Cut to the Quick (24 page)

“From the ashes—they're different where the most intense burning takes place. That's how they pinpoint a spot or spots where a fire originated.”

“But a fire
has
to start somewhere. How can they tell if someone used something to start it?” Etienne persisted.

“They have a machine to test for gases and for a residue of whatever accelerant the arsonist used,” Hollis said.

“Could Lena Kalma have set it?” David said.

“Why would you say that?” Hollis asked.

“After seeing the show, I believe she'll stop at nothing. If she thought Curt was up there…”

Hollis glanced at Etienne. He'd heard about Lena's show but not about Lena's threats to hurt Hollis and the family— everyone she blamed for Curt and Manon's marriage. She wished she could protect him.

“No one knew
we
were there,” Etienne said.

“Not quite true. I saw someone in the lane when you and I took MacTee out.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Etienne said.

“It was only a glance. And it isn't against the law to walk in the lane. Besides, I didn't want to frighten you.”

“Man or woman?” David asked.

“I couldn't tell. I glimpsed someone step quickly into the shadows.”

“Why would Lena burn Papa's studio?” Etienne asked.

“She's angry at everyone since Ivan died. She swore to avenge his death—whatever that means.”

“It sounds like something from Harry Potter,” Etienne said.

“It does. If she saw the studio light when we were eating our pizza and didn't see anyone leave, she'd assume Curt was spending the night. On the other hand, maybe she targeted his work, thinking nothing would upset him more than destroying his paintings.” She patted Etienne's knee. “I'm sure whoever set the fire wasn't after us.” Whether or not this was true, it might make Etienne feel better. Until the police caught the arsonist, no one would know whom he'd intended to kill. It was healthier for Etienne to think he and Hollis had not been the targets.

“Curt must have other enemies.” David seemed unwilling to drop the subject.

“He does.” Hollis ticked them off on her fingers. “His exagent, Arthur White, the
SOHD
opponents, Sebastien Lefevbre—the list goes on and on.”

Etienne absorbed Hollis's words. “Wow, how come I didn't know these things? I'm not a baby, I'm eleven. You or Maman should have told me. I'm good at keeping my eyes open.”

“We intended to spare you, to stop you from worrying.” Hollis smiled at his intensity and willingness to assume grown-up responsibility.

“MacTee Grant.”

The vet, a young man in green operating room scrubs, called them in. David and Hollis lifted MacTee to the examination room. Inside, the vet gently probed his leg.

“It's very swollen. It's a break, a torn tendon or a severe sprain. Probably the latter, but he needs an X-ray. When did he eat last?”

“Six thirty.”

“Enough time has passed. We'll anesthetize him to keep him still. He'll stay here until it's worn off. Call tomorrow morning after ten. By then we'll have identified his problem and treated it.”

“Be a brave dog,” Hollis said to MacTee, giving him a last hug before she rejoined the others.

David returned them to the Hartmans'. His last words were, “Make sure you lock all the doors.”

* * *

Thursday night or early Friday morning, the phone shrilled. Rhona had trained herself to come awake almost instantly when it rang. She'd had years to perfect the skill and took pride in her ability. She slithered from her king-size bed to reach the phone on the night table.

“There was a fire at Hartmans'.” It was the duty officer.

The other shoe. She and Zee Zee were racing to identify and arrest the killer before he struck again. They hadn't run fast enough. Who was dead?

“Give me the details. When did this happen?”

“Shortly after two. No one was hurt. A dog barking woke them in time.”

She peered at the bedside clock radio—five thirty.

“Why am I hearing about it now?”

“Initially, fire and police didn't connect it to the motorcycle murder.”

“Was it arson?'

“Too early to say for sure, but they've called in the fire marshal. They're running the appropriate tests.”

“How badly did it damage the house?”

“It wasn't the house—it happened in the studio out back.”

“Anyone inside?”

“A house guest and a kid.”

Hollis and Etienne. Had the killer targeted them because Hollis was sharing information with her? Surely not. Curt's studio—the arsonist had thought Curt was there. If he had been, he wouldn't have had a dog to warn him. This was attempted murder.

“Have you called Zee Zee?”

“After you.”

“Tell her I'm on my way—I'll arrive at the shop in half an hour.”

Rhona hauled herself out of bed, washed and slapped on a minimum of makeup. Yesterday's wrinkled pantsuit would have to do.

Opie twined around her legs, complaining loudly. He was not an early riser.

“I won't forget. I'll fill the bowls—you won't starve,” she assured him.

She decanted kibble and asked herself the all important question. Had the killer failed for a second time?

* * *

“I spoke to the fire marshal,” Zee Zee said.

“And?”

“They still have more tests to run, but it looks like turpentine was the accelerant.”

“It was arson, but was it attempted murder?” Rhona asked.

“Frank told us to proceed as if it was. We'll work with the fire department. We'll investigate as if it's tied to Ivan Hartman's murder.”

“Turpentine. That's unusual—most people don't have it hanging around. Varsol or other petroleum distillates have more or less replaced it.”

“Not for all artists—oil painters specifically. Now they even have odourless brands.” Zee Zee tapped her nails on the desk's edge.

In other circumstances, the repetitive action could drive you crazy, but Rhona didn't mind if it helped Zee Zee think.

Zee Zee stopped. “Could it be a red herring?”

“How's that?'

“We're thinking artist, aren't we? Did the perp want us to conclude an artist set the fire? The perp may have nothing to do with art but used turpentine to divert us—make sure we concentrate on artists.”

“Let's head out. Find out who was home and who wasn't. Who uses turpentine and who doesn't? This time we won't phone—we'll just appear.”

Arthur White topped the list. Maybe surprising him had been a bad idea—he wasn't home.

Lena Kalma was next.

“I must see if she's changed the dioramas,” Rhona said as they arrived at the shop front.

“My God,” she jumped away from the window. “It can't be. This is too much of a coincidence.” She moved back for a second look and saw a three dimensional tableau picturing people falling into the flames of hell. Surely if Lena had set the fire, she wouldn't have constructed this horrible miniature. Or was she thumbing her nose—challenging them to catch her, to prove she'd done it.

Zee Zee peered in, drew back and raised her eyebrows. “This interview could be interesting.”

Lena wore white coveralls splashed with red and black. On the work table, piles of photographs jumbled in boxes left space for black construction paper and pots of vermillion paint.

“Did you look?” Lena asked.

“Very dramatic,” Rhona said noncommittally. “What motivated you?”

Lena's eyes glittered. Her lips twisted. “I keep thinking of the bastard—how he was responsible for my son's death. I hope he burns in hell.”

Too good to be true. Time to tell her and see her reaction.

“Your ex-husband's studio burned last night.” There was no mistaking her shock. Her reaction was genuine, unless she doubled as an Academy Award winning actress.

“Was he…” She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, her eyes widened. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

“He wasn't there. Two others were—they're okay. Where were you last night?”

Lena's hand came down. “Right here.” She pointed toward the front of the building. “I construct things when I'm so angry I feel like exploding.”

“Do you use turpentine?”

“Turpentine. What a strange question. I haven't used it for years.” Her chin jutted forward. “Search my studio if you don't believe me. Help yourselves—I have nothing to hide. It's a solvent for thinning or cleaning up oil paints. I use acrylics. Oils make me sick. You clean up after acrylics with soap and water—it's much easier.”

“Was anyone else here?”

“Tomas must have come in after I went to bed—I didn't hear him.”

Not an acceptable alibi. Lena would remain on the list.

They set off for the Ciccios', where Zee Zee would pose the questions.

Anna let them in. “You again. I suppose you're here about the Hartman fire.” She opened the door wider. “We don't need to entertain the neighbours.”

This woman cared what the neighbours thought. Maybe that partly explained why she hated Manon. No woman likes to think others know someone is playing her for a fool.

“Olivero, the police are here again,” she shouted and led Rhona and Zee Zee to the kitchen. “Help yourselves,” she said, indicating stools pulled up under the marble-topped counter. She planted herself in mid-room with her arms tightly crossed.

If Rhona sat there, her legs wouldn't reach the floor. She wouldn't opt for such an undignified position. She leaned against the counter and pulled out her notebook and tape recorder. They waited in a silence that grew exponentially as the minutes passed.

Finally Olivero, barefoot in jeans and a
T
-shirt, padded into the kitchen. His face was unshaven and his eyes bleary. “Sorry, I was sound asleep.” He yawned. “Want coffee? I'm having some. I don't function well without an espresso shot.”

“Or with it,” Anna muttered.

He spooned coffee into the machine and spoke over his shoulder. “I stayed up until four working on a sculpture—once I start, I keep at it until I fall over. What can I do for you?”

“We're here to ask a few questions,” Zee Zee responded and turned to Anna. “Where were you last night?” she asked.

“Me?” Anna's voice rose and her eyes narrowed.

Zee Zee nodded.

Anna glared at her. “What time?”

“Let's say from six last evening until six this morning.”

Anna considered her balefully. “Since my husband is
such
good company, a friend and I shopped then took in a movie at nine. I came in about midnight and went to bed.”

“I'd like your friend's name. Did you see your husband when you returned?”

Anna looked like she'd like to get Olivero in trouble and say no. She sighed. “He'd asked me to buy granola bars at the 7-11. When he's working, they keep him going. I took them in to him. He didn't stop.” She shoved an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “He never does. He was there then. By his appearance now, I'd say he was there all night.”

Zee Zee directed her next remark to Olivero, who was pouring coffee into white china mugs. “Do you paint with oils and use turpentine?”

“Of course,” he said over his shoulder.

“We'd like to test your turpentine.”

Olivero swung around, coffee pot in hand. His brows drew together. “What's this about? Surely it's not about Ivan?”

Clearly he didn't play the radio while he worked.

“There was a fire in Curt Hartman's studio last night.”

“And you think it was arson, and I used turpentine to start it.” Olivero nodded. “Help yourself to my turpentine. I have nothing to hide. I'll buy more today. Gelo and I'll walk to the hardware store. Was anyone...
hurt?”

“He means, ‘Is darling Manon okay',” Anna said nastily.

Olivero ignored her.

“No one except the dog, and he sprained his leg.”

“Poor MacTee.” He closed his eyes.

“Isn't that something—he knows the dog's name,” Anna sneered.

F
riday
at noon, noise from the usually quiet back lane woke Hollis and drew her to the window. Below, three towtrucks, lights flashing, congregated outside the studio. One hooked Curt's car and hoisted it in the air. Water streamed from the interior. Modern electronic systems react badly to water—the repairs would be costly or impossible. The car and truck disappeared down the lane. The second truck backed into place, ready to remove her vehicle.

Impossible to meditate. Her room reeked. The smoky smell drifted in from outside and rose from the clothes she'd worn the night before. Hollis threw on clean jeans and a
T
-shirt, bundled the stinking clothes and carried them downstairs.

Curt and Manon sat at the kitchen the table. Curt nodded at her. Manon, flipping through the yellow pages, looked up.

“I'm ordering rental cars—do you want one?”

A businesslike, efficient woman had replaced the desperately worried anxious person she'd been since Ivan's death.

Manon must have read the amazement on Hollis's face. “You're surprised I'm positive.” She grinned and shook her head. “Why would you be surprised? It's what you've told me to do. And I'm doing it—moving on.” Her lips tightened. “You will never realize how grateful I am to you and MacTee,” she said thickly before she shook her head and smiled. “Darling dog—I pray he's okay.”

“I'm phoning to see how he is after I dump this stuff in the garbage.”

The vet had diagnosed a sprain and treated MacTee with anti-inflammatories. He would be released later in the day.

Curt and Manon shared her relief. Hollis kept peeking at Manon, expecting her to return to her previous anxious depressed state. It didn't happen. Hollis listened while Manon phoned her mother and told her matter-of-factly about the fire. Then she discussed the details of the visit she and Etienne would make to Quebec later in the summer. What had brought about this dramatic change? Maybe when the long-awaited and dreaded attack on Etienne had actually occurred, it had jolted Manon. The worst had happened, and they'd survived.