Cut to the Bone

by Joan Boswell

  She poked half-heartedly through the garbage, but nothing ratcheted her up to high alert.

  Bathrooms often revealed more than kitchens. If she found anything in the apartment’s only one, she would have no way of knowing to whom it belonged. There was no need for concern, as the cabinet revealed the usual collection of painkillers, nail polish remover, tampons, dental floss — nothing out of the ordinary in a house full of women.

  In Mary and Crystal’s shared bedroom she paid little attention to Crystal’s belongings. Like Jay, Crystal owned the same brand name T-shirts, CDs, DVDs. Both girls loved the Jonas Brothers and found vampires fascinating. None of this would tell her where Mary had gone. She looked at Crystal’s computer but didn’t start it up.

  The bedroom and the rest of the apartment led her to speculate about Mary’s life and personality. The large poster in the living room might reveal a sympathy for the downtrodden, an appreciation of the artistic merit of the photo, or both. On the other hand a former tenant could have left it behind. But if Mary belonged to a First Nation, her awareness of the long-term plight of her people might have motivated her to hang it as a constant reminder. The same reasoning could be applied to the chief’s poster and the collection of scholarly and popular books dealing with Aboriginal life and issues. If this was the case, what was she doing that she needed these reminders?

  The lack of a personal stamp could have no significance. Perhaps Mary wasn’t into decorating or refused to spend or didn’t have the money for anything but the essentials. If she’d always worked as a waitress, money would be tight. Did the treadmill mean she was a fitness fanatic or had she bought it after making a January resolution? Hollis had not considered Mary to be fat, thin, tall, or short. Rather, she’d seemed ordinary.

  The computer required a password. Given the coded notebook, Hollis had expected this but it disappointed her. She opened the single desk drawer. A neat array of stamps, name stickers, paper clips, and elastic-bound used chequebooks met her eye. At this point she felt like a voyeur and didn’t remove the elastic to see who and what Mary had paid.

  Instead she moved to the file cabinet. Locked. Again, no surprise. Mary didn’t want anyone trolling through her computer or her files. Was she hiding something or simply acting like a person who treasured privacy? If she harboured an ever-changing series of women, these precautions might be designed to prevent them from snooping in her private business.

  The cupboard, like the rest of the room, revealed little. Mary owned few clothes. An assortment of jeans, none of them high-end, four pairs of black slacks, a number of white cotton shirts, one black skirt, three jackets, two black hoodies, several pairs of shoes, and four purses — not a large wardrobe.

  Without much hope of finding anything, Hollis combed through each handbag checking all the compartments but, as she’d expected, found nothing. Conclusion: Mary Montour, a private person with low-key clothing, kept all personal information stored safely away.

  This expedition marked the fourth time she’d riffled through an apartment looking for clues to lead her to a missing person or to provide insight into a life. The worst had been her search in her murdered husband’s files, where shocking surprises had awaited her. Investigating a home always made her feel sneaky and somehow guilty. As she had in the past, she reassured herself that she’d taken a useful first step.

  Time to move to the second bedroom with its bunks and scattering of brilliant, tawdry clothing. Only a paperback book, splayed open and spine up, lying beside the bed, spoiled the military neatness of half the room. When she picked it up, she realized it was one of thousands of self-help books offering to guide readers along the path to self-actualization.

  This woman was working on her self-image. In absentia Hollis wished her well.

  The other side gave the impression that an out-of-control, over-the-top person lived there. Copies of People and US along with a pile of comic books lay on and under the bed, along with chocolate bar and gum wrappers, empty diet soda cans and chip bags. Amid a tangle of bedding, vivid nylon, spandex, and microfibre clothes added intense colour. The occupant had tossed a black lace bra atop the brilliant mountain. Hollis edged over to the bed and gingerly plucked it from the debris. It was 38DD — this buxom woman with her peacock clothes always would have been noticed. Spike-heeled shoes with run-over heels or platform soles were everywhere. If she had to guess she’d say this was a hooker’s wardrobe. Unlikely that she had worked as a civil servant or a receptionist in a staid law firm. The idea made Hollis smile.

  Chests of drawers next.

  Nothing cluttered the surface of the tidy bureau, and all its drawers were tightly closed. Hollis opened the top drawer. Beside neatly folded serviceable white underwear she saw an arresting, well-thumbed purple pamphlet with red lettering: Methadone Maintenance Treatment — client handbook. Either it was second-hand or its condition revealed how frequently its owner had referred to it. The methadone in the fridge belonged to Miss Tidy.

  Lowering herself to a bunk, Hollis thumbed through the Canadian Mental Health Association booklet. Well-written, frank, easily understood. If only all manuals were like this. As she read through it she stopped on various pages and learned that like her long ago boyfriend, individuals testified that they’d used the drug for decades and lived productive, normal lives. Apparently methadone users carried cards that allowed them to receive treatment if they could not get to the regular clinics. Hollis stopped worrying about the missing woman, because this information, along with the absence of a purse, reassured her that wherever the unknown woman had gone, she most likely had the card she needed to continue her treatment.

  The other bureau with its half-open drawers spilling gaudy clothes couldn’t have been more different. A clutter of spilled makeup, open jars, lipsticks along with necklaces, bracelets, and earrings covered the surface. Hollis spotted a gold necklace that spelled out a name — Veronica — new information to feed into the mix.

  In one drawer she viewed a mishmash of lace and nylon underwear, mostly black or red, jostling for space with two blonde wigs. In another several pairs of white jeans, none too clean, were stacked in the bottom drawer along with leotards, v-necked sweaters, and long scarves.

  A look in the cupboard revealed that the bird of brilliant plumage did not respect boundaries. Miss Tidy’s clothes, a navy blazer, grey sweater coat, navy suit, and two pairs of navy slacks huddled on one side, pushed there by a bizarre collection of short skirts, leather jackets, and dresses.

  Hollis sat back. Who were the women who lived with Mary? What role did Mary play in their lives?

  She glanced at her watch. Nine thirty. Willem would arrive in a few minutes. Time to hike downstairs, because search or no search, she wanted to change from her washable dog training outfit into something more alluring.

  The dogs again welcomed her as if she’d been away for months, which surprised her, as they usually retired at nine. After they settled she checked on the girls. Jay had kicked off the covers and lay on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow. Hollis tucked her in, although she knew that the girl would throw off the covers again. Her souped-up metabolism kept her warm even on chilly nights with the window open. Crystal had curled into a ball and clutched her monkey close to her chest. Contemplating the vulnerable child, Hollis again vowed to find Mary.

  In her own room Hollis peered into her cupboard. She loved bright colours and luxurious fabrics, but they had to pass the comfort test. Tonight she opted for red denim jeans. She pulled on a long-sleeved black sweater which provided the perfect background for a chunky chain that, had it not been silver, would work as a bicycle lock. In the bathroom she cleaned her teeth and was wondering if she needed fresh makeup when the buzzer sounded.

  Too late.

  She zoomed lipstick on her mouth and raced to press the button to allow Willem through the lobby door.

  He enveloped her in a hug, tilted her face up for a kiss, and then stepped back. “What’s happened in the buildi
ng? I had to undergo the third degree before the officer allowed me in.”

  “I gather you’ve been out of touch with radio and TV. It’s been on the news,” Hollis said.

  “You’re right. I closeted myself in my office for most of the day and took the subway here. What’s this all about?”

  “You should have read those screens that hang from the ceiling on the platforms. They carry the latest breaking news stories,” Hollis said before she remembered Willem’s contempt for sixty-second sound bites.

  As she told him what had been happening, she admired him. She never tired of looking at his tall, well-built body. Willem was a study in warm brown. Hair, eyes, beard all reminded her of a cuddly teddy bear, one you could take to bed and be happy. She continued to marvel that he seemed to feel the same admiration and desire for her.

  Willem considered her, his expression serious. “Maybe it’s you. Something about your karma draws you to violence. Maybe you’re murder-prone,” he said, his lips curling upwards and his eyes sparkling.

  “The murder had nothing to do with me, but something has happened that involves and worries me,” she said.

  As she spoke she wondered if Mary’s disappearance was related to the murder. Perhaps the two events tied together in some way. It hadn’t occurred to her until now, but if that was the case, maybe she should give up searching for Mary and pass the problem to Rhona.

  Willem shrugged off his caramel leather bomber jacket. “It may be May but it’s cold out there tonight. I’m afraid to ask what else has happened. From your expression when you mentioned it, I don’t think I’m going to like whatever you tell me.”

  They moved into the living room. While Hollis, wrestling with the idea that there might be a connection, marshalled her thoughts and decided how to present her conundrum, she pointed to the end of the room. “I’m still working on the giraffe and I’m pleased with him.” She was marking time. She had to tell him about Crystal and Mary.

  “Is he winking? He’s very appealing. But this isn’t the time to consider him. It’s true confession time. Tell me everything.” Willem stood, feet slightly apart and body braced as if he expected a blow. He would have looked at home on a sailing ship facing into the wind as he dealt with a storm.

  “I have a small problem, and I thought you might have an idea how I should deal with it,” Hollis said.

  Willem scrutinized her face. “I’m nervous when you talk about a small problem. I have vivid and painful memories of the last time we worked on one of your small problems.” He folded his arms over his chest and maintained his stance. “Shoot.”

  Hollis longed to sit down, snuggle close to him, and tell her story without looking at him. Instead she too remained standing.

  “Do you remember meeting Crystal Montour, Jay’s friend who lives upstairs on the second floor?”

  Willem nodded. “Pretty girl. Aboriginal, I think.”

  “Right. Well, she lives with her aunt, Mary Montour, who has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Is this connected to the murder? When did it happen?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a coincidence. Crystal was with us after school. We had dinner and all went to dog training. When we got back her apartment door was unlocked and her aunt was gone. Two women who live with them weren’t there either. When I calmed Crystal down, we went up. There was no indication that anything untoward had happened.”

  Willem frowned.

  “When we came downstairs Mary had left a short phone message asking me to care for Crystal until she came back.”

  “This story has a déjà vu ring to it,” Willem said. “Why would she do that? Do you have halfway reasonable explanation? This makes me nervous. You have a talent for mixing yourself up in heavy stuff.”

  Hollis nodded. “I know. I wish I wasn’t involved but I have to find Mary for Crystal’s sake. If I report this the authorities won’t allow Crystal to stay with me. Who knows where they’ll place her. The really odd thing is that although Crystal is terribly upset, she won’t give me the information I need in order to help.”

  Willem took her hand and pulled her toward the sofa. “Let’s sit down.”

  Hollis shifted away from him and perched at the end of the sofa. She couldn’t allow herself to cuddle, to be distracted before she described the situation. She wanted his opinion.

  “What do you mean? What won’t Crystal tell you?”

  Hollis frowned. She needed a minute to decide how to tell her story. “I’m not being much of a hostess. Did I offer you a beer? I’d like a glass of wine.” She shifted forward ready to stand up.

  Willem unfolded himself. “I’ll do the honours. But be aware that I know this is a diversionary time-buying tactic.”

  “There are cashews in the cupboard next to the stove. They’re unsalted, so eating them won’t make us feel guilty.”

  “Since you know my fondness for cashews and always stock my favourite beer, I suspect this could be a prelude to giving me reasons why I should become involved.” Willem grinned. “You are not noted for your subtlety.”

  Hollis returned his smile. “That could be true, but the fact is I need a drink. A murdered tenant, a battle with Jay, a dog training session where Barlow was as intractable as ever, and Mary’s disappearance add up to stress times four.”

  While Willem collected the drinks, Hollis planned her strategy.

  Beer in hand, Willem cocked his head to one side. “Okay, give me the details. What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing right now. Just listen as I explore my options for dealing with Crystal and Jay.”

  “What’s the problem with Jay?”

  “She desperately wants to meet her father at the Eaton Centre on Thursday night, and I’m not prepared to let her go alone.”

  Willem turned to her. His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened. “Alone?”

  “Yes. She says Mrs. Cooper took her to the subway and her father met her when she got off in the Queen Street station. Have I told you the situation with her father?”

  “Only that he’s still in the picture and makes infrequent appearances.” Willem reached forward and tipped cashews into his hand.

  Hollis sipped her wine before she began. “When I met him, before Jay came to live with me, he gave me the third degree.” She thought back to the meeting. When she arrived at the CAS offices she was ushered into an interview room.

  A burly, muscular man dressed in pressed grey flannels and a forest green polo shirt stood up when she entered the room. He held papers in his hand. After the social worker introduced Calum Brownelly, they sat at a pale wood table.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to read these papers before you arrived,” Brownelly said.

  Hollis waited while Brownelly skimmed the documents.

  While he read Hollis examined him. She noticed that his nails were clean, that he wore no rings, and that his watch was a garden variety Timex. She guessed he was in his early forties, although his leathery skin and the silver hair escaping from the neck of his shirt as well as the streaks in his full head of curly brown hair made her wonder if he was older. He would look much the same at sixty as he did now.

  Brownelly laid the papers on the table and sat back. He allowed a minute or two to elapse before he spoke. “A working artist, a building custodian, a dog owner — will you have time to look after my girl?” He had a smoker’s raspy voice.

  Hollis checked his hands but didn’t see the tell-tale nicotine yellow. He hadn’t smiled, so she didn’t see his teeth. Perhaps it was simply his voice. Why did she feel so defensive?

  She removed her trademark red-framed glasses and tapped them on the table as she met his gaze. “My studio is part of the apartment. I have a large living room/dining room combination and use the dining room for painting and creating papier-mâché animals. Working at home means I am at home and will be there for Jay.”

  Brownelly tipped his head to one side. “Did they tell you I want Jay walked to and from school? I looked u
p your address. She would have to cross Yonge Street and walk several blocks, and I don’t want her doing that alone.”

  No one had mentioned this. Hollis had assumed that Jay would walk to school just as Hollis had done when she was eleven. She’d forgotten how protective parents had become and quickly made an adjustment.

  “As I’m sure the CAS has told you, I have a Golden Retriever and a Flat-coated Retriever puppy. I plan to combine the walk to and from school with a trip to a nearby off-leash park.”

  Brownelly’s hooded eyes opened slightly wider, giving him the appearance of a surprised reptile. “And what about your job as building custodian? How will you combine that with caring for Jay?”

  Hollis settled her glasses back on her nose. “Mostly I make sure the cleaners, snow plowers, window washers, and other regular workers do their jobs. If a tenant has a problem I arrange for the tradespeople to come and repair whatever is broken. If I have to see to a tenant’s problem, I’ve purchased a baby monitor that I can plug in and take the receiver with me. I’ll know what’s going on in the apartment and my dogs will also alert me if I’m needed.”

  “As a single woman you have no experience with children. Mrs. Cooper’s sudden death shocked Jay. She lived with her since she was very young and she’s suffering. You need to deal with her loss. In addition my daughter will challenge you because she’s strong-willed. She needs a firm hand. How do you feel about dealing with those issues?”

  Hollis felt as if she was applying for citizenship. Who knew the child’s father had the right to question her as if she was in custody for a heinous crime? But she had to be positive, had to assume it meant he cared. As she had since the social worker told her how he’d asked for Jay to be placed in a foster home, she wondered what kind of life he led if he couldn’t care for an eleven-year-old. She understood a man feeling unable to look after a baby but, by eleven, after school programs, good sitters, and other caregivers made single parenting possible. An odd situation. Maybe Jay or the social worker would provide more information to help her to understand.