Cut to the Quick (27 page)

“Not a puppy, a rescue dog. He's a retriever. Juno, great name, and he's wonderful. I'd hoped we'd be finished, so I could take him over to the Island for a good run.”

“That's my favourite place in Toronto,” Rhona said.

“Well, neither one of us will be there this weekend. Let's get this case solved so we can get over there before the summer's over.”

Rhona flashed both thumbs in an affirmative gesture. “We're doing our best.”

* * *

In the kitchen, Curt smashed the receiver down. “Damn bitch. Damn, damn.” His face, rigid with repressed rage, was frightening. He stomped to the fridge, clunked ice in a glass and topped it with cold water. “Bitch,” he muttered, draining the glass. “It wouldn't surprise me to find she started the fire. She'd do anything to hurt me. I'll be in the family room if anyone wants me.”

“The fans and the extension cords are in my van,” David said. He addressed his next remark to Etienne. “Do you have a long ladder?”

Etienne nodded. You could tell he liked being consulted. “We do. It's an aluminum extension ladder, and it's on the inside wall—on the far side of the garage.”

David's eyebrows rose.

“The ladder will be okay, because the fire didn't do any damage there,” Etienne explained.

“Come and help.” David's invitation included Etienne and Hollis.

“Love to, but I have a couple of things I absolutely have to do.” Two tasks awaited her, researching Lena's background and tracking down Penny.

David and Etienne left the room. Here was her opportunity for a private conversation with Curt. “I have a question for you,” she said.

“Fire away,” Curt said.

“You told me you wanted me to stay out of your business, but the fire changed things.”

Curt regarded her with a steady gaze and waited. The jury was still out.

“I'm going on the internet to google Lena.”

Curt's brows lowered. “Bitch,” he muttered.

Hollis ignored the comment. “Can you tell me if there's anything in Lena's past that would connect her to Ivan's death or to the fire.”

“I don't want to talk about her. Leave it to the police.”

“Your son and I could have burned to death or asphyxiated last night. I'm sure the police are doing everything they can, but I do not intend to sit back and wait for them to solve the crime. Etienne and I may still be the arsonist's targets.”

Curt considered her words. “Don't expect the key to the mystery to come from me. We've been divorced for years. I avoid her as much as possible.” His voice was petulant rather than angry. He paused. “I wonder how many entries I have. I've never looked myself up on the internet.”

Ego, ego, ego. “I'm sure you'll have many more than she has.”

“Is that your idea of tactfulness? Your expression is as transparent as a newly washed window. You're thinking I'm an egotist and indulging me in the hope I'll talk about Lena. Am I right?”

She'd never had a gift for subterfuge.

“Okay, you're right,” he continued, “you
could
still be a target if someone set the fire because you were there. I think whoever did it was after me—but ask away. First, I'll tell you we married in our twenties. She'd had a smashing show of her amazingly detailed vivid paintings. Almost folk art, but sophisticated. It was at Stemppels, a top-notch Toronto gallery. I'd been studying in New York and hadn't had an exhibition anywhere, let alone in Toronto. I loved her work and envied her success. I introduced myself. We hit it off. By the way, she was as dramatic then as now.”

“Was Kalma her maiden name?”

“It was the name on our marriage license.”

“Where did she grow up?”

Curt leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “This may sound pretty strange, but she only told me she'd grown up out west. She refused to talk about her background—apparently it had been painful. I never met a relative or a friend from her past.”

Hollis's marriage to Paul had been the same. They were in their thirties when they married, and they'd agreed to keep their professional lives separate. After his death, she'd discovered facts she should have known before. No, it wasn't common, but sometimes you sensed it wouldn't do any good to pry. Either you accepted the story someone told you, took them at face value or you didn't.

“Thanks—I'll fill you in if I find anything.”

In her room, she booted up her computer.

Hundreds of entries—a staggering number but better than plowing through library microfiche. She hoped she wouldn't have to do that—the jumpy lines and out-of-focus edges gave her headaches. Lena had a website, but because of her reputation for invention, her version of her life wouldn't give Hollis the information she wanted. Entries for exhibitions, articles from
ARTnews,
scholarly articles in university publications, reviews in newspapers: the list went on and on.

None answered her questions about Lena's early hidden background.

A new tack. She typed in Kootenays. Again, a host of leads. One triggered a response, something remembered from long ago history classes. And she knew exactly who to go to for help. She typed an email to her friend, Francine Marcot, an Ottawa National Archives employee. Thirty-five minutes later, Francine responded. Hollis picked up the phone and called her.

“I did the tracking,” Francine said. “Your timing was perfect. We received a terrific bequest several months ago that we're cataloguing, or I wouldn't have been able to tell you much.”

“Who was it from?”

“A woman in Vancouver. The Sons of Freedom Doukobhor sect had fascinated her for years. She didn't have any connection to them but had heard their story since her childhood. She was an amateur historian and feared they wouldn't record their history and everything would be lost. About twenty years ago, she began obsessively collecting information, and she's bequeathed it to us. Are you familiar with their story?”

“They protested by shedding their clothes and setting fires.” Setting fires—this was too good to be true.

“There's more to it. I can email you references.”

No way. She wanted this information now. “Can you give me a brief synopsis and tell me how it relates to Lena Kalma?”

“Sure, I'll do both. The Doukhobors were a religious sect like the Hutterites. They came from Russia to escape persecution. Initially the whole group settled in Saskatchewan. Later a breakaway sect moved to B.C. That group, the Sons of Freedom Doukhobors, is the one we're interested in. They protested against the Marriage and Vital Statistics Act because they were afraid if they registered births and marriages, the government would use the information for military conscription. When their leader, Peter Verigin, was tried for perjury in 1932, it set off a wave of nude protests. The government prosecuted them for public indecency and sentenced hundreds to three years imprisonment. The existing prison system couldn't cope. They ended up interning them in a special penal colony they built on Piers Island.”

“Interesting, but what does it have to do with Lena?”

“Patience—I'm getting there. The government sent Freedomite children to orphanages, industrial schools and foster homes to ‘resocialize' them. This program continued for many years, as did the Freedomite protests. In fact as late as 1963, Mary Braun, an eighty-one-year old woman, was convicted of arson for burning down a community college. Anyway, that's Lena Kalma's story.” She paused.
“She
was an institutionalized child.”

“No wonder she never gave any information about her background. Thank you for doing this—I owe you a dinner when I come home.”

“And you can tell me why you wanted the information and what you did with it.”

After hanging up, Hollis sat back. Secrets. Everyone had secrets. She had a few herself. Manon did too, if the way she and Olivero looked at each other was any indication. And her classmates—what deep, dark secrets were they hiding? What was the real reason Patel had left India? Had he fled a checkered past? Was Tessa a Grand Manan smuggler who used her art as a cover? She laughed to herself at her flights of fancy. What of David with his tattoos and love of sailing? Tattoos. Patel had asked if it was significant. Someone had told her there was an iconography of tattoos as detailed as that surrounding the windows in Gothic cathedrals. She typed “tattoo” into Google. She wasn't surprised to find hundreds of websites. She checked out three and decided she definitely wouldn't be getting a spider.

But she was wasting time. What should she do about Lena? It seemed only fair to confront her with the information she'd uncovered. Given her volatility, Hollis shouldn't be alone when she faced Lena. She had to admit, the woman intimidated her. There had to be a solution. Lena loved to grandstand. Perhaps she'd be making another gallery appearance to vilify Curt. That would be the perfect scenario. She'd be safe from Lena's rage because other people would be there. Before she had second thoughts, she phoned the gallery and confirmed that the artist would be present on Sunday afternoon. Her mouth went dry thinking about the meeting, but it couldn't be avoided. She'd have to be brave.

* * *

It was Saturday morning, and humidity—the summer curse— hung over Toronto and intensified the stink from the fire. No breeze lifted it: the heat and sun promised to intensify its unpleasantness. David arrived early to reposition the fans and check on the drying process. He came to the kitchen after his survey. The family, finishing breakfast, clustered around the table.

Curt introduced Tomas. “We're in a sailing race this afternoon. Well, we will be if the wind picks up.” He sighed. “I hate to admit it, but the damn fire tired me out. I'm thinking of cancelling.”

“Why don't you admit you're sick?” Manon said.

“Why do you drag my health into everything?” Curt snapped.

“Because your health affects everything. If you'd look after yourself, we'd all be happier,” she fired back.

This had the makings of a major donnybrook. Hollis interceded. “David crewed in Vancouver. Remember the first day of classes. David told us he missed sailing more than anything else. Maybe he could help you out.”

Curt sighed but nodded. “What classes of boats have you sailed?” he said to David.

The tension eased as the conversation moved to sailing. Tomas, Curt and David discussed the various classifications, crew requirements and idiosyncratic challenges. They told David that the
RCYC
scheduled sailing races on weekends and several times during the week. Curt and Tomas competed frequently.

“How would you feel about replacing me today?” Curt asked.

“I'd love to do it. It would be an unexpected treat. Hollis is right—sailing is what I miss most,” David said. “And I promise…”

The ringing phone interrupted him.

Curt answered, muttered monosyllables and returned to the group. “Good thing we agreed to do that. For some strange reason, Sebastien Lefevbre insists on coming over this afternoon. I can't imagine why—he said it was important but wouldn't say why.”

“That's mysterious,” Manon said.

“To finish what I was about to say, I'll come back after the race to see how the stuff is drying,” David said.

It was time for Hollis to contact Penny. Most regular restaurants opened at eleven. Assuming that was the case with Penny's, she should still be home. Up in her room, Hollis punched in the number. She crossed her fingers that the dragon she'd spoken to last time was out or asleep, or had moved to another planet.

“Hello.”

Definitely not the dragon. “Penny Pappadopoulos?”

“Yes.”

“I'm helping Ivan Hartman's family find out more about his life. I found your photo in Ivan's papers. Would you be willing to talk to me about him?”

“I wondered when someone would call and why it took so long,” Penny responded. Her audible sigh could have signalled relief or sadness or both. “I think I'd like to speak to you face-toface.”

Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this. “Would you like to meet this morning?”

“No. I have to go to work. My family owns a restaurant on the Danforth. I'm off after lunch from two until five. Are you familiar with Java Java? It's also on the Danforth, but since it's a health food restaurant, I'm not likely to run into any family members.” She gave a dry little laugh. “To say they aren't into health food is the understatement of the year.”

“What time?”

“Some time between four and five. Let's say four.”

If Penny had important information, why she hadn't come forward on her own? And why had she sounded so relieved to hear from Hollis?

Java Java, a small restaurant with an eclectic collection of tables squeezed together to provide maximum seating, still hummed at four. One or two baby strollers blocked access to some tables. Teenagers with busy cell phones occupied many others. Hollis paused and surveyed the room, looking for a woman alone. An elderly gentleman, correct in a tweed jacket, tie and worn white shirt, had a book propped in front of him and lemon pie with sky-high meringue waiting. A scholarly woman busy on a computer drank coffee and took cautious bites from a sandwich stuffed with so much tomato and avocado it threatened to fall apart. A pregnant young woman with a large glass of milk sat on a bench that ran along one wall and provided seating for several tables. She waved tentatively at Hollis.

It was the woman who'd tried to speak to Curt after Ivan's funeral.

Pregnant?

This
was
a surprise. She knew she was staring, but it was hard not to. Never in her wildest scenarios had she envisioned a pregnant girlfriend. Was it Ivan's baby? Had they been in love? If they had been, how hard these weeks must have been for Penny. Why hadn't she contacted the family? She'd tried, but why hadn't she called or written? Hollis was nonplussed. She didn't have an approach plan. What would she say? Nothing. She'd give Penny the lead and see what happened.