Cut to the Quick (30 page)

“What about Monday's class?”

“Curt asked me to lead it if he isn't back. The notes are all prepared.”

She closed and locked the door after David. She hoped she'd made the right decision—hoped the madwoman wasn't still on the loose. Hollis could only hope she didn't plan to detonate a bigger bomb.

* * *

When she opened her eyes next morning, she groaned. Her body, reacting to the previous day's shocking events, felt heavy, unwieldy and weighted to the bed. Gritty eyes, knotted stomach and nausea added to her discomfort. In the past, vigorous exercise had solved these problems, but with MacTee's recent injury, she had to settle for a short walk. At the dogs off-leash area, she waved at Olivero.

“Am I glad to see you! I've been frantic—phoning the hospitals, the police. No one would tell me anything. Is everyone okay? And Manon, my lovely Manon?” Olivero's eyes brimmed with tears. “She's had so much to bear.”

“She's okay,” Hollis reassured him. “I think Manon would like, no I'll change that—I think Manon
needs
to see you. If everything works out, we'll bring MacTee over here later today.”

“Curt won't be too thrilled.”

“Tough. He got them in this mess.” She was “aiding and abetting”, and she didn't care.

Back at the house, she made two calls. Etienne and Curt had been released and would both be on their way home. Breakfast—something concrete to do. She filled the coffee maker and removed eggs and milk from the refrigerator. French toast could wait in the oven until the family appeared.

The paper—had the Sunday
Star
covered the bombing? She went to the front door, but it swung open before she could unlock it.

“Oh my God,” Hollis squeaked before she realized it was Etienne and Manon. Over their shoulders, she glimpsed a police car double-parked at the curb.

She gave Etienne a high five and hugged Manon. Up close, the tell-tale signs of stress—puffy red-rimmed eyes, tense facial muscles and grey skin—revealed Manon's anxiety.

“I gather I look like hell.” Manon attempted a smile.

Hollis didn't deny it. “Who wouldn't after the night you've had.”

“Maman, I'm starved,” Etienne said.

The women smiled. Boys hovering on adolescence's cusp could be counted on to think of their stomachs.

“Let's feed the monster eater,” Hollis said.

“How did you feel about everything, Etienne?” she asked, breaking eggs into a yellow bowl. Immediately she regretted her words. Males of all ages disliked talking about “feelings”, and “everything” was much too vague.

“Cool, it was cool. The police asked me questions. They said I was a big help.”

“What kind of questions?”

“What the lady looked like.”

“And what did you say?”

“She was old and didn't dress like Maman or even like Grandmaman.”

Intent on the conversation, Hollis swung around with the bowl in one hand and a wire whisk in the other. What did “old” mean to an eleven-year-old? She suspected anyone over twenty-one would be classified as “old”.

“How old, and how could you tell?”

“Not old like you and Maman, but wrinkly old like Grandmaman.”

“And her clothes?”

“Her clothes were funny—a dress not like anything you or Maman would wear. And she had stiff puffy hair, sort of like the candy floss you buy at the Exhibition.”

“You're observant. Anything else.”

“She had really red lips and blue stuff around her eyes and two red spots on her cheeks. I told the police her eyes were really, really blue and mean. When I opened the door, she glared like she hated me. She scared me.”

The eyes, almost turquoise blue and filled with venom— the description triggered a memory. The puffy hair and the outmoded clothes. How could she have forgotten? “I've seen her before.”

Manon, slumped forward with her head in her hands, snapped to attention. “When? When did you see her?”

“The evening I arrived. She stopped and asked me if I was Mrs. Hartman. She claimed she was recruiting neighbourhood residents to canvass for the United Way. When Etienne and MacTee rushed out, she muttered something about coming back at a better time and left.” Hollis whisked the eggs again. She dropped a butter dab in the pan and listened to it sizzle. She dipped bread slices in the egg mixture and laid them in the frying pan. Intent on cooking, she didn't say anything else until she'd finished and carried a plate piled with French toast to the table.

“I bet she's a
SOHD
opponent. When she asked me if you lived here, she wasn't really sure it was the Hartman house.”

“She wouldn't be—it's in my name, and so is the phone,” Manon said.

Hollis bit her lip. “I wasn't suspicious, but I'm sure I didn't say you lived here. But after the fire, when photographs of the house appeared on
TV
and in the papers, the
SOHD
opponents wouldn't have had a problem figuring out where Curt lives.”

Manon's shoulders lifted, and her voice trembled. “Damn Curt. If he hadn't involved himself with that stupid organization…” Her voice trailed away.

Hollis tapped the table. “Manon, look at me.” Her friend raised her eyes. “This is a good news, bad news story. The bad is that it happened because of Curt. The good is that he
was
and
is
the target. Etienne isn't. Tomas isn't. You aren't. It isn't the family—it's Curt. I'm sorry it's Curt but relieved it isn't you.”

Manon had tied her napkin in a tight knot. Her hunched shoulders relaxed, and she sank back in her chair. “I suppose you're right,” she conceded. Her face an expressionless mask, she watched Etienne dig into his breakfast.

What could she do to bring Manon back, to make her a participant again?

MacTee, his tail wagging, moseyed toward the front door.

“Papa, you're back,” Etienne said happily when Curt, followed by Tomas, walked into the kitchen.

Only his rumpled clothing and the white stubble on his jaw indicated that anything out-of-the-ordinary had happened to Curt. He smiled at them. Not only did Manon not return his smile—she refused to look at him. Her body stiff, her shoulders high, her hands clutched the knotted napkin as if it were a life raft. She said nothing to anyone but stood up and left the room.

“Back, fine, and ready to get on with my life,” Curt said, ignoring his wife's precipitous departure. “First things first— we need breakfast—they didn't give us any in Emerg. Even if they had, it probably wouldn't have been edible.” He smiled. “Now that they've fingered the bomber, maybe they'll tie her to the fire and to Ivan's murder.”

Tied to a fire sounded like Joan of Arc. Curt's assumptions startled Hollis. The woman she'd met hadn't been sure Curt lived in the house. It seemed unlikely she'd either tampered with the brakes or lit the fire.

“I've made French toast. Help yourselves. I'll make more,” she said. She dipped bread into the egg mix and dropped the saturated slices into the pan. She'd follow Manon and offer comfort. But before she did, there was something she'd wanted to ask Curt—what was it?

“Do you have the latest on Arthur? I called a few minutes ago. They confirmed that he was there but no more,” Hollis paused. “Oh dear, I remember—I promised his nurse I'd find out who to notify about his accident—I totally forgot.”

“His ex-wife, Ursula, lives in Montreal,” Curt said.

“I wonder if she still uses his surname?”

“Pretty old to go back to her maiden name,” Curt said as he and Etienne ate their toast.

Upstairs, Manon slumped at her office desk. She'd folded her hands in front of her and sat totally immobile, her features slack, her eyes unfocused. Her expression alarmed Hollis.

“Manon,” she said.

Her friend ignored her.

Hollis massaged Manon's rigid shoulders and spoke in a low and soothing voice. “It's going to be okay. Etienne will be fine. The police will find out who did it. We'll be safe while they keep an eye on the house. The woman won't come back.” Her hands kneaded the tension knots in Manon's shoulders. “Olivero's worried about you. I told him you and I and MacTee would walk over to the park later this afternoon. Was that the right thing to do?”

Manon nodded almost imperceptibly. A task—Manon responded well when asked to do something specific. It had worked before—time to try it again. “Would you do something for me?”

“What?”

“The hospital asked about Arthur's next-of-kin. They wanted a name and number. Would you phone Montreal information for Arthur White's ex-wife's number? Then call her and tell her what happened. She may want to come to Toronto.”

Manon remained immobile for a few seconds until the request registered on her neurological switchboard. She shifted in her chair and faced Hollis. “Ursula. Sure. I can do that.” She reached for the phone book and a pad of paper. “It'll be good to do something.” She flipped to the reference pages. “Later I'll visit Arthur and thank him.” Her tone had changed. Life and inflection had returned. “It's the least I can do. He saved Etienne's life.”

Hollis was elated that the strategy had worked.

She admired those who plowed ahead and didn't regard the phone as a malevolent being. She had phone phobia. Email delighted her—she could leave messages and avoid talking to anyone.

Manon didn't hesitate after she found the number. “Ursula, it's Manon Dumont, Curt Hartman's wife.”

Even sitting across the room, Hollis could hear the surprised response from Montreal, although not the actual words. She listened to Manon's side of the conversation and tried to fill in what Ursula must be saying.

“I know, but once Curt latches on to an idea, there's no stopping him.”

Another pause.

“I didn't realize it was one of the reasons you left.”

Pause.

“Yes, I can imagine how difficult it's been. But I'm calling about Arthur.”

Ursula's high-pitched voice repeated, “Arthur.”

“There's been…” Manon hesitated and caught Hollis's eye. Hollis shook her head—no point giving the details.

“An accident. Arthur is in St. Mike's. I'll give the phone to my friend, Hollis Grant. She'll tell you how he was last night.”

How come she got to be the bearer of bad news? What approach to take? Cheerful and positive. After all, they didn't know his prognosis. “Hi, Ursula. Last night he was stable, but semi-conscious.”

“Did he have a stroke? I always worried about his blood pressure. His mother died of a stroke. And he had migraines. Some medical literature says people who suffer from those are prone to strokes.”

Hollis interrupted the flow. “No, not a stroke. There was an explosion, and he absorbed the impact. When I called the hospital this morning, they would only discuss his condition with a relative.”

“I'll phone immediately. Then I'll catch a plane. Poor Arthur, he shouldn't be alone. These days, no one should spend a single minute in hospital without an advocate. They employ far too few nurses, and they give them too much to do. I don't suppose you know I nursed in England. No, of course you don't; you don't even know me. I worked in Canada too. Shocking, it's shocking the deterioration I've seen. Modern medicine may have its miracles, but when it comes to care—Florence Nightingale would spin, absolutely spin in her grave. It used to be that a private room was what you wanted, but not any more. If you're in a double or a ward, another patient or a visitor will call the nurse if something goes wrong. But I'm wasting time. Arthur needs me. I'll make arrangements right away.”

Had Ursula always talked like there was a prize for spewing out the most words in a given time period? She must have driven Arthur crazy. Maybe he'd learned to tune her out.

“And thank you, and thank Manon. It was good of you to track me down. Even though I'm not living with Arthur, I care about him. We aren't actually divorced. I left him and came to live in Montreal because I couldn't bear listening to him going on and on about Curt and how he'd done him wrong. Arthur wasn't the best businessman, you know. His gallery's failure wasn't totally Curt's fault. Anyway, it was wearing me out, simply wearing me out, listening to him rant and rave. He was and probably is totally, absolutely totally obsessed with Curt and getting even. It took over his life. In my opinion, life is too short for that kind of nonsense.”

When Hollis replaced the receiver, she smiled at Manon. “Wow, that woman can talk. Has she always raced on like an out-of-control chain saw?”

“Ever since I met her.” Manon stood up. “Thank you for giving me something to do. I feel better. I'm having a bath before I see Arthur.” She raised her hands. “I've seen you staring at my nails. You're right—I've been ignoring them. Time to pull myself together. You go and do whatever you have to do.”

“I'm sorting Ivan's things.”

“Do you think the bomb lady murdered Ivan?”

Should she comfort Manon and agree? No way. Time for extra vigilance. “No, I don't think so. When she accosted me, she didn't know Curt lived here.”

“Maybe it isn't the same woman.”

“Wait and see what the police say, but let's continue to be careful.”

* * *

Back at their desks, Rhona and Zee Zee contemplated the ever-growing Hartman file.

“Before we regroup, I'm phoning Hartmans'. They'll be relieved to hear Allie Jones is in custody.” She punched in the numbers and delivered her message. When she hung up, she smiled at Zee Zee. “It's great to bear good news for a change. Let's walk through this.” She leaned back on her swivel chair and ran through the chronology. “What do you think the perp will do now?”