by Joan Boswell
Kate shook her head. “Anything but. I do constructions, assembled pieces of found materials, but the focus of each is a miniature of a classic. The subject relates to the assembly. I want the tiny paintings to be as nearly perfect as I can make them, because that heightens the impact.”
“I hope you brought slides. They sound interesting,” Hollis said.
“I’ve heard that in the first class Curt shows the three slides we submitted to be accepted for the course. We’ll see what stage each of us is at,” David said. “My pieces don’t photograph well. They’re three dimensional. I paint a huge copy of a famous painting on a wooden panel. Then I shatter and reassemble it in a meaningful way. Synopsizing my work, I’d say I’m interested in remnants after a cataclysmic event has occurred.”
He sounded as if he should be writing the gobbledygook that passed for artistic criticism in some art journals. Hollis got nervous when someone used words like “meaningful”. But given his attack on Kate, she certainly wasn’t going to say so. She had to admit she also felt defensive about her own huge, happy paintings of domestic icons.
Whatever they were, “meaningful” wasn’t a word that came to mind.
“I’m into semi-abstraction of cityscapes. I’ve always admired Richard Diebenkorn and his California landscapes. But I admire the masters’ techniques and want to learn as much about them as I can,” Patel said. He didn’t sound apologetic.
“What about you?” Kate asked Hollis.
“Conventional,” Hollis said.
“Curt invited us for drinks the first evening of the course. I wonder if he’ll still do it,” Patel said.
Hollis hadn’t thought much about the invitation when she’d received her registration package. Curt always invited his students to his house. But Ivan’s murder and his heart problems could change that.
“You’re staying with them. Do you think he’ll have us over?” David said.
Over lunch the day that Ivan had died, Manon had insisted he would carry on as usual. Probably he’d feel an obligation to host the class get-together. Or that it would be a sign of weakness not to do so. “It’ll be hard, but I’m sure he will,” Hollis said.
“We had a great time at the one last semester. Ivan made fabulous canapés—really different. Curt’s cute little boy, I forget his name, passed them around.” Kate winced. “That sounded callous—sorry.”
“Hey, it was only a comment. I thought the same thing,” Patel said.
Silence for a second, then everyone spoke at once. They laughed self-consciously.
Patel checked his watch “Time for me to go. It’s my night to be the maitre d’ at Toronto’s finest curry palace. See you next week,” he said. He put his hand on Hollis’s arm. “And you drive carefully. The 401 can be stressful.” He turned away, and David limped after him.
“Was David in an accident?” Hollis asked Kate.
“Don’t think so. It’s not new. But I’ve never heard him talk about it.” Kate frowned. “Actually, he doesn’t talk much about himself. He’s a prickly guy, but you just saw that.” She hovered close to Hollis and whispered, “See the man with the bushy grey beard?”
“Hard to miss. He looks like he dressed in the dark in whatever he found in a Goodwill bag.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Sebastien Lefevbre,” Kate whispered. She watched Hollis’s face, waiting for her to recognize the name.
It seemed familiar, but when she ran it through her mental data bank, she didn’t make a connection.
Kate shook her head. “You must recognize him. He’s our most famous portrait artist. He’s painted everybody who’s anybody. Remember Prince Philip’s portrait and the furor it caused?”
“Of course. I don’t know why I drew a blank. Trudeau sliding down the bannister is my favourite—it perfectly captures his bad-boy charm.”
Hollis felt the atmosphere change. A palpable feeling of unease swept the room. She scanned the room to see the cause.
“You are such a hypocrite.”
An abrasive voice ripped through the room’s subdued murmur like a chainsaw. Lena had reared back and grabbed Curt by his suit lapels. “You pretend to care, but you don’t. As far as I’m concerned...”
Curt pushed her away.
“As far as I’m concerned, you killed him. You gave him that bloody motorcycle.” She’d planted her hands on her hips. Her voice rose higher. “What loving father presents his teenage son with a lethal weapon?” She jabbed a magenta claw. “A narcissistic man who wishes to kill his children.”
Curt blanched and clenched his jaw. Before he could respond, Manon took his arm and said something in a low voice.
Lena turned on her. “And you. The home-wrecker. What responsibility do you have for my son’s death?”
Six
I identified another possible perp,” Rhona said to Zee Zee after the visitation. “Olivero Ciccio is an artist and teaches at the Ontario College of Art and Design. Curt screwed him in some way, and he has a thing for Curt’s wife. Let’s see if we can meet with him before tonight’s reception.”
Back at the shop, Rhona googled Olivero. According to his website, he did three dimensional whimsical constructions as well as conventional paintings. The examples on the website made her smile. Was humorous artwork as underrated as comic or satirical writing? Probably seriousness counted in the art world. She made an appointment to speak to Olivero and his wife.
The Ciccios lived in Riverdale. South and east of Cabbagetown, this neighbourhood hovered on the cusp of gentility. One half of a semi-detached house would be clad in insul-brick with old chrome and plastic kitchen chairs lined up on the porch and a weed-filled yard. Its other half would exhibit all the hallmarks of an expensive gentrified upgrade. New high R-value windows, an enamelled front door and a front garden with periwinkle ground cover and a manicured privet hedge would create an appealing image. Half the neighbourhood belonged to old-time residents and half to the upwardly mobile who renovated or paid hefty prices for the already renovated. These trendy young things harboured long term plans to improve Riverdale and raise their houses’ values so they could sell for a huge profit and move on to more expensive neighbourhoods like the Beach or the Annex.
The Ciccios’ detached brick house stood back from the street. Conservatively painted, with a neat perennial garden and a manicured lawn to set it off, it wouldn’t have drawn a second glance except for an arresting garden sculpture. Close to the house, an eight foot high wooden angel with a pair of garden shears in one hand turned to stare at her neatly clipped wing. She wore a silver metal halo with the word “oops” in brass letters fastened to it. Rhona smiled—whimsical and charming described it perfectly.
A small woman in jeans and a navy blue sweater answered their ring. Regular features, brown eyes, short, dark hair sprinkled with grey—an unremarkable appearance. Her neighbours or people who’d met her would refer to her as “very nice” or a “good neighbour” but only be able to describe her in general terms. A polite golden retriever accompanied her. Navy blue had been an unfortunate choice, given that she lived with a breed noted for the quantities of blonde hair it shed.
Inside, Anna Ciccio led them into a tiny living room. While she fetched Olivero, they surveyed their surroundings. Heavy drapes, maroon and gold-patterned wallpaper and overstuffed dark green plush furniture made the room seem smaller. An amusing painting of flying cows by Olivero provided one bright spot of colour. Rhona guessed Anna had decreed that Olivero could do what he liked in his studio, but she would decorate everything else.
When the couple returned, Olivero, who looked exhausted, sank down and arranged sofa cushions behind him to support his back. Anna chose a chair opposite the sofa.
“We’re here to talk about Ivan Hartman and his family,” Rhona said and noted a puzzled expression on Anna’s face. “We’re broadening our investigation to include all the Hartmans’ acquaintances,” she added.
&
nbsp; Anna, feet and ankles together, clasped her elbows with her hands and pulled them tight to her body. Her features closed in on themselves—she reminded Rhona of a clam or an oyster retreating into its shell.
Olivero leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Curt and I work together at OCAD . We’ve known each other for years.” He lifted his head and directed a level gaze at Rhona. “Not friends. I don’t think Curt has any art world friends. He’s far too competitive and critical. But we manage.”
“Someone said you’d had a disagreement recently,” Rhona said.
Anna half-closed her eyes and stared downward.
Olivero shrugged. “I was nominated for department chair. Curt voted against me. He’s entitled to his opinion.”
“He was jealous.” Anna’s voice was low and bitter. “Everyone likes Olivero.”
“And how do you feel about Curt?” Rhona asked.
“Curt is a fool, an egotistical fool, but not as bad as his wife. Always playing the sensitive, misunderstood, hard-done-by woman. Now I ask you, how that can be? She has a terrific career, a beautiful house and children. How can she even suggest such things?”
Olivero raised his arm as if to stop her. “Anna, take it easy. Manon has psychological problems. That can happen to people, no matter what material things or education they have.”
“So she says and so you believe. You are such a silly man. She managed to make you her champion. Fools, she makes fools of men.”
Jealousy, dislike, hatred—Anna could have murdered Manon, but did she have reason to kill Ivan? Rhona thought.
“And Ivan and Tomas Hartman, what about them?”
“Nice young men. I only knew them to say hello. Because we don’t have children, we never socialized with other families like some of my colleagues did,” Olivero explained.
“Did you know the sons?” Rhona asked Anna.
“To say hello,” she mumbled.
Rhona addressed her next remark to Olivero. “Your sculpture outside is delightful. So are the ones on your website. I take it you’re very comfortable with tools.”
Olivero shifted and considered her silently for a moment. “Are you asking if I’m knowledgeable enough to sabotage a motorcycle?”
“Are you?”
“Of course. Like ninety per cent of Torontonians. It isn’t hard to cut holes in something.”
“And where were you on Sunday evening, June 26th?” asked Zee Zee.
“Right here. We both were.”
“Thank you.” Again Rhona produced a card and handed it to him. “At your convenience, would you both go to 51 Division for fingerprinting.”
Their eyes widened as they absorbed the implications of Rhona’s request.
“My wife may hate Manon, but neither of us would do anything violent,” he said in a low voice as he escorted them to the door.
“What do you think—could either one have done it?” Rhona asked later as they drove north.
“Keep them on the list. Although Anna hates Manon at the moment, I can’t see what she’d gain by killing Ivan or Curt?”
* * *
On Friday, Rhona and Zee Zee brainstormed while they ate two take-out lunches Hollis had collected from a nearby Tim Hortons.
“Initially, Frank thought it might be a simple open and shut case—a gang vendetta, a lover’s quarrel, a drug deal gone bad...” Rhona said with a sigh.
“So far it’s none of the above.” Zee Zee had cleared a space on her desktop and was fastidiously arranging her lunch as if she were dining in an expensive restaurant. She shook her head. “Who leaves three Harleys parked outside? I may be a super-cautious cop, but isn’t that asking for trouble?”
“Ego trip,” Rhona mumbled. She washed a morsel of whole wheat roll down with a swig of coffee. “Curt Hartman strikes me as a guy with a giant ego, capital G, capital E. I understand why Tomas Hartman calls him Big Daddy. Did you ever see the movie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, with Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman? Orson Welles was Big Daddy?”
“No. But doesn’t the name fit Curt? Motorcycles aside, an artist might be hated for many reasons.” She stirred her chili. “Envy—there’s a reason it’s a deadly sin—it’s a corrosive, destructive force. Wasn’t a jealous contemporary accused of murdering Mozart? There must be students or other artists Curt destroyed with private or public criticism. It’s an unstable community. No matter how high your reputation is at any given moment, you’re only as good as your most recent work.”
“Tell me about his work.”
“It’s valued internationally. He’s admired because he teaches. Not loved or revered or even liked.”
Frank Braithwaite walked in. Rhona twitched a napkin over her doughnut.
He waved and marched over. “I assume you two are tying up loose ends in the Hartman case.” His tone was jocular, but his eyes were not.
“Afraid not. It’s getting more complicated every day. Not open and shut, as you’d hoped,” Rhona said. God, why couldn’t she just have said no? She was such a wimp sometimes. “Let me tell you what we’ve done.” She itemized who’d been interviewed and the leads they were following.
“I’ve heard from the mayor. Curt Hartman has complained about our inability to solve the murder.” He sighed. “This isn’t a TV show where they neatly wrap up in half an hour. I can’t provide any more people. Have you used the profiler?”
“I checked for similar crimes, but this is a stand-alone. Profiling would only help if there was more than one similar crime,” Zee Zee said.
Frank flipped the napkin off Rhona’s doughnut. He shook his head and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Shame on you—you’re confirming people’s worst suspicions.”
After he left, Rhona fumed. “It’s a goddamn doughnut. You’d think he’d caught me snorting cocaine or taking payola or worse. And how come he didn’t comment on yours? It’s discrimination.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You’re thin and elegant. I’m not, so he focuses on me— definitely discrimination.”
Zee Zee laughed. “I can give you chapter and verse about discrimination, because I’m black, not because I’m thin. I’m not apologizing. I was born this way.”
“Lucky you. Back to the Hartmans. The perp will try again if he killed the wrong man.”
“Did you warn them to be careful?”
“Not when we thought it would be a straightforward case.” Rhona collected their dishes. “I’ll drop around after the funeral and talk to them.”
“Back to the grind. Now that we’ve broadened the scope, we’ll press father and son to tell us what they have to hide— everyone has something.”
Seven
On Friday morning, pelting rain discouraged all but a few morbidly curious onlookers from waiting outside the funeral home while the ceremony took place. Later, when everything was over, the family, sheltered by umbrellas, headed for two waiting cars. Manon, Lena, Curt and Etienne went first, followed by Manon’s mother, Tomas, Etienne and Nadine.
As she bent to slide into the second car, Hollis looked ahead. A young dark-haired woman wrapped in a shiny black rain cape with its hood pulled up to shield her from the rain had run forward and touched Curt’s arm. Hollis heard her say, “You’re Ivan’s father, and I...” Curt made a dismissive gesture and followed Manon into the lead car. Hollis caught the briefest glance before the girl turned away and stepped back. She considered rushing after her but felt it would be inappropriate. But who was she? What had she wanted?
“Was that girl Ivan’s girlfriend?” Hollis murmured to Tomas.
“Search me. He never talked about a girl,” Tomas said.
“I wonder what she intended to say to your father.”
* * *
Back in Ottawa late on Friday evening, Hollis opened her door, scooped up her mail and ran to answer the ringing phone.
“Detective Simpson came by an hour or so ago,” Manon said. “She told us to be careful—said that Curt or Tomas might be targeted. She
warned us to watch for suspicious parcels, avoid isolated places and keep an eye on Etienne.”
This was bad news. There was no point in adding to Manon’s fear by expressing her shock. She made a conscious effort to suppress her alarm. “They’re probably just covering their bases until they get a handle on who killed Ivan.” She hoped her voice sounded normal and reasonable.
“I requested protection, a police officer inside or a police car outside. She claimed they lacked the manpower. Then I asked her what progress they’d made.”
“What did she say?”
“That she wasn’t at liberty to discuss details. She reassured me they were doing everything possible. She churned out the sort of polite remarks people make when they haven’t a clue and don’t want to talk about something. It felt like I was speaking in a huge empty void that sucked up everything I said and didn’t give anything back. And there’s something else...”
The low, defeated monotone alarmed Hollis. She imagined Manon’s slumped shoulders and downturned mouth. How unfair it was for Manon to have to cope with this. Manon appeared to be an efficient banker, a woman in charge of her life and herself, although those close to her knew she fought an ongoing battle with depression and panic attacks. She constantly struggled to deny her urge to convert relatively ordinary events into crises. Hollis hoped this was the case; hoped Manon’s molehills had grown into mountains. But the warning sounded serious. Was she strong enough to help Manon deal with her anxieties?
“What? What else has happened? I hope Tomas and Curt aren’t riding their bikes until the killer is caught.”
“Tomas suggested that maybe they shouldn’t. Curt blew up and ordered Tomas not to be a coward.”
“Sounds like Tomas was being sensible.”
“Exactly. Then Curt sneered that Tomas should paint his yellow if he was afraid the killer would confuse their bikes. Maybe it was an attempt at humour, but it wasn’t funny. Curt said only serial killers used the same modus operandi repeatedly. He said a run-of-the-mill killer wouldn’t tamper with either bike. He’s probably right, unless it is a serial killer.”