by Joan Boswell
“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.”
“Ivan used the same system to hide things that I did as a kid. The police probably weren’t expecting to find anything and didn’t make a thorough search. Where are his keys?”
“Keys? I dumped all Ivan’s things in the boxes.”
“I’ll do a quick rummage through the cartons.”
But before she searched, she thought she’d run through a few more files and look for other surprises. In “cakes and pastrie
s” she stopped at “Sweetheart Cake”. She thought the recipe bulged slightly more than it should, slid her hand underneath and extracted a photo.
The girl was beautiful, even squinting with the sun in her eyes. She could have been a model. She had long, dark hair, classically proportioned features and a radiant smile. She looked familiar—perhaps she was a model, perhaps she’d seen the face on a billboard or in an ad in Fashion magazine.
Hollis turned the photo over and read, “for Ivan, all my love, Penny”.
Penny—she remembered the conversation with Etienne. Ivan had said they couldn’t name a dog Penny. Now she knew why. A girlfriend? And a beautiful one at that—this wasn’t what she’d expected to find. How would Hollis locate her without a surname? She yanked the card with names and numbers from her notebook, but it revealed only one name beginning with “p”, the unpleasant Patsy. She made a snap decision. She’d tell Rhona about the locker, but not about the girl until she’d found and talked to her. If Penny hadn’t contacted the family or the police, she hadn’t wanted them to find her. Hollis wanted to know why.
Not a model—the girl at the funeral. The one who’d waited outside and tried to speak to Curt? Hollis examined the photo. It had been a quick glimpse on a rainy day, but it could have been.
She had to find Penny. Vincent might know. The phone rang until his answering service kicked in. She left a message.
Trotting through the park later with MacTee, she grabbed for her ringing cell phone. It was Vincent.
“I have something to ask. Have you met Ivan’s friend Penny?”
“Penny Pappadopoulos. Sure. She and Ivan took Italian. I think they dated but kept it quiet.”
“Why?”
“I’m not positive, but in the fall Penny was pretty tight with a Greek guy in our course. A big tough guy. Apparently he took it hard when Penny broke up with him. I think he’d have been pretty pissed if he found out Penny had replaced him with Ivan, who was generally considered to be a nerd. I’m pretty sure he would have given Ivan a hard time if he’d known. Don’t quote me, but that’s what I figure.”
“I don’t suppose you remember his name?” She was holding her breath.
“Mike, John—I’m sorry, I don’t, but if you find Penny, she’ll tell you.”
It must feel like this when the one-armed bandit bling, bling, blings. The jackpot—she’d hit the jackpot. Penny, the beautiful girl, Ivan’s girlfriend. And a jilted boyfriend. At last she’d identified someone who had reason to sabotage the bike.
“How did you find out?”
“I saw them together at a restaurant in Mississauga— obviously way off the beaten path. I was there with my aunt.”
“You don’t think anyone else knew?”
“No one ever said.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me where Penny lives?”
“Somewhere over on the Danforth—that’s the cultural centre for Greek people in Toronto.”
She’d call every Pappadopoulos in the book. It was more important to make those calls than to make it for lunch. Two calls yielded nothing.
“Penny Pappadopoulos—who wants to know?”
Paydirt. The low, guttural and heavily accented voice could have belonged to a man or a woman.
“It concerns the college.” Hollis crossed her fingers. It was close to the truth.
“She don’t go there no more, and she never should have. She’s at work.”
“Could I reach her there?”
“No. The restaurant is busy—no time for talking,” the voice said and hung up.
A restaurant. Cooking. Hollis wrote Penny’s address and telephone number down. She’d keep trying until she connected with her.
Eighteen
Rhona's Thursday morning was busy. She’d agreed to meet Hollis again, although she doubted she’d hear anything new. It would have been more productive to eat with Zee Zee. They worked well together, bouncing ideas back and forth like tennis balls in a rally, but Hollis had invited her for an early lunch at the Art Gallery of Ontario and promised wonderful salads and delicious desserts. And no Frank looming up to spy on her.
“How are things at the Hartmans’?” Rhona asked, once the waiter had poured their water and supplied menus.
“Terrible and declining rapidly.” Hollis pushed both hands through her hair. The curls snapped back in place.
Rhona wished her hair behaved like that.
“Where to begin?” Hollis interlocked her fingers, leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hands and gave Rhona the details. “Manon is afraid for Etienne. He’s eleven, you know. Kids are so damn vulnerable. She’s frantic that Ivan’s murder will push him over the edge and make him a depressive like her.”
“Is he depressed?”
“He’s upset.” Hollis unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap. “If he wasn’t, there’d be something wrong with him. But, generally, he’s pretty cheery. He hasn’t withdrawn. He plays baseball and soccer and attends an astronomy day camp. If appetite measures your mental state, he’s doing fine. Sometimes he seems terribly sad, but that’s okay, considering he’s lost his brother, his mother’s upset and his father’s waiting for heart surgery. You can bet Etienne’s frightened his father will die. On top of everything else, SOHD ’s opponents harass the family with threatening calls.” She looked surprised. “Given what’s happened, he’s amazingly cheerful.”
“It’s illegal to do that. They should have filed a complaint. They don’t need to put up with it.” Perhaps they’d find the Hartmans’ number when they went over Allie Jones’s and Barney’s phone records.
“The calls come sporadically. The family keeps hoping they’ll stop.”
“Hard for an eleven-year-old to cope with everything. Doesn’t he have grandparents he could stay with?”
The waitress took their order.
“Just one—Manon’s mother. He’s visiting her later in the summer. Meanwhile, Manon’s terrified something else may happen and keeps him on a short leash.”
“I don’t blame her. They should take the anti SOHD bunch seriously.” Rhona drummed her fingers on the table. “Hasn’t Curt considered what his high-profile advocacy is doing to his family?”
“It’s an obsession. I don’t think he gives a damn. What effect do you think it will have?”
“Aside from the pain Etienne already feels, consider how his friends probably reacted to his brother’s murder and Curt’s SOHD endorsement.” Rhona raised her hand and pointed a finger at Hollis. “Murder would scare and fascinate Etienne’s classmates. When you’re eleven, you may lose your grandparents, maybe a parent, but seldom a sibling and not by murder. It’s scary. Kids worry about bad things being contagious. Think about adults and how they avoid divorcing couples because they’re afraid their unhappiness will spread.”
“I don’t agree. In my experience, everyone doesn’t desert you when something terrible happens. I do think the happilymarried avoid divorcing couples, but I don’t think it’s fear of contagion. Couples like that are tense, and they fight—no one wants to be with them.” Hollis’s napkin slid from her knee, and she scrambled under the table to retrieve it.
Rhona leaned across the table. “You could be right. But SOHD —that’s another story altogether. Many kids develop allergies, asthma, wear glasses or have more serious diseases by the time they’re eleven.” She lowered her voice. “Etienne’s friends will make the connection. They will wonder if they might not have been born if their parents had received genetic testing.”
“When I was a kid, I read articles about diseases in my mother’s Reader’s Digest and immediately interpreted any minor symptoms I felt as an indication I had the ‘disease of the month’.”
“Me too.”
They grinned at one another. The waitress brought their salads, offered pepper and left them to continue their conversation.
“Etienne knows his mother suffers from depression and anxiety and sees a psychiatrist regularly. He’s probably aw
are his grandfather died in suspicious circumstances—he’s buried in unconsecrated ground. I hope Etienne doesn’t think he wouldn’t have been born if SOHD had existed back then,” Hollis said.
“Why did Curt involve himself with them?”
“Who knows? I’m not a psychologist, but I’d guess it might be identified as anxiety or guilt transference.”
“Whatever. Curt seems oblivious to what he’s doing to Etienne and his wife.” Rhona chopped the chicken in her Caesar salad into smaller pieces and popped one small morsel in her mouth. “I presume that’s it—there can’t be more.” Rhona’s voice had risen a bit. The elderly couple at the next table, who appeared to have run out of conversation years before, stared at her with interest.
“You’ve heard about Lena’s show.”
“I visited it before closing time last night.” Rhona leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Hollis. “Something affecting you happened there.”
“Shoot.”
“I hope shooting won’t have anything to do with it,” Rhona said. “Lena Kalma and I overheard a conversation between a woman and a man who was a lawyer. The woman said Lena was totally crazy and would stop at nothing to ruin Curt. Lena barged in and said Curt, his wife and you would have to pay. ‘Out of control’ and ‘oblivious to consequences’, those are the terms I’d use to describe her.”
“Thanks for warning me. She’s one scary woman, and I certainly will avoid antagonizing her, although I do want to question her about Ivan. Anyway I’ll deal with that when I have to. Right now I have new information for you.”
Rhona chewed an extra large romaine lettuce leaf and wished she’d cut it in half. “What is it?”
“I’ll trade the information for your promise to take me along when you check it out.”
“A ride-along.” Rhona considered Hollis. “It depends on whether I think it’ll be dangerous. Even if I don’t, you’ll have to sign a release and wear a Kevlar vest.”
The waitress removed their plates and left dessert menus.
