Cut to the Quick

by Joan Boswell

  “Poor Ivan. Imagine how screwed up he was if he didn’t share his dreams with his family. He didn’t identify the other person, and I didn’t ask. I would have if I’d known what was going to happen. It struck me that he wanted his dad’s approval. We never talked about bikes again. I figured he had enough problems in his life. I wasn’t going to add to them.”

  A thoroughly nice young woman who’d given Hollis a new challenge—identifying the person with whom Ivan had expected to go to Italy.

  Hollis puffed into class fifteen minutes late. Curt scowled. The stool next to Sebastien Lefevbre was empty. Perfect. After the conversation she’d overheard, she wanted to find out more about him. She’d strike up a conversation at break. For now, she focused while Curt spoke about Caravaggio’s dramatic life and art.

  A voice interrupted his lecture; an amplified, disembodied voice coming from somewhere outside the building. He stopped talking. Everyone listened. “See Lena Kalma’s exposé of Curt Hartman and his son’s murder at the Revelation Gallery on Parliament Street. Opening tonight. Don’t miss it.”

  Fourteen

  Disbelief, total denial—this couldn’t be happening. It sounded as if Lena was accusing Curt. Hollis considered running and sticking her head out the open window to see if it was Lena herself shouting into a megaphone. Or was it a truck with a recorded message? She stared at Curt, waiting to see his reaction.

  Silence ballooned into the vacuum left by the voice. A witch had cast her spell.

  Curt, his face white and his eyes open wide, clenched his jaw and drew in a lungful of air. “God, that woman will stop at nothing.” He reached in his shirt pocket, clapped his hand over his mouth and swung away from the class.

  Angina—his pills. What should she do if it was a full-scale heart attack? Call 911. Make sure he could breathe and loosen his clothing. Did you do CPR ? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Learning CPR had been on her “to do” list, but somehow she’d never gotten around to it. She hoped someone else knew the routine.

  In the silence, a buzzing fly sounded like a 747. Curt faced them. His hand no longer covered his mouth. “Take a fifteen minute break,” he commanded before he stalked from the room. Lefevbre followed him.

  Kate rushed to the window, yanked the cord and raised the blind. “A tall blonde woman dressed in black is shouting into a megaphone.”

  Bert and Tessa crowded in beside her.

  “Wow, that’s a course extra,” Kate said.

  “I’ll say. Curt was really shocked,” Tessa said.

  “Who wouldn’t be?” David asked.

  Hollis said nothing.

  “I’m going to get a bottle of water,” Patel said and headed for the door. The others fell in line and flowed downstairs behind him. David, limping quickly, kept his hand on the railing as he descended.

  Downstairs, the group once again clustered around snack and drink dispensing machines, feeding in loonies and toonies and retrieving soft drinks, water, potato chips, Smarties and Sweet Marie bars. They popped tabs, twisted bottle caps and tore open plastic packages.

  “Was she implying Curt killed his son?” Bert asked, pulling the tab from a soft drink can.

  “Isn’t that slander? Isn’t it illegal to defame a person? How can she get away with it?” Tessa said.

  “He actually turned white,” Patel said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone do that.” His lips twitched. “Actually, with most of my countrymen, it would be hard to tell.”

  “She must have a major league reason for doing such a mean thing. Does anyone know her story?” Kate asked before she stuffed the last chips into her mouth and crumpled her empty bag.

  Hollis listened and decided she wouldn’t betray any confidences if she shared facts. “Lena Kalma was married to Curt. She’s Ivan’s mother.”

  “His mother!” Bert shook his head. “His mother!” he repeated disbelievingly.

  “She is. She’s an artist and uses her own name.”

  “A horror story divorce—is that what happened?” Kate asked.

  Hollis nodded.

  “Do you think she’s accusing him of the murder?” David asked Hollis. He spoke dispassionately, as if this was an interesting intellectual question.

  Hollis didn’t want to consider the repercussions. “Not exactly.”

  “I feel even sorrier for Curt. Everything is piling up on him. That family is suffering, and now it will be worse. I still wish we could do something to help them. But that aside, we absolutely have to visit the show.” Kate cocked her head to one side, and a tiny smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “This is an event—capital E. Canadian Art will write it up. Let’s meet at the opening, have a drink afterward and talk about it.” She pushed her hands through her hair and made herself look even more like an enraged porcupine. “Who’s going?”

  “I can’t,” Tessa said.

  “Poor Curt,” Bert said. “My son is five. I won’t even think about something happening to him, but if it did, I can’t imagine how I’d feel having my wife or my ex-wife more or less accusing me of killing him.” He shook his head. “I’m babysitting tonight, but I want to hear all about it.”

  “I would like very much to join you,” Patel said.

  “Sounds good. What about you?” David said to Hollis.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.” What would the press do with this story? A Greek tragedy and trial by reporters—it could evolve in many ways. And even if the papers and TV didn’t blow it up, how would the show affect the fragile Hartman family? And where did she fit in? What could she do? She didn’t have any answers, but she’d have to find some.

  Their break over, they headed back upstairs.

  Curt strode in, head high. “I’m sorry for the interruption. If Hollis, who’s a family friend, hasn’t filled you in, I’ll tell you that someone cut my son’s motorcycle’s brake lines and he...” He paused. “He died.” He expelled these last words as if they’d been trapped inside, and releasing them made Ivan’s death a reality. “Lena Kalma is his mother. I’m as anxious as she is to have the criminal who did it identified and punished. It wasn’t me. I loved my son.” His voice caught, and he stopped speaking. His eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  “I loved my daughter,” Lefevbre said in a whisper that sounded like a shout in the quiet room.

  How would the others respond to this interjection? Would they think Lefevbre was losing his marbles? Because she’d overheard Lefevbre confront Curt, she realized he intended to upset Curt even more.

  Curt must have heard the remark, but he ignored it. Instead he bent and fiddled with the slide projector lens before he clicked it on and focused. “Back to Caravaggio,” he said.

  Analyzing slides seemed irrelevant, but Hollis ordered her mind to pay attention.

  Four o’clock approached. Curt had offered Hollis a ride but warned her that he had half an hour’s work to do in his office before he could leave. She took her time packing up before she sauntered upstairs. When she reached his office, she glanced in. Olivero, with his arms braced on the desk, leaned forward with his face inches away from Curt’s. She couldn’t hear what he said, but his stance was threatening. Neither man noticed her.

  Not another confrontation? Curt won the prize as the most unpopular man she’d ever met. She strained to pick up the conversation, but it was impossible. She backed quietly away before they realized she was there. When she returned ten minutes later, Curt was alone and ready to leave.

  Should she mention Lena and her show or stick to casual conversation? She rehearsed several neutral conversation openers as they walked to the parking garage. Curt stomped along and said nothing until they were in the car.

  “Didn’t Lena give us a nice little surprise,” he said bitterly. The Volvo station wagon squealed out of the underground parking garage.

  Hollis gripped the door handle, braced her feet and checked for a passenger air bag. “Was it a complete shock?”

  “Absolutely. Why would she humil
iate me? If what she’s done is libelous, I’ll sue the pants off her.” He cornered so abruptly, Hollis feared the car would flip. She prayed its frame was as strong and its construction as crash-proof as advertisements claimed.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll go and see the show?” She recognized the question’s stupidity as soon as she spoke.

  “Of course not,” he snapped. His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared. Colour flooded his cheeks then drained away, leaving him white-faced. He reached in his shirt pocket, extracted a pill and slid it under his tongue.

  “Would you like me to drive?” Hollis feared he would crumple over the steering wheel and die.

  “No, I’m perfectly all right. If I did show up, wouldn’t it give the press something to chew on? Lena would go ballistic, but she’d love it. You can be damn sure she’s set to milk every ounce of publicity from this stunt.” Making his right hand into a fist, he banged it on the steering wheel while directing the car with his left. “Let me tell you”—bang, bang—“she’ll do it without any help from me.” A final series of thumps, before he regripped the wheel. “A great opportunist, our dear

  Lena. Obviously her career needs a boost, and she’s willing to sacrifice poor Ivan to achieve her end.” He glanced at Hollis, who willed his eyes back to the road: he was driving at double the posted speed limit.

  “I would like a first-hand, unbiased report, not a hackneyed art reporters’ views or those of voyeuristic sensationalist press know-nothings.” He swivelled his entire torso toward her. “Will you see it and give me a report?”

  A quick response to save herself from dying in a flaming wreck. “Private investigator, Hollis Grant, at your service.”

  The trip, short in time and long in terror, finally ended. Curt reached up and flicked the garage door opener attached to his visor. Once the police had removed the yellow tape on the front yard parking pad, Curt had insisted he and Tomas continue to park their motorcycles there. She wondered why Curt hadn’t sold his bike. If she’d had a son and he’d died like Ivan, every bike she saw would be a constant reminder. Obviously Curt didn’t agree. He loved relating how his love affair with Harley-Davidson motor cycles began in his teens, when he’d bought a beat-up wreck and restored it to working order. On Ivan’s eighteenth birthday, Curt had given him the latest model of his own bike. Two years later, when Tomas reached eighteen, he had received the current model. Being charitable, she had to believe Curt kept it because it reminded him not only of his childhood, but also triggered happy memories of road trips with his sons.

  Curt’s features contracted, and his face darkened. “Damn Manon—it’s all very well she’s such a success, but she’s never here when I need her.”

  Hollis considered the converse. Where was Curt when Manon needed him?

  After he’d parked the car, Curt slammed toward the stairs leading to his studio. Hollis hurried through the garden and unlocked the kitchen’s white French doors. After walking MacTee, she occupied herself helping Nadine prepare dinner.

  While she shredded cabbage for coleslaw, she wondered whether to tell Manon about Lena and Lefevbre. Curt was unlikely to repeat Lefebvre’s accusations, and she didn’t see any reason why Manon should know. But he would tell Manon about the show—it wasn’t something that could be hidden. And after he did, she and Manon would talk about it. Given Manon’s obsessive nature, she would beat the subject to death. Hollis knew the retelling would help her, and no matter how many times Manon felt the need to do it, Hollis was prepared to listen.

  Manon appeared at six thirty, looking as cool and collected as a banker should. Her nails, raised shoulders and clenched jaw belied her calm façade. Manon clicked the intercom to Curt’s studio. “Dinner in ten minutes.”

  “I’m not hungry. Ask Hollis to tell you what happened today, and you’ll understand why.”

  Manon’s eyebrows and voice rose. “Well?”

  Hollis met Manon’s gaze and shook her head almost imperceptibly. She didn’t want to talk about this while Etienne was there. “Nothing too serious. It’ll wait until we’ve eaten.”

  Eyebrows still elevated, Manon cocked her head to one side. “These days, who knows what’s serious and what isn’t.”

  At dinner, Etienne loaded his plate with second helpings of potato and tuna salad along with two slabs of bread. Between large forkfuls, he entertained them with the mythology behind the names of stars, telling them the stories of the Pleiades, Cassiopeia, Pegasus and Cepheus. He spoke about black holes, galaxies, quasars, ion particle clouds and other mysterious subjects.

  Hollis marvelled at the quantity Etienne ate. At the same time, she worried about how little Manon consumed. She’d fade away to nothing if her problems weren’t solved soon. After supper, Etienne changed into his baseball uniform. Manon and Hollis carried iced tea outside to the front porch. Restored Victorian gingerbread trim and curlicue-laden black wrought iron chairs contributed to the veranda’s period feeling. Etienne joined them. He plunked down on the wide front steps to wait for his baseball carpool.

  “Hollis, tomorrow morning will you take me with you again when you walk MacTee?” Etienne said.

  “It will be early—shortly after six.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll set my alarm.”

  When his ride arrived, Manon and Hollis waved him off.

  “I’m also setting my alarm and coming with you tomorrow morning.” Manon said firmly.

  Did she fear for Etienne’s safety, or did she plan to meet Olivero?

  “Okay, what’s his problem now?” Manon spoke in the resigned tone of voice one might use speaking about a spoiled child who frequently used temper tantrums to get his own way.

  “Today Lena stood outside OCAD with a megaphone and announced that her new show opened tonight at the Revelation gallery. She promised to expose Curt’s treatment of Ivan and implied that Curt killed him. I’m heading to the gallery in a few minutes.”

  “Mon Dieu.” There was silence while Manon absorbed this information. “The woman is insane. No wonder you wanted to wait until Etienne left. My poor child does not need to hear Lena accusing his father of murdering his brother.” She shook her head. “Lena’s never forgiven Curt for leaving her and marrying me.” Despite the heat, she shivered. “Let’s move to the garden. I feel exposed out here. I’m anxious every time a car slows down. I expect a drive-by shooting.”

  In the garden, Manon shifted from one foot to the other, started to speak, stopped and finally banged her glass down on the side table.

  “I should never have married Curt.” Her chin rose, and she tilted her head to one side. “Probably you figured out long ago it was because Etienne was on the way.”

  “You were what, thirty-one?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “I wondered how you ended up pregnant. Not that I need a talk on the birds and the bees, but you’d said a million times you didn’t plan to have kids.”

  “I didn’t. It was a time when my mood swings and periods of serious depression worsened. My doctor suggested it might be hormonal. He persuaded me to give up the pill.” Manon shrugged. “If you’ve taken them forever and go off sometimes, you forget to take precautions. At least I did.”

  “But you could have...”

  “Had an abortion.” Manon finished the sentence. “I could have, but I made the mistake of telling Curt. I thought he wouldn’t want a baby and would support me if I took that route. Not so—he was thrilled.” Her shoulders lifted again. “In a way, I felt relieved. Depression runs in my family. With my history, it didn’t seem fair to bring a baby into this world. But Curt pleaded with me to complete the pregnancy. He said he loved me and couldn’t bear the thought of losing the baby.”

  “And you, how did you feel?”

  “Frightened, but I wanted it too. I was afraid to go it alone. I needed Curt. Having a baby without marrying would have horrified my mother.” Her eyebrows lifted. “And the banking community is pretty staid.”

  “Getting better.”<
br />
  “True. I really thought long and hard about marrying him. I don’t have to tell you he’s moody and quick-tempered. I suggested living together for a few months. Then, if it worked, we’d tie the knot. Curt would have none of it. He kept repeating, ‘the baby has to have a proper father—I’ve been there—I know where my duty lies’.” Manon leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Hollis’s face. “I said—‘what about your duty to Ivan and Tomas’—but he kept shaking his head and repeating—‘living together isn’t the same—I know where my duty lies.’” She paused. “I think Ivan was the reason he married Lena.”

  Sebastien Lefevbre had accused Curt of fathering a baby who’d died along with its mother. Who knew how many more women and babies there were? She considered making a crack about Curt’s carelessness, but this was no time for levity. And three mistakes—nonsense. One was allowable, two marginally understandable, but three was unforgivable. A psychiatrist would have a field day with Curt’s serial philandering and fathering.

  On the other hand, how did Curt’s statement about duty fit in with his actions? “Duty. I don’t think of Curt as a dutiful man.” Hollis frowned. “No, I’m wrong. He gives the course I’m taking because of his sense of duty. He’s committed to passing on his knowledge. I understand him seeing his responsibility and wanting to take it on.”

  “He sounded sincere. I have to confess, Curt’s life appealed to me—it contrasted dramatically with mine. I felt sorry for Lena. I suspected she loved him passionately. I expect she still does, although she’d deny it to her last breath.” She wrinkled her nose as if her perfume didn’t quite camouflage a bad smell. “I’ve realized something in the twelve years we’ve been married. Even in the beginning, I never loved him like Lena did. I never will.”

  Manon’s body relaxed after she’d made this admission. They sat without talking, listening to the traffic’s distant murmur and twittering birds bedding down for the night. The lights from Curt’s studio skylights cast a glow on the chestnut tree overhanging the garden.