Cut to the Quick

by Joan Boswell

“Fine with me. Going through Ivan’s things, I found a receipt for a storage locker in North York. I located the place in my gazeteer. It’s in an industrial park off Highway 404. You exit on Steeles. I dug around in other boxes and found a key ring. One had a cardboard tag identifying it as the storage locker key.”

  Rhona absorbed this news. Definitely worth following up on.

  The team had broadened the investigation and now considered Curt the probable target. But maybe they’d been wrong. Right or wrong, she’d check out the storage locker. She calculated she had an hour to spare. But dessert first. Murder or no murder, she wasn’t passing up raspberry tart with crème fraîche. “How did we miss it? We searched Ivan’s belongings.”

  The waitress hovered. Hollis chose a lemon concoction. Rhona opted for the tart.

  “I was secretive as a child and hid papers I didn’t want my mother to find inside or behind other things. It occurred to me Ivan might have done that too, and he did. I found the receipt behind a recipe and...”

  “And what?” Hollis had appeared to have been about to say something else then reconsidered. “Did you find other documents?”

  “No documents, but I found keys tucked in a carton of Ivan’s clothes.”

  Hollis was hiding something. Sooner or later it would come out. “It’s twelve fifteen. We’ll go after dessert.”

  * * *

  In the industrial park, they located the office. The young woman at the reception desk glanced over her shoulder but only half swung around when they entered.

  Rhona identified herself and flashed her badge. “We’re interested in locker 47,” she said.

  “Help yourselves.” The woman didn’t examine their identification. Her office chair squeaked as she wheeled back to her computer.

  Rhona peaked over her shoulder. She was playing Free Cell. So much for the pressure of work. Being a fellow aficionado, Rhona was well aware how one game led to another and gobbled up endless hours.

  They followed the path alongside the building until they reached #47. Rhona inserted the key, stepped inside and flicked on the lights. She probably should have arranged for tracking dogs. If anything struck her as odd, she’d close the door and send for them immediately. Inside, she sniffed— criminals used facilities like this to store drugs or weapons. The stale air revealed no telltale scents.

  Piles of cardboard boxes lined two walls. Unboxed tables, one upended on another, filled the room’s centre. Large oil paintings depicting Italian scenes leaned against the tables. A number retained auction house tags. They read the boxes’ labels—industrial cooking equipment, dishes, Paderno pots.

  “Everything he needed to start a restaurant,” Rhona said and saw Hollis’s eyes fill with tears.

  A file cabinet sat beside a desk with a straight chair pulled up to it. It was a mini-office. Rhona tried the drawers. “Locked,” she said, stating the obvious. She rattled the keys. “Let’s see if any of these fit.”

  One did. The first drawer held file folders. Rhona flipped through one labelled “invoices”.

  “Poor Ivan.” Hollis sounded as if she might cry. “How secretive he was. It must have taken him ages to amass this stuff at bankruptcy and auction sales. He probably dreamed of surprising the family, his father particularly, by inviting them to his restaurant’s grand opening—presenting them with a fait accompli. It breaks my heart.”

  “It is sad, but I can’t see a connection to his murder.” Rhona fanned the receipts. “I’ll have our guys verify these to make sure he didn’t keep everything secret because these are stolen goods.” She shook her head. “But everything I’ve learned about him tells me we won’t find anything like that.”

  She pulled open the next drawer. “This is where it went.”

  Hollis couldn’t see what Rhona was looking at. “What is it?”

  “Ivan’s computer. We knew he had one and couldn’t find it. Now that I see everything here, I’d guess it contains detailed information about his restaurant plans that he didn’t want his family to see. I’m glad we’ve found it—it provides one more answer. I’ll take it back and see what else is on it.”

  “I’ll tell Manon and Curt about this locker and its contents. Unless they’ve found a will, this belongs to them. The fees are paid until next summer, so they won’t have to deal with it immediately.”

  * * *

  Hollis raced into class fifteen minutes late again. She wondered if Curt had dealt with Lena’s exhibition.

  Curt ignored her entrance and continued, “…palettes the Old Masters used. Many colours are no longer available. And we’ve read about the terrible things lead white did to artists and to women who used it for makeup. Today, although we no long use lead white, we still rely on most colours used by the Old Masters. But we also have new synthetics. If you want your paintings to survive, you must pay attention to a colour’s fastness, a medium’s compatibility with specific colours and the properties of protective varnishes. Probably you’ve read about Turner knowing and disregarding those who advised him to avoid certain colours because over time they would fade or change. In fact, even in his lifetime, reds in many of his paintings altered dramatically.” He picked up a clear glass bottle half filled with amber liquid. “In Rembrandt’s time, linseed, walnut and poppy seed oils were common agents for mixing colours.” He pushed his unruly hair back from his forehead and regarded them silently for a moment. “But we’ll talk more about them another day.” He picked up a twelve by twelve panel. “Today you’ll work on oak. Rembrandt used it for his self-portrait, ‘Artist in his Studio’. Earlier artists used fig wood. We’ll experiment with his techniques and aim to achieve his level of luminosity. But first, we’ll prepare the panels and allow them to dry.” Curt waved the panel at a stand set up amidst the circle of easels.

  Hollis considered a disparate collection of mismatched china; dried flowers in a vase; heavy purple satin drapery; and several unrelated objects—a glass apple, a feather and a silver pitcher. “When your panels are ready, you’ll paint this arrangement. Later, using different grounds and materials, you’ll paint it again to illustrate varied effects.”

  What an uninspiring collection. She’d never liked painting still lifes. Thankfully, Curt hadn’t added to its authenticity by adding a dead hare or pheasant.

  While they considered his setup, he adjusted the cords on the window blinds to darken the room. At the podium, he picked up the projector control and flashed the first slide on the screen.

  “Caravaggio painted from dark to light, as most oil painters did and do. In this slide we can see...”

  “Visit Lena Kalma’s show at the Revelation Gallery on Queen Street. See Curt Hartman, a son-destroyer,” blared from outside.

  “Damn her, damn her, damn her,” Curt muttered. As if to rid himself of her influence, he shook himself like a wet dog before he returned to Caravaggio.

  Lefevbre drew continuously. He contributed nothing to the class discussion. At break, when the others prepared to troop downstairs for snacks and drinks, he stayed where he was. Hollis looked at his sketch pad. He’d drawn a likeness of Kate that radiated her vitality.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “I can’t help drawing people,” Lefevbre said apologetically. “I always carry a sketch pad.”

  “I wish I did. I’m too self-conscious. I hate it when someone peers over my shoulder.”

  “My daughter, Valerie, felt like that.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be terrible for you.”

  Lefevbre’s lips trembled. “I’ll never recover. I raised her. My wife is MFB Corporation’s comptroller. She agreed to have a baby because I wanted one and promised to care for it.” He wiped his eyes. “Sorry, more information than you wanted.”

  “If it helps to talk about your daughter, it’s okay with me. What happened to her?”

  Lefevbre briefly summarized the accident. He gazed at her fixedly. “You’re a friend of Curt’s?”

  “His wife, Manon, has been my friend for many
years.”

  “Does she know about Curt?”

  “Know what?”

  “He’s a womanizer.”

  Did Manon? An interesting question, given that Curt had left Lena to marry Manon. Did Manon think she’d been the last? It wasn’t something they’d ever talked about. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Someone should tell her. Maybe she’d leave him. Cause him pain.”

  How to respond? She was out of her depth.

  He leaned toward her, lowered his voice and told her about Valerie’s unsuccessful attempt to secure a third trimester abortion. “Tell her Valerie’s story—open her eyes.” He rose and stomped out.

  Exactly what Manon didn’t need—she certainly wouldn’t repeat Lefevbre’s story. She hurried downstairs and arrived to hear Kate talking.

  “Do you suppose she’ll come by every day the show’s on?” She pushed her ring-encrusted hands through her spiky hair and made herself look again like an enraged porcupine.

  “Probably. She’s obsessed, determined to damage him,” Bert said.

  “I’d be scared shitless about my safety, my house and my family if it happened to me.” Kate widened her eyes behind her round black-rimmed glasses. “She came across as totally crazy.”

  “I agree. I’d worry about family too. You can always replace ‘things’, but not people. She strikes me as ‘an eye for an eye’ person,” Patel said.

  “Many wronged people seek vengeance—it’s a natural reaction,” David said.

  Bert scowled. “I agree. If she holds Curt responsible for their son’s death, I bet she wants to hurt his new wife and their child. That would be perfect revenge, wouldn’t it?”

  Hollis shivered.

  “She doesn’t look like a woman who’d have a gun. Actually, I don’t know anyone who has a gun. Unless she ran them over in the street, she wouldn’t attack them outside. But she might sneak into the house and do something awful. I don’t know what, but she looks like a woman who would have ideas. But she’d have to get in to do that, and they must have a security system,” Bert said.

  “They do. When I was there last week, MacTee and I tried creeping out for an early morning walk and set it off,” Hollis said. “Believe me, it woke everyone in two seconds.”

  “Cool. Maybe she wouldn’t go after the family. Maybe she’d attack Curt. Didn’t I read in ARTnews about a separate studio next to the house?” Kate said.

  “Yes, above their garage. It’s a big space upstairs with amazing skylights. There are electronic controls to open them or control shades sandwiched between the glass.”

  She smiled, thinking about Etienne camped out, gazing up at the stars. “Etienne, his eleven-year-old, loves astronomy. Actually, he and a couple of buddies plan to camp there tonight and stargaze.”

  “They did a photo shoot of his studio in Canadian Artist. You know the kind of article I mean—how to duplicate the studio space of the rich and famous. As if we could. I feel lucky to set up in a corner of the living room or the kitchen,” Bert said. “The amazing thing was that there weren’t many paintings in the studio.”

  “There never are. Only the one or two paintings he’s working on at any given time are there. He has a cartage company collect the others and take them off to humidity and light-controlled storage.”

  “Why?” Kate said.

  “I wondered. Most artists stack canvases around their studios and work on them periodically until they’re happy. I asked him how come he shipped his away so soon. He said he didn’t like to second-guess himself. When his gut feeling said ‘done’, he called the company and bundled the painting off before he changed his mind.”

  “Do you suppose he ever sees his paintings in a show and regrets his decision?” Kate said.

  “I asked him that too. He laughed and said he didn’t go in for regrets.”

  “I wonder if he applies that philosophy to the rest of his life,” David said, raising his eyebrows. “If he does it’s a great way to get by—‘no regrets’, ‘what’s done is done’ etc. etc. Live for today. Leave your mistakes behind and move on—very Buddhist, very Zen—live for the moment.”

  Nineteen

  It was almost five when Hollis returned from class. She collected MacTee and Etienne and shepherded them outside. She studied Etienne. “Why the long face?”

  “They can’t come.”

  Hollis ran previous conversations through her mind. This was Thursday, the night two boys from Etienne’s astronomy group planned to stargaze.

  “Why not?”

  “Their parents said to say it was because they had to do something else that their parents had forgotten about. Ronnie told me the real reason. His mother thought it was dangerous to come to our house.” He sighed. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  “Nothing is ever the same from one day to the next. That’s life. But it will get better. I promise.”

  Etienne’s expression didn’t change—clearly he wasn’t convinced.

  “I don’t suppose I’d do.” Here was a perfect opportunity to do something positive. Not only that, she might surprise herself and find the heavens fascinating. Etienne paused. Two years earlier, he probably would have thrown his arms around her waist and nearly knocked her off her feet. Now he contented himself with a big grin.

  “Cool. You want pizza for a snack, don’t you?”

  “I certainly do. I never pass up a chance for pizza.”

  “What kind do you like?”

  “I’m not fussy—black olives, sun-dried tomatoes, artichokes—feta.”

  Etienne’s nose wrinkled. “We could order a large with different things on each half. I like double cheese and bacon.”

  “Done. What time?”

  “Nine.” Etienne quick-stepped beside Hollis. “I’m staying up the whole night.”

  “MacTee and I will learn a thing or two. We’ll keep you company for a while, but I can guarantee I won’t last all night.”

  They reached the “dogs off leash” area. Arthur’s threat echoed in her mind. She scrutinized the ground. When she saw no litter, she decided Etienne could keep MacTee busy enough with the ball to prevent him from finding or eating any garbage.

  “Etienne, you throw it. You’re the baseball player. You have a stronger arm than I do. You can toss it further. We’ll pocket it if it’s too disgusting.”

  “I don’t mind some slime.” Etienne pulled his arm back behind his head, wound up like a professional and heaved the ball.

  Back at the house after supper, Hollis hoisted a carryall of provisions over her shoulder and tucked two rolled sleeping bags under her arm. Etienne lugged his impressive telescope and tripod. MacTee, sniffing interesting smells and wagging his tail like a banner, preceded them through the studio door. Upstairs, the last daylight rays angled down through the skylights.

  “Pretty neat place, isn’t it?” Etienne set up his telescope under a skylight before he flopped into the denim-covered chair on wheels. He propelled himself in a big arc coming back to the telescope. “Did you know that this,” he pointed at it, “this is an old-fashioned way to look at stars?”

  “What’s the modern way?”

  “To use a computer. You load a stargazing program and connect it to the telescope. You type in what you want to see and the computer aligns it for you. Pretty cool, eh? My grandmaman says it takes the fun away from stargazing. She says you should be as familiar with the heavens as you are with your own neighbourhood.” He wheeled around in another circle. “And did you know you measure space between stars or planets with your fingers?” He braked in front of Hollis. “Are you hungry? Should we order the pizza?”

  It seemed like two minutes since dinner, but this was Etienne’s night, and he wanted it now.

  “Let’s.”

  Etienne reached into his pocket and pulled out a flyer folded around several bills. “Here—it’s Paola’s Pizza menu. Maman and I think it’s Toronto’s best. They make really, really, really good pizza.”

 
The order was placed and delivery promised within fortyfive minutes. Etienne trotted down to the garage and retrieved two air mattresses he’d lugged over and inflated earlier in the day. He dragged them upstairs. MacTee, tail in continuous motion, followed him.

  “MacTee must need to go out. I’ll take him.” Etienne reached for the leash draped over the stair railing.

  “It’s almost dark. You shouldn’t go alone. After we’ve eaten, we’ll take him for a quick walk.” Hollis expected Etienne, like most eleven-year-olds, to assert his independence, but he didn’t protest. Arthur had spooked him.

  After the pizza arrived, they settled cross-legged on their sleeping bags. MacTee, watching every mouthful, planted himself next to Etienne. A long saliva string formed at the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t give him any,” Hollis said.

  “He looks hungry.”

  “He’s not. It upsets his stomach. Please don’t feed him.”

  Etienne sighed. “Sorry, MacTee, gotta do what the boss says.”

  Their snack finished, Hollis snapped the leash on MacTee’s collar. In the laneway, she glanced to the right, where a streetlight’s beam cast light and thought someone stepped quickly into the shadows, as if he or she didn’t want to be seen. Had she imagined it? Was she as spooked as the rest of the family?

  Should she call the police? What would she say? She’d seen someone step back into the shadows. Not enough information. But she wouldn’t go that way. Instead she headed to Parliament Street’s crowds. After an uneventful walk, they trooped back upstairs, where they organized themselves for the night. They both had flashlights.

  “I’ll open the skylight. Because of Toronto’s lights, we’ll only see the brightest ones,” Etienne said. “Ready?”

  Hollis followed Etienne’s celestial guide, and they spotted the brightest stars, despite the glowing city lights. After more than an hour, Etienne’s commentary slowed and stopped.

  “Etienne,” Hollis whispered. She received no response. MacTee’s snores had punctuated the studio’s quiet soon after they’d returned from their walk. Hollis, who’d been aware for some time of increasing hordes of mosquitoes zeroing in to feast on her exposed skin, crept out of her sleeping bag and closed the skylight.