Cut to the Quick (16 page)

MacTee, who'd found a dirty yellow tennis ball so old and worn it had lost its fuzz, waltzed up and deposited it at Etienne's feet. The dog's intense gaze told the boy as clearly as if MacTee could speak, “Throw the ball.”

“Message received.” Etienne tossed and MacTee, his plumed tail waving in delight, charged after it.

Back at the house, Hollis saw she was running behind on her schedule, but thought she still had time to scoot over to Buy Right and interview Ivan's boss and co-workers. Then she'd race back to walk MacTee before her two o'clock class. A busy morning, and a hot one if she believed the weatherman.

Hollis couldn't enter Buy Right and say she was trying to find out what Ivan was really like. It sounded lame and made her and his family look like idiots. Who went to a young man's employer to uncover his personality? Instead she'd say finding more information was part of an ongoing investigation.

* * *

“I'd like to speak to the manager,” Hollis said to a woman manning the cash.

“His office is back there, through the swinging doors and up the stairs.”

Hollis followed instructions and entered a cavernous space loaded with crates and boxes waiting to be unpacked. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the office door. Told to come in, she found herself in a small room crowded with filing cabinets and a desk piled with papers.

The man crouched at the desk grunted, “Yah.”

After she introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit, he didn't smile, give his name or welcome her.

“We went through this already. You're not a cop. I don't see why I should do it again.”

“I'm here as a family representative. I knew Ivan but not well. I want to form a picture of him to help me in the investigation.”

“I can't help you. I didn't know him. Talk to Lourdes, she's head cashier and supposed to know everything about everybody. But tell her I said if there's any interviewing done, it better be on employee break time: I'm here to make money, not help a Nosy Parker.”

Pleasant man. Hollis had read that Buy Right franchise purchasers had to prove themselves before the parent company agreed to sell them a store. Obviously this “no name” man had a chameleon personality, or he wouldn't charm a puppy, much less an astute executive.

“Thank you for your help.” She retreated to the front of the store and asked for Lourdes.

“That would be me.” A dark-skinned, middle-aged woman with a round face, eyes and body, the epitome of “round”, smiled at Hollis. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm Hollis Grant, a friend of Ivan Hartman's family. The police haven't arrested his killer. The family asked me to see if I could uncover any information that might shed light on the crime. I'm trying to find out what he was all about.”

“Poor lad, what a horrible death.” Lourdes shook her head. “He pretty much kept to himself after he came here to work last winter. 'Scuse me, a year ago last winter. Stock boys come and go. If they do their work, no one pays attention to them. But in April he drove up on the biggest, shiniest motorcycle. Jocelyn Jones perked up and took an interest.”

“Does she still work here?”

“One of our best cashiers. She'll be here in half an hour.”

“Your boss said I should talk to employees on break.”

“Oh him, Mr. Sourface Delaney, pay no attention. He's a man who thinks if he's ugly-faced and shouts, he'll command respect.” She flipped her long, dark hair. “I'm the best cashier he'll ever have, and he knows it. He also knows every senior who shops here
loves,
and I do mean
loves,
Jocelyn. Don't pay any attention.”

Item by item, she rang up a meagre order of cat food, peanut butter, day-old-bread and instant coffee as a withered, stooped pensioner with thin white hair slowly unloaded items on the conveyor belt. “If you're talking about
our
Jocelyn,” the woman said, smiling at them with shining white dentures,
“Our
Jocelyn's a sweet, sweet girl.” She shook her already trembling head. “I can't imagine how some of us would survive without her.”

Hollis returned the woman's smile and perched on the window ledge to wait for Jocelyn Jones. Moments later, a slim, dark woman in her late teens or early twenties advanced or rather danced toward Hollis.

“Hi, I'm Jocelyn. You wanted to talk about Ivan? I'm glad you're here. I often think about him, and I wonder what else I could have told the police.”

“Your boss said not to talk to you while you worked. I don't want to get you in trouble.”

“Trouble, shmubble—Lourdes and I have his number. Fire away.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not intimately. It would surprise me if anyone knew him intimately.” She shook her head. “Confession time. I didn't pay any attention to him at all until he drove up on his Harley. In car terms, his model compared to a fully loaded Jag or Beamer.”

Jocelyn not only loved motorcycles, she knew something about them.

“I own a bike, and I love it passionately.” She eyed Hollis quizzically. “I know, not many women do. It's a beat-up old Honda. When I was a kid, my brothers hooked me on motorcycles. They own a garage with my dad. I learned mechanics when I was about three.”

Hollis pictured the toddler paddling about, handing appropriate wrenches to her father and brothers.

“When we talked about the Harley, I could tell he hated it. I couldn't believe it—why would he ride it? I challenged him. I said, ‘You don't like bike-riding, do you?' He wouldn't admit it, but I watched him leave the parking lot. He drove like the old ladies who shop here would if you stuck them on a bike. He puttered away at, like, ten miles an hour. I couldn't see his hands, because he was suited up in the black leather stuff that goes with the territory. I
knew
that if I could, he'd have white knuckles.”

“Why would he drive if he hated it?”

“I was more diplomatic when we talked again. I asked if an accident had shaken his confidence. He could have said yes to get me off his case, but he said no and didn't explain. I found it kind of hard to imagine owning a beautiful machine and not loving it. It didn't make sense to me why he drove it if he was scared.”

The manager bore down on them. “Here comes your manager. Maybe we should finish this later.”

Jocelyn, a prima ballerina at centre stage, whirled gracefully. “Mr. Delaney, just the man I want.” She pointed to the wall clock. “Because we're always busy on Wednesdays, I'll punch in twenty minutes later this morning and stay later tonight. My decision, but I knew you'd be pleased.”

Mr. Delaney, like a turtle sizing up its environment, allowed his head to swing from side to side. His eyes narrowed, “Good decision,” he said grudgingly. He pointedly examined his watch. “Be sure you're on time,” he said as he walked away.

Jocelyn giggled. “The best defense is definitely a good offense. Where were we? Oh yes, Ivan and his bike. Anyway, he interested me. I talked to him at break and then asked if he wanted to trade bikes and go riding at lunch. I remember his horror and then what he said.”

“Tell me.”

“‘If it wouldn't completely piss off my father, I'd sell the fucking bike. I hate it. Hate trying to be a macho guy. We want to go to Italy on a George Brown externship, and selling it would finance our trip.'”

We
and
our
—that was new.

“The family wasn't aware he attended George Brown, let alone that he planned to study in Italy. I'm interested in his reference to ‘we'. Did he say who he planned to go with?”

“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.”

D
isbelief
, 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.