Cut to the Quick (20 page)

“I love your spider,” Kate said. David's face registered surprise. Kate grinned. “I have a daisy in the same place. I planned to do a daisy chain, but it hurt too much. How come you chose a spider?”

David shrugged. “It was one of those nights. A bunch of guys ended up in a tattoo parlour. They've got books of designs. You pick one.”

“Does it have any significance?” Patel asked.

“What do you mean?” David said.

“I don't know. Aren't they supposed to represent how you feel or who you are? Give anyone who sees them a message about you.”

David stared at Patel. “You've been seeing too much
TV
. It's a spider. That's it—a spider.”

“I've contemplated a tattoo—maybe a ying yang somewhere inconspicuous. Or a crow—I like crows. But tattooing hurts, and I hate pain,” Hollis said.

“You aren't missing anything,” Kate said.

David nodded in agreement. The four painters made their way to the street.

“Who needs a lift? Lots of room in my van,” David said.

Quickly they arranged for David to drop Patel and Kate at the subway then drive Hollis home.

“You must find it tough to live with the Hartmans. Did you say Curt or his wife was your friend?” David asked as he pulled away from the subway stop.

“Curt taught me when I studied at
OCAD
. My friendship with Manon dates back further, to the years when we lived in residence at
U
of
T
.”

“You went to
OCAD
after your
BA
?”

“Yes. My mother insisted I study a subject I could use to earn a living. She's an accountant who once aspired to be a professional pianist. She lived in poverty for several years before she decided eating was a bigger priority than art.”

“And were you the villain Lena Kalma accused you of being? Did you introduce Manon and Curt?”

“Yes and no. I
did
have a class party and invited my professors and their wives. Manon
did
meet Curt and Lena there. But let's face it—how many people are you introduced to, and how many times does romance result? Not too many. Yes, they met at my place. No, I'm not a villain. I resent her accusations.”

“Take care. You aren't responsible, but she believes what she said. She sounded pretty crazy to me. I can't figure how Curt's holding up, and I'm glad he didn't cancel the course, but I sit in class and wonder how much pain he's feeling. What about his other kids—how are they doing?”

“They're sad. Tomas supports his dad. They have a lot in common; they both love competition. Tomas swims competitively, and they compete together in motorcycle rallying and sailing races.”

“They're still keen on motorcycles? If my brother died in a crash, I'd never, ever want to
see
another bike, let alone own and ride one.”

Her reaction exactly. She'd wondered if she was off base. “Me too, but they often ride together. They also love the sailing races at the
RCYC
.”

“That's a passion I understand. In Vancouver, I crewed whenever I could. Sailing every weekend becomes a way of life.”

“I remember you said how much you liked it.”

They slowed on Winchester. David searched for a parking spot. Half a block from the house, he found one and insisted on walking Hollis to the door. They passed houses sitting a few feet from the sidewalk. People crowded many front porches, chatting and drinking. Clinking glasses and diverse music coming from different sound systems along with bursts of laughter combined to create a warm, convivial streetscape.

“I love a neighbourhood like this. I lived in one in Vancouver.”

“I thought la la land never let people go. When did you move and why?”

“You're right. Vancouver's great. After my mother...” he paused, “…died, I decided to come east and try to make it as a painter in Toronto.”

“Sorry about your mom. Is your dad still there?”

“My mythical dad—who knows who or where he is,” he said. “I was an only child. For my entire life, she was a single mom.”

“My dad died when I was young. I'm an ‘only' too. I have a friend who throws an ‘only' party once a year. She figures we're special.”

David laughed. “That's a good approach.”

“This is the house. Thanks for walking me from the car.”

“Hey, no problem. If you or the Hartmans ever need me or my van, feel free to call.”

* * *

Rhona arrived at Lena's show shortly before closing time.

“What a scene.” An impossibly thin young woman in a black linen dress whispered to her companion, an older man in a black linen blazer, as chunky as his friend was wraith-like. Did they live together and conspire to appear in matching outfits? Or did it happen the way people grew to resemble their dogs or vice versa?

“She totally surprised the poor woman she attacked. Imagine how she must have felt when Lena spit on her shoe, poked her in the chest and vowed to take revenge,” the woman said.

“She's off her rocker. This show depresses me. Let's cut out of here. I don't know why we came.”

“Yes, you do, John. You said it would be interesting because both Curt Hartman and Lena are important in the art world. And the police haven't solved their son's murder. You wanted to see the show in case Curt files a libel suit against her.” She giggled and fluttered her lashes. “Be honest. You hope Curt will retain you if he sues. And you also said Lena was totally crazy and would stop at nothing to hurt Curt.”

Deep in discussion, the couple hadn't been aware of Lena's approach. “You got that right,” she said. “He's going to pay, and pay. And so will his wife and her friend Hollis Grant.” Hands on her hips, she pivoted and addressed the crowd. “Everyone here is my witness.” She scowled at the man named John. “You'd better write down their names if you think you're representing Curt. You'll need their statements.” She jabbed a red-tipped finger. “Mark my words. My son Ivan's death will be avenged.”

O
n
Thursday morning, Hollis and Etienne sat at the breakfast table after Manon and Curt had raced off to work.

“More toast?” Hollis asked. She passed it to him, and he worked methodically to spread peanut butter over every square inch. He didn't look up from his task when he spoke. “What's the matter with Papa? What did you tell Maman after I went to baseball last night?”

How much should or did eleven-year-olds know? Hollis thought back to her ninth summer, when her family had rented a beach house in
PEI
. Her parents had spent weeks sneaking off and debating whether or not to divorce. Despite their attempts to keep her in the dark, she hadn't missed much. She vividly recalled the guilt she'd felt when she decided she was to blame for the whole unhappy situation.

“It's about Ivan and your father. Lena has an art show focussed on their relationship, how they got along. She uses documents and photos to prove that your father...”

“Wasn't very nice to Ivan?” Etienne finished her sentence. He reached for the grape jelly.

“Yes.”

“No wonder he didn't come to dinner. He must be really mad.” Etienne spooned a heaping dollop on his toast and said nothing for a minute. Finally he put his knife down and looked up. “It's true. I hated how he talked to Ivan. He was a great brother. I really miss him. It made me feel bad when Papa was mean to him—made me think Papa didn't like him. Once I said that. Papa told me not to be stupid—Ivan was his son. He loved him, but Ivan needed someone to give him a push, and that was a father's job.” He picked up his toast. A gob of jelly slid off and plopped on his plate. He scooped it up with his finger and stuck it in his mouth before he spoke. “I think Ivan would have done better at everything if Papa had been nicer to him.”

“You may be right,” Hollis said.

“Today, at camp, we're going to learn about black holes,” Etienne said, clearly anxious to change the topic.

“Sounds interesting. When did astronomy hook you?”

Etienne drained his milk before he replied. “When I was a little kid, Grandmaman Dumont took me out at night and told me about the stars. She lives in the Eastern Townships. At night the sky is different than it is in Toronto. It's totally black—you see tons of stars you can't normally see. Grandmaman has a star map. When she saw I was interested, she bought me a constellations globe. For my last birthday, she gave me a humongous telescope and a tripod to set it on. Sometimes at her place I saw the northern lights. Have you ever seen or heard them?”

“Heard them?”

“They sing—they really do. Sheets of green and blue light dance across the sky, and you hear them.”

“I've never been lucky enough to see or hear them.”

Etienne paused and stared down at his cereal bowl. He stirred the milk around and around before he raised his head and met Hollis's eyes. “I like thinking about stars because they're huge and far away. They make me feel small and help me forget about Ivan and Papa—really sad things.”

Tears welled. But Etienne had stated a fact. This was his life and how he dealt with it. She mustn't cry, mustn't allow Etienne to see her pity. This was his coping mechanism. She raised her
latte
bowl, and, pretending to choke, gave herself a pretext for coughing and wiping her eyes.

“You'll have to teach me the basics. I can locate the Big Dipper and the North Star, but nothing else.”

“Sure. Now in early July, because the days are so long, I don't have much time to study them before I go to bed. But some night I'll give you my A number one first class tour. We can't do it tonight, at least I hope not.”

“How come?”

“Tonight, if it's clear, two kids from astronomy camp will come over with their sleeping bags. Papa said we could use his studio. We'll lay our sleeping bags under his geenormous skylight. After we open it, we'll see what we can see, although only the brightest stars will be visible because of the city lights. Maman will give me money to order pizza for a snack. I'll crank up my boom box, and we'll have a star party.” Etienne's eyes shone.

It was so nice to see him happy again.

After he'd left, Hollis collected her notebook and went to the basement to continue investigating Ivan's possessions. She thumbed through George Brown binders and found a copy of a completed application for “Culinary Arts Italian: Post-Graduate” filled out for the following year. Students specializing in modern Italian cuisine could apply for a threemonth externship in Italy. This confirmed what she'd learned at Buy Right.

Hollis sat back on her heels with the application in her hand. She could understand why Ivan had not shared his dreams with Curt, at least not before he'd received his acceptance, but wouldn't his plans have fascinated Manon?

Hollis hoped she didn't have blinders on when it came to Manon and her role in Ivan's life and death. She shook her head. Not a question she could answer until she had more information. It was time to check with some George Brown students. She had their names. Now she'd call them.

Two answering machines. She left messages.

Third call to Patsy Correlli.

“Yes, I'm Patsy.”

“I'm a friend of Ivan Hartman's family. You took several classes with him. Could you answer a few questions?”

“Why? I've already talked to the police.” Hollis heard suspicion in Patsy's voice. Maybe she'd feel more comfortable if they met.

“Could we meet for a coffee?”

“You expect me to meet some unknown woman and answer questions about a murdered man? Forget it—I'm not talking to you,” Patsy said.

She should have anticipated this reaction. She hadn't thought the process through. “I'm sorry to trouble you. If you change your mind, please call me.”

Patsy had hung up. One more call to remove the bad taste of Patsy's hostility.

“Vincent O'Brien?”

She explained why she was calling.

“Sure thing. Ivan and I shared a few brews. He was a good guy. I was real sorry. Can't tell you much.”

“If you think of anything, will you phone?”

What did she want to know? Which students were going to Italy? If he had a special friend? Ivan certainly didn't have much personal information anywhere. Maybe that was because he thought Curt or Manon or even Tomas would pry into his affairs. She'd been like that as a child. Her mother had wanted to know every detail of her life, and Hollis hadn't wanted to tell her. Thinking back to her childhood, she remembered tucking things she didn't want her mother to find behind photos in her albums. Her mother had never caught on. Hollis wasn't unique—maybe Ivan, a secretive young man, had done the same thing.

She opened the carton holding his most recent George Brown recipe albums. This would take time. And in order not to miss something important, she'd better discipline herself to be more systematic than she sometimes was. She'd start at the beginning and work her way through.

“Appetizers” yielded nothing, nor did “soups”, although sometime she thought she'd try the green chili bisque. Difficult, but not impossible to cut it down from serving sixty to six. She moved to pasta. Linguine alfredo—the edge of a piece of paper behind the card caught her eye. She slid the recipe out. Underneath she found a receipt for a year's rent of a storage locker in North York. The term expired next spring—just when Ivan would have been returning from his Italian cooking course. Now this was a mystery. She knew the where and when, but not the what or why. And she'd need a key to answer those questions. She pulled her cell phone from her bag and called Manon.

“A storage locker—whatever for? I wonder why the police didn't find the receipt.”