Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell Page B

Rhona felt like a recalcitrant chicken.
    The door slammed behind them. In the hall, Zee Zee turned to Rhona. “What a waste—I didn’t have time to take a sip,” she said. “But on second thought, it could have been poisoned.”
    â€œWhat a transformation!”
    â€œWe’ll post those two high on our suspect list.”

Five
    H ollis excused herself after breakfast on Tuesday to make arrangements in Ottawa for her prolonged Toronto visit. She extended MacTee’s stay at the kennel, cancelled the paper, and asked a neighbour to clear her mailbox. A knock at her bedroom door startled her. Manon hovered.
    â€œI hope Ivan’s death won’t change your mind—that you and MacTee still plan to stay with us when you come back for Curt’s course.”
    She knew they’d draw her into the family’s recovery from sorrow. She and Manon wouldn’t have the carefree fun Manon had planned when she’d heard Hollis’s news. And she’d be distracted from painting and decision making. Furthermore, she’d coped with her husband’s murder the summer before. Did she have enough emotional reserves to help Manon and the family? She gave herself a mental shake. Time to bury her doubts—she must say yes—she loved Manon like a sister and owed her a huge debt. She’d just have to do the best she could.
    Manon’s raised shoulders, pinched features and clasped hands revealed her stress. “There’s something else,” she said in a small, apologetic voice.
    Hollis waited.
    â€œI feel guilty about Ivan—about not paying enough attention to him. Since he died, I can hardly think about anything but finding out who he really was.” She wrung her hands. “You know I’m obsessive. I fixate on something and can’t leave it alone. I won’t rest until I learn every detail of Ivan’s life.” She tightened her grip, pressed her elbows against her sides and hunched forward as if to protect herself from a blow. “I can’t do it myself.” Her voice broke. She gulped, straightened a little and expelled a shaky breath. “Even when the police do say it’s okay, I won’t be able go through his belongings. Or contact his friends—or anything else I’d need to do to uncover his real identity.” She leaned toward Hollis. “Could you do it?”
    Hollis had felt like this after Paul’s murder, when she’d realized how little she knew about his life. An obsessivecompulsive need to investigate—to find out who he’d really been—had taken over her life.
    â€œI can try.” She hugged Manon. “I can start, I suppose, by talking to people at the visitation and funeral.”
    * * *
    Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a blur. On Thursday, the Hartmans and Hollis prepared to accept condolences at the funeral home. When they entered the building, Hollis decided funeral home designers, if there was such a breed of cat, must conspire to create look-alike establishments with muted light, music, colours and tasteful semi-inspirational paintings. Like every other one she’d ever been in, it looked, sounded, smelled and felt beige. The family, sombrely dressed, lined up inside Salon C.
    It was good to feel appropriately dressed. She’d unearthed a black linen dress with a white shawl collar in a high-end secondhand clothing store. She hadn’t been able to resist a large enamelled flower brooch and a belt of multi-coloured beads, but she’d refrained from wearing them.
    Rhona and Zee Zee arrived and spoke to the family. Then Zee Zee stationed herself beside the condolence book, where she encouraged visitors to sign—having a record of attendees could prove helpful. Rhona worked the room.
    Hollis stopped at a large photo of Ivan set on an easel above two floral arrangements. She bent to read the cards. One was inscribed, “Your loving family”. The other, a