Free Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell Page A

and a front garden with periwinkle ground cover and a manicured privet hedge would create an appealing image. Half the neighbourhood belonged to old-time residents and half to the upwardly mobile who renovated or paid hefty prices for the already renovated. These trendy young things harboured long term plans to improve Riverdale and raise their houses’ values so they could sell for a huge profit and move on to more expensive neighbourhoods like the Beach or the Annex.
    The Ciccios’ detached brick house stood back from the street. Conservatively painted, with a neat perennial garden and a manicured lawn to set it off, it wouldn’t have drawn a second glance except for an arresting garden sculpture. Close to the house, an eight foot high wooden angel with a pair of garden shears in one hand turned to stare at her neatly clipped wing. She wore a silver metal halo with the word “oops” in brass letters fastened to it. Rhona smiled—whimsical and charming described it perfectly.
    A small woman in jeans and a navy blue sweater answered their ring. Regular features, brown eyes, short, dark hair sprinkled with grey—an unremarkable appearance. Her neighbours or people who’d met her would refer to her as “very nice” or a “good neighbour” but only be able to describe her in general terms. A polite golden retriever accompanied her. Navy blue had been an unfortunate choice, given that she lived with a breed noted for the quantities of blonde hair it shed.
    Inside, Anna Ciccio led them into a tiny living room. While she fetched Olivero, they surveyed their surroundings. Heavy drapes, maroon and gold-patterned wallpaper and overstuffed dark green plush furniture made the room seem smaller. An amusing painting of flying cows by Olivero provided one bright spot of colour. Rhona guessed Anna had decreed that Olivero could do what he liked in his studio, but she would decorate everything else.
    When the couple returned, Olivero, who looked exhausted, sank down and arranged sofa cushions behind him to support his back. Anna chose a chair opposite the sofa.
    â€œWe’re here to talk about Ivan Hartman and his family,” Rhona said and noted a puzzled expression on Anna’s face. “We’re broadening our investigation to include all the Hartmans’ acquaintances,” she added.
    Anna, feet and ankles together, clasped her elbows with her hands and pulled them tight to her body. Her features closed in on themselves—she reminded Rhona of a clam or an oyster retreating into its shell.
    Olivero leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “Curt and I work together at OCAD . We’ve known each other for years.” He lifted his head and directed a level gaze at Rhona. “Not friends. I don’t think Curt has any art world friends. He’s far too competitive and critical. But we manage.”
    â€œSomeone said you’d had a disagreement recently,” Rhona said.
    Anna half-closed her eyes and stared downward.
    Olivero shrugged. “I was nominated for department chair. Curt voted against me. He’s entitled to his opinion.”
    â€œHe was jealous.” Anna’s voice was low and bitter. “Everyone likes Olivero.”
    â€œAnd how do you feel about Curt?” Rhona asked.
    â€œCurt is a fool, an egotistical fool, but not as bad as his wife. Always playing the sensitive, misunderstood, hard-done-by woman. Now I ask you, how that can be? She has a terrific career, a beautiful house and children. How can she even suggest such things?”
    Olivero raised his arm as if to stop her. “Anna, take it easy. Manon has psychological problems. That can happen to people, no matter what material things or education they have.”
    â€œSo she says and so you believe. You are such a silly man. She managed to make you her champion. Fools, she makes fools of men.”
    Jealousy, dislike, hatred—Anna could have murdered Manon,