Cut to the Bone (11 page)

“Free world. Suit yourself,” the girl said. She left her jacket on but seemed loath to leave her unfinished breakfast and returned to piling strawberry jam on her toast.

“Did you ever talk to Mary Montour?” Hollis persisted.

With her mouth full the girl mumbled, “Maybe.”

“Is she active in the First Nation community?”

“First Nation. Isn't that fancy? Indian. We're Indians. Wagon burners. Never mind Aboriginal or First Nation. Fucking Indians. That's what we are, and believe me, nobody lets us forget it.”

“Must be tough.”

The girl raised her gaze. “As if you'd know. Mrs. Rich Bitch. Say all the right things, give to charity, and look down on us like slime.”

This girl would tell her even less than Crystal. “Okay, thanks for nothing. I'll leave you alone,” Hollis said and slid to the edge of the bench, ready to leave.

“Sorry. Bad night. Yah, I knew her. Since she's a nice lady they'll know her over at the Native Friendship centre too. She treated us good. She worried about us and tried to help.”

“In what way?”

“She must have known I was new around here, and one day, when I was by myself, she told me I should never go with a man who made me nervous. She went on about us being animals and knowing more than we thought we did.”

Hollis smiled as the girl. “Did you listen?”

“No, not then, but I got beat up by a guy who'd made me feel like that and, after that, I did.”

“What did she tell you to do?”

The girl took a gigantic bite of toast. After she'd washed it down with coffee she said, “Say no. Last week I told this guy to get lost, that I didn't want his business.” She swallowed more coffee. “He made me feel like that and I knew Mary was right.”

“What did he say?”

“That I was a fucking prostitute and I'd be sorry.” She finished her toast. “Yah, Mary's an okay lady. I hope she's not in trouble. Hope you find her.”

“Where is the Native Friendship Centre?”

“I'm not a fucking phone book. Look it up.”

“I can, but since you mentioned it, I thought you might tell me.”

The girl stared at Hollis. “It's
not
around here.
Nice
little Indian boys and girls pretend
we
don't exist, and they sure as fuck don't want to see us.” She licked strawberry jam off her lip. “You find it. I gotta go.” She lifted a shiny purple bag off the floor, dug for a change purse, grabbed five dollars, and headed for the exit.

That hadn't been useful. Probably the boss wouldn't contribute anything either, but she'd try. She slid off the stool and approached his table. He didn't look up.

“Excuse me,” Hollis said.

“What is it,” he growled, still not raising his eyes.

“I'm looking for Mary Montour. Would you know where she might be?”

The man snorted and stared up at her. “I know where she bloody ought to be.” He thumped the table. “Right here doing her job, which, by the way, she doesn't have any more. No phone call. No nothing. She just doesn't show up.”

“There could be a reason,” Hollis said.

“Reason? The phone lines are down? Her cell phone is broken? Tell me what reason could explain not letting me know. By the time I figured she wasn't coming, it was too late to call in anyone else. Because she wasn't here, did you see how hard my staff worked this morning? Reason? I can't think of one good reason. You tell me.” He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. “I'm listening. One good reason.”

“She's disappeared. She may have been abducted.”

“Lady, you should be making movies — science fiction movies. Abducted. Who by? Aliens from outer space?” He guffawed. “Abducted.”

Hollis didn't like being mocked. Her cheeks burned but she persisted. “Did she have any enemies who might have done it?” she asked, knowing that this question would probably unleash more sarcasm.

The man shook his head. “We get more than our share of nutcases in here, people who hear voices, who have radio transmitters in their fillings bringing in signals from outer space. Some are paranoid, think they're being followed. If I was a nice man I'd feel sorry that's the way they think, if you can call it thinking. Someone's after them, out to get them. But I'm not and I don't want them in here. Mary wasn't one of them. I don't know what she did when she wasn't working, but when she was here, she did her job and did it damn well. I'll give her that.”

“Anyone who came specially to talk to her? Anyone she was friends with?”

He squared the papers in front of him as he again shook his head. “I can't believe you're serious. I don't monitor my staff and their friends.” He bent over the work, clearly finished with the conversation.

No help here. One last try — she'd talk to the waiter. Sandy, according to his name tag.

Hollis left a tip beside her plate and headed for the cash, where Sandy, diamond studs in both ears and in the side of his nose, worked the register and handed change to a young man who pocketed the coins without counting them and headed for the door.

“I might be able to help you if you're looking for Mary,” he said in a low voice.

Hollis, discouraged from her run in with the owner, felt a rush of excitement. She handed him a bill.

Sandy murmured, “I finish in twenty minutes. There's a park down the street where I wait until my partner picks me up. I usually zone out for a few minutes before he gets there. Meet me and I'll tell you what I think, although it isn't much.”

Late April's unseasonable early warmth had persuaded the trees to send out their leaves. Now, in early May, a broken canopy of green spread over the park. Grass, ragged, untrimmed and dotted with dandelions, invited you to sit, although the ground would not yet be warm. Hollis chose a wooden-backed bench near the entrance, closed her eyes, and relaxed in the warm sun.

“Nice, isn't it?” a voice said and she looked up to see Sandy, wrapped in a too-large man's windbreaker, smiling down at her.

Hollis patted the bench. “Take a load off. You've been on your feet for hours. You must be tired.”

Sandy sat down, bent, loosened the Velcro straps on his black shoes, and eased them off his feet. He wriggled his toes and stretched his legs. “I guess sore feet are an occupational hazard in this business.”

“I don't think I could do it,” Hollis said sympathetically. “I'm happy that you can tell me something about Mary. I was getting desperate.”

Sandy swung to face Hollis and leaned toward her. “It isn't much, but it might help. I think she was into religion,” he whispered.

Hollis glanced around. No one lingered close by. No need for Sandy to lower his voice.

“Many people are. Do you mean she tried to convert people, to persuade them to go to church, that sort of thing?”

Sandy shook her head. “No. But if we both had a break, if nobody was in she'd ask funny questions and most of them related to the Bible.”

“Like what?”

“Last week she asked me if I believed the Bible when it said we should be our brothers' keepers. Then she smiled and said she supposed it applied to sisters as well as brothers.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, I was raised a Catholic, although except for weddings and funerals I haven't been in a church for years, and I agreed with her. I said I thought we had a good society because we do take care of one another. Then Mary nodded as if I'd said something really deep and important, laid her hand on my arm, and looked me in the eye. ‘We should all take that on as our reason for living,' she said.”

“I can see why you'd think she was into religion. Anything else?”

Sandy bent to scratch the sole of his foot and peered up at Hollis. “Nothing specific, but she was always nice and very polite to the drunks and the addicts. Very respectful.”

“What about the prostitutes and pimps?” Hollis asked.

“Same for hookers. I seen her give more than one refill and extra jam to women who looked like they'd had a really bad night.”

“Pimps?”

“They mostly don't come in. Sit outside revving them muscle cars. They watch their girls but from outside. Them girls knows they're there. Scared shitless most of them are.” He pulled his shoes back on and pointed south. “I've been in St. Mike's emerg, and Mary would be right at home there, 'cause they treat street people like they count.” He raised his arm and waved.

A red pickup truck idling at the curb blinked its lights.

“Gotta go. I'll think back to things she said and see if anything comes to mind that might explain where she's gone.”

Hollis fished in her bag and handed him her card. “Call me if you do.”

Sister's keeper. Mary was looking after Crystal. Did that count, or had she meant more than that? Did it have anything to do with her disappearance? The more Hollis learned, the less she knew. Time for the Indian Friendship Centre. She needed a phone book, and they were hard to find.

Hollis had forgotten that she could find addresses using her BlackBerry. Standing on Jarvis Street she glanced above the restaurant's door and typed in the address as her starting point and the Indian Friendship Centre as her destination and waited. A late model Ford station wagon pulled up to the curb. The driver rolled down the window and leaned toward her.

No doubt some tourist looking for help. Hollis walked over.

“How much,” the man said.

My God, he thinks I'm a hooker
. Hollis didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. She stared into the car, noting two car seats in the back.

“I'm not a hooker. I was waiting for my BlackBerry to load an address,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said as the window rolled up and the car began to move.

A tall woman dressed entirely in magenta from the spikes that made her seem even taller to a tiny satin mini-skirt, a low-cut silk top, and a leather jacket, nudged Hollis none too gently.

“Get your own patch,” she said.

Hollis was astounded. In her worn running shoes, blue jeans, black T-shirt, and jean jacket, she asked herself how anyone could mistake her for a prostitute. She waved the BlackBerry. “I was waiting for an address to download. I'm out of here,” she said, already moving away.

Spadina Road. The number was low, so it must be just north of Bloor Street, close to the University of Toronto.

She looked at her watch. Because of Calum Brownelly's insistence that she deliver and pick up Jay, time mattered. That morning Crystal had resisted going to school and finally admitted to Hollis she was terrified that if someone had grabbed her aunt, he might come back for her. Hollis reassured her that she and the dogs would be waiting and would protect her. Both girls wanted to come home for lunch because they knew that if they remained at school, the kids in the lunch room would question them about the murder.

Hollis sympathized and planned to offer macaroni, everyone's comfort food, and time for the girls to zone out and forget the chaos in their lives. While she was happy to do it, she had an ulterior motive. If she was lucky and probed carefully, she might discover more about Crystal's background.

The need to reach the school in time spurred her to rush to the subway, take the Yonge line to St. Clair, and half run to collect the girls. Seemingly they'd dismissed their early morning fears and chattered about an upcoming school visit to the Ontario Science Centre. Hollis had volunteered to be one of the adults accompanying the class and didn't know whether to look forward to or to dread the assignment. At home she heated the macaroni and cheese. Standing at the stove she talked to them as they waited at the kitchen table.

“Crystal, I visited the restaurant this morning.”

With her back to the room, she couldn't judge how her Crystal had reacted, except to note that she hadn't responded. Hollis turned the heat down and swung around.

“I talked to Bridget, Sandy, and the boss. You ever meet any of them?”

“No. I already told you. Mary never took me there.”

“She ever talk about work, about people she knew, people she might have been helping?”

“Nope.”

Hollis dished up the pasta, retrieved ketchup and salsa, from the refrigerator, and piled mandarin oranges in a blue bowl.

Crystal hunched her shoulders and stared at her plate when Hollis lobbed questions at her. Hollis couldn't believe that an eleven-year-old didn't know or suspect what was going on in her own house.

If she couldn't get any information, perhaps if she had a quiet word with Jay, she might persuade her charge to investigate. She'd need to word the request carefully. Most children resisted spying or being tattle tales.

“Before you came to live with your aunt, did you live on a reserve?”

Crystal spooned salsa on her macaroni. She muttered an almost inaudible, “Yes.”

Hollis hated badgering the child, but she needed answers. “Which one?”

This time Hollis could not hear Crystal's reply, which she whispered.

“Would your repeat that?” Hollis asked.

“Hollis, you must have wax in your ears. I heard her. Crystal said Oneida. I'd like more macaroni,” Jay said.

Enough questions. At least she had one answer. From long-ago history courses she dredged up what she knew about Ontario's Aboriginals. Surprisingly, she remembered that the Oneidas belonged to the Iroquois Confederacy, Indians granted land along the Grand River after they supported the British during the American Revolutionary War. She thought back to university, when she'd learned some of this. There had been six. What were they? Oneida, Mohawk, Cayuga, Seneca, Onondaga, and Tuscarora. She smiled. Sometimes factoids stuck in your brain. Only the Mohawk and Oneida came north after the war. She'd google the Oneida and find out more than she wanted to know from Wikipedia.