by Joan Boswell
“It’s a good idea,” Patel said. “Why don’t we delegate to Hollis the job of finding out what needs to be done?”
Everyone nodded. “Dry the stuff first,” David said. Before class resumed, Hollis relayed David’s message to Curt.
“Where would I buy fans?”
Hollis beckoned David over. Curt listened and nodded. “That’s a good idea. I’d be grateful if you’d arrange to rent them and have them delivered.”
* * *
Arthur let them in, cocked his head and considered them, seemingly without a glimmer of recognition.
“We’ve already visited you twice,” Rhona reminded him after she reintroduced them. “Tell us if you were outside Curt Hartman’s house last night.”
“Last night,” Arthur said, as if they’d asked him to remember something he’d done as a five-year-old child. “Did it rain?”
“No. Where were you?”
“I walked up and down outside their house about nine. I saw a woman and Curt’s son walk the woman’s dog then go back in. They had pizza delivered.”
Rhona considered his information. “Did you see anyone else hanging around?”
Arthur thought for a minute, pursing his lips. “Might have, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. Don’t think I did.”
“Did you hear that someone set fire to Curt’s studio?”
Arthur’s mouth formed a perfect “o”—he could have blown smoke rings. “Was anyone hurt?”
“We thought you might tell us,” Rhona said.
“You think I’d do that?” Arthur’s eyes widened. He drew himself up like a soldier standing in front of his commanding officer. “I can’t prove this, but let me assure you I would never burn works of art. Curt is an asshole, but he’s a great artist. It would be a sin to destroy his work.” His shoulders sagged. “I’ve fallen a long way if anyone would think I’d do that.” He frowned. “You didn’t answer my question. Was anyone hurt?”
“Fortunately not.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay longer—it would please me to identify the person who would do that.”
“If you remember anything else, will you call us?” Rhona asked.
Arthur took her card. Rhona had little hope he would use it. His vagueness was worse. Perhaps he suffered from Alzheimer’s or some other neurological problem.
“Do you think he’s faking?” Rhona asked Zee Zee once they were outside.
“Who knows? He certainly has reason to hate Curt. He doesn’t have a life—no gallery, no wife and few creature comforts.”
“All right, let’s keep asking. Time for Sebastien Lefevbre, and then the charming SOHD duo.”
Sebastien, towing his ancient spaniel, emerged from his house as they arrived. “I have to keep going. He’s old and needs to go out often, or he has accidents,” he explained.
“Why don’t we walk with you,” Zee Zee said. They formed a snail-like procession, with Sebastien and Zee Zee creeping after the exceedingly slow-moving dog, and Rhona bringing up the rear. She didn’t flip the recorder on. If he said something interesting, they’d ask him to repeat it when they returned to the house.
“Where was I last night? You people are so interested in where I go. I should be flattered. No one else cares. My daughter used to look out for me, but my dear wife is so involved with her work, she ignores me.” He stopped and allowed the dog to contemplate a grassy patch. “Lindsay suffers too, but she deals with it by immersing herself in work.” His eyes widened, his head rose and he smiled. “I’m painting a life-size portrait of Valerie. I intend to make it as beautiful as she was.” His smile disappeared. “It’s the one thing I do really well. Sitting in Curt’s classes, I realized hate was destroying me. Now I’m easing my pain by doing what I do best.” He leaned toward them. “I’m having a show and donating the proceeds to a cause Valerie would have liked.”
“What a positive plan,” Zee Zee said gently. “To return to our question. Where were you last night?”
“At home, and for once my dear wife was home too. Ask her.”
“Do you paint in oils and use turpentine as a solvent?”
The dog’s glacial pace suddenly accelerated. He pulled them along, nose to the ground, tracking an enticing scent. “Life in the old boy yet,” Sebastien said. “Yes to both.”
“We’d like to take your turpentine for testing. You can give it voluntarily, or we can…”
Sebastien interrupted Zee Zee. “Why would I care if you took my turpentine? I’ll buy more. But what’s with the turpentine?”
“There was a fire in Curt Hartman’s studio last night,” Zee Zee said.
Sebastien didn’t seem surprised. In fact, he didn’t register any emotion. Perhaps he’d been in pain for so long that he was incapable of responding, or perhaps the news hadn’t surprised him.
“If I’d stopped painting long enough to go to class today, I would have heard. Was anyone hurt?”
They told him what had happened. Like Arthur, he swore he would never destroy art.
After they collected the turpentine and drove away, Zee Zee lightly tapped Rhona’s arm. “Well, is he the culprit?”
“Could be. We can’t rule him out. But we’ve saved the best for last. On to Barney Evans and Allie Jones.”
* * *
Later Friday afternoon, Etienne, sitting on the front steps, didn’t wait for Hollis to finish maneuvering her rental car into a tight parking space. He rushed down the front walk and flung open her car door even before she’d turned off the engine.
“MacTee’s okay?”
“He is, but I stopped and bought him an extra thick dogbed.” She helped MacTee to the sidewalk. He favoured his leg, bandaged and covered with a protective plastic bag. In fact, he held it up and allowed his gaze to swing from Hollis to Etienne and back to Hollis again.
“I think he’s going to make the most of being an invalid— what do you think?” Hollis asked.
Etienne grinned. “Smart dog. He knows we’ll give him treats to make him feel better.”
“Will you bring in his bed? It’s in the trunk.” Etienne hugged MacTee before he opened the trunk. He scooped out the bed, nearly his size and covered with soft, dark green Arctic fleece. On the sidewalk, he contemplated it. Finally, he stood it on the sidewalk, squatted down, grasped the short sides and hoisted it on his head. He deposited it on the porch while Hollis unlocked the door.
“The fire investigators have been here all day. They told Papa they’ll finish by the weekend. He can’t clean stuff out and start rebuilding until they do, but he can set up fans to dry it out. Your friend, David, is coming over to install them.”
Etienne bent to pat MacTee. “He said to tell you he’s bringing extension cords.”
“That was fast.” Hollis shepherded MacTee inside. Etienne picked up the new bed and leaned it on the wall in the hallway before he followed her to the kitchen.
Curt sat at the kitchen table, thumbing through the yellow pages. “I’m wondering whether to call a company specializing in cleaning up after a fire or phone the contractor who did the original work.”
“I’d go for the fire cleanup specialists. But before you make the call, I have an offer for you.”
Curt tipped his head to one side and waited.
“When the class heard that you didn’t have insurance…”
“What do you think you’re doing running around discussing my business with every Tom, Dick and Harry?”
What an ungrateful, picky man. She wasn’t apologizing.
“They were worried about you and asked about your cleanup plans, and I told them,” she said, allowing a chill to creep into her voice. “Anyway, when they heard you didn’t have insurance, they offered to help. David has construction experience, and if you’re interested, I’m sure he would organize the job.”
Curt, head lowered, peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows. “I suppose you meant well. I hate people knowing my business.” He raised his head and looked thoughtful. “He did
introduce himself as a carpenter. Because he’s an artist, I assumed he meant cabinetmaker. A generous offer; I wonder why they made it?”
“Possibly they don’t have ulterior motives; maybe they want to help because they like and respect you.”
“Since I give a credit, not a mark for my course, I suppose that could be true.” Curt spoke grudgingly. “We can’t rebuild until we clean up, but it’s a kind offer—I’ll talk to David when he arrives.”
“Before he does, MacTee needs a walk. Etienne, are you coming?”
“I’ll come too,” Manon said.
“I need you here to help make decisions,” Curt said.
Manon sighed but didn’t argue. No doubt she’d hoped to meet Olivero.
MacTee limped. She didn’t bring a ball. Sore leg or not, he wouldn’t resist a tennis ball’s siren call.
Manon would have been happy if she’d come—Olivero waved and joined them. He reached in his pocket for a ball. Gelo jumped up and down and so, despite his sore leg, did MacTee. When Olivero noticed Hollis gripping MacTee’s leash and making no move to release him, he paused. “He can’t play ball today?”
“No. He was injured in the fire.”
Olivero pocketed the ball. He showed his empty hands to both dogs. “No ball. Not today.” He had to repeat the gesture several times before the dogs finally and reluctantly believed him. Gelo trotted away, searching for anyone who might toss something he could retrieve. MacTee sulked.
“I remembered the information that was niggling in my mind,” Olivero said.
Hollis tried to recall the conversation. They’d talked about Arthur and Lena. “What?”
“I grew up in Italy. English is my second language.”
Hollis nodded.
“The first time I met Lena at a party, she was married to Curt, and they were fighting. I remember he said, ‘you’re crazy as a coot’ and she retorted, ‘maybe that’s because I’m from the Koot enays’. Coming from Italy, I wasn’t familiar with either word, and they stuck in my mind.” He shrugged, “Probably doesn’t help you much, but it’s what I remember.”
Gelo appeared with a fluorescent pink frisbee in his mouth. He was pursued by an overweight beagle and a panting little boy wearing large droopy shorts. Olivero pried the frisbee from Gelo’s mouth and returned it to its owners before he said, “If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.”
Another puzzle piece. Lena Kalma from the Kootenays. Any article she’d read had said she came from Western Canada. This might help pinpoint the location.
* * *
Back at the house, she’d joined Curt and Manon in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
“That must be David. He’s setting up the fans. You can work out the details with him—I never did like the middle woman role,” Hollis said as she went to let him in.
David, in work boots, jeans and baseball cap, followed her to the kitchen.
Curt rose and extended his hand. “Thanks for arranging this. Hollis tells me you’ve offered to help and might even organize the project. However, we’ll have to clean up first.”
David shook Curt’s hand and grinned. “I factored the clean-up into my offer.”
David directed the next remark to Etienne. “When we’re ready, would you take charge of cleaning up the small stuff?”
The light in Etienne’s eyes showed how pleased he felt to have a job.
“You and I can be a team,” Hollis said to Etienne. “I’m great at grunt jobs.”
Etienne’s brow crinkled questioningly.
“Grunts are guys who don’t think—who do hard uncomplicated work—I think grunt is a military term for the ordinary soldier.”
“Grunts, we’re the grunts, the soldiers,” Etienne smiled.
Curt shut the phone book. He fumbled in his pocket, withdrew his key ring and pried off a key. “This is for the house—you may need to come in when no one is home. I’ll pay you for doing this. Tell me what you charge,” he said to David. “And my son Tomas will help. He’s available because he’s doing shift work this summer. “
“The more workers we have, the sooner we’ll finish,” David said, popping the key on his own ring.
“I’m supposed to sail with him tomorrow, but I don’t think I’m up to it. I’ll discuss it with him.” Before Curt could punch in Tomas’s number, the phone rang.
When Curt answered, an invisible wrench appeared to be tightening each muscle. His face reddened, and he held the receiver away from his ear. They could all hear what was said.
“Ha, ha, ha—serves you right. Too bad you weren’t in it and didn’t fry like a catfish in a skillet.”
Twenty-Two
Time to see Barney. Have we finished with his computer?” Rhona asked.
“Awful stuff. Some could be useful if he’s the perp—it certainly provides a motive. Did we copy everything?” Zee Zee said.
“We did. Who will interview the delightful Barney?”
“It really bugs him to talk to me, so I’ll do it again. What do you think—should we bring him to the station and use the interview room?”
“We could, but let’s go to his house.” Rhona grinned. “Maybe the warm and friendly Mrs. Barney will offer us tea and a scone with her homemade strawberry jam.”
Barney answered the door. Stained khakis sagged beneath his belly. His grey-tinged undershirt drooped from his narrow shoulders and draped over his protruding stomach. An unshaven face and uncombed hair topped the unattractive package.
They followed him to the living room, where they returned his computer and sat down. Rhona made sure not to park herself beside the vile-smelling, overflowing ashtray. You’d think even smokers would find it revolting and empty it occasionally, she thought.
“Where were you last night?” Zee Zee said.
“Last night. Let me see.” He raised his hand, drawing attention to his dirty fingernails. “First, it was cocktails at Sutton Place with oysters on the half shell, then a limo dropped us off at a rock concert at the Air Canada Centre.” He ticked off the items. “A late dinner at the Hyatt and music at the Top o’ the Senator.” He lowered his hands, stopped and sniffed dismissively. “Right here.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
“The old lady.”
Why did it offend her to hear a man refer to his wife as the old lady? Maybe it related to her youth, when she’d heard “squaw” used in the same derogatory tone. Someday she’d go to a psychiatrist and unearth the reasons behind her likes and dislikes.
“Do you have any turpentine?”
This time his eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Turpentine. You’re really scratching, aren’t you?”
“Do you?”
“Sure, it’s in the shed. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you’re interested.”
“We won’t.”
“And were you happy with my email?” He cocked his head to one side and smiled sardonically. “Did it get you going? Titillate you? Going to prosecute me?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
In the car, Rhona rolled the windows down. “I need fresh air after all that cigarette smoke.”
Zee Zee laughed. “What passes for air in summertime Toronto isn’t exactly fresh.” She gestured at the CN Tower, hazy in the distance. “That should stand out like a cardboard cutout. Instead, isn’t it like a soft, hazy impressionist painting?”
“Onwards and upwards to visit Allie Jones. After we saw her last time, I wondered about her sanity. Do you think she’s crazy?”
“I do. In abnormal psychology in college, we studied a psychiatric disorder; I forget its scientific name, where the person seems perfectly normal except if you mention one particular topic. I volunteered on the Distress Call phone lines when I ran my gallery. We had regular callers, and if you kept away from their particular obsession, they were rational, pleasant conversationalists. But if their special topic came up, it was as if someone had thrown a switch—they raved. Very odd. Anyway, for me Allie Jones is the sam
e.”
“The switch was Curt Hartman’s name. I wonder how I can elicit a rational response. I’ll try the turpentine angle.”
Allie Jones answered the buzzer and reluctantly allowed them into the building. Rhona’s first thought when she saw her was that Allie had dressed for a nineteen fifties sock hop. She wore a blue-flowered circle skirt, an elastic waist-cinching blue belt, a pale blue short sleeve sweater over a white camisole, beads, ankle socks and ballet slippers. Her hair, teased into an impossibly stiff bouffant beehive, was rigid enough to withstand a force five hurricane.
“The same two women,” she said icily. She allowed them in but didn’t invite them to sit down.
“Do you have any turpentine?” Rhona asked.
Frozen in place by too many face lifts, her eyes opened fractionally wider. Her lips thinned. “Why would two of Toronto’s finest take the time to come to my apartment and waste valuable man, excuse me, woman power to inquire whether I have turpentine? How stupid. Had you thought about it, I’m sure you wouldn’t have come. Living in a high rise, why would I have turpentine? No, I don’t.”
“May we check your cupboards?” Rhona said.
“Not unless you have a warrant.” Allie’s body had stiffened to match her face. “I have nothing to say unless I have my lawyer. Shall I call him?”
“Suit yourself. We may be back, or we may have you,” Rhona paused, “and your lawyer come to the station for an interview.”
Allie moved to open the door before Rhona had finished speaking. “Fine. Call me.” She as much as pushed them out the door.
“That was useful,” Rhona said wearily as they walked down the corridor.
“Actually, I think it was. Let’s go for a warrant. She really did not want us to have a look-see. What was she hiding?”
Back in the overcrowded homicide section, desks jammed against desks and stacked boxes made it a hazard to walk. Rhona and Zee threaded their way to their desks. Rhona pulled papers from her in-basket and skimmed them. She removed the third item and took it Zee Zee. “Did you get this?”
“I haven’t read everything in my in-basket.” Zee Zee paraphrased the document. “This woman’s dog had an upset stomach, and she let it out in the back yard about one thirty. The dog barked at someone who darted down the lane. She can’t say if it was a man or a woman.” She shrugged. “This doesn’t help us pinpoint who or even what gender the person was.”