Free Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell

“It’ll be hard, but I’m sure he will,” Hollis said.
    â€œWe had a great time at the one last semester. Ivan made fabulous canapés—really different. Curt’s cute little boy, I forget his name, passed them around.” Kate winced. “That sounded callous—sorry.”
    â€œHey, it was only a comment. I thought the same thing,” Patel said.
    Silence for a second, then everyone spoke at once. They laughed self-consciously.
    Patel checked his watch “Time for me to go. It’s my night to be the maitre d’ at Toronto’s finest curry palace. See you next week,” he said. He put his hand on Hollis’s arm. “And you drive carefully. The 401 can be stressful.” He turned away, and David limped after him.
    â€œWas David in an accident?” Hollis asked Kate.
    â€œDon’t think so. It’s not new. But I’ve never heard him talk about it.” Kate frowned. “Actually, he doesn’t talk much about himself. He’s a prickly guy, but you just saw that.” She hovered close to Hollis and whispered, “See the man with the bushy grey beard?”
    â€œHard to miss. He looks like he dressed in the dark in whatever he found in a Goodwill bag.”
    â€œDo you know who he is?”
    â€œI haven’t a clue.”
    â€œSebastien Lefevbre,” Kate whispered. She watched Hollis’s face, waiting for her to recognize the name.
    It seemed familiar, but when she ran it through her mental data bank, she didn’t make a connection.
    Kate shook her head. “You must recognize him. He’s our most famous portrait artist. He’s painted everybody who’s anybody. Remember Prince Philip’s portrait and the furor it caused?”
    â€œOf course. I don’t know why I drew a blank. Trudeau sliding down the bannister is my favourite—it perfectly captures his bad-boy charm.”
    Hollis felt the atmosphere change. A palpable feeling of unease swept the room. She scanned the room to see the cause.
    â€œYou are such a hypocrite.”
    An abrasive voice ripped through the room’s subdued murmur like a chainsaw. Lena had reared back and grabbed Curt by his suit lapels. “You pretend to care, but you don’t. As far as I’m concerned...”
    Curt pushed her away.
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned, you killed him. You gave him that bloody motorcycle.” She’d planted her hands on her hips. Her voice rose higher. “What loving father presents his teenage son with a lethal weapon?” She jabbed a magenta claw. “A narcissistic man who wishes to kill his children.”
    Curt blanched and clenched his jaw. Before he could respond, Manon took his arm and said something in a low voice.
    Lena turned on her. “And you. The home-wrecker. What responsibility do you have for my son’s death?”

Six
    I identified another possible perp,” Rhona said to Zee Zee after the visitation. “Olivero Ciccio is an artist and teaches at the Ontario College of Art and Design. Curt screwed him in some way, and he has a thing for Curt’s wife. Let’s see if we can meet with him before tonight’s reception.”
    Back at the shop, Rhona googled Olivero. According to his website, he did three dimensional whimsical constructions as well as conventional paintings. The examples on the website made her smile. Was humorous artwork as underrated as comic or satirical writing? Probably seriousness counted in the art world. She made an appointment to speak to Olivero and his wife.
    The Ciccios lived in Riverdale. South and east of Cabbagetown, this neighbourhood hovered on the cusp of gentility. One half of a semi-detached house would be clad in insul-brick with old chrome and plastic kitchen chairs lined up on the porch and a weed-filled yard. Its other half would exhibit all the hallmarks of an expensive gentrified upgrade. New high R-value windows, an enamelled front door