Cut to the Quick (7 page)

“Get stuffed,” Olivero muttered and moved away.

Interesting. What had Curt done to Olivero? Had Manon and Olivero had an affair? Was it ongoing? But back to business. Surely, whatever the complexities of their lives, they had nothing to do with Ivan's murder.

At the visitation after dinner, the nature of the visitors changed. A great many artists, friends of Lena and Curt, swirled through the line. Manon's colleagues, Tomas's contemporaries and Etienne's friends' parents visited. Hollis drifted from group to group.

A young Oriental woman attracted her attention. Her round, black-framed glasses, short spiky, hair, nose studs, multiple earrings and flamboyant clothes shouted “artiste”. Hollis sauntered over and smiled. “Hi, I'm Hollis Grant, a family friend. Are you Ivan's friend or Curt's student?”

Intelligent eyes assessed her. “Technically, I'm not a student until Tuesday—I'm taking his Great Masters course.”

Surprise. Hollis would have pegged her as an avant garde artist, someone bent on shocking the world with installations or videos. “Me too,” she said.

The girl's eyes widened. Apparently Hollis didn't fit the profile either. “I'm Kate Wong.” She immediately motioned for two men chatting nearby to join them. One was a compact, muscular East Indian man, and the other a man whose skin colour and sharply chiselled features also indicated exotic ancestry. “Those two are Patel and David. The three of us took Curt's second semester course. Patel is terrific.” She eyed Hollis. “You do know Curt had a heart attack?”

Hollis nodded.

“The college appointed a substitute, but I decided that wasn't good enough. It was Curt I wanted, so I applied for the summer course.”

Kate performed the introductions and added, “Hollis is a Hartman family friend who's taking Curt's course.”

“I've enrolled, and David's just told me he has too,” Patel said.

“You're kidding. Old home week,” Kate said.

Hollis had worried that everyone in the course would be decades younger and she'd feel out of place. Probably her concern came from watching older students who had taken her courses at the community college. They'd almost all been anxious, afraid they wouldn't be able to compete, to keep up with her course demands. Kate certainly was much younger, but Hollis pegged David's age as late twenties or early thirties and Patel as more than forty. How could they take day courses? They must have jobs. When she knew them better, she'd ask.

“Welcome,” Patel said and shook her hand. His firm grip and warm brown eyes made her feel his words were sincere. This was a man she knew she'd like.

David, tall and arrow thin, eyed her with dark eyes filled with curiosity. He cocked his head to one side, flicking back his black hair. “A family friend?” he said.

“Curt's wife, Manon, and I go back to university undergraduate days. Because I live in Ottawa, they invited me to be their guest.” Hollis said.

“You're already here for the course?” Kate asked.

“No. I was visiting when Ivan was killed, and they asked me to stay and help with all the things that had to be done. It's still hard to believe he's dead. Anyway, tomorrow afternoon I'm going home on the train. My dog and I will drive back on Tuesday.”

“Have you ever taken a course from Curt?” Patel said.

“Years ago, when I was at
OCAD
as an undergraduate.”

“It will be interesting to see if you think he's changed,” Kate said. “He has a tough guy reputation, and he demands a lot, but I think he's fair and he wants us to succeed.” She turned to the two men. “Would you agree?”

“I find him helpful. He doesn't tolerate foolish remarks or students who don't work. He says it is a sin not to use your talents. I agree. If I didn't think so, I would have remained in Madras and been the accountant my family intended me to be.” Patel's lips twitched. “That would have been calamitous for me and for my family's reputation. My grasp of mathematics is rudimentary. To address Kate's point, I think he must have mellowed. Maybe being sick does that to you.” He frowned. “I can't imagine what his son's death will do.”

“We need to be kind. Not give him any trouble. Not that we would, but he's going to need our sympathy,”

“Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, now you've taken on Curt. Last term you spent your time nosing into people's business, making suggestions about how they could improve their lives. You should give up painting and become a social worker. Interfering in a person's life without a second's hesitation and with perfect confidence that you're right—that's a major criteria for admission into the field,” David said.

“Kiss my ass,” Kate said.

“Take it easy, you two. This is a funeral home, and we didn't come to fight. It's inappropriate behaviour,” Patel said.

David glowered at him but didn't say anything else. His anger had been sudden, but who knew what had happened between Kate and David in the past. Whatever it was, they clearly didn't like each other. Time to change the subject. “Are all three of you traditional painters?” Hollis said.

Kate shook her head. “Anything but. I do constructions, assembled pieces of found materials, but the focus of each is a miniature of a classic. The subject relates to the assembly. I want the tiny paintings to be as nearly perfect as I can make them, because that heightens the impact.”

“I hope you brought slides. They sound interesting,” Hollis said.

“I've heard that in the first class Curt shows the three slides we submitted to be accepted for the course. We'll see what stage each of us is at,” David said. “My pieces don't photograph well. They're three dimensional. I paint a huge copy of a famous painting on a wooden panel. Then I shatter and reassemble it in a meaningful way. Synopsizing my work, I'd say I'm interested in remnants after a cataclysmic event has occurred.”

He sounded as if he should be writing the gobbledygook that passed for artistic criticism in some art journals. Hollis got nervous when someone used words like “meaningful”. But given his attack on Kate, she certainly wasn't going to say so. She had to admit she also felt defensive about her own huge, happy paintings of domestic icons.

Whatever they were, “meaningful” wasn't a word that came to mind.

“I'm into semi-abstraction of cityscapes. I've always admired Richard Diebenkorn and his California landscapes. But I admire the masters' techniques and want to learn as much about them as I can,” Patel said. He didn't sound apologetic.

“What about you?” Kate asked Hollis.

“Conventional,” Hollis said.

“Curt invited us for drinks the first evening of the course. I wonder if he'll still do it,” Patel said.

Hollis hadn't thought much about the invitation when she'd received her registration package. Curt always invited his students to his house. But Ivan's murder and his heart problems could change that.

“You're staying with them. Do you think he'll have us over?” David said.

Over lunch the day that Ivan had died, Manon had insisted he would carry on as usual. Probably he'd feel an obligation to host the class get-together. Or that it would be a sign of weakness not to do so. “It'll be hard, but I'm sure he will,” Hollis said.

“We had a great time at the one last semester. Ivan made fabulous canapés—really different. Curt's cute little boy, I forget his name, passed them around.” Kate winced. “That sounded callous—sorry.”

“Hey, it was only a comment. I thought the same thing,” Patel said.

Silence for a second, then everyone spoke at once. They laughed self-consciously.

Patel checked his watch “Time for me to go. It's my night to be the maitre d' at Toronto's finest curry palace. See you next week,” he said. He put his hand on Hollis's arm. “And you drive carefully. The 401 can be stressful.” He turned away, and David limped after him.

“Was David in an accident?” Hollis asked Kate.

“Don't think so. It's not new. But I've never heard him talk about it.” Kate frowned. “Actually, he doesn't talk much about himself. He's a prickly guy, but you just saw that.” She hovered close to Hollis and whispered, “See the man with the bushy grey beard?”

“Hard to miss. He looks like he dressed in the dark in whatever he found in a Goodwill bag.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“I haven't a clue.”

“Sebastien Lefevbre,” Kate whispered. She watched Hollis's face, waiting for her to recognize the name.

It seemed familiar, but when she ran it through her mental data bank, she didn't make a connection.

Kate shook her head. “You
must
recognize him. He's our most famous portrait artist. He's painted everybody who's anybody. Remember Prince Philip's portrait and the furor it caused?”

“Of course. I don't know why I drew a blank. Trudeau sliding down the bannister is my favourite—it perfectly captures his bad-boy charm.”

Hollis felt the atmosphere change. A palpable feeling of unease swept the room. She scanned the room to see the cause.

“You are such a hypocrite.”

An abrasive voice ripped through the room's subdued murmur like a chainsaw. Lena had reared back and grabbed Curt by his suit lapels. “You pretend to care, but you don't. As far as I'm concerned...”

Curt pushed her away.

“As far as I'm concerned,
you
killed him. You gave him that bloody motorcycle.” She'd planted her hands on her hips. Her voice rose higher. “What loving father presents his teenage son with a lethal weapon?” She jabbed a magenta claw. “A narcissistic man who wishes to kill his children.”

Curt blanched and clenched his jaw. Before he could respond, Manon took his arm and said something in a low voice.

Lena turned on her. “And you. The home-wrecker. What responsibility do you have for my son's death?”

I
identified another possible perp,” Rhona said to Zee Zee after the visitation. “Olivero Ciccio is an artist and teaches at the Ontario College of Art and Design. Curt screwed him in some way, and he has a thing for Curt's wife. Let's see if we can meet with him before tonight's reception.”

Back at the shop, Rhona googled Olivero. According to his website, he did three dimensional whimsical constructions as well as conventional paintings. The examples on the website made her smile. Was humorous artwork as underrated as comic or satirical writing? Probably seriousness counted in the art world. She made an appointment to speak to Olivero and his wife.

The Ciccios lived in Riverdale. South and east of Cabbagetown, this neighbourhood hovered on the cusp of gentility. One half of a semi-detached house would be clad in insul-brick with old chrome and plastic kitchen chairs lined up on the porch and a weed-filled yard. Its other half would exhibit all the hallmarks of an expensive gentrified upgrade. New high R-value windows, an enamelled front door and a front garden with periwinkle ground cover and a manicured privet hedge would create an appealing image. Half the neighbourhood belonged to old-time residents and half to the upwardly mobile who renovated or paid hefty prices for the already renovated. These trendy young things harboured long term plans to improve Riverdale and raise their houses' values so they could sell for a huge profit and move on to more expensive neighbourhoods like the Beach or the Annex.

The Ciccios' detached brick house stood back from the street. Conservatively painted, with a neat perennial garden and a manicured lawn to set it off, it wouldn't have drawn a second glance except for an arresting garden sculpture. Close to the house, an eight foot high wooden angel with a pair of garden shears in one hand turned to stare at her neatly clipped wing. She wore a silver metal halo with the word “oops” in brass letters fastened to it. Rhona smiled—whimsical and charming described it perfectly.

A small woman in jeans and a navy blue sweater answered their ring. Regular features, brown eyes, short, dark hair sprinkled with grey—an unremarkable appearance. Her neighbours or people who'd met her would refer to her as “very nice” or a “good neighbour” but only be able to describe her in general terms. A polite golden retriever accompanied her. Navy blue had been an unfortunate choice, given that she lived with a breed noted for the quantities of blonde hair it shed.

Inside, Anna Ciccio led them into a tiny living room. While she fetched Olivero, they surveyed their surroundings. Heavy drapes, maroon and gold-patterned wallpaper and overstuffed dark green plush furniture made the room seem smaller. An amusing painting of flying cows by Olivero provided one bright spot of colour. Rhona guessed Anna had decreed that Olivero could do what he liked in his studio, but she would decorate everything else.

When the couple returned, Olivero, who looked exhausted, sank down and arranged sofa cushions behind him to support his back. Anna chose a chair opposite the sofa.

“We're here to talk about Ivan Hartman and his family,” Rhona said and noted a puzzled expression on Anna's face. “We're broadening our investigation to include all the Hartmans' acquaintances,” she added.

Anna, feet and ankles together, clasped her elbows with her hands and pulled them tight to her body. Her features closed in on themselves—she reminded Rhona of a clam or an oyster retreating into its shell.

Olivero leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Curt and I work together at
OCAD
. We've known each other for years.” He lifted his head and directed a level gaze at Rhona. “Not friends. I don't think Curt has
any
art world friends. He's far too competitive and critical. But we manage.”

“Someone said you'd had a disagreement recently,” Rhona said.

Anna half-closed her eyes and stared downward.

Olivero shrugged. “I was nominated for department chair. Curt voted against me. He's entitled to his opinion.”