Cut to the Chase
Authors: Joan Boswell
Cut to
the Chase
Joan Boswell
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Text © 2009 Joan Boswell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover design by Emma Dolan
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.
RendezVous Crime an imprint of Napoleon & Company
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
www.napoleonandcompany.com
Printed in Canada
13 12 11 10 09 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Boswell, Joan
Cut to the chase / Joan Boswell.
ISBN 978-1-894917-89-6
I. Title.
PS8603.O88C8827 2009 C813'.6 C2009-904779-9
For Nick, Katie, Francis,
Trevor, Christy and Brendan
T
he
old-fashioned word “besotted” exactly described Danson Lafleur's feelings for Angie Napier, his fiancée. He'd fallen for her in high school and never lost his amazement and gratitude that she loved him. Now, university behind them, they planned to marry. They'd be together foreverâthe thought filled him with joy.
Rays of late afternoon sunshine filtered through the trees encircling the patio behind a popular Danforth watering hole and bathed Angie in light, setting her apart like a beautiful painting. Danson wanted to hold the moment forever. He wished they were sitting in their own garden instead of a crowded, noisy restaurant.
Angie, laugh lines crinkling, brown eyes flashing and shining brown hair swinging, pushed her hair behind a delicate ear as she leaned towards him. “It's time for us to make a decision. Should we elope? Do you have a long ladder?” she asked and laughed.
Danson grinned and grasped her slender hands. “No, I expect you to let down your long brown hair and let me creep up into the tower.” Her engagement ring sparkled as her hands moved.
“Seriously, should we have a wedding weddingâbrides-maids, ushers, fancy dinner, speeches or...” she lowered her voice and whispered, “should we recruit two witnesses, your sister and my brother maybe, and hurry off to City Hall?”
Danson would do anything that made her happy. He loved her with an intensity he'd never believed possible. “Whatever you want,” he said.
“We could have a party afterwards. That way we'd be relaxed, and we'd have fun. Maybe a strawberry social or a fancy dress ball orâ” she stopped, as a loud bang startled the diners. Then she looked surprised, let go of Danson's hand and clutched her chest.
Danson watched an obscene red stain flower and spread over her pale yellow dress before she pitched forward face down on the table. He was vaguely aware that others were screaming and fleeing from the restaurant.
He could only focus on Angie's stillness as her head rested on the table. It had to be a bizarre joke. How could this be happening? He sat frozen for seconds while his mind processed what he was seeing.
Jumping to his feet, he leaped to Angie's side. “Call 911. Help us,” he shouted.
Not that anyone could. She was dead.
Danson felt as if a huge earth-moving machine had torn out his heart.
* * *
Eventually, Danson learned that a gang member who'd briefly served time before being deported had returned to Canada and taken up his old life. Angie had died in the gun fight between rival gangs.
Anger at the system that had allowed this to happen consumed Danson, and he vowed he would track down returning criminals and have them deported. He owed it to Angie to see that no one else died as she had, and to himself that no one else should suffer grief as he had.
No longer interested in his promising career as a tech consultant, he took a job that would put him on the fringes of the crime world and give him access to the information he needed.
B
rush
in hand, red-framed glasses perched on her nose, Hollis Grant studied the large canvas positioned on the easel set under the north-facing skylight. Earlier she'd cranked the window open to allow Toronto's unseasonably warm late October air to flow into the room. The third floor attic apartment remained hot, but she ignored the heat, focused on her work and tried for the moment to ignore her concern for her landlady and friend, Candace Lafleur.
She intended to create a golden puzzle, a painting that would draw the viewer in and make them search for meaning. There would be tones and textures of gold with half-revealed hidden messages. Except for the reference to gold, this description could refer to Candace. For the past week, Candace had been a women obsessed with a problem but unwilling to share the details.
The painting wasn't working. Damn.
She plunged the brush into the water on the tambour beside the easel. She felt like pulling out her hair. She momentarily envisaged herself bald as an egg and the floor littered with curly blonde hair.
What if she couldn't fix the painting? Couldn't paint what she visualized? Couldn't succeed as an artist? These depressing thoughts sidling into her mind frightened her.
Not again. She'd suffered bouts of depression in the past, and they'd immobilized her. Bad enough to have painter's blockâshe couldn't allow depression to overwhelm her.
Exerciseâthat would help, she decided.
Several years earlier, her soon-to-be ex-husband had challenged her to take up running to lose weight and improve her fitness. Surprisingly, once she'd accomplished these goals, she hadn't given up running; the process and the joy it produced had hooked her. Another plus had been its slimming effect on her slightly corpulent golden retriever, MacTee. They'd become committed runners, although sometimes, when she found herself plowing along in snow or rain, she wondered if “committed” wasn't exactly the right word.
Today, probably one of the last warm autumn days, instead of running, she'd sit in the garden, enjoy the sun and read the Saturday paper. Maybe she'd solve the cryptic puzzle; that always boosted her ego. Entertaining diversions also helped to chase away the black dogs of depression.
She opened the fire escape door which overlooked the garden, noting that the latch needed to be repaired. Paper tucked under her arm and a thermos of coffee clutched in her hand, she enjoyed the view over the neighbourhood before she cautiously descended. As always, the rusty railing alarmed her. She chose not to touch it but to edge her way down, allowing her free hand to touch the wall. MacTee, nervous about the see-through stairs, hesitated for a long moment before he reluctantly followed.
On terra firma, she breathed deeply and stared up at the intense blue autumn sky. They'd had a cold snap and a few flakes of snow earlier in the week. Today the temperature hovered at twenty, and the radio weather reporter had promised this warm weather would last through Hallowe'en, the following Tuesday. Great for the kids who wouldn't have to wear parkas and snow pants under their costumes.
She dropped the newspaper on the round cedar picnic table, retrieved a sling-back canvas deck chair from the garage, unfolded it and prepared to relax for an hour and think of anything but painting or Candace. As she sorted through the sections, deciding which to read first, MacTee, after rolling ecstatically on the leaf-covered grass, flopped down, groaned with pleasure and stretched out in the sparse shade of a maple almost devoid of leaves.
The ground floor door banged open.
Hollis, halfway through reading editorial speculations about an unidentified mutilated murdered man and his possible connection to the murders of male drug users in the downtown core, lifted her head. Candace emerged, leading two-year-old Elizabeth and carrying newspaper and coffee mug.
“Good morning. Hope you don't mind company,” she said, releasing the toddler's hand. She spoke in a flat tone.
Whatever had been bothering Candace was still affecting her. She'd been tense and nervous each time Hollis had spoken to her during the week. She wasn't likely to be very good company, and certainly she looked anything but peaceful. What could Hollis say? The yard belonged to Candace who allowed Hollis and MacTee to use it.
Elizabeth, wispy blonde curls escaping from her pink baseball cap, chortled when she spied the dog. Clad in overalls and a pink windbreaker, she toddled toward him shouting, “Tee, Tee, Tee.”
MacTee adored children and tolerated their unintended abuse. He always allowed Elizabeth to catch him, grab great handfuls of hair and hug him. When she opened her mouth and bore down on his nose, he shrugged her off and moved away. She'd follow and repeatedly throw herself on him as they continued the game they both enjoyed.
Eyes bleak, mouth set in a straight line, shoulders slumped, Candace radiated distress.
Maybe Hollis would finally root out the cause of her friend's unhappiness.
“Always glad to see you and Elizabeth. Aren't we lucky with this weather?” she chirped.
“We are,” Candace said without conviction. “I'll get a chair.” After she'd hauled one from the garage, she folded herself into it and said, “I'm being selfish. I should have stayed inside. I'll drive you crazy. I'm so jittery, I can't concentrate on anything.”
Hollis examined Candace. Early in their friendship, Candace had identified herself as a fellow Virgo and a woman who prided herself on being an organized positive pragmatist. Dressed in tailored clothes, accessorized with conservative but high-quality accessories and shod in highly polished, “sensible” pumps she was a quintessential polished professional executive assistant. Today, baggy jeans, a stained and faded T-shirt, and a misshapen navy cardigan not only drew attention to her short, stocky body but emphasized her state of mind. Her square-cut chin-length brown bob, wide-set brown eyes and regular features devoid of makeup normally underscored her no-nonsense approach to life. Today the tension in her face telegraphed that she was anything but “in charge”.
