mind.

He roused. “What?”

She repeated the question.

“No idea.”

“It's important.”

His gaze roamed the room as if he might find the answer hidden behind a candlestick or tucked under a table. Hard to imagine this man painting lively, engaging, psychologically penetrating portraits of everyone from Pierre Trudeau to Pamela Wallin.

“Do you have a date book, a calendar, a Blackberry...”

“I
had
a date book. I can't find it. Maybe Lindsay can tell you.”

“Lindsay?”

“Lindsay Inkster—my wife. The conptroller of
MFB
Corporation and mother of my darling Valerie.” His gaze moved erratically, as if he was searching for the two women.

“Where do you think you were? It isn't that long ago. We need the information.”

Lefebvre's face closed. “I told you,
I don't know.”
He shrugged. “I only know that Valerie's dead, and I want her killer, not the
SUV
driver, her real killer, punished.”

A man with one thing on his mind, an all-consuming obsession.

“It's important. Try to remember. Call us if you do. And please go to the nearest police station for fingerprinting.” Rhona extracted a card from her bag. “I'll call tomorrow to find out if you've found the date book.” She removed a pen. “Please give me your wife's work number.”

After a long pause, Lefevbre spoke. “She's at their Vancouver office.” He dug the number out of his memory.

Outside, Rhona paused on the stoop and exhaled the stale air of the house. She breathed deeply. Toronto's air sparkled in contrast to the musty, sorrow-laced stagnation of Lefebvre's home. His anger ran deep and dark. “Can you visualize him sneaking along Winchester Street to cut Ivan's brakes?”

“Maybe—can you?” Zee Zee replied.

“Yes, I can. I have to attend to a couple of things first. I'll make the call when I get home. Vancouver is three hours behind us, and that will be about right.”

Eight o'clock; Rhona shut her apartment door behind her. Time to make a martini. She sighed. Not quite yet. She had to phone Lindsay Inkster.

Opie wound round her legs, grovelling shamelessly as if he hadn't eaten for days.

“You're substituting food for love,” Rhona said sternly. “I do it too. We'll both end up lonely roly-poly butter balls.” She cranked the can opener around the top of his cat food tin and spooned a portion into Opie's dish. He ignored it and continued to wind himself around her ankles. When she returned to the living room, he followed her. She sank into her high-end sofa. This was one splurge she'd never regretted; she enjoyed the enveloping softness of down-filled cushions. “Come and sit on my knee while I make a phone call. It'll do us both good.”

Opie regarded her steadily. He looked as if he understood and was weighing his options. Having made his decision, he leaped up, arched his back, waved his tail in her face and settled on her knees, kneading with his paws.

She stroked him with one hand and punched in the Vancouver number.

“Lindsay Inkster.”

Rhona identified herself. “Could you tell us where your husband was on Sunday evening, June 26th? He says he can't find his date book and thought you might know. Were you home?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“We're investigating the murder of Ivan Hartman.”

“I can't imagine why you think Seb would be involved, but I'm sure he has nothing to hide. Hang on, I'll check.” A pause. “My Blackberry puts me in the Philippines, to be precise at the Royal Hotel in Manila. Sorry, I can't help. My poor Seb has lost his date book and everything else except his obsession with Valerie's death. I mean, she was my daughter too, and I'm carrying on. You have to move on, but he doesn't seem to be able to do that. You can't believe he had anything to do with Curt's son's murder? But that must be why you want this information.” She sounded incredulous. Rhona visualized the woman shaking her head. “Listen to me. Poor dear Seb doesn't need police harassment. He needs help, not accusations.”

“If you can find his day book, we'd appreciate it.”

“And what will that prove? Since I was in Manila, he probably spent the evening alone. He hardly ever goes out, never meets his friends. I'm worried sick about him. I wish I could stay home more—maybe I could distract him, help him find his way out of his black hole. But I can't. We're in the middle of a huge project. But you don't need to know that.” She sighed. “I'll find it, but it won't make any difference. You must have better suspects.”

Rhona wished they did.

In her tiny kitchen, she prepared the perfect martini, opened the door to her balcony and drifted out, drink in hand. She'd chosen this end apartment because one side overlooked a distant Lake Ontario and the other faced a lane lined with towered maples. Their greenness soothed and cooled.

Months since her arrival, unpacked boxes and excess furniture still cluttered the apartment. Immersed in her first case, she needed a tidy serene refuge—this wasn't it. Time to make a serious effort. She'd start tonight. Pull on her jeans. Unpack the boxes and sort the books. Assemble the two
IKEA
bookcases still in their cartons.
IKEA
directions sometimes made her feel like an idiot—like a primate would feel when confronted with a box requiring a tool. Never mind. She'd done it before, and she could do it again. She visualized the white Billy bookcases with neatly aligned books interspersed with interesting bibelots adding colour and personality to the messy apartment.

Such a lot of work. Maybe not tonight.

Back in the kitchen, she zapped a dinner and flipped it onto a plate. What an extraordinary colour. Nothing in the real world except maybe a gaudy sunset came close. It did not pass go but went straight in the garbage. Time for comfort food. She opened the freezer, replaced the vodka bottle and considered the merits of praline, strawberry or vanilla ice cream before she chose vanilla. A rattle through the cutlery drawer located a small demitasse spoon. When she ate ice cream with a tiny spoon, it prolonged the joy. She dropped
The African Queen
into the
DVD
player and curled up on the sofa. Her hands cradled a cereal bowl filled with ice cream, topped with chocolate sauce and a maraschino cherry.

But the movie didn't do its job.

Cutting the brakes. What a terrible way to plan to kill someone. First he'd pump. Nothing would happen. He wouldn't believe it. He'd cut the gas. If he was on an incline, the bike would accelerate. He might think about jumping off, but he wouldn't have time. She shivered. A killer targeted his victim for many reasons—a robbery gone wrong, self-defense, fear of disclosure. But this was premeditated murder designed to maximize the victim's suffering, to give him time to realize what was about to happen. Whoever had done it had judged the size of cut that allowed fluid to leak slowly and not leave a noticeable puddle. He'd been brazen and sabotaged the brakes under street lights on a public thoroughfare. She hoped the fingerprints they'd taken from the parking pad were those of the killer— evidence not strong enough to convict but certainly enough to sway a jury.

She thought about the suspects. Sebastien Lefevbre, Olivero Ciccio, the
SOHD
opponents, Arthur White and Lena Kalma. Could it be a Greek tragedy, a Shakespearean tragedy? If Lena had intended to kill Curt then learned she'd killed her son, wouldn't she want to avenge her son's death?

A
fter
she'd called Rhona to report on Lefevbre's presence in class and his confrontation with Curt, Hollis worked her way down her shopping list. She thought about Curt and Valerie while she bought dog shampoo, dental floss and expensive coloured pencils. What was it with Curt? Had Lena also been pregnant when she and Curt married? Did he have a thing about procreation—a need to father children? Psychologists must have written weighty tomes about men like Curt.

She miscalculated how long her shopping would take. Puffing along Winchester Street, she checked her watch, hoping it would reassure her that she wasn't as late as she thought she was. It offered no such assurance. With her shoulders squared, she took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in her stomach and tension in her shoulders.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Hartman, I'm glad to catch you. I'm recruiting volunteers to canvass for the United Way.” The speaker, a middle-aged woman, blocked the sidewalk. The woman's flowered summer dress, bouffant hair-do and kohlrimmed eyes had characterized women in the sixties. Perfume, applied with a heavy hand, enveloped her. Blue Grass—Hollis remembered this scent from her childhood when her mother had used it. At one time, the woman must have been stunning; now she was a caricature of bygone days.

Hollis couldn't pass unless she shoved the woman aside.

“I'm not Mrs. Hartman.” And Manon wasn't Mrs. Hartman either—she'd retained her maiden name, Dumont.

“But she lives here?”

Hollis was late and didn't want to talk. “Excuse me.” She edged around the woman and headed up the path.

“I wanted to enlist her help to recruit for the United Way,” the woman called after her.

The front door banged open. “You're here. We've been waiting for you.” Etienne bounded down the steps. MacTee loped after him with his tail waving like a metronome pacing a very fast piece of music.

Etienne promised to become a handsome man. He would combine his mother's dark hair, brown eyes and chiselled features with his father's height and bone structure. Hollis reached to hug him, but Etienne stuck out his hand. He'd crossed the divide between an easily embraceable little kid and a young man who bestowed his hugs more judiciously.

“Not a good time, I can see,” the woman said. She pivoted and stalked away.

“Maman, Papa and Tomas are in the garden.”

“Hollis is here,” Etienne announced when they rounded the corner.

Curt and Tomas, examining a chart spread out on the glass-topped garden table, looked up. Manon rose. She reminded Hollis of a Whistler painting, a woman with perfect porcelain skin and regal bearing. With her dark hair pulled back from her oval face and fastened at the nape of her neck, she could have passed for a nineteenth century gentlewoman.