by Joan Boswell
Manon looked around as if she’d never seen the kitchen. “You’re right. Giverny captured my imagination when we visited. A Giverny kitchen didn’t suit our other house, but it’s perfect here.” She paused. “Give me a second to finish. I want to think about something other than the murder, and I need your advice. As an artist, tell me what colour changes would complement the renovations I made this spring.” She paused. “But we can’t take long. Curt has honoured you with an invitation to visit his studio before dinner. We have time for a short tour before the momentous event occurs.”
“Honoured”, “momentous”—not warm and friendly words. The troubles in Manon’s and Curt’s lives were definitely not drawing them closer.
Manon led the way from kitchen to front hall. “You know how we’ve changed things.” She gestured at the two doorways flanking the entryway. “We had two formal living rooms, but who needs that?” She opened the door on the right. “This is the same.” She opened the other door. “I don’t suppose you saw this room when you were here last week. Because of Curt’s heart condition, I converted the second parlour into a bedroom and used the library behind it for an en suite bathroom for us and a powder room.” She grinned. “You probably did discover that. I’ve added much-needed cupboard space. The work isn’t finished. I’m wondering if the colour scheme in the living room and these two rooms should be more or less identical. Martha Stewart says colour should flow from one room to the next. And the other rooms on this floor—the dining room, kitchen, family room and living room—are colour coordinated.”
Twin beds. Another new development. Her expression must have revealed her thoughts.
“I don’t want to disturb Curt if he’s restless,” Manon said. And you don’t want to sleep with him, whether he is or not. Which is too bad, because you might be able to comfort one another. But she understood. Everyone coped differently. Some forged ahead and tried to use normal routines to assuage their grief, and others worked their way through sorrow by giving it the attention it demanded. Manon seemed to be in the first category. “It’s lovely. I think it would add to the flow if you used a compatible colour in the bedroom.” She considered. “On the other hand, if you normally keep the bedroom door closed, it isn’t as important. Go ahead and choose lavender or a soothing blue, whatever you fancy.” They went upstairs. The den, guest room and Manon’s tiny private office were unchanged. Manon stopped before a door with a large sign taped to it: PRIVATE DO NOT ENTER.
“Adolescence is nigh,” she said with warmth and no apprehension.
She made no move to climb to the third floor.
“I popped upstairs earlier. You’ve removed Ivan’s things.”
“Yes. After the funeral, I figured constant reminders of Ivan would upset Etienne and Tomas.”
They might find it more upsetting to see every trace of their brother and his life dispensed with as if no one wanted to remember him. It had given her the creeps. She understood why Manon had swept Ivan’s possessions away—she’d reacted the same way after Paul’s death. It wasn’t a universal reaction. Others often kept everything belonging to the dead person and maintained rooms or desks or workshops exactly as they’d been left. People dealt with grief in different ways.
“I boxed Ivan’s stuff. Tomas lugged it to the basement.”
“One of the things you asked me to do was to pick through his belongings to find anything that would tell us more about him. Before I actually do that, we should sort something out.”
Manon waited.
“I have the distinct impression Curt doesn’t want me to do it.” Hollis spread her hands wide and raised her shoulders. “What do you think?”
Manon frowned and crossed her arms on her chest. “Pay no attention. You’re my friend. It’s my obsession and my problem. Knowing everything about Ivan is my solution. Go ahead.” A malicious gleam showed briefly in her eyes. “And if by any chance you figure out the killer’s identity, won’t that just fix him.”
“Okay, but given Curt’s opposition, I’ll be circumspect. No point annoying him unnecessarily.” She reached forward, grasped Manon’s upper arms and gazed into her eyes. She spoke slowly to emphasize her words. “Manon, I hope to tell you more about Ivan, but I doubt I’ll finger the murderer.”
“Rationally, I realize that, but it comforts me to think you might. The police aren’t getting anywhere.” Manon’s expression was bleak. “I miss Ivan. He wasn’t here often, but he was such an easy person to be with.”
Hollis recognized the pain. “Do you want to talk about him?”
“No. That will make it worse.”
Back in the kitchen, Hollis kept the conversation on a superficial level. “I loved the Toulouse Lautrec posters in your room at U of T . I remember your search for a bakery where you could buy the perfect croissant and baguette.” She pulled a yellow stool away from the counter, sat down and smiled at her friend. “And the subtitled French movies you dragged me to.”
Manon returned the smile, although her eyes remained watchful. She removed a bowl of hard-boiled eggs from the refrigerator. “Weeks ago, before Ivan died, Curt and I accepted an invitation to a friend’s party. She’s a puppet-maker and lives in an amazing house. After,” she paused, “after what happened, I didn’t know whether we should go. I wondered if we’d be able to cope; whether we’d make everyone uncomfortable. But we decided we had to go out and face everyone sooner or later, so we’re going. When she heard you were here, she also invited you and Etienne.”
“Did you ask her to include Etienne?”
Manon placed the bowl on the counter, picked up an egg, cracked it against the side of the bowl and placed it on a cutting board before she answered. “Poor Etienne. I guess I’m pretty obvious. I told Betty we couldn’t come because Etienne refused to have a babysitter.” She flicked off a bit of shell. “Every day since Ivan died, I’ve been terrified to allow Etienne out of my sight. Several times every night, I tip-toe into his room to make sure he’s okay.” She finished shelling the egg, took a bluerimmed plate from the cupboard, cut the egg in half and slid the halves on the plate. “It’s hard. At eleven, I should permit him to go places and do things by himself. In normal times, he could stay alone for short periods.” She picked up a second egg. “Times are not normal. I can’t do it. It’s impossible.”
“I totally understand. Given your circumstances, what mother could? Although your friend was nice enough to invite me, I’ll say no. It’s been a long day. I’ll enjoy staying with Etienne—it’ll give me a chance to get to know him better.”
Manon cracked a second egg. “Etienne will love staying home with you and MacTee. Parties bore him, unless the kids are his age.” She glanced at the kitchen wall clock. “His Royal Highness awaits you. Leave MacTee here. Knock and then go in. Unlike me, he isn’t fanatical about locking the door.”
At Curt’s studio, Hollis faced a carved antique door. It looked as if it had originally graced the entrance to a Victorian mansion. The black enamel paint, ornate brass lion head knocker and polished brass letter slot announced to the world that this was the entrance to an important person’s building. She knocked and entered. Immediately inside, a steep narrow staircase led to the loft studio.
“Come up,” Curt called.
Curt’s fame rested on his huge paintings. Hollis gazed upwards. No one lugged them down these narrow stairs. Perhaps someone, not Curt, extracted the staples fastening the canvases to wooden stretchers, rolled the paintings up and brought them out. Unlikely—rolling would damage and crack his characteristic impasto painting. How did he do it?
Curt waited at the top of the stairs. “This is it—the inner sanctum. You’re one of a handful of people I’ve ever invited.”
You’d think it was the Sistine Chapel.
“I appreciate the invitation.” It was true. Artists love visiting studios to see how others organize their painting lives. Hollis surveyed the open space with its vaulted ceiling and enormous skylights. What she had initially thought
were windows in the far wall over the driveway were double doors. She pointed. “Do you remove your finished work through those?”
“I do. Originally this space was for hay; they loaded bales that way. Now I use the block and tackle to move paintings.”
There were no large storage cupboards and a single finished painting. “Where do you keep your other paintings?”
“I never have more than one or two here.”
“How come?”
“I’m not like many painters.” Curt’s tight smile and arched eyebrows indicated that he considered this a virtue. “When I finish a work, I hate having it hanging around. Sending it away allows me to zero in on my current work.”
“Makes sense. I suppose most of us feel less confident.” Since she’d left art school, Hollis had had seven solo shows, received terrific reviews and sold many paintings. Nevertheless, she never felt confident a painting was finished. She could still want to add, subtract or change a painting she’d done years earlier.
Late afternoon light flooded the space. A gigantic canvas, probably twenty by ten feet, rested on a metal support. A moveable hydraulic dolly with a place for Curt to sit or stand allowed him to comfortably reach the highest points on the painting and to move back and forth. Rudimentary paint strokes indicated that this would be a crowd scene with a focus in the upper left corner. The beginnings of a second smaller painting composed of vertical slashes of colour reposed on an extra-large but conventional easel.
Curt walked to the area close to the stairs. “A builder tailored this space to meet my needs. It’s as efficient as a ship’s cabin.” A wall of bookcases filled with art books was adjacent to a granite counter with a deep sink. “Being a fellow painter, you’re aware of how much space you need to clean brushes, mix paint and prepare solutions.” He opened a storage cupboard above the counter. “And space to store everything.”
Hollis peered inside. Brushes of ascending size filled ceramic jars. “It’s wonderful and so tidy.”
Curt scowled. “I believe in neatness and order. Why the hell can’t the cops get themselves organized?”
What was the connection? Curt was equating Ivan’s murder with his brushes. She’d always suspected Curt was one of those people who get emotional responses wrong, who miss the mark and never know they have. His comment confirmed her belief.
He pointed to an open door that revealed a miniscule but complete bathroom. A white, prefabricated kitchen unit with more storage cupboards, a mini-refrigerator, espresso machine, microwave, sink and a red Formica-topped table paired with a single folding chair provided more than the culinary basics. Next to the cupboards, a wall phone and an accompanying corkboard filled with neatly aligned messages and reminders completed the efficient arrangement.
“Everything I need. I could live here for weeks or months.”
And it was probably what he’d like to do right now. Hide up here, where he could create his own order. She surveyed the large open space. A cot covered with a navy sleeping bag, a slip-covered blue denim wing chair mounted on large casters, a yellow side table, also on wheels, and a tambour, a table for painting supplies, furnished the room.
“I have all the bells and whistles, although I’m not a big electronics fan. No, let me rephrase that. I hate cell phones, answering machines, iPods, Blackberries, computers—crap designed to waste your life while the advertisers, the spin doctors, fool you into thinking these things make you more efficient. But this electronic stuff is useful.” He demonstrated the lighting and the skylights, electrified to release built-in blinds and open at the touch of a switch.
“It’s perfect. I’m consumed with envy.”
Curt’s lowered eyelids and narrowed lips enhanced his resemblance to a falcon, talons embedded in its prey. “If you’d listened to me and devoted yourself to your art, you’d have a place like this. You wouldn’t be wasting your time with the community college morons.”
Once Curt made up his mind, he seldom changed it. It was pointless to defend herself.
She and Curt joined Manon and Etienne at the wrought iron and glass table in the garden for a cold supper with a perfect menu: Prosciutto ham, smoked salmon, boiled eggs, pasta and tossed salads, crusty rolls and strawberries. After dinner Manon and Curt excused themselves to change.
Hollis restored the kitchen to its original pristine state and waved her hosts off to their party. Her work done, she went out to the garden. Etienne, focussed on a computer game, sprawled on a lounge chair. She planted herself beside him. “Monsieur, Hollis Grant à votre service.”
“Merci beaucoup, I like that, but I think you should bow or curtsy when you say it.” Etienne grinned.
Hollis folded one arm across her stomach, placed the other behind her back and bowed from the waist. “À votre service.”
“Much better.”
“What’ll it be, cards, games, a walk with MacTee, TV? Name your poison.”
“A walk, but...” Etienne paused. A frown creased his forehead. “I hope Arthur isn’t out there.”
“With a big, brave dog like MacTee, we won’t have anything to worry about.”
Etienne glanced at MacTee, who lay on his back with his feet in the air and his tongue protruding from the corner of his open mouth. Etienne’s frown disappeared. His grin became a laugh. It was lovely to see him relaxed and happy.
The green portable phone shrilled insistently. Etienne’s smile disappeared. He didn’t move.
Hollis felt her eyebrows lift.
“I’m not supposed to answer. Weird people phone. Maman said to let it ring—let the machine take messages.” He shrugged. “I’m not a baby. I’ve heard everything. Sometimes I think Maman needs a reality check.” He shrugged, perfectly replicating one of his mother’s characteristic Gallic gestures, “But, since it makes her happy, I don’t do it.”
“What about when your friends phone? What have you told them?”
“It doesn’t happen much. I’m not alone very often— Maman, Papa, Tomas or Nadine answer.” He slid a quick glance at Hollis. “I haven’t told my friends about the crazy calls.”
Hollis understood. She sprang to answer when the machine rang again.
“You’re murderers like Hitler. What gives you the right to say who should be born? Be careful. We plan to finish you off and end your campaign.” The line went dead.
Hollis peered at the receiver in her hand as if it might provide an explanation.
“Weird?”
She nodded. More than weird—threatening. Hatred and determination had sounded in the caller’s voice. No wonder Manon didn’t want Etienne to answer. She shivered. What was this all about? Would the unpleasant surprises ever end? She mustn’t allow Etienne to see that the call had upset her.
“Time to take MacTee for a walk,” she said.
After a walk, they played dominoes. Etienne trounced Hollis, who had forgotten the intricacies of a game she hadn’t thought about, let alone played since childhood. Later, in the kitchen, they opened two cans of ginger ale, poured them into the blender and added scoops of vanilla ice cream. They stopstarted the machine and made old-fashioned ice-cream sodas to cool them off before Etienne went to bed.
In her room, she connected to the internet. The Globe and Mail came up automatically. She’d subscribed in order to download the cryptic crossword. Now she went to death notices and typed Valerie Lefevbre. There it was—Lefevbre, Valerie Emmanuelle. Died suddenly in a traffic accident in Toronto. Left to mourn her untimely death are her father Sebastien, mother Lindsay Inkster...
A traffic accident. There had to be a connection to Ivan’s death. A cold chill—someone had tramped over her grave. Ivan too had died in a crash. It hadn’t been an accident. Lefevbre had vowed to make Curt’s life more miserable. Would he have known whose bike was whose? Was he the one who had cut the brakes?
Thirteen
Time to go through Ivan’s belongings. She collected her notebook and pen. Trailed by MacTee, she flicked the switch illuminating the bas
ement stairwell. Downstairs, cool damp air wrapped itself around her. She examined the space. Light bulbs dangled from the low ceiling. Wooden walls of horizontal boards divided the cavernous cellar into a maze of small rooms. An antiquated many-armed furnace took up most of the first room. Miscellaneous furniture, including an ornate walnut dining room set, almost filled the second. In the third she found stacked boxes. Someone, presumably Manon, had printed “Ivan’s clothes” on the top one. Since she didn’t fancy sitting on cold concrete while she rummaged through the containers, she collected a heavy dining room chair from the second room, lugged it back and set it under the solitary low wattage light.
The time had come. She acknowledged her own reluctance to dig into the flotsam and jetsam of Ivan’s life. No avoiding it, however—she had promised to help Manon. She shoved the clothes carton aside and lined up boxes labelled, “books”, “papers” and “memorabilia”.
A flip through high school notebooks—messy, scratchedover notes and papers sprinkled with teacher’s corrections and low grades told her Ivan had not been a good student. But she already knew this. The question was—why had he kept this material? Perhaps he hadn’t intended to. He’d stashed them when high school ended and never considered them again.
Dozens of photo albums filled a second box. One set was dated. The earliest went back to Ivan’s teen years. Inside, each plastic pocket intended for a 4 x 6 photo held one or more recipes. Ivan had identified sources and dates. Often he’d paired recipes with a file card describing problems he’d experienced when he’d tried the recipe and added suggestions for improvements or variations. A second collection of photo albums was identified by subject. Appetizers, seafood, desserts— whatever the category, its name was printed on the cover.
A keen cook, she yearned to read what amounted to a chef ’s diary. Regretfully, she postponed the treat until she finished her investigation. The collection revealed two things; the scope of his passion and his methodical, investigative nature. She thumbed through the last volumes—recipes he’d collected during his year at George Brown. Towards the back she found a hand-written, numbered list of names and phone numbers with asterisks beside some numbers. She recognized the names of some of his fellow students. She’d spoken to these young men and women at the visitation or funeral. She pocketed the card, intending to phone and ask more questions about Ivan.