by Joan Boswell
Lefevbre had disappeared down a rabbit hole in his mind.
He roused. “What?”
She repeated the question.
“No idea.”
“It’s important.”
His gaze roamed the room as if he might find the answer hidden behind a candlestick or tucked under a table. Hard to imagine this man painting lively, engaging, psychologically penetrating portraits of everyone from Pierre Trudeau to Pamela Wallin.
“Do you have a date book, a calendar, a Blackberry...”
“I had a date book. I can’t find it. Maybe Lindsay can tell you.”
“Lindsay?”
“Lindsay Inkster—my wife. The conptroller of MFB Corporation and mother of my darling Valerie.” His gaze moved erratically, as if he was searching for the two women.
“Where do you think you were? It isn’t that long ago. We need the information.”
Lefebvre’s face closed. “I told you, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I only know that Valerie’s dead, and I want her killer, not the SUV driver, her real killer, punished.”
A man with one thing on his mind, an all-consuming obsession.
“It’s important. Try to remember. Call us if you do. And please go to the nearest police station for fingerprinting.” Rhona extracted a card from her bag. “I’ll call tomorrow to find out if you’ve found the date book.” She removed a pen. “Please give me your wife’s work number.”
After a long pause, Lefevbre spoke. “She’s at their Vancouver office.” He dug the number out of his memory.
Outside, Rhona paused on the stoop and exhaled the stale air of the house. She breathed deeply. Toronto’s air sparkled in contrast to the musty, sorrow-laced stagnation of Lefebvre’s home. His anger ran deep and dark. “Can you visualize him sneaking along Winchester Street to cut Ivan’s brakes?”
“Maybe—can you?” Zee Zee replied.
“Yes, I can. I have to attend to a couple of things first. I’ll make the call when I get home. Vancouver is three hours behind us, and that will be about right.”
Eight o’clock; Rhona shut her apartment door behind her. Time to make a martini. She sighed. Not quite yet. She had to phone Lindsay Inkster.
Opie wound round her legs, grovelling shamelessly as if he hadn’t eaten for days.
“You’re substituting food for love,” Rhona said sternly. “I do it too. We’ll both end up lonely roly-poly butter balls.” She cranked the can opener around the top of his cat food tin and spooned a portion into Opie’s dish. He ignored it and continued to wind himself around her ankles. When she returned to the living room, he followed her. She sank into her high-end sofa. This was one splurge she’d never regretted; she enjoyed the enveloping softness of down-filled cushions. “Come and sit on my knee while I make a phone call. It’ll do us both good.”
Opie regarded her steadily. He looked as if he understood and was weighing his options. Having made his decision, he leaped up, arched his back, waved his tail in her face and settled on her knees, kneading with his paws.
She stroked him with one hand and punched in the Vancouver number.
“Lindsay Inkster.”
Rhona identified herself. “Could you tell us where your husband was on Sunday evening, June 26th? He says he can’t find his date book and thought you might know. Were you home?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Ivan Hartman.”
“I can’t imagine why you think Seb would be involved, but I’m sure he has nothing to hide. Hang on, I’ll check.” A pause. “My Blackberry puts me in the Philippines, to be precise at the Royal Hotel in Manila. Sorry, I can’t help. My poor Seb has lost his date book and everything else except his obsession with Valerie’s death. I mean, she was my daughter too, and I’m carrying on. You have to move on, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do that. You can’t believe he had anything to do with Curt’s son’s murder? But that must be why you want this information.” She sounded incredulous. Rhona visualized the woman shaking her head. “Listen to me. Poor dear Seb doesn’t need police harassment. He needs help, not accusations.”
“If you can find his day book, we’d appreciate it.”
“And what will that prove? Since I was in Manila, he probably spent the evening alone. He hardly ever goes out, never meets his friends. I’m worried sick about him. I wish I could stay home more—maybe I could distract him, help him find his way out of his black hole. But I can’t. We’re in the middle of a huge project. But you don’t need to know that.” She sighed. “I’ll find it, but it won’t make any difference. You must have better suspects.”
Rhona wished they did.
In her tiny kitchen, she prepared the perfect martini, opened the door to her balcony and drifted out, drink in hand. She’d chosen this end apartment because one side overlooked a distant Lake Ontario and the other faced a lane lined with towered maples. Their greenness soothed and cooled.
Months since her arrival, unpacked boxes and excess furniture still cluttered the apartment. Immersed in her first case, she needed a tidy serene refuge—this wasn’t it. Time to make a serious effort. She’d start tonight. Pull on her jeans. Unpack the boxes and sort the books. Assemble the two IKEA bookcases still in their cartons. IKEA directions sometimes made her feel like an idiot—like a primate would feel when confronted with a box requiring a tool. Never mind. She’d done it before, and she could do it again. She visualized the white Billy bookcases with neatly aligned books interspersed with interesting bibelots adding colour and personality to the messy apartment.
Such a lot of work. Maybe not tonight.
Back in the kitchen, she zapped a dinner and flipped it onto a plate. What an extraordinary colour. Nothing in the real world except maybe a gaudy sunset came close. It did not pass go but went straight in the garbage. Time for comfort food. She opened the freezer, replaced the vodka bottle and considered the merits of praline, strawberry or vanilla ice cream before she chose vanilla. A rattle through the cutlery drawer located a small demitasse spoon. When she ate ice cream with a tiny spoon, it prolonged the joy. She dropped The African Queen into the DVD player and curled up on the sofa. Her hands cradled a cereal bowl filled with ice cream, topped with chocolate sauce and a maraschino cherry.
But the movie didn’t do its job.
Cutting the brakes. What a terrible way to plan to kill someone. First he’d pump. Nothing would happen. He wouldn’t believe it. He’d cut the gas. If he was on an incline, the bike would accelerate. He might think about jumping off, but he wouldn’t have time. She shivered. A killer targeted his victim for many reasons—a robbery gone wrong, self-defense, fear of disclosure. But this was premeditated murder designed to maximize the victim’s suffering, to give him time to realize what was about to happen. Whoever had done it had judged the size of cut that allowed fluid to leak slowly and not leave a noticeable puddle. He’d been brazen and sabotaged the brakes under street lights on a public thoroughfare. She hoped the fingerprints they’d taken from the parking pad were those of the killer— evidence not strong enough to convict but certainly enough to sway a jury.
She thought about the suspects. Sebastien Lefevbre, Olivero Ciccio, the SOHD opponents, Arthur White and Lena Kalma. Could it be a Greek tragedy, a Shakespearean tragedy? If Lena had intended to kill Curt then learned she’d killed her son, wouldn’t she want to avenge her son’s death?
Ten
After she’d called Rhona to report on Lefevbre’s presence in class and his confrontation with Curt, Hollis worked her way down her shopping list. She thought about Curt and Valerie while she bought dog shampoo, dental floss and expensive coloured pencils. What was it with Curt? Had Lena also been pregnant when she and Curt married? Did he have a thing about procreation—a need to father children? Psychologists must have written weighty tomes about men like Curt.
She miscalculated how long her shopping would take. Puffing along Winchester Street, she checked her watch, hoping it would reass
ure her that she wasn’t as late as she thought she was. It offered no such assurance. With her shoulders squared, she took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in her stomach and tension in her shoulders.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hartman, I’m glad to catch you. I’m recruiting volunteers to canvass for the United Way.” The speaker, a middle-aged woman, blocked the sidewalk. The woman’s flowered summer dress, bouffant hair-do and kohlrimmed eyes had characterized women in the sixties. Perfume, applied with a heavy hand, enveloped her. Blue Grass—Hollis remembered this scent from her childhood when her mother had used it. At one time, the woman must have been stunning; now she was a caricature of bygone days.
Hollis couldn’t pass unless she shoved the woman aside.
“I’m not Mrs. Hartman.” And Manon wasn’t Mrs. Hartman either—she’d retained her maiden name, Dumont.
“But she lives here?”
Hollis was late and didn’t want to talk. “Excuse me.” She edged around the woman and headed up the path.
“I wanted to enlist her help to recruit for the United Way,” the woman called after her.
The front door banged open. “You’re here. We’ve been waiting for you.” Etienne bounded down the steps. MacTee loped after him with his tail waving like a metronome pacing a very fast piece of music.
Etienne promised to become a handsome man. He would combine his mother’s dark hair, brown eyes and chiselled features with his father’s height and bone structure. Hollis reached to hug him, but Etienne stuck out his hand. He’d crossed the divide between an easily embraceable little kid and a young man who bestowed his hugs more judiciously.
“Not a good time, I can see,” the woman said. She pivoted and stalked away.
“Maman, Papa and Tomas are in the garden.”
“Hollis is here,” Etienne announced when they rounded the corner.
Curt and Tomas, examining a chart spread out on the glass-topped garden table, looked up. Manon rose. She reminded Hollis of a Whistler painting, a woman with perfect porcelain skin and regal bearing. With her dark hair pulled back from her oval face and fastened at the nape of her neck, she could have passed for a nineteenth century gentlewoman.
When they embraced, Hollis felt how little flesh covered Manon’s ribs. Stepping back, she noted that her friend’s sundress hung loosely, and her collar and chest bones jutted aggressively. The trials of the last weeks had taken a physical and mental toll.
Sometimes she wished she resembled the Manons of this world. They gave up eating when unhappiness or tension overwhelmed them. Hollis guiltily recalled the grocery carts of shortbread cookies, toasted coconut doughnuts and creamfilled chocolates she’d eaten in tense times. Now, to prevent weight escalation, she steeled herself to avert her eyes from pastry shop windows and avoid the cookie aisle in the supermarket. And she tried to maintain a jogging regimen. Sometimes, if she’d held steady for weeks, she rewarded herself with one cookie or one doughnut. It wasn’t easy.
Hollis hugged Curt and Tomas.
“I’m sorry I’m late. It isn’t much of an excuse, but it’ll take me weeks to learn to cope with Toronto distances and traffic.”
“No need to apologize, we eat later in summertime,” Curt said.
“You need a few minutes to unwind and decompress,” Manon said. “How about a cool drink before dinner?”
Manon spoke in an easy voice but looked as if taut elastics that threatened to snap at any moment held her features in place. With raised shoulders, she hunched forward like a boxer pinned to the ropes, anticipating body blows and shielding herself.
It hurt Hollis to look at her. That much tension must do terrible things to a person’s metabolism. She resolved to locate a good spa. Soon she’d treat Manon and herself to an afternoon of massage and pampering. She could imagine the massage therapist tut-tutting when her hands encountered the rock hard knots in Manon’s muscles.
Manon led them across the flagstone patio to a grouping of teak, brassbound deck chairs with comfortable-looking green and white striped cushions. Large, square white wooden planters overflowing with silver grey licorice plants separated the chairs.
Tomas, tall, tan and dark-haired, folded the chart. He smiled at Hollis. “You’ll excuse me. Dad and I didn’t know whether to get back to our regular life, but we decided it would be better for us if we did. We were planning a weekend sailing race. But I have to go.” He passed his half-brother and cuffed him gently. “You take care of that dog.”
Etienne’s grin revealed his love for Tomas.
Curt, showing none of Manon’s physical stress, sauntered to a chaise lounge and sank into the cushions. Slightly offbalance, he reached for a nearby teak table to steady himself. The table wobbled and threatened to topple an uneven stack of magazines crowned with reading glasses. He grabbed for the glasses, perched them on his nose and smiled at Hollis.
Hollis returned his smile, chose an adjoining lounge and waited for Manon to sit down.
She didn’t. Instead she restlessly straightened a cushion, picked dead leaves from potted plants, and bent to wrest weeds from cracks between the patio stones. MacTee didn’t settle either. While he paced, his nails clicked a tattoo, his tongue hung out and he panted.
Curt, ignoring his restless wife, pointed to the path that wound through artful plantings of shade-loving perennials and ended at the two-storey carriage house. “Hollis, I didn’t invite you to visit my studio when you were here before. As a matter of fact, I can count on my fingers the number of visitors I’ve had.” He drew the fingers of one hand down his chin, smoothing a non-existent beard. “Since you’re an old friend, I’m making an exception.” He produced a tight, smug smile.
She knew she was supposed to appreciate this honour, but he irked her. The confrontation between Lefevbre and Curt was colouring her attitude. She wondered how Curt could carry on as if it had never taken place. That was irrational, as surely she hadn’t expected him to come home and discuss Valerie’s pregnancy and death with Manon.
“It’s always interesting to see an artist’s working space. I love studio tours.” Her emphasis on “studio” would annoy him. He wouldn’t like being lumped in with the art world proletariat who used studio tours to publicize their work. God, she had barely arrived, and she was being ungracious. Why should Manon and Etienne suffer because she resented Curt’s attitude. Enough. Curt and Manon didn’t need a snotty house guest. She injected warmth and enthusiasm into her voice. “Thanks. I’ll enjoy every minute.”
If Curt had any idea how Hollis felt, he didn’t show it. “The gravel was Manon’s idea. She wanted it to resemble garden paths in France—our own Petit Trianon.” He sniffed. “She failed to consider that we live in Canada, not France. Gravel is a mistake. Impossible to shovel in the winter.”
“It’s a lovely garden, and it feels ten degrees cooler,” Hollis said.
Manon ignored Curt’s remark and offered a choice of cold drinks.
MacTee stopped directly in front of Hollis. He stared fixedly at her and gave a single low woof. Hollis had assumed that sometime during the day, someone would have taken him out. Whether they had or not, his message was clear.
“Lemonade, but it will have to wait—MacTee’s desperate for a walk.”
“Poor dog, of course he is. I should have taken him,” Manon said. She shifted her gaze to Etienne, who glared at her. “Etienne wanted to, but I...”
“Wouldn’t let him out of your sight.” Curt finished the sentence. “You overprotect him—treat him like a baby.”
What was this about? Before Ivan’s funeral, Hollis had noticed how grown-up and responsible Etienne had acted. Manon had bragged of his independence.
Manon ignored her husband’s jibe. “I’ll show you the park,” she volunteered. “Etienne, while we’re gone, will you bring out glasses, cookies, a bucket of ice and the pitcher of lemonade. And the set of keys on the kitchen counter.”
Etienne stroked MacTee’s back. He scrunched his lips in disappointment but nodded h
is agreement.
Shoulders hunched and head thrust forward, Manon left the garden. She halted abruptly at the front of the house.
Hollis, unprepared for her sudden stop, nearly crashed into her. She hauled on MacTee’s leash to brake his charge for the grassy verge.
Manon peered up and down the street. “It’s okay,” she said. Her shoulders relaxed. She repeated, “It’s okay.”
“What’s okay?” Hollis asked. She waited for an answer and allowed MacTee’s flexi-leash to extend to its limit. Awash in new scents, he sniffed his way from bush to post to bush.
“Nothing,” Manon said.
“Come on. You didn’t stop like you were about to fall off the edge of the earth for nothing.”
“Did I tell you about Arthur White?”
“No, but I know he was Curt’s agent and ran the Starship gallery. I read that he hated the accusations Curt made against him in last year’s biography. I met him years ago, but I don’t remember him.”
“He’s short and has white fuzzy hair. He’s suing Curt for libel. I stopped because he sometimes hangs around. Don’t worry if he says something nasty to you. He’s harmless.”
“Now that you describe him, I do remember seeing him standing outside when I went for a run the day Ivan died. You don’t sound convinced that he’s harmless.”
“I’m not. But I find monsters everywhere. I’m trying to think positively, to consider Curt’s troubles with Arthur as his problem.”
Hollis hadn’t acknowledged her own tension until they left the garden. A knot between her shoulder blades, her clenched jaw and slight feeling of nausea provided ample evidence. She considered her body’s reaction and wondered if she’d be more help to Manon if she didn’t stay with them. Maybe she and MacTee should retreat to a motel each evening. It would give her the opportunity to recharge her batteries and regain her equilibrium. Maybe Manon would agree.
“It’s great to be here, but I worry about our stay. You’re contending with a lot. No matter how many times you’ve said it’s okay, three weeks is a long time for house guests, especially when one of them is a dog.” With her free hand, Hollis grasped Manon’s arm. “Say the word, and we’ll book into a motel. I’ll totally understand.”
