by Joan Boswell
“Why would Curt or Tomas be targets?”
“I can’t imagine that Tomas is. As far as I know, he leads a relatively blameless life. On the other hand, Curt’s enemies are legion. However, I have a terrible feeling it is a serial killer who’s after all of us. A deranged murderer will pick us off one by one.” A long, indrawn breath. A shaky voice. “I’m terrified for Etienne.”
Why would a killer want the whole family dead? Particularly eleven-year-old Etienne. Not a rational idea but, when it came to Etienne, Manon had never been totally rational. Etienne was the child her physician had counselled her not to carry to term. She’d rejected his advice and suffered through a difficult pregnancy made more stressful by a severe bout of depression. Hollis remembered how hard it had been for her.
“I’m up at night again. I didn’t tell you when you were here, because I thought it would stop,” Manon said.
Hollis searched her memory. “You think you’ve lost Etienne. You’re sleepwalking, searching for him.”
“I did it for a whole year after his birth.”
“You had a reason. He nearly died when he arrived prematurely. Right now, uncertainty about Ivan is taking its toll on your mental equilibrium. You must be exhausted if you’re wandering around every night.”
“I’d fall asleep again if Curt woke me up and shepherded me back to bed. But my sleepwalking upsets him. I think he’s afraid it means I’m having a total breakdown. He reacts badly.”
“How?” Hollis wished her bedroom had been on the same floor—she might have heard this nocturnal problem and been able to help.
Manon took a quick breath to steady her voice. “It’s three a.m., and he lectures me. Tells me to get a grip. Says I’m neurotic and revelling in my craziness.” She sobbed. “I’m not. I’m doing everything I can to stay on an even keel. He upsets me so much, I can’t go back to sleep. Next morning, I’m a basket case.”
“Hang on. I’ll be there on Tuesday. Are you...” Should she ask if Manon was keeping to her medication schedule?
“Taking my meds and seeing my psychiatrist? Yes to both questions. I’m not about to go off the deep end. Mostly I do okay. But I’m terrified my sleepwalking means that subconsciously I know something. I’m afraid my body is warning me Etienne’s in danger. Warning me to keep him from being the next victim.”
Useless to argue. Nothing she said would change Manon’s mind. “You should have sent him back to Quebec with your mother.”
“I thought about it, but I can’t bear to have him out of my sight for more than a few hours. I also considered resigning and staying home with him. Curt blew up when I suggested it. He said it would be the very worst thing to do, that I’d make Etienne into a nervous wreck like me. He ordered me to ‘pull myself together’. I hate that phrase. As if you wouldn’t do it if you could.” She laughed shakily. “Even to me, my theory that the killer has his sights set on the whole family sounds crazy when I say it out loud.” She paused. “There’s something else. Curt says they’ve implied he may have had something to do with Ivan’s murder.”
Why hadn’t Manon told her these things while she was still in Toronto?
“How strange. Why would they suspect Curt? I can hear him saying ‘Next they’ll be accusing me’ when he criticizes them for their inability to arrest the killer. I can’t believe he means it, or that the police believe it. Curt seemed okay at the funeral. How do you think he’s bearing up?”
“Not well. He’s in denial.” A whisper. “I think he’s gone a little crazy.”
“Crazy? You can’t mean that?”
“Not crazy, crazy—but weird—weirder than me. Other things are happening...I’m desperate.”
Hollis reviewed what she had to do before she drove back to Toronto. There was no way she could get there any earlier. But she had to allay Manon’s fears.
“This is easy to say, but not to do—try to relax. Take each hour as it comes. Don’t think of all the bad things that could happen. And I’ll call Rhona to see if I can get any more information.”
Hollis hung up and punched in the cell phone number on the business card Rhona had given her.
“We are making progress,” Rhona assured her.
“Warning the Hartmans to take care. Implying Curt had something to do with Ivan’s death—that’s progress?”
“This isn’t television. All relevant information doesn’t drop into our laps like manna from heaven. People lie or don’t cooperate. For one reason or another, they don’t come forward when they have information. Motive helps. In Ivan’s case, we don’t have one. Anyway, what business is it of yours?”
“Sorry. I did come on strong. I just talked to Manon. She’s so spaced out and worried she’s barely functioning. I owe her big time, and I want to help her get her life back on track.”
“It’s a tough situation for anyone.”
“I’ll be in Toronto on Tuesday for a three week course at the Ontario College of Art and Design. Can I tell Manon I’m buying you lunch on Tuesday? It will give her something to focus on. Even in a murder investigation, you must take time for lunch. Also I have something to tell you that may be news.”
Rhona heard the conciliatory, almost pleading note in Hollis’s voice. What harm would it do? She might even learn something useful. Lunch. There was a Tim Hortons two blocks from OCAD and not too far from her office at College and Bay. She’d order their chili and doughnut special without worrying that her boss, with his anti-Tim Hortons attitude and doughnut phobia, would appear.
* * *
Hollis arrived in Toronto on Tuesday morning with MacTee and assorted bags and bundles. Curt and Manon lived in Cabbagetown, a densely populated older neighbourhood. She wrestled her truck into a tiny space and wished she drove a Smart Car or a Mini. Before she entered the Hartmans’, she again admired the restored Victorian with its wraparound porch. The asphalted motorcycle parking pad on the front lawn definitely detracted from its period charm.
After she’d delivered MacTee into Nadine’s custody, she hurried to Carlton Street and boarded a streetcar. At Yonge Street, she transferred to the subway and emerged on University Avenue minutes later. She raced along Dundas Street, regretting that she was late for her twelve thirty lunch. It was twenty to one, and she hated being late. She hoped Rhona had waited. Perspiration soaked the back of her T -shirt. She wished she’d thought about July’s noon heat at five in the morning, when blue jeans and a navy T -shirt had seemed right. And she should have sorted through and left behind whatever weighed down her navy polka dot handbag. She exhaled noisily when she spied Rhona sitting at a window table in Tim Hortons.
Inside, Hollis removed her aviator sunglasses, replacing them with her usual red-framed pair, blinked and waved. She marched over. “Sorry, the traffic on the 401 was brutal. It took me forever to get here.” She dropped her bags on an empty chair and sat down. They contemplated each other while they swung slightly on the swivel chairs attached to the Formicatopped table.
“I started.” Rhona gestured at her plate. “Better buy your food.”
Hollis went to get a sandwich before rejoining Rhona.
Rhona picked up her fork. “Tell me again why you’re involved?”
Hollis steepled her fingers and pressed the tips against her chin. “In first year university, Manon saved my life—I’ll always owe her.”
Rhona’s eyebrows rose.
“I won’t give you the gory details, but believe me, she did.And now her life is chaotic, and I’m helping her sort it out. Manon feels guilty because she attributed Ivan’s withdrawal togrowing up and didn’t make an effort to win his confidence. For her peace of mind, she needs to learn more about his life, but she can’t bring herself to act. She’s fragile emotionally— this isn’t a new development—she always has been. I’m prepared to research Ivan’s life, if knowing more will help her regain her stability.” She looked quizzically at Rhona. “Is Manon right when she says you think the killer may target other family members?”
“The father or the older brother may have been and may still be the target. You said you had something to tell me.”
“I noticed two things at the visitation and funeral that may be significant.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m sure you probably saw that there were only two floral arrangements because the family asked for charitable donations instead of flowers. One bouquet came from the family. The second had an unsigned card. Whoever sent it wrote, “With all our love, we will remember you forever.” No one in the family has a clue who might have sent it. Those are strong words. Someone cared a great deal. Do you know who it was from?”
Rhona nodded. “We’re way ahead of you, but no closer to an answer. According to the florist, a young woman who didn’t give her name paid cash. The florist had never seen her before. What’s the second thing?”
“A young woman...” Hollis reflected. “Maybe it was the same woman who rushed forward when the family left the reception. She wanted to speak to Curt, but he brushed her off. I almost got out and talked to her—I wish I had.”
“We missed that,” Rhona admitted. “I wonder who she was.”
Eight
Hollis felt an inane smile spread across her face when she entered studio 23 at OCAD . She inhaled the evocative odours of oil paint, linseed oil and turpentine. Students perched on grey metal stools behind three trestle tables loaded with wood panels, jars, bottles, sticks and bundles of fur. She took the last empty stool, nodded to Patel, Kate and David and surveyed the class.
Sebastien Lefebvre sat with the students.
Why was he here? Surely not to learn anything? Perhaps he’d been invited to share his expertise. But that wouldn’t happen in the first class. Very odd, but perhaps there was a simple explanation.
A cluster of easels, a slide projector on a metal cart and a dais plunked in the middle of the room indicated that Curt planned a variety of activities for his intensive three-week course.
Curt strode in, swinging a battered leather briefcase with a tooled Haida Indian motif. He’d owned this distinctive bag for years; she’d admired it when she’d been a student. Tall and elegant in polished tassel loafers, black socks, pressed chinos, black snakeskin belt and a black polo shirt, Curt didn’t introduce himself but did smile.
But only for a minute. When he saw Lefevbre, his eyes widened. An open-mouthed expression of astonishment replaced his smile. He took a deep breath as if to give himself time to decide on a course of action. He set the brief case on the floor and took a second deep breath. “Welcome to the course.”
Apparently he planned to give his regular spiel. But whatever Lefebvre was doing here, he had not consulted Curt before he appeared.
“Before I discuss what we can expect from one another, I want to apologize. I know you all received an invitation to a drinks party at my house this evening.” He paused as if considering what he would say next. “Because of...” he paused, “the circumstances, I’m postponing the evening until the end of the course.”
That was a surprise. Hollis had expected him to soldier on, but maybe he’d realized that the family couldn’t cope with a party.
“I think of myself as a mentor, a man who encourages and nurtures talent,” Curt continued.
The flip side of the coin—she’d heard him mercilessly mock and discourage aspiring artists he judged to lack promise. Never a kind man, he’d justified his behaviour as a dash of cold water designed to save mediocre artists years of frustration. She remembered Kate’s comments. Perhaps he’d changed since she’d been a student.
He glanced from student to student as if one look at each face would reveal the degree of talent this summer’s class possessed. “I don’t conduct this session in a Toronto July because I need the money. In fact, giving a course is a tremendous financial and creative sacrifice.” He allowed the impact of his words to sink in, smoothed back his unruly silver hair with long, bony fingers and leaned slightly forward. “Because galleries compete for my paintings, any time away from my easel costs me a great deal of money.” His silver eyebrows rose and his nostrils flared. “If you’re up on art news, you’ve read about Dallas and San Francisco competitively bidding for one of my paintings.” He brushed his hand through his hair again. “All this is a preamble to underline what I have to say.” He pointed to himself with his right index finger. “Since I’ve sacrificed time and money, I expect you...” he directed his finger at each student in turn, “to work to capacity to learn everything possible during the course. Now I know some of you, and some of you know each other, but we will proceed with introductions as if none of you knows me or anyone else. Please introduce yourself and give us background information about your art training and experience. I will project your slides as you speak.” He consulted a list next to the slide projector. “Kate Wong.” He flicked the switch.
A slide of a multicoloured assemblage of sticks that resembled oversize Tinker toys wired with a light focused into the interior on a tiny reproduction of a Botticelli painting.
“This is the second course I’ve taken with Professor Hartman. Right now I work as a commercial artist here in Toronto, but I will make a living and reputation as a professional artist.”
Curt clicked to a second then to a third slide. “Any comments, Kate?” he said.
“No. They should speak for themselves.”
Kate’s eyes, body and voice expressed focus and intensity. This woman had set her sights on a goal she intended to reach. There was nothing derivative about her work. Kate’s talent appeared to match her ambition.
“Where did you study?” Curt asked. “McGill.” Curt nodded approvingly and flashed a slide of a fogshrouded coast featuring menacing androgynous figures moving toward a beached boat.
“Tessa Steeves. I graduated from the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design three years ago. I live on Grand Manan Island in New Brunswick and supplement my painting income with year-round waitress work. Grand Manan is an artist’s paradise filled with kindred spirits. But it’s a long way from Toronto or Montreal. It’s even further from New York. I thought I’d better make myself known in Upper Canada.”
Her contented smile and tone of voice belied her words. Tessa might be taking the course, but Hollis suspected she didn’t give a fig about the Upper Canadian art world. She’d spend her life in New Brunswick following her own muse.
A slide featuring a small boy staring straight at the viewer was conventional but competent.
“Bert Acorn, high school math teacher by day—painter at night and on weekends. I’ve only sold a few. Maybe I’m not good enough to be here, but I had to come because I felt studying with Professor Hartman would be the opportunity of a lifetime,” he gushed.
Oh, dear, was this man, whom she judged to be in his forties like her, as diffident as he seemed? She’d witnessed what Curt could do to those who lacked confidence in themselves or their work.
Curt considered him for a moment. “And where did you study?”
“The Ottawa School of Art.”
“Ah, the school for amateurs, where teachers offer no criticism lest students become upset and withdraw, taking their cash with them,” Curt drawled.
Colour suffused Bert’s face.
The next slide initially appeared to be abstract, but a closer inspection revealed that it could be a cityscape.
“I am Patel—I have decided one name suffices. Originally from Madras, I am now a Torontonian. I share a studio on King Street and work in my uncle’s restaurant. I too have taken a previous course with Professor Hartman.”
“Patel. Yes, there are one-name artists. There’s Ottawa photographer Evergon and a few others. Your first name is long and unpronounceable—it’s a good decision.”
His remark could have sounded condescending. Instead, it validated Patel’s choice.
The next slide was as complicated as Kate’s had been. It was hard to judge scale, but it seemed to be a huge board with fragments of wood affixed randomly. Only if she stared at e
ach piece did she see that they had originally been part of a whole. She guessed it had been a reproduction of a Caravaggio.
“David Nixon. I also was enrolled in Professor Hartman’s spring semester course. I’m a fanatical west coaster. I love the sea and sailing.” He stopped like a comedian about to deliver his punch line. “But for an ocean sailor, I made the totally inexplicable decision to move from Vancouver to Toronto earlier this year. Occasionally I crew for others, but I plan to buy my own sail boat and live on it. For now I rent a place and run a carpentry business.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small packet. “These are my cards—I’m in the market for new clients.” He passed them around.
David was a chameleon. The hostility she’d seen at the funeral home was gone.
“And where did you study?”
“Off and on at Emily Carr.”
“I too attended Emily Carr.”
Her own painting of gigantic hollyhocks filled the screen. Why did she always paint everything smacked in the foreground? She’d wondered about this before and attempted to do landscapes, long vistas of distant hills, but without success. Maybe it meant she was a totally superficial person who operated in the present. “Hollis Grant. I studied here many years ago. I teach social history at Algonquin College in Ottawa. I paint as often as I can.”
Curt nodded, but he was looking at Sebastien Lefevbre. He made a slight bow to him and addressed the others. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the work of Sebastien Lefevbre. He is possibly the greatest portrait artist Canada has ever produced. Seb, I don’t know why you’re here—I can’t imagine there’s anything I can teach you.”
Lefevbre sat without saying anything until the silence became uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke. “I’m auditing the course. Curt, I haven’t painted for six months, not since my daughter, Valerie, died.” Pain filled his voice.
