Cut to the Quick (12 page)

When they embraced, Hollis felt how little flesh covered Manon's ribs. Stepping back, she noted that her friend's sundress hung loosely, and her collar and chest bones jutted aggressively. The trials of the last weeks had taken a physical and mental toll.

Sometimes she wished she resembled the Manons of this world. They gave up eating when unhappiness or tension overwhelmed them. Hollis guiltily recalled the grocery carts of shortbread cookies, toasted coconut doughnuts and creamfilled chocolates she'd eaten in tense times. Now, to prevent weight escalation, she steeled herself to avert her eyes from pastry shop windows and avoid the cookie aisle in the supermarket. And she tried to maintain a jogging regimen. Sometimes, if she'd held steady for weeks, she rewarded herself with one cookie or one doughnut. It wasn't easy.

Hollis hugged Curt and Tomas.

“I'm sorry I'm late. It isn't much of an excuse, but it'll take me weeks to learn to cope with Toronto distances and traffic.”

“No need to apologize, we eat later in summertime,” Curt said.

“You need a few minutes to unwind and decompress,” Manon said. “How about a cool drink before dinner?”

Manon spoke in an easy voice but looked as if taut elastics that threatened to snap at any moment held her features in place. With raised shoulders, she hunched forward like a boxer pinned to the ropes, anticipating body blows and shielding herself.

It hurt Hollis to look at her. That much tension must do terrible things to a person's metabolism. She resolved to locate a good spa. Soon she'd treat Manon and herself to an afternoon of massage and pampering. She could imagine the massage therapist tut-tutting when her hands encountered the rock hard knots in Manon's muscles.

Manon led them across the flagstone patio to a grouping of teak, brassbound deck chairs with comfortable-looking green and white striped cushions. Large, square white wooden planters overflowing with silver grey licorice plants separated the chairs.

Tomas, tall, tan and dark-haired, folded the chart. He smiled at Hollis. “You'll excuse me. Dad and I didn't know whether to get back to our regular life, but we decided it would be better for us if we did. We were planning a weekend sailing race. But I have to go.” He passed his half-brother and cuffed him gently. “You take care of that dog.”

Etienne's grin revealed his love for Tomas.

Curt, showing none of Manon's physical stress, sauntered to a chaise lounge and sank into the cushions. Slightly offbalance, he reached for a nearby teak table to steady himself. The table wobbled and threatened to topple an uneven stack of magazines crowned with reading glasses. He grabbed for the glasses, perched them on his nose and smiled at Hollis.

Hollis returned his smile, chose an adjoining lounge and waited for Manon to sit down.

She didn't. Instead she restlessly straightened a cushion, picked dead leaves from potted plants, and bent to wrest weeds from cracks between the patio stones. MacTee didn't settle either. While he paced, his nails clicked a tattoo, his tongue hung out and he panted.

Curt, ignoring his restless wife, pointed to the path that wound through artful plantings of shade-loving perennials and ended at the two-storey carriage house. “Hollis, I didn't invite you to visit my studio when you were here before. As a matter of fact, I can count on my fingers the number of visitors I've had.” He drew the fingers of one hand down his chin, smoothing a non-existent beard. “Since you're an old friend, I'm making an exception.” He produced a tight, smug smile.

She knew she was supposed to appreciate this honour, but he irked her. The confrontation between Lefevbre and Curt was colouring her attitude. She wondered how Curt could carry on as if it had never taken place. That was irrational, as surely she hadn't expected him to come home and discuss Valerie's pregnancy and death with Manon.

“It's always interesting to see an artist's working space. I love
studio
tours.” Her emphasis on “studio” would annoy him. He wouldn't like being lumped in with the art world proletariat who used studio tours to publicize their work. God, she had barely arrived, and she was being ungracious. Why should Manon and Etienne suffer because she resented Curt's attitude. Enough. Curt and Manon didn't need a snotty house guest. She injected warmth and enthusiasm into her voice. “Thanks. I'll enjoy every minute.”

If Curt had any idea how Hollis felt, he didn't show it. “The gravel was Manon's idea.
She
wanted it to resemble garden paths in France—our own Petit Trianon.” He sniffed. “She failed to consider that we live in Canada, not France. Gravel is a mistake. Impossible to shovel in the winter.”

“It's a lovely garden, and it feels ten degrees cooler,” Hollis said.

Manon ignored Curt's remark and offered a choice of cold drinks.

MacTee stopped directly in front of Hollis. He stared fixedly at her and gave a single low woof. Hollis had assumed that sometime during the day, someone would have taken him out. Whether they had or not, his message was clear.

“Lemonade, but it will have to wait—MacTee's desperate for a walk.”

“Poor dog, of course he is. I should have taken him,” Manon said. She shifted her gaze to Etienne, who glared at her. “Etienne wanted to, but I...”

“Wouldn't let him out of your sight.” Curt finished the sentence. “You overprotect him—treat him like a baby.”

What was this about? Before Ivan's funeral, Hollis had noticed how grown-up and responsible Etienne had acted. Manon had bragged of his independence.

Manon ignored her husband's jibe. “I'll show you the park,” she volunteered. “Etienne, while we're gone, will you bring out glasses, cookies, a bucket of ice and the pitcher of lemonade. And the set of keys on the kitchen counter.”

Etienne stroked MacTee's back. He scrunched his lips in disappointment but nodded his agreement.

Shoulders hunched and head thrust forward, Manon left the garden. She halted abruptly at the front of the house.

Hollis, unprepared for her sudden stop, nearly crashed into her. She hauled on MacTee's leash to brake his charge for the grassy verge.

Manon peered up and down the street. “It's okay,” she said. Her shoulders relaxed. She repeated, “It's okay.”

“What's okay?” Hollis asked. She waited for an answer and allowed MacTee's flexi-leash to extend to its limit. Awash in new scents, he sniffed his way from bush to post to bush.

“Nothing,” Manon said.

“Come on. You didn't stop like you were about to fall off the edge of the earth for nothing.”

“Did I tell you about Arthur White?”

“No, but I know he was Curt's agent and ran the Starship gallery. I read that he hated the accusations Curt made against him in last year's biography. I met him years ago, but I don't remember him.”

“He's short and has white fuzzy hair. He's suing Curt for libel. I stopped because he sometimes hangs around. Don't worry if he says something nasty to you. He's harmless.”

“Now that you describe him, I do remember seeing him standing outside when I went for a run the day Ivan died.
You
don't sound convinced that he's harmless.”

“I'm not. But I find monsters everywhere. I'm trying to think positively, to consider Curt's troubles with Arthur as his problem.”

Hollis hadn't acknowledged her own tension until they left the garden. A knot between her shoulder blades, her clenched jaw and slight feeling of nausea provided ample evidence. She considered her body's reaction and wondered if she'd be more help to Manon if she didn't stay with them. Maybe she and MacTee should retreat to a motel each evening. It would give her the opportunity to recharge her batteries and regain her equilibrium. Maybe Manon would agree.

“It's great to be here, but I worry about our stay. You're contending with a lot. No matter how many times you've said it's okay, three weeks is a long time for house guests, especially when one of them is a dog.” With her free hand, Hollis grasped Manon's arm. “Say the word, and we'll book into a motel. I'll totally understand.”

Manon covered Hollis's hand with her own. “Not a chance. Nadine is more than a housekeeper—she's like a grandmother to Etienne. She thinks MacTee will be a great diversion for him.” She squeezed Hollis's hand. Hollis winced. Manon loosened her grip. “Don't you dare think about leaving.” Her voice had risen. “I've been counting the days until you arrived. Life here is hell.” Tears brimmed but didn't flow. “I'm losing perspective. I have no one, absolutely no one, to talk to who really knows me.”

Manon must have seen doubt in Hollis's eyes.

“It's true. Curt has his own problems. Anyway, he's never understood or sympathized with how much I worry. I talk to my psychiatrist—but it isn't the same as having a friend.” She squeezed Hollis's hand more gently. “I'm happy you're here.” She tightened her grip. “You
and
MacTee. If anyone can figure out who Ivan was and maybe who killed him, it'll be you.”

“Manon, the police will track his killer.”

Hollis shut her eyes. There was to be no escape. She felt inadequate, afraid she wouldn't be able to help Manon. She opened her eyes, glanced down and gasped. She'd always admired Manon's smooth, elegant hands and beautifully kept nails. Since their university days, Manon had acknowledged that her nail fixation was excessive. She'd rationalized it as a harmless idiosyncrasy.

But not any more.

Manon's unpolished, bitten nails revealed the depth of her anxiety and despair more clearly than anything she'd said.

M
acTee
tugged on his leash. “Manon, the police
will
find the killer. It's little more than ten days since Ivan died.”

MacTee's eyes implored Hollis to move.

“It seems like forever. Uncertainty, fear.” Manon shook her head as if to clear away frightening thoughts and ventured a smile. “Poor dog, he's telling us it's okay to talk but not to stop.”

“We'll walk and talk. I want to hear everything.” Hollis used what she called her ‘bright cheery voice', although she felt anything but bright and cheery. “Things aren't always as serious as they seem at four in the morning. When you're alone with your thoughts in the middle of the night, they terrify you. Examining them in daylight, they become more manageable.” Hollis could have kicked herself for the sheer fatuousness of her remarks. Manon was dealing with murder and the threat of murder.
She
was babbling on like a third rate self-help writer.

“Ivan's murder was terrible. You were with us—you know how awful it was. Now we live with the unknown, the horror...” Her voice trailed off. “You can't imagine,” she added.

Since her own husband had died violently the year before, she could have contradicted Manon. Instead she murmured, “The uncertainly must be...” She searched for a word and found nothing.

“Unbearable,” Manon said flatly. “If it was our only problem, I might cope better. It isn't. Every new development stresses Curt. If life continues like this, I'm afraid he won't live long enough to have his bypass.” She stopped. “Mostly I worry about Etienne. What must it be like for an eleven-year-old?”

“Kids are resilient,” Hollis said, knowing that they weren't unless adults intervened and made sure the kids didn't blame themselves. Maybe Etienne felt responsible because he hadn't told his mother Ivan attended George Brown. Later she'd ask Manon if she'd spoken to Etienne and reassured him that none of this was his fault.

They resumed their walk.

“Curt must hate being sick.”

Manon slowed. “That's it. Psychologically, it's terrible.

Curt believed he was invincible.”

“How serious is it?”

“I don't know how they define serious. He grabs for his angina pills at least ten times a day.”

“How is he emotionally?”

“Mostly angry. But neither pain nor the threat of another heart attack stops him.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to scream when he aggravates the situation. He climbs stairs, moves heavy stuff, sails.” She pursed her lips. “It's like he's daring his heart to give up, pushing himself to prove to the doctors that they should have placed him higher on the waiting list.”

“I don't suppose he listens if you say anything.”

“No. He tells me to stop nagging. He says it's his body, and he'll cope. I feel helpless.”

“Would he talk to a grief counsellor or a psychiatrist to sort out his feelings?” Maybe he'd also discuss his unfaithfulness and explain why he impregnated women. How many other Valeries were out there?

Manon smiled sardonically. “Never. His pride would never let him. He'd rather die. He will if he stupidly insists on straining his heart.” She sniffed. “Curt's irrationally overreacting. He's not facing the issues he needs to deal with. Instead, he's blaming other people.” She peered at the ground, scraped the hardpacked path with her sandal's toe and didn't look at Hollis. “It hurts me to say this, but he wasn't a good father to Ivan.” She raised her eyes. “Not on purpose. He wasn't mean or cruel, but he was always on Ivan's case. He wanted to shame or browbeat him into becoming more ambitious. Now, I assume, although he hasn't admitted it, he's dealing with guilt.”

“That's a heavy burden.”

“It is. Even more for Curt than for some others. Since he isn't introspective, he hasn't had much practice confronting his feelings—if he that's what he's doing. He's left train wrecks behind him all his life. I don't know if he's ever acknowledged how badly he's hurt people. I don't need to tell you he has a colossal ego and likes to run the show. None of this is new. He's always been hard to live with—it's like co-existing with a volcano.” Manon raised her shoulders and shrugged. “I'm never sure when he'll erupt.”