Cut to the Quick

by Joan Boswell

  Curt stepped back as if Lefevbre had aimed a lethal weapon at him. “Valerie?” he said questioningly. “Valerie’s dead?”

  “Yes, and I intend to make sure she didn’t die in vain.” His tone chilled like an Arctic wind. “I’ll speak to you later.”

  Curt’s gaze fixed on Lefevbre, but he said nothing.

  What had this exchange meant? Lefevbre radiated deep, unresolved anger. His statement had shocked Curt and left him speechless. Whatever his connection to Valerie had been, hearing news of her death had unsettled him.

  Curt shook himself and squared his shoulders. He took a deep breath and turned away from Lefevbre.

  “Before we discuss the materials, I’ll talk to you about photographing your work. Some of these slides are not as good as they could be. When you submit slides to galleries or to competitions, it’s in your interest to create the best.”

  He devoted the next forty minutes to the details of taking superb slides. It sounded as if he’d just thought of these things when he examined their slides, but Hollis suspected it was part of the course. Naturally, they all took notes.

  “Well, now that you have learned how to take excellent slides, you have improved your chances of having your work accepted in competitions and by galleries.” He smiled. “A tip. Pay a professional photographer if you aren’t producing superior ones—it’ll be worth it, even if you have to beg or borrow the money to pay for them.

  “But back to the course. I devote it entirely to the study and reproduction of techniques the Old Masters employed to give their paintings a richness lacking in many modern works. In essence, this course is about light. We’ll try to emulate the masters and use light as they did.” This was obviously a familiar spiel. “I’m sure you shuddered when you received the materials price list.” He nodded at the tables piled with supplies. “The costs are high because I tried to replicate material the masters used. To assure uniformity, I purchased everything. Each of you has a mortar and pestle, along with an interesting assortment of clays, rocks, twigs, dried insects and squirrel fur. You will make your own permanent references to differences resulting from combining various supports and grounds and preparing your own colours. We will paint the same still life set-up for each painting.” His lips curved upward in a faintly mocking smile. “Perhaps someday a critic or art historian will study your series and compare them to Monet’s haystack studies.” His lifted eyebrows and faint smile indicated his irony.

  The class, already sensitive to his speech nuances, chuckled appreciatively

  “We’ll use cotton and linen canvases, along with several species of wood panels for comparisons and...” He paused, picked up a Masonite panel and drew his hand across the surface. “Masonite. Of course I realize Masonite didn’t exist then, but it gives us a comparative modern material.” He laid the panel back on the table. “Time for a break. When you come back, we’ll discuss the relative merits of different materials after we’ve viewed a few slides. Then you’ll prepare a support for your first work.”

  Kate led the way downstairs to a phalanx of machines dispensing a variety of refreshments. “This will have to substitute for his cocktail party,” she said, pointing at the looming behemoths.

  The group collected what they wanted and settled around a long table.

  “Wasn’t his talk on slides useful?” Tessa said. “I’d already realized when he showed mine that I hadn’t done my paintings any favours. I apply ten or fifteen transparent layers of paint when I’m trying to capture the feeling that fog gives when the sun is about to break though and burn it off. There’s an unearthly light. It’s gorgeous but momentary, and hard to capture. Critics have said I’ve managed to show it, but anyone looking at those slides of mine would never guess. I suppose you don’t realize how bad your slides are unless you project them, and I’ve never done that. That half an hour makes the whole course worthwhile for me.”

  “I wish he’d talked more about photographing three dimensional work,” David said.

  “I didn’t like his idea of including a ruler to give an idea of actual scale. It might detract from the slide,” Patel said. “You always include the dimensions on the slide itself anyway—that should be enough.”

  “The problem when you’re only allowed three slides is that you want to show three different pieces, but unless you photograph a three dimensional object from several points of view, you don’t capture its impact,” Kate said.

  “Speaking of impact, what’s the story on Sebastien Lefebvre? And what connection did Curt have with Lefebvre’s daughter? He seemed really upset,” Tessa said.

  “It’s upsetting to hear that someone you know has died, and if she was his daughter, she wouldn’t have been very old. Maybe he’s there for the reason he gave; he wants to jumpstart himself to paint again,” Hollis said, although she didn’t believe it. Too much emotion had emanated from each man.

  “Death.” David looked at them. “The impact differs for everyone. The one indisputable fact is that no matter who you are or what your relationship has been, there is an impact.”

  “Too true, and I feel really sorry for Curt,” Kate said. “I wish we could do something to make his life easier. It would be hard enough to lose a son in an accident—they do happen. Murder—now that’s something else. How do you deal with that?” She turned to Hollis. “You’re living with them. How are they coping?”

  What to say? That Curt was stoic; that Manon hovered on the brink of a breakdown—none of the above. She didn’t even know these people.

  “Hard to say. You’re right—it must be incredibly hard.”

  “And to top it all off, he had that heart attack. Someone told me he’s on a waiting list for bypass surgery. It’s too much for one guy to cope with. It’s difficult to imagine how we could help, but if you come up with anything we can do, let us know, will you?” Kate said to Hollis.

  Hollis nodded; a sudden lump in her throat made it impossible for her to say anything. What a good group. How lucky she was to be taking the course with them. It was a long time since she’d been part of anything like this. She couldn’t think of anything they could do, but the offer had been a sincere one. If Curt ever needed carpentry, Kate or David could do it. She wasn’t sure what Patel could offer—maybe he was a superb cook. Anyway, it was good of them.

  Patel saw that she was close to tears. “File that offer away. Right now we’d better head back upstairs, or we’ll cause him more distress.”

  Curt stood at the front of the class waiting for them. When they’d taken their places, he ran his hand through his hair. It seemed to be a trademark gesture, part of his cultivated public persona.

  “I want each of you to identify your favourite masters of light before we view the slides. We’ll choose them from several countries. Begin in Spain, name an artist and describe one of his paintings.”

  Always “his”—art historians had written women out of art history. When Hollis thought of the Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi, she hated men’s erasure of women. Male art historians simply didn’t mention women painters, no matter how valued and well-known they’d been in their own time.

  “Velázquez. ‘The Infanta’ or some such title. There’s a little girl, a dog and a dwarf. The light is amazing,” Bert said.

  “I agree. The title of the painting is ‘The Maids of Honour’.”

  “Goya, ‘The Firing Squad’, his use of light and shade underline the scene’s horror,” Kate said.

  “It’s actually titled, ‘The Third of May 1808’. Goya initially admired and recreated the techniques of Rembrandt and Velázquez. We’re not discussing content, but Goya’s technical skill did heighten the impact of his social comments. Good choice. Italy?”

  “Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Gentileschi—the list goes on, but for me Caravaggio was the master of light. I’m thinking of ‘The Calling of St. Matthew’,” Patel said.

  Someone else who recognized the woman’s genius, thought Hollis.

  “Abso
lutely true. His use of light makes this a compelling work. He was a master and an innovator. Italy has an abundance of significant painters. What about Holland?”

  “Rembrandt—one of his self portraits. All of his work contrasts dark and light. His canvases glow.” Hollis paused. “But for me Vermeer is synonymous with light. I think of ‘Young Woman with a Water Jug’.”

  “And before Rembrandt, there was Rubens, although he was Flemish. One more country—France.”

  “I’ll go back to sixteenth century Flanders and choose Hieronymus Bosch and his triptych, ‘The Garden of Delight’. I like his vision of Hell for those who succumb to the temptations of carnal pleasure.” Sebastien spoke in a deep, even voice.

  Curt said nothing, but finally forced his gaze away from Sebastien and nodded to David.

  “Chardin, ‘Back from the Market’,” David said. “His still lifes deceive the viewer. They appear simple, but they’re anything but. His use of light is amazing. And after him but before the Impressionists, how about Corbet and his landscapes? I’m thinking particularly of ‘The Stone Breakers’.”

  “Good choice.” Curt picked up the slide projector’s remote control and asked Kate to close the blinds. The room darkened. A slide identified by Patel as a Caravaggio flashed on the screen. After a spirited discussion, they prepared grounds to apply to their work surfaces.

  “Before I leave, I have a couple of things to attend to in my office upstairs. If anyone wishes to talk to me about the course, please drop in,” Curt announced as class ended. He grabbed his briefcase and walked quickly ran from the room.

  Parking in the neighbourhood was both hard to come by and expensive. As a consequence, Hollis and Curt were sharing the trip back and forth to the college. During class,

  Hollis realized she had errands to run and would not need a ride. Since she hadn’t caught Curt on his way out of class, she stashed her materials and went upstairs. She walked along the hall to Curt’s office but stopped abruptly. The door was ajar and someone was speaking.

  “When did Valerie die? What happened to her?”

  “You can sit there and ask that.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about Valerie,” Curt said.

  “She died in February. I can tell you the exact number of days and hours.”

  “I was in California for reading week, then I had a heart attack and was out of touch for a while.”

  “You didn’t know Valerie was pregnant?” Lefebvre’s voice rose.

  “I did, but Seb, you have to believe me, I...”

  “Offered to divorce your wife? Offered to pay for an abortion? You did neither.”

  “What do you...”

  “You told her life was sacred and counselled her to have it.”

  “I did. Life is precious...”

  “You sanctimonious bastard. Her life was precious to us. You’re going to pay in as many horrible ways as I can imagine. I don’t care what happens to me, but I want you to feel pain.”

  A murmur.

  “I don’t believe you. Every minute of every hour of every day, I intend to make sure you remember.”

  More indistinguishable words.

  “I’ll sit in on every class you give. I’ll attend any show. You’ll never forget—never. You’ll rue the day you counselled my darling Valerie to have the baby.”

  Lefevbre erupted from the room and stormed down the hall, muttering under his breath.

  Hollis waited a few minutes before she knocked softly on the door.

  “Curt, I have to run errands before dinner.”

  He stared at her but didn’t quite focus.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation. It’s none of my business, but could Lefevbre have tampered with Ivan’s brakes to get back at you?”

  Curt started, shook his head and scowled. “It is none of your business.” He swept papers into his battered attaché case, rose and turned his back on her.

  She didn’t linger. Despite Curt’s refusal to speak about Lefevbre, it still seemed to her that he might have killed Ivan. And might strike again. He had threatened to stop at nothing to hurt Curt. He’d lost his daughter—what better way to retaliate than to kill Curt’s son.

  Nine

  Rhona and Zee Zee had goofed. Initially they’d assumed tampering with motorcycle brakes had to have been a man’s crime. Consequently, they’d focused their attention on men with reason to hate the Hartmans. They’d used the men’s names in the visitation book as one of their starting points. After Rhona had reported on her lunch with Hollis, they added selected girls and women to the rota. For the rest of the afternoon, Rhona tracked down and arranged interviews with women who had signed the condolence book. Regular work hours disappeared when a murder investigation was ongoing. Who knew how long it would be until they’d finished, and she could go home?

  Once at home, she’d feed Opie tuna before she luxuriated under a hot shower. She’d sluice away the day’s grime and breathe deeply to clear her lungs of Toronto’s bad air. Clean and refreshed, she’d pad barefoot to the kitchen and prepare for her ritual. First, she’d remove the vodka bottle from the freezer and the chilled martini glass from its permanent place on the top shelf of her refrigerator. Then she’d indulge in her private passion—a vodka martini with a twist of lemon. One—she’d only have one before she nuked pad thai or vegetable lasagna. After that she’d recline in her lazy boy and enjoy one of her old Hitchcock movies. She could almost taste the martini as she sat in the office.

  Her phone buzzed. To answer or not to answer? She was a cop—there wasn’t an option.

  “Hollis Grant here. Good thing you gave me your card. Ignore the noise. I’m on my cell outside OCAD . I have something new for you.”

  The martini faded from view. Never mind—this was what she loved about the job. There was always an unexpected corner to turn, a new trail to follow.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You don’t need to sound so excited.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to say.”

  “The portrait painter, Sebastien Lefevbre, is registered in our class. In case you don’t recognize his name, his portraits are world famous. He needs painting lessons like Mozart needed music lessons.” She related what had happened in class and what she’d heard in the office.

  “That is new information. Thanks, I’ll follow up.”

  She hung up and contemplated the phone. Should they interview him immediately? Of course. She went straight to Canada411 on her computer. Where had Sebastien Lefevbre been on the evening before Ivan’s crash, she wondered.

  “Mr. Lefevbre, it’s Detective Simpson from the Toronto Police. My partner and I want to talk to you. Will you be home for the next hour?”

  “You spoke to me after the funeral. I have nothing to add to what I said then.”

  “It’s about your daughter and...”

  “Goddamn Curt. He had to go running to you. But what could I expect? Yes, I’ll be here.”

  Sebastien Lefevbre lived in the Annex, a downtown neighbourhood of large old houses. Unlike its well-kept neighbours, his tall, thin semi-detached house was neglected. The garden needed watering and weeding. A black plastic flat of petunias, dried out and unplanted, lay on ragged overgrown grass. Someone had stabbed a rusty trowel into the dirt beside it. The hedge marking the property’s edge sprouted a forest of unkempt tendrils.

  Duct tape covered the doorbell. Rhona lifted the tarnished brass knocker and heard its banging echo inside. A small man with a bushy grey beard, as untidy as his hedge, peered out before he opened the door and beckoned them in. They followed him down a dim hall hung top to bottom with paintings. He waved them into one of the untidiest rooms Rhona had ever seen.

  Too many pieces of heavy furniture crowded the space. Paintings, mostly portraits, hung one above another. Sheer curtains flanked by heavy side panels and overwhelmed by dark green satin swags allowed in little light. Unpolished silver bibelots, framed photos and ornate Victorian china dishe
s jostled for room on every horizontal surface.

  An old spaniel with bleary eyes and matted coat staggered to his feet and barked once. Once he’d performed his guard dog duty, the dog sagged to the carpet. Lefevbre indicated that they should sit on the sofa.

  They pushed aside several week’s worth of newspapers and lowered themselves gingerly. Zee Zee removed her notebook and tape recorder from her bag.

  “I’d offer you a drink, but I forgot to buy anything,” Lefevbre said. “I’m the house husband, and I’ve let things slide since...” His words faded.

  “Your daughter died.” Rhona finished his sentence.

  He nodded. Tears slid down his cheeks into his beard.

  The claustrophobic room motivated Rhona to get straight to the point. “Why do you blame Curt Hartman?”

  Lefevbre’s back straightened. His lips turned back in a snarl. “He had an affair with her. The police should have charged him. The school should have fired him.”

  “How old was your daughter?”

  “Twenty-two, but like an innocent, trusting child.”

  “She wasn’t a child,” Rhona said mildly.

  “Maybe not chronologically. She admired—no, I need a stronger word—she revered Curt. He must have taken advantage.”

  Rhona wasn’t going to argue. But it still took two to tango. “He told her she should have the baby. Notice I do not say he promised to divorce his wife to marry her, did not offer to go with her if she wanted an abortion.”

  “Did she identify him as the father?”

  “And who else would it have been? Curt this, Curt that, Curt says—blah, blah, blah.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “I do. I confronted Curt this morning.” He slumped. “She did finally see sense and went to arrange for an abortion. Too late. No reputable doctor or clinic performs them in the third trimester. She called me, really upset. On the way home she missed a stop sign, crashed into an SUV and died.”

  “I am sorry,” Rhona said. “Where were you on Sunday evening June 26th?”