Cut to the Bone

by Joan Boswell

  Her words penetrated. Crystal obediently sipped.

  Hollis marshalled what little she knew about Crystal, who lived with her Aunt Mary, a woman Hollis pegged as an Aboriginal without any concrete evidence to support her assumption. The accountant had Hollis check up on tardy tenants, and Mary’s name never appeared on his list, so she must pay her rent on time. Whenever Hollis met Mary in the lobby, the woman responded minimally to Hollis’s attempts to chat.

  Not much to go on. She tried to think if anything in the files would help. A few months earlier at the start of the job, she’d read through all the lease agreements and found out as much as she could about the building’s tenants. For some she made notes to help her remember their idiosyncrasies and obsessions, but she had none for Mary.

  Hollis sat down. She’d probably get more information if she didn’t loom over the child. Being almost six feet tall, she knew she could be intimidating.

  “Couldn’t your aunt have gone out and forgotten to lock the door?” Hollis asked.

  Crystal reached for a cookie, swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate, and shook her head. “No way. Whether she’s home or out she never, never leaves it unlocked. She has three locks and she’s super careful to always lock the door.”

  “There are other people living with you, aren’t there. Are they gone?”

  Crystal shrugged. “They’re not there.”

  “How many people live with you?”

  “Sometimes one, sometimes two or three.”

  “Family? Friends?”

  Crystal eyed her warily and shrugged.

  “I suppose they’re your aunt’s friends. Maybe she left you a note to tell you where she’s gone,” Hollis said.

  Crystal tipped her mug and finished her drink before she replied. “I doubt it. Aunt Mary took me because my mother’s dead and my grandmother’s sick. She didn’t want me but there was no one else.” The bitterness in Crystal’s voice shocked Hollis.

  What had happened to the child’s mother? Why didn’t Crystal think Mary would leave her a note if she’d unexpectedly gone out? Clearly, Crystal didn’t want to tell her anything about her aunt. Maybe the apartment would reveal more.

  “When you finish your drink we’ll go upstairs and search for clues to tell us where your aunt went.”

  Jay, jiggling from one foot to the other as she followed their conversation, took the matter in hand. “Hey, just like Nancy Drew. Maybe we should wear gloves and take a magnifying glass.” She looked at Hollis. “Have you got stuff like that?”

  Hollis shook her head. “I have, but we haven’t reached that stage.” She registered that the puppy had inserted his nose into the pocket of the jean jacket Crystal had hung on the back of the chair. Hollis pointed to the jacket. “Don’t leave anything where Barlow can get it,” she said as she did every time they left the dog alone.

  Crystal grabbed the jacket, shrugged into it, foraged in the pockets of her blue jeans, and yanked out three keys on a grubby blue satin ribbon. “I didn’t need these. I didn’t lock the door when I left in case my aunt came back.” She frowned at Hollis. “We should lock it after you see that there’s no way to tell where she’s gone. You could write a note telling her I’m here and stick it to the door. I don’t know why you don’t believe me, but if it makes you happy we’ll look.” She picked up her cup and carried it to the sink before she headed out.

  Jay left her mug on the table and scrambled to join Crystal. Hollis sighed as she followed the girls. She suspected Crystal was right and they wouldn’t learn anything about Mary’s whereabouts.

  Upstairs, the three hesitated outside the apartment before Hollis led them into a small foyer that opened directly into an apartment that was the mirror image of Hollis’s. The door might have been open when Crystal came home, but nothing untoward appeared to have happened in the hall. The pictures hung on the wall, the rug lay on the floor, and a bowl of keys sat on a demi-lune table. Only rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses lying on the floor were out of place.

  The three stopped.

  There was no evidence that Mary’s departure had been involuntary. And how would her kidnapper have evaded the police, who had checked everyone entering and leaving the building and garage since Hollis reported Sabrina’s murder?

  Crystal had told them Mary’s vehicle was gone. But there was no law against leaving the garage. Perhaps a very cool customer could have risked forcing a woman into her own car and driving out, but Hollis had trouble visualizing a man hustling Mary out of the building into the garage, hitting her on the head, and sticking her in the trunk.

  The security tapes recorded activities in the garage. The police possessed them. Surely they would have noticed? And what of the unidentified tenants? Who and where were they?

  “Nancy Drew would see if anything suspicious has happened in the rest of the apartment,” Jay said, barging ahead of them.

  “Jay, wait. Let me go first. We don’t know what happened here,” Hollis said and again led the way.

  First they forged into the combined living and dining room. A sectional dark green velour sofa, wood-and-glass coffee table, two folding chairs, two standard lamps, and a large old-fashioned TV on a stand were undisturbed. On the wall over the sofa a large poster that reproduced a classic photo of an American 1930s woman sharecropper standing in a doorway added a depressing note. On the opposite wall another poster of an Indian chief in full regalia dominated the room. Venetian blinds covered the windows. A utilitarian room with nothing to indicate a struggle.

  In the dining area a bridge table with four folding chairs pulled up to it, a brown laminate china cabinet, a white particle board bookcase stuffed with books, and a treadmill filled the space.

  Hollis didn’t know what signs to look for, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn more about Mary. She squatted in front of the bookcase. Many books on Aboriginal history and law. A neatly alphabetized section on addictions. A few novels and cookbooks. An eclectic mix. A worn book with a soft green cover lay horizontally on top of the others. Hollis removed it. The Song My Paddle Sings, a well-thumbed collection of Pauline Johnson’s poetry. Interesting. If she had time she’d come back and look through the volumes to see if Mary had annotated or folded and inserted relevant articles between the pages.

  The adjoining kitchen’s tidiness impressed her.

  Crystal grabbed her sleeve. “Never mind the kitchen. Our stuff, Aunt Mary’s and mine, is in there.” She pointed down the hall to a closed door. Heavy-footed, she stomped down the hall and flung the door open.

  Hollis and Jay traipsed into the bedroom, where two neatly made single beds, one with a bedraggled toy monkey on the pillow, shared a small chest of drawers with a two-armed gooseneck lamp.

  Two unmatched white DIY bureaus crowded together, as did two desks and a tall grey filing cabinet. The contents of a bulletin board over one desk, along with a collection of bobble-headed dolls lined up in front of a computer, clearly belonged to Crystal. The second desktop with its mug of pens and computer must be Mary’s. A navy backpack tucked under the desk attracted Hollis’s attention.

  “Okay if I take a look in this?” Hollis said to Crystal, who stared sadly around the room.

  “It’s Aunt Mary’s. Go ahead.”

  Opening zipper after zipper, Hollis found nothing and was about to replace it when she poked into a small side pocket and found a notebook. She looked at Crystal, who shrugged. “She always kept that with her. Really weird that she doesn’t have it. Maybe it’ll tell you where she is.”

  “I’ll return it,” Hollis said as she stuffed it in her pocket. She waved a hand at the room across the hall. “Whose bedroom is that?”

  “Different people’s,” Crystal said, not meeting Hollis’s gaze.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Hollis opened the second bedroom door. Two bunk beds, one with bottom and top neatly made, contrasted dramatically with the tangle of bedding and clothing on the other. It was as if an invisible line divided the room. Order
versus chaos. Hollis imagined how difficult it must be for the neatnik to live with her absolute opposite.

  Hollis turned back to the girls who hovered in the hall. She pointed to the cyclonic confusion. “Crystal, is this half of the room always like this?”

  “I don’t know. I never come in. They keep the door closed.”

  “Who lives here with you?” That was the first thing to determine. Then she’d find out what they’d been doing.

  Crystal allowed her short-bobbed black hair to swing forward and partially hide her face as she scuffed her shoe and fixed her gaze on the floor. “Different people,” she muttered.

  “That doesn’t tell me much. Why did they live here?”

  “Aunt Mary never said. I asked once and she told me it was better if I didn’t know.”

  Crystal’s obstinate refusal to provide meaningful information irritated Hollis. “You must have wondered. Didn’t you talk to them? Didn’t you ask their names?”

  Crystal shook her head. “Mary didn’t want me to know and I stopped asking. I didn’t want her to send me away.”

  Send her away? What had gone on in this room? “I don’t think we’re going to find out anything here,” Hollis said, although she longed to search the drawers, lift mattresses, read clothing labels, and go through pockets. She might be the building’s custodian, but until she had a few more answers, she’d be abusing her job if she succumbed to the urge

  Stepping out of the room, she gently put her hand under Crystal’s chin and raised her head until the girl finally looked at her. “Did your aunt have enemies?”

  Crystal shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand any of this and you’re not helping,” Hollis said.

  The angry lines around Crystal’s mouth and eyes disappeared. Her brown eyes filled with tears. “I’ll never see her again,” she sobbed.

  Not the time to give the child the third degree. Hollis pulled her close and hugged her. “I’m sure you will, but you must help me if we’re going to find her. Let’s have another look in your room and see if we can figure something out.” She released Crystal. With shoulders bowed like a prisoner facing execution, the child walked directly to the cupboard in her room, where she clutched a blue velour robe hanging on the back of the door, buried her face in the robe’s soft folds, pulled it from its hook, and sank to the floor.

  Jay squatted beside her, wrapped her arms around her friend, and rocked her. “You don’t know she’s gone for good. Hollis will find her. She’s really smart and her boyfriend’s smart too. Don’t worry, we’ll get her back.”

  Tears filled Hollis’s eyes. Given that Jay had lost her own mother when she was a young child and her longtime foster mother only months earlier, it was clear that she related to Crystal’s pain. Maybe, if they could find Crystal’s aunt, in some small way it might compensate Jay for her losses.

  “I’ll speak to the police at the door….” Her voice trailed away. What would she say? If there had been an abduction, how had the abductor managed to get a grown woman out of the apartment and the building without attracting attention? It seemed like an impossible task. Furthermore, unless there were clear indications of foul play, the police counseled waiting twenty-four hours before filing a missing persons report.

  Crystal dropped the dressing gown, stopped crying, and stared wide-eyed at Hollis. “No. No police. Never. No police.” A shuddering sob. “No. Don’t do that.”

  Crystal might not know or admit that she knew whatever it was that her aunt was involved with, but she knew the police mustn’t be called.

  Whether she liked it or not, Hollis had a job: finding Mary Montour.

  TEN

  Rhona and Ian finished the tenant interviews at seven thirty.

  “What have we got?” Ian asked as he swept the relevant documents into a pile on Hollis’s desk.

  “Not much. Those first interviews told us the most.”

  “No one knew anything about Ms. Trepanier or her background. That has to be a priority. Her appointment book and her laptop may provide useful connections,” Ian said.

  “First we need to eat. Let’s walk over to Yonge Street and pick up a burger,” Rhona said, thinking that junk food was the police officer’s secret enemy.

  “Good idea. While we’re there I’ll tell you about the construction workers. One knew more about the fifth floor residents than he should have.”

  Leaving officers to monitor, to take the names of any tenants to whom they hadn’t spoken, and to caution them not to leave the area, the two detectives walked to Yonge Street and crossed to a pub.

  Inside the door a sound wave smacked them. The place was hopping and the decibel level approached the auditory danger mark.

  “We can’t talk here. There’s a Tim Hortons down the block, but it isn’t conducive to quiet chatting. I wonder where else we can get a quick bite?” Rhona shouted.

  “A friend of mine lives near here. We often eat at Terroni. Good Italian food. It’s a block south of St. Clair.”

  A friend? Male or female? Rhona longed to ask, but Ian would sniff disdainfully and ask her why she wanted to know.

  Pedestrians thronged Yonge Street. People exited from the St. Clair Centre coming from the subway stop in the basement or from a thriving Goodlife Fitness Studio. Terroni proved quieter than the pub and they followed the hostess to a table that promised privacy.

  Rhona informed the server that they were in a hurry. After taking a minute to survey the large menus, they chose the day’s special, penne with a rose vodka sauce, and Verde salads. While they waited Rhona gave in to temptation and enjoyed the warm bread that she dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

  Ian refused the bread. As Rhona worked her way through the contents of the bread basket he said nothing, but she took his silence and raised eyebrows to reveal his contempt for her obvious lack of willpower.

  Munching happily, she chose to ignore his attitude. Instead she said, “What about the construction workers?”

  Ian sipped his water. “Most had no idea who lived in the building and only cared about doing the job.” He folded his hands in his lap. “But one young guy with dark hair and dark skin, maybe East Asian or Aboriginal, said he always looked in the apartments when they worked on the balconies. Didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed either.”

  “Did he admit that he knew any women on the fifth? According to Hollis, the owners replaced their balconies when they renovated the building a couple of years ago.”

  “Said his boss worked on them but that was years before he was around.”

  “Get any background on him?” Rhona asked as she reached in her bag to make sure she’d switched on her cell phone.

  “He’d only been here a couple of weeks. When I asked him what he did before this job, he said he’d worked on high steel construction.”

  The server delivered their meals. Both opted for freshly ground parmesan, and after the initial taste, agreed they’d chosen well and ate in silence for several minutes.

  Rhona took the opportunity to study Ian. Although they’d now worked together on several cases, she wasn’t any closer to knowing more than a few facts about him. Reticent didn’t begin to describe her partner. To herself she acknowledged how appealing she found him, but he’d given no indication that he was attracted to her. Probably just as well. The department frowned on romances between detectives.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Ian said.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about what you said. Often Newfoundlanders and Iroquois work on high steel. They built half the skyscrapers in Manhattan and are famous for their ability and skill, and most of all for their lack of fear when cavorting around forty floors above the ground.” She popped the last morsel of bread in her mouth. “Was he an Aboriginal?”

  “Could have been. Would that be important?”

  “Might be. We don’t know for sure that Ms. Trepanier was the real target. After all, Ginny Wuttenee usually occupied that bed, and Gin
ny’s a Saskatchewan Cree. Could be a coincidence, but we’ll follow up on this guy. What’s his name?”

  Ian pulled his notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Donald Hill,” he said.

  While Ian and Rhona waited for the bill, Rhona said, “Have you settled into the department?”

  Ian eyed her as if measuring the reason for the question. “Pretty much.”

  “You found a good place to live?” Rhona said.

  “Twenty questions?” Ian replied.

  “When you have a partner, it’s good to know more about him than name and badge number. You certainly aren’t the most forthcoming partner I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m forty-two, unmarried, don’t have any pets or plants, and like my job.”

  Rhona sighed, “Okay, I get the picture. You want your life to be private. I accept but …”

  Ian produced a grin, revealing very white teeth, lighting up his face and making him more attractive than ever. He pushed the shock of black hair off his forehead. “You feel that if one day a decision I make may determine whether you live or die, you’d be happier if you had background information.”

  Rhona accepted the cheques from the server and nodded at Ian. “Something like that.”

  “I love horses and horse racing but not enough to belong to Gamblers Anonymous. If I had time, I’d buy a horse but I don’t. I like Thai and Indian food, hate KFC, and give the Swiss Chalet chicken an A rating. I like clothes, especially shoes, expensive shoes. I’ve furnished my apartment with antiques and I have a home gym,”

  “Antiques?” Rhona repeated. She would have pegged him for a minimalist who loved modern.

  Ian continued to grin. “Surprise, surprise. Early Canadian. I own a pine sideboard from the Eastern Townships, probably made around 1830, two corner cupboards, a spool bed in my guest room, and a settle in my living room.”

  “A settle. What’s that?”

  “A day bed. Farmhouse kitchens had one so the farmer could have a lie down after the big noon meal, or anyone who was sick could recuperate in the warm kitchen.”