by Joan Boswell
“You again,” he said to Zee Zee. “What is it this time? Seems to me you didn’t do too well last time,” he smirked.
“We’re recording this interview,” Zee Zee said. “We’re here to talk to you about Curt Hartman.”
“That asshole.”
“Do you belong to the anti SOHD group?”
“It’s not an organized group.”
“What does that mean?”
“We don’t have meetings.”
“How do you decide when to picket, protest, whatever you do?”
The man’s small eyes squinched. “Where you guys been— email, of course.”
“And why do you oppose SOHD ?”
“Give me a break. Genetic testing. Killing those who aren’t acceptable. SOHD —it’s another justification for abortion. I’m not giving you the spiel—you know what we think.” His pudgy hands clenched. “We’re prepared to wipe them off the face of the earth.” He nodded at the tape recorder. “You can record that—wipe them and their people from the face of the earth.”
Zee Zee shook her head. “What happened to allowing individual expression of opinion? Freedom of speech. Is that only for those who agree with you?”
“I’m not arguing with cops.” Barney folded his arms over his stomach.
“Where were you on Sunday night?”
“You’re crying in the dark, lady. Right here.” He slapped the stained velour sofa, releasing a dusty cloud. “Right here with the old lady, sippin’ a few brews and watchin’ TV until we sacked out. I never went out.”
“And your wife will confirm that?”
Barney smirked. “Of course.”
“We’d like to see your computer. Your emails sound interesting.”
“My computer. What the fuck?” Whatever he’d expected them to say, it clearly hadn’t been this. His eyes darted to the next room, where a laptop sat on a table amid a drift of paper.
“A laptop—that makes our job easier. We can take it with your permission or wait here until the warrant arrives. Up to you.” Zee Zee stared into his tiny little eyes.
Barney sucked his teeth, a revolting sound. He appeared to be mentally reviewing his files. “Take it.”
“Password?”
Forms filled out, Rhona tucked the computer under her arm.
“We’ll copy anything we need,” Zee Zee said.
“I’m sure. Don’t forget how well you did last time,” he said mockingly.
“Charming fellow. I assume we have his fingerprints,” Rhona said when they were back in the car.
“Isn’t he? Yes, we do. You’ll enjoy Allie even more,” Zee Zee promised. “She lives downtown in a very nice apartment on King Street. There’s a psychiatric term for people like her, but I can’t remember exactly what it is. They’re perfectly normal unless you mention the one subject they’re fanatical about.”
The complex on King combined townhouses with two apartment towers. They parked and walked toward the second tower. Young people in their twenties flowed in and out.
“Isn’t this a funny place for a middle-aged woman to live?” “Not really. She proselytizes whenever possible. Many single young women live here.”
Once buzzed inside, they shot up to the tenth floor and walked along the hall toward the woman who stood outside her door waiting for them.
At nine o’clock on a hot Tuesday morning in June, Allie wore stockings, Cuban heeled sandals and a shirtwaist dress with pearls around her neck. She might have been setting out for a tea party or, had she worn a hat, to one of Queen Elizabeth’s garden parties. Over-lavish and dated makeup along with blonde hair teased and sprayed to encase her head like a helmet completed the picture. Her face revealed her age. Pouches under her eyes, drooping jaw and deep lines bracketing her mouth told their tale.
“Two women detectives, how nice. Do come in?” she invited. She didn’t seem surprised. Barney must have phoned and warned her to expect a visit.
Chintz enveloped the living room from top to bottom and end to end. Every mahogany tabletop sported Royal Doulton figurines of women with blowing skirts. An overpowering scent of air freshener with an underlying suggestion of bleach identified a passion for cleanliness.
“Let me bring you tea,” she said in a light, trilling voice.
She must have had everything prepared. It wasn’t more than a minute before she returned, carrying a silver tray with almost translucent china tea cups, a highly polished silver pot, hot water jug, cream, sugar, a plate of lemon slices and another of cookies.
They waited while she fussed, chattered about the weather and poured tea. Once she’d completed her task, she sat back. “Well, ladies, what can I do for you on this lovely summer morning?”
“We’re here to talk to you about Ivan Hartman,” Rhona said.
“Ivan Hartman.” Allie frowned. “I don’t know any Ivan Hartman.”
“What about his father—Curt?”
Allie Jones morphed into a hissing, spitting venomous snake. “That murderer. Don’t speak his name when you’re guests in my home.”
No point asking her opinion of SOHD or Curt. Might as well get to the point. “We’re not guests—we’re police officers, right? Where were you on Sunday evening and overnight?”
“I won’t answer—you find out where I was.” She rose. “That’s all I’m saying. If you want to ask me anything else, I’ll call my lawyer.”
“We want you to go to the nearest police station to be fingerprinted,” Rhona said, handing Allie her card.
“You have my fingerprints on file,” Allie said while she swung her arms in a repetitive sweeping motion intended to move them out of her apartment. Rhona felt like a recalcitrant chicken.
The door slammed behind them. In the hall, Zee Zee turned to Rhona. “What a waste—I didn’t have time to take a sip,” she said. “But on second thought, it could have been poisoned.”
“What a transformation!”
“We’ll post those two high on our suspect list.”
Five
Hollis excused herself after breakfast on Tuesday to make arrangements in Ottawa for her prolonged Toronto visit. She extended MacTee’s stay at the kennel, cancelled the paper, and asked a neighbour to clear her mailbox. A knock at her bedroom door startled her. Manon hovered.
“I hope Ivan’s death won’t change your mind—that you and MacTee still plan to stay with us when you come back for Curt’s course.”
She knew they’d draw her into the family’s recovery from sorrow. She and Manon wouldn’t have the carefree fun Manon had planned when she’d heard Hollis’s news. And she’d be distracted from painting and decision making. Furthermore, she’d coped with her husband’s murder the summer before. Did she have enough emotional reserves to help Manon and the family? She gave herself a mental shake. Time to bury her doubts—she must say yes—she loved Manon like a sister and owed her a huge debt. She’d just have to do the best she could.
Manon’s raised shoulders, pinched features and clasped hands revealed her stress. “There’s something else,” she said in a small, apologetic voice.
Hollis waited.
“I feel guilty about Ivan—about not paying enough attention to him. Since he died, I can hardly think about anything but finding out who he really was.” She wrung her hands. “You know I’m obsessive. I fixate on something and can’t leave it alone. I won’t rest until I learn every detail of Ivan’s life.” She tightened her grip, pressed her elbows against her sides and hunched forward as if to protect herself from a blow. “I can’t do it myself.” Her voice broke. She gulped, straightened a little and expelled a shaky breath. “Even when the police do say it’s okay, I won’t be able go through his belongings. Or contact his friends—or anything else I’d need to do to uncover his real identity.” She leaned toward Hollis. “Could you do it?”
Hollis had felt like this after Paul’s murder, when she’d realized how little she knew about his life. An obsessivecompulsive need to investigate—to find out who he’
d really been—had taken over her life.
“I can try.” She hugged Manon. “I can start, I suppose, by talking to people at the visitation and funeral.”
* * *
Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a blur. On Thursday, the Hartmans and Hollis prepared to accept condolences at the funeral home. When they entered the building, Hollis decided funeral home designers, if there was such a breed of cat, must conspire to create look-alike establishments with muted light, music, colours and tasteful semi-inspirational paintings. Like every other one she’d ever been in, it looked, sounded, smelled and felt beige. The family, sombrely dressed, lined up inside Salon C.
It was good to feel appropriately dressed. She’d unearthed a black linen dress with a white shawl collar in a high-end secondhand clothing store. She hadn’t been able to resist a large enamelled flower brooch and a belt of multi-coloured beads, but she’d refrained from wearing them.
Rhona and Zee Zee arrived and spoke to the family. Then Zee Zee stationed herself beside the condolence book, where she encouraged visitors to sign—having a record of attendees could prove helpful. Rhona worked the room.
Hollis stopped at a large photo of Ivan set on an easel above two floral arrangements. She bent to read the cards. One was inscribed, “Your loving family”. The other, a beautiful arrangement of white roses, lilies and greenery bore an unsigned message, “With all our love, we will remember you forever”. Wow, someone, no, more than one person, it said “we”—had really cared but hadn’t felt comfortable signing the card. Another mystery. Who had been in Ivan’s life who felt like this?
Mulling over the words and their significance, she wandered to one of four photo boards. Lena had arranged collages emphasizing happy moments in Ivan’s life. These displays gave visitors focal points for conversation.
A crowd of young people fluttered in on the dot of two. First they clustered together as if to gain strength from one another. Then, en masse, they rushed through the receiving line. Once they’d accomplished this daunting task, they swarmed inside, where they regrouped beside the first photo collection. A tall, lean young man hovered on the fringe. Hollis moved closer and caught her breath as an overwhelming mix of after-shave and perfume—a perfect example of why hospitals asked you not to wear anything scented—assaulted her nostrils. She maneuvered to separate him from his fragrant flock.
“Hi there,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes and peered at her. As if he couldn’t quite believe she was speaking to him, he swung around and peered behind him. “Hi,” he finally responded, cocking his head to one side and waiting.
She held out her hand. “Hollis Grant, I’m a friend of Ivan’s family. Were you Ivan’s friend?”
He accepted her hand, shook it briefly and said, “Willie. Yeah, we took classes together.”
“At George Brown?”
He nodded.
Not exactly forthcoming. She’d try another tack. “What made you choose cooking?”
His angular face brightened. “My mom died when I was a kid. After that, my dad and I kinda of did a lot of cooking. Our career counsellor in high school said good chefs made a lot of money and could take their pick of jobs, so...”
“Is that why Ivan was there?”
Willie’s eyebrows drew together. He shook his head. “Not for money. Ivan never had any doubts—he said he’d always wanted to be a chef. Like wow, the things he knew. Pretty cool.”
“Willie, are you coming?” A pretty girl in a sleeveless pink dress that showed off a tan tucked her hand under his arm. “We’re going to raise a few for Ivan,” she said over her shoulder as she propelled the unresisting Willie away.
More young people, along with a smattering of older visitors, shuffled through the line before collecting in shifting knots in the reception room. Two middle-aged men stepped to one side away from the crowd. The taller one, in blue blazer and grey flannels, glanced quickly around as if to assure himself no one was within earshot. He bent his head and spoke to his companion.
An interesting place for a private conversation. Hollis slid closer. Rhona did the same—they’d both caught the vibes.
“Olivero, I’m surprised you’re here,” the tall one said. I wouldn’t have thought you’d go anywhere near Curt after what he did to you.” He fingered the white handkerchief in his breast pocket. “Talk about an egotistical, self-serving thing to do. He didn’t want it—he did it to screw you.”
Olivero, portly in a well-tailored grey, pin-stripe suit, shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Wouldn’t it have looked great if I’d stayed away? Can’t you hear them? Olivero couldn’t take it. He’s licking his wounds.”
“No one would have blamed you. In fact, I’ll bet people are as surprised to see you here as I was.”
“It doesn’t matter. That isn’t why I came. My being here has nothing to do with Curt—I’m here for Manon—she’s my friend.” When he mentioned Manon, he smiled.
“Friend?” The man’s tone implied this was a euphemism for a more intimate relationship.
“Get stuffed,” Olivero muttered and moved away.
Interesting. What had Curt done to Olivero? Had Manon and Olivero had an affair? Was it ongoing? But back to business. Surely, whatever the complexities of their lives, they had nothing to do with Ivan’s murder.
At the visitation after dinner, the nature of the visitors changed. A great many artists, friends of Lena and Curt, swirled through the line. Manon’s colleagues, Tomas’s contemporaries and Etienne’s friends’ parents visited. Hollis drifted from group to group.
A young Oriental woman attracted her attention. Her round, black-framed glasses, short spiky, hair, nose studs, multiple earrings and flamboyant clothes shouted “artiste”. Hollis sauntered over and smiled. “Hi, I’m Hollis Grant, a family friend. Are you Ivan’s friend or Curt’s student?”
Intelligent eyes assessed her. “Technically, I’m not a student until Tuesday—I’m taking his Great Masters course.”
Surprise. Hollis would have pegged her as an avant garde artist, someone bent on shocking the world with installations or videos. “Me too,” she said.
The girl’s eyes widened. Apparently Hollis didn’t fit the profile either. “I’m Kate Wong.” She immediately motioned for two men chatting nearby to join them. One was a compact, muscular East Indian man, and the other a man whose skin colour and sharply chiselled features also indicated exotic ancestry. “Those two are Patel and David. The three of us took Curt’s second semester course. Patel is terrific.” She eyed Hollis. “You do know Curt had a heart attack?”
Hollis nodded.
“The college appointed a substitute, but I decided that wasn’t good enough. It was Curt I wanted, so I applied for the summer course.”
Kate performed the introductions and added, “Hollis is a Hartman family friend who’s taking Curt’s course.”
“I’ve enrolled, and David’s just told me he has too,” Patel said.
“You’re kidding. Old home week,” Kate said.
Hollis had worried that everyone in the course would be decades younger and she’d feel out of place. Probably her concern came from watching older students who had taken her courses at the community college. They’d almost all been anxious, afraid they wouldn’t be able to compete, to keep up with her course demands. Kate certainly was much younger, but Hollis pegged David’s age as late twenties or early thirties and Patel as more than forty. How could they take day courses? They must have jobs. When she knew them better, she’d ask.
“Welcome,” Patel said and shook her hand. His firm grip and warm brown eyes made her feel his words were sincere. This was a man she knew she’d like.
David, tall and arrow thin, eyed her with dark eyes filled with curiosity. He cocked his head to one side, flicking back his black hair. “A family friend?” he said.
“Curt’s wife, Manon, and I go back to university undergraduate days. Because I live in Ottawa, they invited me to be their guest.” Hollis sa
id.
“You’re already here for the course?” Kate asked.
“No. I was visiting when Ivan was killed, and they asked me to stay and help with all the things that had to be done. It’s still hard to believe he’s dead. Anyway, tomorrow afternoon I’m going home on the train. My dog and I will drive back on Tuesday.”
“Have you ever taken a course from Curt?” Patel said.
“Years ago, when I was at OCAD as an undergraduate.”
“It will be interesting to see if you think he’s changed,” Kate said. “He has a tough guy reputation, and he demands a lot, but I think he’s fair and he wants us to succeed.” She turned to the two men. “Would you agree?”
“I find him helpful. He doesn’t tolerate foolish remarks or students who don’t work. He says it is a sin not to use your talents. I agree. If I didn’t think so, I would have remained in Madras and been the accountant my family intended me to be.” Patel’s lips twitched. “That would have been calamitous for me and for my family’s reputation. My grasp of mathematics is rudimentary. To address Kate’s point, I think he must have mellowed. Maybe being sick does that to you.” He frowned. “I can’t imagine what his son’s death will do.”
“We need to be kind. Not give him any trouble. Not that we would, but he’s going to need our sympathy,”
“Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, now you’ve taken on Curt. Last term you spent your time nosing into people’s business, making suggestions about how they could improve their lives. You should give up painting and become a social worker. Interfering in a person’s life without a second’s hesitation and with perfect confidence that you’re right—that’s a major criteria for admission into the field,” David said.
“Kiss my ass,” Kate said.
“Take it easy, you two. This is a funeral home, and we didn’t come to fight. It’s inappropriate behaviour,” Patel said.
David glowered at him but didn’t say anything else. His anger had been sudden, but who knew what had happened between Kate and David in the past. Whatever it was, they clearly didn’t like each other. Time to change the subject. “Are all three of you traditional painters?” Hollis said.