Cut to the Quick (25 page)

They collected their rental cars in time for Hollis and Curt to make it to class. Hollis settled in her seat and marvelled at Curt's resilience. Immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed, no one would have guessed Curt was a man with a bad heart who'd spent half the night watching his studio burn and thanking God his son had survived.

“You may or may not have heard about the fire in my studio last night.”

Neither Kate nor Patel were radio or
TV
junkies. Their expressions reflected their surprise.

Curt shook his head and frowned. Long-faced—his eyes, lips, the wrinkles bracketing his mouth, his ears, everything sagged. He told them what had happened. His lips quivered. He clamped them together, walked to the supplies table and gripped the table's edge.

Everyone stopped breathing, waiting to see what he'd do next.

His shoulders rose, he exhaled, straightened, threw his shoulders back and pivoted to face them.

“Today we'll create paint from raw materials. Next week we'll make brushes. Painters in Rembrandt's time had to do both. They did have guidelines. In 1437,
Il Libro dell'Arte
by Cennino d'Andrea Cennini appeared and became the guideline for artists for centuries.” His eyebrows rose. “Today art forgers rely on the book.” He resumed his lecture. “Paint has not always come in tidy tubes and jars. In Rembrandt's day, a young artist prepared his own. Once he achieved success, he hired an apprentice to make paint.” He distributed colour information handouts. “We won't make some paints. We'd risk our health if we dropped vinegar on lead and collected horse manure, if we could find it, to generate the heat to produce the reaction that would ultimately give us lead white, a highly toxic paint.”

Had the Old Masters lived long lives or been like the hatters who used chemicals that drove them insane and led to the term “mad hatters”? Rubens had lived to old age. Perhaps his early success had enabled him to hire assistants who risked
their
health mixing up lethal concoctions.

“And we won't make verdigris—a lovely intense green. We'd have to use the scrapings from wine barrels.” He looked up. “Possibly if we lived in Newfoundland, we could use screech. The leavings would then have to contact copper. The resulting fumes would make us sick, but eventually we'd have a lovely green. Let's see what we
can
do.” He picked up a mortar and pestle. “We can grind the earth tones—ochres— and see what happens when we mix them with the different oils—linseed, walnut or poppy.”

Hollis noticed that Lefevbre was absent. Why wasn't he in class? Had he been in the group when she'd said Etienne would be stargazing? She replayed the conversation but couldn't remember whether he'd been there or not. She was pretty sure he hadn't been. And she would have noticed if he'd joined them at break, because he usually remained in the studio. Nevertheless, she'd heard Lefevbre vow to attend every class.

Why wasn't he here?

Despite Hollis's fatigue, the heady smell of raw materials grabbed her attention. She zeroed in on the colours—the rich creamy whites, yellow as intense as the yolks of free range eggs, blues as deep as the North Atlantic on a sunny day. Her fingers twitched, anticipating adding, adjusting, stirring, readjusting and, finally, applying these luscious paints.

“I can see you're anxious to start. Consult the instruction sheets and prepare two colours. Then bring your palettes, load the paint and work over yesterday's under-painting.”

The students stampeded to transform dry powders into enchanting viscous colour. Hollis longed to plunge her hands into the paint and smear thick layers on the canvas; to stroke, pull, overlay, wallow in tactile sensations. She envied kindergarten students and understood their unfettered joy when let loose with finger paints.

“Time for a break,” Curt eventually announced.

Hollis didn't believe it. The others' expressions mirrored her incredulity. How could time have passed so quickly? Downstairs, the others crowded around her.

“It must have been damn fucking scary,” Kate said.

“Not until afterwards. While it was happening, I only thought about getting us out.”

“Did you crawl to the stairs like they say you should?” Bert asked.

“The stairs were burning.”

“How did you…”

Kate interrupted Bert. “What about Curt's paintings?”

“How many did he have in the studio?” Tessa asked.

“Three, one finished and two that he's working on.”

“He paints huge works. How does he get them out?” Tessa asked.

“Through second storey double doors they used years ago to load hay for horses. There's a block and tackle permanently installed, thank goodness. I lowered Etienne and my dog with it.”

“Having been rudely interrupted,” Bert said, glaring at Kate, “What about you? How did you escape?”

“I was afraid I wasn't going to.” She related her story.

“What time was the fire?” Kate asked.

“After two.”

“I'm surprised you or Curt came today,” Patel said.

“I nearly didn't. But Curt insisted he had to come. I couldn't stay away—couldn't miss the course.”

Hollis knew her face had lit up. She felt her lips curve. “Isn't making paint from scratch wonderful? Too timeconsuming to do it on a regular basis, we'd need assistants like they had in the Renaissance. But it doesn't compare to squeezing paint from a tube.”

Heads nodded in agreement.

“I suppose Curt's insurance company will pay to clean up and rebuild,” Kate said.

“You won't believe it, but he doesn't have any—not a single cent.”

“You have to be kidding. Everybody has insurance.”

“Maybe you do, but lots of people don't. I don't,” David said. Whatever Kate said annoyed David. Hollis had first seen it in the funeral home, but he'd picked at her often. Now Kate had irritated him again.

“But how could his wife live in peace if they didn't have any?” Kate persisted.

“Manon, that's his wife, is a cautious banker. She did insure their vehicles along with the house and its contents the moment they moved in.” Hollis didn't know if she should be telling them all this, but she hated for anyone to think Manon was a slacker. “At that point, the studio hadn't been renovated. Curt said he'd contact the insurance company when it was, and he knew how much to insure it for. I can't imagine why Manon relied on him to do it. She should have known better.”

“Why? Isn't he good at things like that?” Kate said. She shook her head. “He isn't the only one. I know guys who don't pay their taxes because they don't get around to it. I can't imagine living like that.”

“You can't imagine much that doesn't fit into your narrow little world,” David said. Kate glared daggers at him.

Hollis didn't want this to escalate. “Did anyone read the book about him that came out last year?”

“I did. It was okay, but…” David paused as if he didn't want to continue.

“But what?” Kate said.

“It was too laudatory. It didn't discuss his dark side and the influences in his early years.”

“True, but the reason I brought it up was that the writer
did
deal with his document phobia. He has a thing about filling out forms. According to the author, he doesn't even have a will.” Hollis wondered if she should have added this piece of gratuitous information. But it had appeared in print. Besides, he'd probably written a will since the book came out.

“He's not alone. I hate bureaucracy.” David's brows drew together, and he scowled ferociously.

Hollis was glad she wasn't a bureaucrat. Run-ins with David would be unpleasant.

“Curt will have to arrange for demolition and repairs and cough up money to pay for them.” Kate said. “That will be very expensive.”

David shook his head. “Does he have fans running?”

“Fans?” Hollis said.

“Yes. You said water soaked everything. Industrial fans dry stuff and make it salvageable. Not having insurance, he'll want to save everything he can. On the other hand, he should keep his books and papers wet until he arranges for a fire salvage company to collect and freeze dry them.”

“He has a library of valuable art books. Freeze dry?” She echoed.

“They stash the material in a big chamber and freeze it. Somehow it removes the moisture and leaves the documents in good shape.”

“I'm sure he hasn't thought about fans or freeze drying.”

“I could arrange to get fans for him.”

“Do you want to offer, or do you want me to do it?” Hollis said.

“You know him better than I do. But the sooner they're installed, the better.”

“I think we should do more than that,” Kate said. She looked from one to the other. “We have a lot of skills. I think we should help.”

“It's a good idea,” Patel said. “Why don't we delegate to Hollis the job of finding out what needs to be done?”

Everyone nodded. “Dry the stuff first,” David said. Before class resumed, Hollis relayed David's message to Curt.

“Where would I buy fans?”

Hollis beckoned David over. Curt listened and nodded. “That's a good idea. I'd be grateful if you'd arrange to rent them and have them delivered.”

* * *

Arthur let them in, cocked his head and considered them, seemingly without a glimmer of recognition.

“We've already visited you twice,” Rhona reminded him after she reintroduced them. “Tell us if you were outside Curt Hartman's house last night.”

“Last night,” Arthur said, as if they'd asked him to remember something he'd done as a five-year-old child. “Did it rain?”

“No. Where were you?”

“I walked up and down outside their house about nine. I saw a woman and Curt's son walk the woman's dog then go back in. They had pizza delivered.”

Rhona considered his information. “Did you see anyone else hanging around?”

Arthur thought for a minute, pursing his lips. “Might have, but my memory isn't what it used to be. Don't think I did.”

“Did you hear that someone set fire to Curt's studio?”

Arthur's mouth formed a perfect “o”—he could have blown smoke rings. “Was anyone hurt?”

“We thought you might tell us,” Rhona said.

“You think I'd do that?” Arthur's eyes widened. He drew himself up like a soldier standing in front of his commanding officer. “I can't prove this, but let me assure you I would
never
burn works of art. Curt is an asshole, but he's a great artist. It would be a sin to destroy his work.” His shoulders sagged. “I've fallen a long way if anyone would think
I'd
do that.” He frowned. “You didn't answer my question. Was anyone hurt?”

“Fortunately not.”

“I'm sorry I didn't stay longer—it would please me to identify the person who would do that.”

“If you remember anything else, will you call us?” Rhona asked.

Arthur took her card. Rhona had little hope he would use it. His vagueness was worse. Perhaps he suffered from Alzheimer's or some other neurological problem.

“Do you think he's faking?” Rhona asked Zee Zee once they were outside.

“Who knows? He certainly has reason to hate Curt. He doesn't have a life—no gallery, no wife and few creature comforts.”

“All right, let's keep asking. Time for Sebastien Lefevbre, and then the charming
SOHD
duo.”

Sebastien, towing his ancient spaniel, emerged from his house as they arrived. “I have to keep going. He's old and needs to go out often, or he has accidents,” he explained.

“Why don't we walk with you,” Zee Zee said. They formed a snail-like procession, with Sebastien and Zee Zee creeping after the exceedingly slow-moving dog, and Rhona bringing up the rear. She didn't flip the recorder on. If he said something interesting, they'd ask him to repeat it when they returned to the house.

“Where was I last night? You people are so interested in where I go. I should be flattered. No one else cares. My daughter used to look out for me, but my dear wife is so involved with her work, she ignores me.” He stopped and allowed the dog to contemplate a grassy patch. “Lindsay suffers too, but she deals with it by immersing herself in work.” His eyes widened, his head rose and he smiled. “I'm painting a life-size portrait of Valerie. I intend to make it as beautiful as she was.” His smile disappeared. “It's the one thing I do really well. Sitting in Curt's classes, I realized hate was destroying me. Now I'm easing my pain by doing what I do best.” He leaned toward them. “I'm having a show and donating the proceeds to a cause Valerie would have liked.”

“What a positive plan,” Zee Zee said gently. “To return to our question. Where were you last night?”

“At home, and for once my dear wife was home too. Ask her.”

“Do you paint in oils and use turpentine as a solvent?”

The dog's glacial pace suddenly accelerated. He pulled them along, nose to the ground, tracking an enticing scent. “Life in the old boy yet,” Sebastien said. “Yes to both.”

“We'd like to take your turpentine for testing. You can give it voluntarily, or we can…”

Sebastien interrupted Zee Zee. “Why would I care if you took my turpentine? I'll buy more. But what's with the turpentine?”

“There was a fire in Curt Hartman's studio last night,” Zee Zee said.

Sebastien didn't seem surprised. In fact, he didn't register any emotion. Perhaps he'd been in pain for so long that he was incapable of responding, or perhaps the news hadn't surprised him.

“If I'd stopped painting long enough to go to class today, I would have heard. Was anyone hurt?”

They told him what had happened. Like Arthur, he swore he would never destroy art.