Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell Read Free Book Online Page A

bought together,” Arthur explained and grimaced. “She insisted on scrupulous fairness—I’ll give her that.” He nodded at the two chairs and collected a metal kitchen stool for himself. Perched on it, he hooked his feet around the rungs.
    â€œWe’re here to talk to you about Ivan and Curt Hartman.” Zee Zee indicated the recorder. “We’ll have to tape what you say.”
    Curt peered at her. “Don’t I know you?” He considered. “I do. You ran the Horn of Plenty Gallery—wonderful African art and textiles—wonderful things.” He frowned. “And I heard you did well. Why would you give that up for a police career?”
    â€œYou have a good memory. It doesn’t have any bearing on why we’re here, but I’ll tell you that although I succeeded, I wanted to do more with my life. But this isn’t about me. Tell us about Curt Hartman?”
    â€œCurt—that bastard.” The little man’s face folded in on itself, and he scowled.
    â€œWhat happened between you and Mr. Hartman?”
    â€œIt’s not complicated. I represented him, sold his work everywhere.” He shifted on his uncomfortable-looking seat. “I considered him my friend. We owned a sailboat together. When he was married to Lena Kalma, the four of us went sailing in the Caribbean.” He paused, as if remembering a pleasant holiday.
    Zee Zee didn’t interrupt.
    â€œA few years ago, he left me for a bigger, more prestigious gallery in Yorkville.” Arthur crossed to a half-empty bookcase, plucked a well-thumbed volume from the bottom shelf and waved it at Zee Zee. “Curt’s biography—have you read it?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œHe says I ripped him off.” Arthur exhaled dismissively. “Can you imagine he’d make a charge like that after the years we worked together?” His shoulders sagged. “My gallery went bankrupt last year after this book came out. Artists removed their paintings.” He shrugged. “You can’t run a gallery without work to sell. I’m suing him for defamation. Even if I win, it won’t restore my gallery or bring my wife back.” His voice thickened and tears threatened. “They were my life,” he quavered.
    â€œYour wife left at the same time?”
    He pulled a large, none-too-clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “And took half my assets and...” he waved at the apartment, “half of everything.” He sniffed. “I can’t offer you a decent cup of coffee, not that anyone drinks coffee at this hour. She grabbed the coffee maker. Now I’m reduced to drinking instant; I won’t offer that vile beverage to anyone.”
    â€œDid you know Ivan?”
    â€œNot as well as Tomas, who loved sailing with us, even as a very little boy. Ivan never came. Apparently he threw up even if the water was mirror-calm, not that you sail if it is. But you get my drift. He wasn’t comfortable on Lake Ontario. A big wading pool probably makes him nauseous. A nice young man. Too bad about him.”
    There was no sorrow in his voice; it was a perfunctory thing to say.
    Zee Zee pulled one of her cards from her black book and scribbled something on it. “We may be back. In the interim, go to the nearest police station and have your fingerprints taken.”
    â€œYou have to be kidding?”
    â€œWe’re not. It’s routine in a murder investigation for those who might be involved. And we’ll want proof of your whereabouts in the hours before the murder.”
    â€œWell, you won’t get any, because I don’t have any. I was alone. I’m always alone.”
    He walked them to the door, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
    Back in the car, Rhona pulled away from the curb. “Arthur certainly has reason to hate Curt. Could he kill him? It’s a good question. He definitely warrants a