by Joan Boswell
No matter what happened, Curt wouldn’t teach today. She phoned the college and left a message guaranteed to disappoint her fellow artists. Artists tended to be single-minded.
Artists. She thought of Lena. Had her passion led her to attempt to kill Curt and end up murdering her son? Did Tomas have enemies they didn’t know about? Had the arsonist intended to kill Curt, Etienne or her? She shivered. Who had been the saboteur’s target?
She couldn’t find a motive, but what about means? That wasn’t hard. Cutting the brakes required minimal knowledge—nothing complicated. Setting a fire and making a hole in a wooden boat hull didn’t require muscle or special knowledge. A man or woman of any age could have committed all three crimes.
Opportunity. Who had all three? She reviewed the list. She scratched Arthur; he hadn’t risen from his hospital bed to punch a hole in the boat. One after another, she eliminated suspects, until finally she arrived at a name that shocked her.
Twenty-Nine
The phone rang. The harbour police at first light had found an unconscious young man, whose lifejacket had kept him afloat, and plucked him from Lake Ontario. They assumed it was Tomas. Would someone come and identify him?
Hollis couldn’t phone Curt—he didn’t have a cell phone. David’s had been in his pocket when the boat had sunk. He had intended to replace it later in the day. Nothing for it— she’d have to go to the hospital herself. Should she call Manon? No, not until she made sure it was Tomas and learned his prognosis. She headed for the hospital.
Nursing staff surrounded the young man, still unconscious and inches from death. The room was filled with machines and staff as they worked to restore his core temperature. They allowed Hollis to view him and confirm that it was Tomas.
“Because he’s young and healthy, he should recover, but it will be touch and go,” a young intern said. “His life jacket kept him floating—his youth and vitality kept him alive.”
His life jacket—but he hadn’t worn one. That was a mystery, but they’d hear the explanation when Tomas regained consciousness. He would; she knew he would. Hadn’t the doctor said he was young and strong? She’d rush home to wait for Curt and to call Manon.
Her euphoria faded. Before she did that, she had a more important call to make. If her speculations were right, she knew the killer’s identity, but not why or whom he’d intended to kill.
Upstairs, she called Rhona, who was “in the office but on another line”. Should she call back or leave a message? It wasn’t an option—she considered her words carefully. She didn’t want to make an unfounded accusation, but if she was right, Rhona needed to know.
* * *
“They’ve picked up Tomas Hartman, and I had to hear it on the radio. He’s alive, but barely,” Zee Zee shouted at Rhona when both detectives emerged from their cars in the basement parking garage. They race-walked toward the elevator. “Why the hell didn’t someone phone us last night after the accident happened? You’d think the Harbour Police might have made a connection or two. I’d say it was a conspiracy, but more likely it was plain stupidity.”
Rhona sent an officer to pick up the security tapes from the RCYC. Zee Zee phoned and learned they’d located the sunken boat with sonar and would send divers down later in the day. Rhona called the hospital, made several inquiries and hung up.
“He’s suffering from hypothermia and hallucinating. He drifts in and out of consciousness. Hollis has identified him. His father and the other guy in the accident, David Nixon, were out with the search boats, but not in the one that picked him up. They’re on their way home.”
After she shuffled through her in basket, Rhona held up a file. “The fingerprint info is finally here.” Simultaneously she opened the file and checked her phone messages.
“It’s Hollis. Come to the house. I’ve connected the dots. I don’t believe what I found, but if I’m right the killer is… No, I’m not even going to say it until you hear how I figured out who it is.”
She hadn’t said what time it was when she called. Rhona whipped over to Zee Zee’s desk waving the file. “Never mind what you’re doing. Let’s go. Hollis has fingered the killer. If she confronts whoever it is, she’ll endanger herself. We have to stop her before she does something stupid.”
Thirty
As she finished her message, Hollis heard the front door open downstairs. MacTee, who considered himself off duty because he’d risen early, paid no attention and continued to snore. She stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. About to shout her good news, she stopped when she heard David speaking.
“Do you know who I am?”
Strange question. Of course Curt knew who he was.
“You don’t, do you? Does the name Rita Brown mean anything to you?”
“Rita Brown?”
“Rita, the Haida woman who studied at Emily Carr College with you. She made the briefcase you carry everywhere. Surely you can’t have forgotten? What an unreliable memory you have,” David said mockingly.
“I knew Rita years ago. It took me a minute to remember. This is an odd conversation. What does Rita have to do with anything?”
“Rita was my mother.”
Hollis tiptoed closer to the stairs.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier? What do you mean ‘was’ your mother?”
“She’s dead.”
“Poor Rita. What happened to her?”
“Never mind poor Rita. You’re my father. I found out before she died.”
“Whaaat?” Curt’s amazement sounded genuine.
“Don’t tell me when you flew off to New York to become a big-time star, you weren’t aware she was pregnant. You left her alone to have the baby, to have me. You never contacted her again. She told me she thought you didn’t want to hear about me, so she didn’t tell you. But she should have—you should have come and rescued me from her.”
“I had no idea. Truly I didn’t. She can’t have been very pregnant when I left, or I would have known. What happened to you?”
“What happened? Were you aware that she was crazy, or did you just think she was fey and artistic? She had something called Munchausen’s syndrome. Do you know what that is?”
There was a pause.
“You hurt your children to give you an excuse to take them to the hospital, where everyone pays attention to you and tells you what a loving, concerned parent you are. Eventually the authorities caught on. The child protection people removed me, but not before she’d broken my leg. Osteomyelitis has made me a permanent cripple.”
“My God.”
“Oh, but there’s more.” David’s tone was bitter. “Did you read about the battle between social services and the tribal councils? The First Nations demanded to have native children in white foster homes returned to native homes on the reserve. I can see by your face that this is news to you. It was bad news for me. My mother had long disappeared in Vancouver’s east side. Thanks to interfering social workers, I went from one terrible foster home to another on the reserve.”
“If only I’d known. David, finish your story, but I have to sit down. Come into the living room.”
While they moved, Hollis crept down the stairs.
“Not much else. At one point, my dear mother came home. Someone told her about me. That’s when she told me that you’re my father. I figure you owe me big time. I’m your eldest son—your legitimate heir. A blood test will prove it. Since you don’t have a will, I intend to inherit everything.”
“You killed Ivan.”
“Bingo.”
“And set the fire to kill Etienne.”
She’d told David they were watching the stars. She had obviously been dispensable. Hollis slid down two more steps, where she could see into the living room.
“Without her miserable dog, they’d have died.”
“And you sabotaged the boat and killed Tomas. You are a monster.” Curt reached into his shirt pocket.
David laughed—a chilling sound.
“Those won
’t do you any good. You didn’t notice, but I switched them from their normal brown glass bottle to a clear plastic one. They’ve lost their potency. Grab away. It’s going to seem perfectly natural—a heart attack—everyone knows about your bad heart.”
Hollis couldn’t sit still. She slammed down the stairs and into the living room. “He won’t have another heart attack. I’ve heard every word. Curt’s right—you are a monster. Whatever your mother did to…”
David leaped across the room, grabbed her and threw her onto the floor. He sat on her back and twisted her arm behind her back. Excruciating pain filled her mind.
“The meddler. You’re about to join the others—you’re not family, but you know too much.”
A searing pain in her ribs. She jerked involuntarily. Her arm felt as if it might break, might tear away from her body.
“That was nothing,” David snarled. “To get biblical—I’m cutting to the quick, cutting the quick out of my life. The quick will die. I’ll inherit everything.”
Curt, clutching his chest, moved to help her.
“Don’t even think about it, old man. I’ll slice you to ribbons.”
“Drop the knife. You’re under arrest.”
Hollis lifted her head. This was what salvation felt like.
Rhona stepped into the room with her gun pointed at David’s chest.
David didn’t move.
Rhona repeated the command.
“I won’t go to jail again,” David said. He twisted to one side and lunged forward. “Never.” The knife blade glinted as David drove it into his own chest.
A guttural grunt. Hollis rolled over. David, his hand under him, lay jackknifed on the floor, his face an agonized mask. Then his features softened and sagged. His body collapsed.
Rhona reached for her cell phone. She requested an ambulance before she and Zee Zee rolled David over. An elaborately carved knife handle protruded from a growing crimson stain. Rhona placed her fingers against his throat.
“No pulse.”
Curt, who lay gasping for air, became her priority. She loosened his collar and took his pulse.
Hollis raised herself to her knees. David had almost fooled her. Certainly his references to the price negligent parents would pay and the hostility in his voice when he said his mythical father hadn’t been there for him had triggered a question in her mind. And his spider tattoo—a mark that meant he’d been in prison. It hadn’t been much, and it had taken a long time and a combination of circumstances for her to figure out that David was the one person who’d had the means and the opportunity to tamper with the brakes, set the fire and damage the boat.
“This morning we matched the fingerprints on the parking pad. They belonged to him.” Rhona nodded at David. “A B.C. prison released him earlier this year after he served time for murdering his mother when he was a juvenile.”
“And intended to kill his half-brothers and his father,” Curt gasped.
Wailing sirens heralded the ambulance’s arrival.
* * *
Hollis went with Curt to the hospital. After they had admitted him, she went outside to phone Manon and tell her to start back for Toronto. By noon, she’d learned the odds were good that Curt would survive until his heart surgery the next day. She tried to visit Tomas, who was out of intensive care but not allowed to have any visitors. Outside again, she called Penny and related the unbelievable story.
“I’m having a hard time grasping it, and I was there,” Hollis said.
“It won’t bring Ivan back, but it’s good to learn the truth.” Penny paused. “Speaking of truth, I’ve thought about the baby and made a decision.”
Hollis surreptitiously crossed her fingers.
“You can inform Ivan’s parents about me without giving my name. Then tell me how they react, and I’ll decide whether or not to meet them.”
“Fair enough. I promise to give you a true and unbiased impression,” Hollis said.
Hollis had one more task. It was one o’clock and time to hustle to OCAD , a few blocks from the hospital, and tell her tale again. She knew Curt’s class would be assembling, unaware that he was in the hospital.
Tessa, Patel, Kate and Bert stopped talking when she appeared.
“I’m here with bad news.” This wasn’t going to be easy. Might as well get it over with, but where to start? “Curt is in the hospital. He’s scheduled to have a quadruple bypass tomorrow.”
A collective groan.
“There’s more. David Nixon was not what he seemed. He murdered Curt’s son Ivan and tried to kill me and Curt’s other two sons. Earlier this morning he killed himself.”
“What?” Kate said. Her face and the other’s faces reflected total incredulity and shock.
Absolute silence.
“Wow,” Bert said, his eyes wide. “He seemed so normal.”
“I didn’t think so—I thought the way he reacted to things was creepy,” Kate said. “And the way he attacked me, I think he knew how I felt. I didn’t like him, but I never would have picked him out as a murderer.” She ran her hands through her spiky hair. “More than just a murderer—a mass murderer.”
“And a terrific artist,” Patel said. “Remember the slides of his work?”
“I remember what he said when we had to introduce ourselves. Does anyone else?” Kate asked.
The others shook their heads. “This isn’t word for word, but he said he shattered something that was whole, that he was interested in what was left after a cataclysmic event had occurred. That was the word, ‘cataclysmic’. He was telling us what he was doing in his painting but also his real intention—to destroy the family. Very weird.”
“What happens now?” Patel said.
Hollis had wondered the same thing. “OCAD will let you know. I have to get back to the house.”
Kate impulsively hugged Hollis. “You have all our emails— keep in touch.”
Hollis promised she would and headed back to the Hartmans’ to care for MacTee. She walked in the door and had to race to answer the ringing phone.
“Hollis, Zee Zee and I want to take you to lunch tomorrow at Little Ethiopia. It’s our thank-you for your help.”
“I’d love to come. And I’ll have more to tell you.”
* * *
Rhona looked up to see Frank approaching.
“Well done,” he said, giving her two thumbs up.
“Thanks.” Should she tell him what she thought? Why not? “I’ve been told you are opposed to responding to gut feelings, to intuitions, to anything but scientific data.”
Frank nodded.
“If we’d listened to Curt Hartman’s wife early in the investigation, we might have nailed the perp sooner.”
Frank waited.
“She told us she believed her young son, Etienne, was in danger because the whole family was being targeted. We dismissed her as high-strung and neurotic. But she was right.”
“I think you misunderstood me. No police officer with any experience denies the importance of intuition. I acknowledge that, but I also emphasize the need to be familiar with and use all the latest scientific tools.” He smiled and shifted uncomfortably.
Rhona wondered what was coming next.
“You said you loved the Island. I’m taking Juno there on Saturday. Would you like to come?”
Was he asking her for a date? Not likely, that wasn’t allowed. Senior officers did not date junior officers. Maybe it was the equivalent of an apology for his attitude. But why second-guess him—it might be fun.
“Nothing I’d like more.”
* * *
At Little Ethiopia, a restaurant off Yonge Street north of Wellesley, the three women chose not to sit outside on the patio, because the temperature hovered around thirty, with the humidex pushing thirty-five. Indoors, Zee Zee spoke Amharic to the waiter, whose face brightened as soon as she began. She ordered Ethiopian beer to cool them down while they considered the menu.
“The sample platter is best for newcomers to ou
r food,” Zee Zee said. “When you’ve tried many items, you find which ones you prefer. I’m having yedoro infille, chicken in hot sauce, and ye’atakilt alich’a, vegetable stew, but they’re an acquired taste.”
Hollis and Rhona took her advice and opted for the platter.
“We make quite a ritual of washing our hands before we eat. That’s because we don’t use cutlery.”
The waiter delivered a basket of what looked like spongy pancakes or uncooked crumpets.
Zee Zee picked up a piece. “This is infera, Ethiopian bread. We use it in place of cutlery. When you’re presented with a platter, small quantities of whatever you’re eating—lentil, split pea or meat curries along with lab, a spiced mixture of cottage cheese and yogurt—these are ladled on top of a layer of infera.” Zee Zee demonstrated how to tear small pieces of infera and scoop up the food.
Hollis and Rhona followed her lead and shovelled their way through the offerings on their platters.
“This is really good. Some of it is spicier than I’m comfortable with,” Hollis said.
“You get to know which you prefer. By the way, I have to tell you that Ethiopian cuisine developed completely without sugar. In fact, it’s traditional to put salt in your coffee.”
Rhona and Hollis had demolished the toppings.
“The bottom pieces of infera are best, because they’ve soaked up all the juices,” Zee Zee said. “We won’t do the coffee ceremony today. Actually, because it takes about three hours, Ethiopians usually only prepare it on holidays or weekends. Coffee drinking and cultivation began in Ethiopia about a thousand A. D., so we’ve had lots of time to work on the ceremony.”
They sat back with regular coffee and discussed the case.
Hollis told them about Penny.
“Not telling us was irresponsible, you know,” Rhona said.
“I planned to do it. The boat accident intervened.”
