Cut to the Quick (13 page)

Their gazes locked. Hollis agreed with Manon's description but didn't say so. Spouses could make the most awful charges against one another. Woe betide the listener who agreed with them.

MacTee tugged on his leash.

“We're here,” Manon said.

A graveyard stretched into the distance on the left. On their right a paved path sloped into a large grassy space.

“Lovely to have open land in the middle of Toronto,” Hollis said.

“Long ago it was Riverdale Zoo. At night you heard the lions roaring. Over there, that's the Toronto Necropolis. It's been here almost since Toronto began, and these were the outskirts. Now the cemetery sits in the city's heart. If you have time, it's interesting to stroll around and read headstones.”

“I wonder if MacTee's allowed inside. Most cemeteries forbid dogs. I don't blame them. If the owners don't clean up and someone visits a grave and finds...”

“I get the picture,” Manon interrupted. “We'll see if there's a sign.” She frowned, “I'm sorry, I'm not usually so self-centred. I haven't asked about you and your plans to change your life.”

Hollis was amazed that Manon had remembered. Seconds after she'd made this revelation, Manon's cell phone had rung and her world had flipped.

“Don't be hard on yourself. I'm fine and you're not. A lot depends on how the course goes. We'll talk about me later.”

They arrived at a long series of wooden steps leading down to a grassy area crowded with dogs and people. Manon pointed. “The dogs' off-leash area.”

MacTee lunged down the steps, oblivious to Hollis clutching his leash with one hand and grabbing at the railing with the other. She shouted over her shoulder, “He's seen them throwing balls. He's retrieving-obsessed.” Hollis caught her breath after she'd completed the precipitous descent without a fall. She reached in her pocket for a battered tennis ball before she released the dog. MacTee, anticipating the joy to come, jumped up and down on all four feet as if each leg came equipped with its own powerful inner spring.

Hollis tossed the ball and waited for Manon to catch up with her.

“Does your golden suffer from hot spots?” A burly, barrelchested man, whose red suspenders bracketed his expanding girth like a writer's ellipses, spoke to Hollis.

“If I don't have her clipped every spring.” She marvelled at how an interest in dogs united people.

A shaggy golden exhibiting a depth of chest and rotundity corresponding to her owner's galloped over.

“What a lovely dog—does she have a skin problem?” Where had she seen this man?

The man bent and patted the retriever. “It's a he, Gelato, Gelo for short. He does, but I wasn't convinced clipping would help.” He straightened and looked over Hollis's shoulder.

Until that moment, Hollis hadn't known exactly what people meant when they said someone's face “lit up”.

The man's face brightened, his mouth opened and a huge grin spread across his face. “Manon, you haven't been here since Beau died.”

Hollis swung to see Manon extend both hands to the man, who enveloped her in a bear hug. Manon gazed up at him. “Olivero, I've missed you.” She stepped away, reached for Hollis's hand and pulled her forward. “Olivero, this is my friend Hollis Grant. She's staying with us while she takes Curt's course.”

As she shook Olivero's hand, she remembered. The funeral home—she'd seen him there. She hadn't spoken to him; she'd overheard him saying he'd come to the visitation because of his friendship with Manon. The man he'd been speaking to had implied his relationship was more than that.

“When do you and Gelo walk here?” Manon asked. It was not a casual, polite question; she really wanted the information.

“Often. The term's over. I'm not teaching at summer school. I come whenever I reach a point where Gelo or I need a break. Quite early in the morning, around noon and sometime before six.” He smiled conspiratorially. “You
know
what a news junkie I am—always have to catch the six o'clock news.”

Time to make herself scarce. “I'm going to give MacTee a run.” She called the dog and strode across the field, pulling details of the overheard conversation from her mind. Curt had done something unspecified but dastardly to Olivero. She reached the far side of the open space. While she repeatedly tossed the ball, she considered this complication. On the one hand, as far as she knew, Manon hadn't had any extramarital affairs since she'd married Curt. But on the other, Manon's affair with Curt had led him to leave Lena. She and Manon weren't like some women, who discussed their sex lives with their friends. Hollis doubted Manon would have confided in her if she was having an affair. But maybe she was jumping the gun. Manon's life with Curt was difficult. Olivero might be a supportive friend—no more. Hollis tossed the moisture-laden ball. People should copy dogs—they lived in the present and derived great joy from small pleasures.

Finally, tired and hot, MacTee refused to relinquish the ball. They rejoined Manon and Olivero, who were talking in low tones.

“We must go,” Manon said to Olivero. “We'll meet you here soon.”

It was a promise.

“Is Olivero also an artist?” Hollis asked as they strolled away.

“An artist and an art historian. When I tired of inviting Curt's friends to dinner and getting lost in their art-centred conversations, I took an evening course from Olivero. He's a twentieth century specialist and a lovely, kind man,” Manon said with a dreamy half-smile on her face. “Very, very kind.”

Kind or not, Olivero might hate Curt. Rhona had been farther away when both of them had tried to eavesdrop on the conversation at the visitation. Hollis had barely heard what they'd said, and she didn't think Rhona would have heard anything. Although she'd most likely interviewed him, she might not have asked about his friendship with Manon. Another information tidbit to exchange for an investigation update.

Back in the garden, Manon poured lemonade. “We met Olivero walking his dog,” she said.

“I wish you'd let me come with you. I love Gelo,” Etienne said. He giggled. “Gelo the dog, not Jello the food. It's gross.”

Curt lay on a chaise lounge thumbing through a magazine. “Olivero,” he said. A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Has he recovered from losing his bid for departmental chairman?”

“You voted against him, didn't you?” Manon said.

“Of course. Fat little Italian—what kind of an impression would he make representing the department? We need someone with presence.”

“Someone like you—is that what you mean?”

“I'm far too busy to take on the chairman's job, but yes, my reputation would increase the department's prestige.”

“That wasn't why you voted against him. You've always envied him his charisma—his warm, friendly personality.” Tears brimmed in Manon's eyes.

“You
certainly think so. At the Christmas party, you made an absolute fool of yourself. I'm sure his wife didn't enjoy your performance.
I
certainly didn't,” Curt said.

“You are an insufferable snob.” Manon's voice trembled.

An uneasy silence followed this exchange.

“Can I throw MacTee's ball in the garden?” Etienne asked.

“Of course not—that's why we have parks,” Curt said.

“When I take him for another walk, will you come with me and throw the ball?” Hollis asked Etienne.

Etienne nodded and moved forward to pick up a computer game lying on the glass-topped table. At the same moment, Manon reached for the keys Etienne had brought out. She held the ring up. “Hollis, these are for you. Front and back doors, Curt's studio and the garage.” A shrug and a rueful glance. “You'll think I'm paranoid. Actually, I'm one person who could produce psychiatric witnesses to testify to my exact mental state. I'm not paranoid.” She glared at Curt.

Curt ignored her.

“However, at the moment my
paranoiac
point is to
insist
we lock the door every time we come in or go out.” She shook the keys, allowing them to jangle noisily.

Hollis again noticed Manon's unkempt nails.

“Every
time. You must
always
lock the doors.”

“Every
time—
always
lock the doors,” Curt mimicked. “The lady who isn't obsessive obsesses yet again.”

“I'll bring in my things,” Hollis said to change the subject.

Manon hesitated. “Etienne will help you unload your truck.”

She paused, because she didn't want to let him go outside on the street. How awful to feel such anxiety. What must Manon's obsessive need to watch his every move do to Etienne?

“The man across the street is Arthur,” Etienne said in a low voice as they lugged bundles back to the house. He edged closer. “Did Maman talk to you about him?”

“She did.” Hollis's dark glasses hid her eyes and allowed her to observe, without seeming to do so. She'd seen him before. Today he perched on a shooting stick and held a small black umbrella over his head. He seemed more like one of Santa's elves than an evil presence, but he obviously scared Etienne, who stiffened and walked closer to Hollis.

How infuriating it was to see a grown man frightening a child. Maybe she'd give the old goat a taste of his own medicine. She'd find a similar stick and park herself inches from Arthur and sing in his face. She'd choose from the many folk songs she'd collected on her travels through the rural Maritimes. The image amused her. She reviewed appropriate songs that promised death or eternal damnation to sinners.

As Etienne unlocked the front door, Manon called from the kitchen. “Etienne. Come downstairs after you've helped Hollis—I have a job for you.”

The guest room was on the second floor. Etienne dropped MacTee's mat in the corner and flopped on the bed. MacTee, immediately recognizing an opportunity for patting, leaned against him. He nudged Etienne's arm to initiate the process.

“How old is MacTee?” Etienne asked.

Hollis heard concern in his voice. Etienne's dog, Beau, had died the year before. Etienne was mourning his brother and fearful for his father. He was probably hesitant to commit to MacTee without reassurance that this dog wasn't about to die.

“Eight and very healthy. Retrievers live to about twelve— he'll be with us for years.”

Etienne scratched behind MacTee's ears and smiled.

A disembodied voice floated up the stairs. “Etienne, come down, please.”

While the bed invited Hollis to lie back and relax, the navy upholstered chair with matching footstool invited her to pick a book from the stack on the table beside the chair. She examined the titles: mysteries by Mary Jane Maffini, Barbara Fradkin and Peter Robinson; a book on urban renewal by Jane Jacobs; and two art books, one about Greg Curnoe, whose bicycle paintings she loved, and the other about Georgia O'Keefe. How typical of Manon to search for specific books Hollis would like. Manon often sent her gifts, not for a particular occasion but because she'd found something she thought Hollis would enjoy. She dug MacTee's water bowl from her backpack and filled it in the bathroom.

Even before she unpacked, it was time to go through Ivan's belongings. She crept up to the third floor apartment to see what Ivan had left behind.

Everything belonging to Ivan was gone.

H
ollis
joined Manon in the kitchen. There was no way to bring Ivan back or free Manon from her demons, but she could offer a diversion from the ongoing crisis. “You free to take in a movie tonight?”

Manon swung around from the counter, where she was ripping romaine lettuce into bite-sized pieces and dropping them in a clear acrylic salad bowl. “Unfortunately not. We have a commitment, but later in the week would be good. It would be great to go out, to try not to think about what's happening. And you'll be happy to know that there's a new patisserie near the Cumberland. We can indulge and argue about the movie's success or failure.”

“Sounds good,” Hollis said. “This room reminds me of Claude Monet's kitchen at Giverny—blues and yellows, sunshine and flowers.”

Manon looked around as if she'd never seen the kitchen. “You're right. Giverny captured my imagination when we visited. A Giverny kitchen didn't suit our other house, but it's perfect here.” She paused. “Give me a second to finish. I
want
to think about something other than the murder, and I need your advice. As an artist, tell me what colour changes would complement the renovations I made this spring.” She paused. “But we can't take long. Curt has
honoured
you with an invitation to visit his studio before dinner. We have time for a short tour before the
momentous
event occurs.”

“Honoured”, “momentous”—not warm and friendly words. The troubles in Manon's and Curt's lives were definitely not drawing them closer.

Manon led the way from kitchen to front hall. “You know how we've changed things.” She gestured at the two doorways flanking the entryway. “We had two formal living rooms, but who needs that?” She opened the door on the right. “This is the same.” She opened the other door. “I don't suppose you saw this room when you were here last week. Because of Curt's heart condition, I converted the second parlour into a bedroom and used the library behind it for an en suite bathroom for us and a powder room.” She grinned. “You probably did discover that. I've added much-needed cupboard space. The work isn't finished. I'm wondering if the colour scheme in the living room and these two rooms should be more or less identical. Martha Stewart says colour should flow from one room to the next. And the other rooms on this floor—the dining room, kitchen, family room and living room—are colour coordinated.”