Cut to the Bone (12 page)

“Girls, finish your lunch while I check something on my computer.”

A quick flip and she learned that the Oneida reserve was located close to London, a southern Ontario town known for its university and cultural life. That wasn't much help but it was a starting point. After she walked the girls back to school, she'd head down to the Friendship Centre.

The apartment building's glass door swung shut behind them and they walked down the circular driveway toward the street. A black town car with tinted windows crept up the curve behind them. Hollis whirled around, grabbed the girls' hands, and sped back into the apartment lobby and away from the doors. She might be paranoid, but that driver had intended to cut them off before they reached the sidewalk.

Hollis shooed the girls into the garage, where she loaded them into her Mazda van and locked the doors.

“What was that about?” Jay said. “That car spooked you. How come?”

“I know
how come
,” Crystal said. Without waiting for either of the other two to comment, she continued. “You really
do
believe something bad happened to my aunt and you believe whoever did it is coming after me.”

Hollis hadn't thought about Crystal when she'd reacted to the black car. Feeling a little silly, she turned to the two in the back seat. “It
did
spook me. I have no idea why, but it's always better to listen to your instincts. I didn't connect the car to Mary. The truth is I just didn't think. I'm sorry if I scared you.”

She swivelled back and started the car. “I'll drive you to school, double park, and walk you to the door. After school don't leave until I arrive.”

“It's all my fault,” Crystal said in a flat voice.

“No, it isn't. Why would you think it was your fault? Children aren't responsible for the things that happen to adults,” Hollis said firmly.

“If you weren't looking for Aunt Mary I bet that car wouldn't have been there. It had something to do with her. If I wasn't with you, nothing would have happened.”

Hollis slowed for a jaywalking pedestrian and didn't respond to Crystal until she'd navigated a tricky left turn and cruised toward the school.

“Crystal, that's guesswork. Stop doing that or you'll make yourself sick. I repeat, children are
not
responsible for things that happen to adults.”

Nevertheless, in spite of her reassuring words, she checked for the black car before they left the van. When she had determined everything was okay, she flicked on the car's flashers and shepherded the children into the school. Once they were safely inside, she parked the car and returned to the school intent on speaking to the principal. The woman in the outer office raised her eyes from her computer and asked what she could do for Hollis.

“I need to speak to the principal on a matter of some urgency,” Hollis said.

The woman raised an eyebrow as if to indicate she'd heard overwrought parents say exactly the same thing many times before.

“He has someone with him.” She looked up at the wall clock. “Probably be about ten minutes if you want to wait.”

Hollis regretted her impulsive dash into the school. What was she going to say? On one hand she didn't want to spill the beans about Crystal being in her care, about her concern about Jay's father, or about the suspicious black vehicle. On the other hand she didn't want the girls to ever leave the grounds or be released to anyone else. She'd stay and try to get the point across without alerting the principal to the actual situation.

She settled on a hard wooden chair. There were no magazines, old or new, so she pulled out her BlackBerry and tidied her mail.

The door to the inner office opened and a large, visibly upset woman exited, nodded to the receptionist, and slammed out of the office. Seconds later the principal, a beanpole-thin worried-looking man in his thirties followed her. He looked surprised to see Hollis, who stood up when he appeared. She stuck out her hand.

“Hollis Grant, I'm Jay Brownelly's foster parent.”

After he shook her hand, he said, “What can I do for you.”

“There already have been many disruptions in Jay's life. Now there's been a murder in our apartment building. I've assured the Children's Aid Society that I will always pick her up from school, and I wanted to make sure that you knew that and that I can count on you not to allow anyone but me to collect her.”

The principal nodded to his assistant. “Ms. Broadbent will do that. Jay isn't the only child in this school whom we guard. We'll make sure all our teachers know that Jay is only to be picked up by you.”

As she thanked him Hollis backed toward the door before he asked questions. Outside she discovered a yellow parking ticket tucked under her windshield wiper, stuffed it into her purse, and headed home. No point driving to Bloor and Spadina. Any lot in the area would be hideously expensive and probably full. She'd take the subway, but first she'd make sure no black cars lurked in the driveway.

Emerging from the subway at Yonge and Bloor she walked along Bloor Street, one of Toronto's major east−west arteries, to Spadina Road. The Indian Friendship Centre, located steps from Bloor, must have once been a lovely private home. The front entrance and foyer panelled in heavy dark wood seemed a tad gloomy, but in contrast the young man staffing the reception desk at the entrance smiled warmly when she approached.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“I'm inquiring about a friend from the Oneida of the Thames reserve. I know she's in Toronto but I lost her address.”

A frown creased the young man's broad face. “To tell you anything about anyone who uses our centre would violate her privacy. If it's any help, there's a new Internet service for Aboriginals. Often when young people come to the city, they want to connect with other Aboriginals.” He waved his arm toward the south. “Although specific institutions like the University of Toronto have clubs, young men and women who arrive for nursing or for work find this new service helps them.” He pulled a pad of paper toward him and wrote on it before handing it to Hollis. “This might help. If she attends U of T you could check out their group or the ones at Ryerson or York.” He gestured toward an adjacent room with dark wood wainscotting and a plate rail. Probably a dining room at one time. Now bulletin boards covered two walls.

“Check the boards. Often individuals post messages and leave contact information. There are notices of meetings and other events.”

Hollis did as she was told but knew Mary's name would not be there. When she glanced quickly at the board, a poster caught her attention. In June, Norman Thompson would be exhibiting at the Zanandu gallery.

Norman Thompson was a Mohawk from Brantford. She knew that because she'd studied with him at the Ontario College of Art and Design. Over the years since their graduation she'd attended each of his shows and maintained a desultory email relationship. She hadn't contacted him for several years but should have thought of him. This had not been a wasted trip — she had a new lead, a possible new source of information.

At home she emailed Norman, hoping he hadn't changed his address. She'd never known where he lived, since their contacts had been in cyberspace.
It's a voice from the past. I need information about an Iroquois woman who is missing. She's an Oneida. Do you know anything about Mary Montour?

Norman must have been sitting at his computer for he replied within minutes.

On the Oneida reserve, Montour is a very common name, as are Doxtator, Antone, and Cornelius. On the Six Nations at Oshwegan, it is also common as is Johnson, Jamieson, and Maracle. Mary is the Christian world's most popular name. Tell me something about her?

That wasn't too helpful. First she'd share her reaction to his last show. She'd meant to email him at the time but something had distracted her.

Before I do I wanted to say that your series “Residential Schools” made me weep. Technically it's glorious but the emotional impact really affected me. How come you didn't come to the vernissage? I've attended your last three shows and you're never there. Have you become a recluse?

Waiting for his reply, she wondered why she hadn't asked before, why she'd allowed their friendship to falter. She plugged in the kettle.

You might describe me that way. I have my reasons. What about Mary Montour?

Back to business. She lives in the apartment building I live in and manage on Delisle Street. She works as a waitress at a diner on Jarvis Street. Her sister's daughter, Crystal, lives with her. Crystal's mother is dead. Mary has other women stay in her apartment for various periods of time. That's what I know.

Norman did not reply immediately. Hollis took time to make tea and was drinking her second cup when the red light on her BlackBerry flashed.

I know who you mean. We should talk. Do you want to come to my studio? If so, then you have to promise you will tell no one, and I do mean NO ONE, where I live.

Not another person with a secret. This was too much. But it was a chance to find out more about Mary. Anyway, other than Willem, who would she tell?

Sure, I agree to that. Mary left Crystal with me, so I am very anxious to know if she's okay and where she is.

I live in an apartment at Harbourfront. The doorman will expect you. He'll request photo identification. Bring your driver's license or passport.

Decidedly weird. Something strange was happening to Norman. The Norman she'd known would never have been so jumpy or careful. He must be in trouble, serious trouble.

I have a foster daughter and Crystal, so I'll come during school hours. Too late today. Do you prefer a morning or afternoon visit tomorrow?

Morning. Be sure no one knows you're coming or follows you.

Following this bizarre email exchange, Hollis rushed to fetch the girls. Dogs and kids in tow, she walked toward home knowing decision time approached. Wednesday and time to deal with Jay and the Eaton Centre? Given everything happening at the moment, this was the last thing she wanted to cope with. But for Jay the decision loomed large. Having so recently lost her foster mother, she intended to maintain contact with and hang on to her father, the elusive man who drifted in and out of her life.

The witching hour was seven o'clock tomorrow.

In the apartment she ignored the blinking message light until she'd provided the girls with string cheese and apples. She left them at the kitchen table with the dogs drooling beside them and went into her bedroom to play the messages.

When she pressed play, a gruff voice growled, “What the hell is happening there? I don't want my daughter in danger. Phone me immediately.”

Hollis didn't like being told what to do. The second message was a hang-up.

What to say to Brownelly? She'd think about it. She entered the kitchen to see Jay breaking off bits of cheese and giving them alternately to MacTee and Barlow. So much for her rule that under no circumstances were the dogs to be fed at the table. Jay quickly closed her hand as Hollis stared at her.

“Where do the dogs get their treats?” she asked Jay.

Jay shrugged. “What does it matter?”

“It matters a lot. If you feed them at the table, they hang around waiting for you to give them something, and they drool. It's revolting how much they drool. Don't do it again.” Even as she said this she knew her smart dogs had pegged Jay as a soft touch and would never forget what the child had done.

Crystal, always hungry, ignored both of them and peeled back the plastic on another cheese strip.

“Well, I don't think it matters and it's time,” Jay said, pushing back her chair and standing up. Hands on hips, her entire body challenged Hollis.

“Time for what?” Hollis said.

“You know what. Tomorrow I'm supposed to go to the Eaton Centre. I
have
to let my dad know whether you'll let me go.”

Hollis absentmindedly stroked Barlow's bony back and wondered if she was feeding him enough. “Your father left a message on the machine. I haven't phoned him back yet. We could meet at the Children's Aid Office. That's the way visits are supposed to work.”

“That's stupid.”

“Why? It's perfectly reasonable for him to visit you there. Why the Eaton Centre?”

Jay frowned. “I don't know. That's what he said when he phoned. When I lived with Mrs. Cooper we met there, and I guess he thought we'd always meet there.” She focused a level stare at Hollis. “He can only come now and then. Dad says he'd like to see me more often, even have me live with him, but because of what he does it just isn't possible.”

“The social worker told me that but didn't say what he did. Do you know?”

Jay shook her head. “Dad says it's better if I don't know.”

“You may go if Crystal and I come along.”

“No.”

“That's my offer. I'm not allowing you alone on the subway and in the shopping mall at night without me. And we certainly aren't going to leave Crystal at home.”

Jay crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. “It won't work,” she said in a flat voice.

“We don't need to be right by your side,” Hollis said. “If you meet your father in the food court you can find a spot at the back and Crystal and I will have milk shakes or fries or something sinful and sit at the front near the escalator. That way, if something goes wrong you know where to find us.”

“If something goes wrong?” Jay's voice rose. “What can go wrong?”

Hollis shrugged. “Probably nothing, but we'll be there. When you're finished you and your father can join us.”

Jay picked at a scab on her wrist and said nothing.

“Your father's number is on the phone list. I'll call and tell him what we've arranged.” Hollis went to the kitchen phone.

“Hollis Grant here,” she said and listened.

“With the police presence in the building I'm sure Jay is fine. She tells me you want me to allow her to go alone to the Eaton Centre to meet you, but I'm uncomfortable doing that. In fact, the CAS told me they only allowed you to see her at their offices. I realize that if the meetings have to be in the evenings, this doesn't work and I'm willing to be flexible. We'll meet you in the food court. You can have a private conversation but I want to be able to see her.”

She listened to Brownelly for a moment or two before she said, “Mrs. Cooper may have agreed but I'm amazed that you would risk what could happen to her travelling alone on the subway and meeting you downtown. I'll pass the phone to Jay.”

Crystal, who'd been following the conversation said, “I like the Eaton Centre. So many different people. Everyone always seems to have a good time. I'm glad I'm going with you.” Her lips turned down. “It will keep me from thinking about Aunt Mary and what's happened to her.”

Hollis passed Crystal another cheese string and watched while the child carefully prepared to eat it. “Have you been there often?”

“No, Aunt Mary said it was a bad place, not somewhere young girls should go. When I needed clothes we went to the Bay at Bloor and Yonge.”

“She was partly right. Young girls from the suburbs cruise the mall looking for excitement. Sometimes they find more than they can handle. We'll be fine. I want a chocolate milkshake. You may have anything you like.”

Crystal's eyes sparkled like her name. “Thank you, that will be great.”

Jay's lower lip stuck out and she glowered at Hollis with narrowed eyes. “I still don't see why you have to come, but I guess it's better than nothing.”

Hollis felt uneasy. Was it just that talking to Jay's father had that effect, or were her instincts telling her to be careful? Why was Calum Brownelly so obsessed with Jay's safety?

After her confrontation with Jay, Hollis poured herself half a glass of wine and added soda, left the girls to do their homework, and took herself across the hall to her office. She fielded calls from nervous residents anxious to hear if the crime had been solved, and arranged for a plumber to attend to a problem in 307. Phone calls over, she leaned back, turned to watch the security cameras and sipped the spritzer, her favourite drink.

“Drinking on the job. Does your employer know?” a woman's voice asked.

Hollis swung around to see the two detectives. Rhona grinned at her.

“What can I do for you?” Hollis said.

“We're seeing Ms. Nesrallah in five minutes, but we need more tenant information,” Rhona said.

“What I can do?”

“There are two apartments where we haven't been able to contact the tenants.”

Hollis's heart flipped.

“On the third floor, we didn't get a response from Martin Palliser in 318.”

“He's in the hospital. He had a heart attack but plans to return,” Hollis said.

“And apartment 202, Mary Montour.”

Hollis didn't look at the detectives but picked up a pen on her desk. “She called to say she'd be away for a while but didn't say where she was or when she'd be back.” She held her breath, waiting to see if they'd ask if Mary lived alone. She'd be forced to tell them about Crystal if they did.”

“Interesting that she'd tell you. I thought tenants only did that if they might miss a rent cheque, but I suppose she wanted you to put her mail aside if it piles up,” Rhona said. “We also thought we'd check and see if you have any insights about your tenants that might help us.”

“Not so far. Every person in the building is looking suspiciously at every other resident, but as far as I know there haven't been any revelations.”

Ian straightened. “Please inform us immediately if you do hear rumours or accusations.”

Hollis didn't know whether she should have said anything else. She had told the truth — she didn't know where Mary was, but her disappearance had been abrupt and unexplained.

She gave herself a time limit. One more day and she'd tell the detectives everything she knew about Mary.

If she only had twenty-four hours, she didn't want to wait until the next day to see Norman. She couldn't leave the girls alone if she was out of the building, but Agnes Johnson, the feisty octogenarian on the fourth floor, was always willing to keep an eye on Jay and surely wouldn't mind if Crystal was there too. She punched in Agnes's number.

After the preliminaries were taken care of she said, “My apologies for calling you on such short notice, but would you join us in a few minutes for an early supper of lasagna and then keep an eye on the gang for a couple of hours?”

“I'd never turn down an invitation like that,” Agnes said.

Hollis emailed Norman.
Okay if I come down tonight? I have time and I really want to talk to you
.

Minutes later, Agnes, pushing her walker, appeared in the doorway. Hollis closed the office and led the way across the hall, where the girls sat at the kitchen table talking. Both looked up.

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson,” Jay said and introduced Crystal.

“Glad to meet you, Crystal. I hope you like to play Monopoly, because I'm dying for a game.” She waggled a finger at them. “It's only fair to warn you that I fight to the finish and am partial to railroads.”

The girls giggled.

“Homework finished?”

“Yes,” the girls said in unison.

The aroma from the lasagna Hollis had tucked in the oven earlier filled the apartment, and the dinging timer told her to take it out and let it rest for a few minutes. While it did, she gathered lettuce, peppers, and avocado from the fridge.

“Take Mrs. Johnson into the living room and set up the board. I'm making a salad before I put supper on the table. After that I have to go out for an hour or so.”

She checked her BlackBerry. Norman's reply.
Sure. Make sure no one follows you.

She couldn't imagine why anyone would.

After walking the dogs she left the apartment shortly after five, squeezed on the subway jammed body-to-body with rush hour travellers, rolled out with the crowd into Union Station, left most of the mob heading for the commuter trains, and broke away to wait in the underground terminal for the streetcar that would deliver her to the buildings along Queen's Quay. When she arrived on the platform three people waited. Clearly none of them had followed her as she'd just arrived. The streetcar swung into the underground station and they climbed on. Just as it was about to leave, two men to whom middle age had not been kind dashed into the station and flung themselves aboard.

Hollis, who'd chosen a seat at the back, examined them. Both wore black jackets, black jeans, and black boots. Too old to be Goths, they certainly weren't businessmen, but with the Boomers' attraction to motorcycles, they probably worked as accountants or stockbrokers and lived on the wild side evenings and weekends. Neither looked particularly dangerous, nor did they exhibit any interest in the other passengers.

When they got off when she did, she paid more attention.

Given Norman's paranoia, she decided it was unwise to proceed directly to the apartment and turned east walking toward the ferry docks. She passed the two apartment buildings, Harbour Square and Harbourside, without a sidelong glance. A Golden Retriever on a leash sideswiped her, and she bent to pat the dog while checking behind her. The two men, deep in conversation, sauntered slowly along. She strolled to the cement walkway leading down to the Island ferry dock.