“He’s a graphic artist. Cartoons, comics? Looks like he’s out of whisky and had to break out the vodka.” Neil nodded to Kelly as the man looked up at them.

“Maybe that’s water in the glass.”

“Want to bet. Lunch?”

Tony watched the man lurch toward them. “Nope.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Quantz. Remember me, Neil Redfern, Chief of Police?” Neil had worn his cap today in deference to the milder temperature. He tucked it under his arm and held out his hand.

Kelly looked at the hand and reached for it but couldn’t connect. He closed one eye. Neil captured the hand, more to steady the man than anything else. “This is Detective Sergeant Anthony Pinato with the Ontario Provincial Police.”

Neil exchanged looks with Tony. Great, the man was still shit-faced. Fang’s interview at the office yesterday afternoon had been a waste of time — he didn’t remember any more than Cornwall did about grad night, and he couldn’t add anything to his sister’s missing person file. They didn’t want to push Earl Archman until he recovered from his emergency room visit, and now this. Sober, healthy witnesses were thin on the ground.

“Just a few questions, Mr. Quantz. May we come in?”

“’Course. Sure.” Kelly stepped back. The back of his knees hit the edge of his footstool and he toppled. Tony caught him before he fell over and helped him back into his chair. Then he seated himself on the footstool, leaving Neil to stand over the man. He disliked looming over someone like this, but the enclosure was so small he had no choice. He noticed two of the glass walls were lined waist-high with electronic audio equipment.

“Sorry to trouble you at a time like this, Mr. Quantz. You must have a lot of plans to make.”

“Not busy. Can’t make no … uh, any plans. Don’t know when Sophie’s body will be released. That doctor, what’s his name? Reener? He says he’ll let me know when they’re done and I can arrange the funeral.” His lips quivered and he took another drink from his glass.

“I understand.” Neil looked over at Kelly’s drawing table and noticed a caricature of something half-woman, half … was it a squirrel? He blinked a few times, but the figure still had ears and a bushy tail and a pair of improbably large breasts. Man, it was disturbing. He didn’t want to take the chance of offending Quantz, so didn’t mention it.

Tony, however, had no such reservation. He pointed at the drawing. “What the hell is that?”

The widower said proudly. “It’s my new design. I’ve created a line of elemental avatars I’m hoping to sell to a gaming company. This is Amandaline.”

Tony squinted at the drawing. “She’s a squirrel?”

“No, she isn’t! She belongs to the element of air. She can fly, catching the updrafts. And … and downdrafts.”

Tony didn’t let up. “I don’t think she’ll get through the liftoff part of flying, not with those, uh, boobs. And she has squirrel ears and a squirrel tail.”

Quantz turned the drawing over. “Amandaline is not a squirrel.” He finished off the contents of his glass and reached around the back of his chair for a bottle. Neil was right, it was vodka.

It was time to stop cosseting Quantz and question him before the man passed out. He leaned over and removed the bottle and glass from Quantz’s hands.

“Hey! Give that back. You got no right …”

Tony glanced from the artist to the drawing. He picked it up and held it against the light of the glass wall.

Neil deposited bottle and glass well out of Quantz’s reach. “You need to stop drinking long enough to answer some questions about your wife’s death, Mr. Quantz. Sergeant Pinato will go to the kitchen and ask the nice lady who’s washing your dishes to make some coffee.”

He spent Tony’s absence wandering around the studio, mentally estimating the value of the electronics and artist’s paraphernalia. A laptop and colour printer sat on a small table, sharing shelf space with reams of copy paper, drawing pads, and jars of coloured pencils.

“Do you still work as a DJ, Mr. Quantz?”

“Not so much anymore.” Quantz had adopted a sullen expression and stared out the window at the melting snow. “The kids want a young DJ with tight pants and a shaved head. I do some anniversary parties, stuff like that, in the summer. My equipment is outdated, too. Cost too much to replace.”

“Do you remember the party in the gym of the old high school the year your wife graduated?”

Quantz’s eyes filled with tears. “I DJed all the school dances back then. That’s where I first fell in love with Sophie. I was twelve years older and didn’t think I stood a chance.”

“Yet you and she married, when? After she graduated from Divinity College?”

“That’s right. The boys, they all took advantage of Sophie, but after she started trusting me in final year, she wouldn’t have anything to do with them anymore. Even before she went off to university. I used to visit her on weekends, everything above board, mind you.”

Tony returned with a cup steaming with black coffee. He handed it to Quantz, but took it back quickly after Quantz’s shaking hands spilled a few drops onto the tiled floor.

Neil stepped back a pace. “About the graduation dance in 2000, Mr. Quantz. What do you remember about that night?”

“I don’t remember anything unusual if that’s what you mean.” He accepted the coffee cup from Tony again, holding it in both hands.

“Did you see Faith Davidson leave the gym?”

“Faith?” Quantz hooked his shaking fingers through the cup handle and brought the cup carefully to his lips. “That’s the skeleton, right? Poor girl. Can’t help you, though. I’m not sure I even remember what she looked like.”

“What about Sophie? Did she leave with a group of friends?”

Quantz examined the ceiling, as though deep in thought. “I don’t recall. It was a long time ago. All the kids were gone by the time I packed up my equipment, though.” He used both hands to set his cup on a nearby table.

Neil glanced again at the electronics stacked neatly against the wall. “It’s a shame you’ll have to move.”

“Eh?” Quantz bolted upright. “Move? From here?”

“Of course. I believe the house is owned by the Episcopal Church. Since your wife is no longer the incumbent priest, you’ll have to move to make room for the new one. And Sophie’s salary will stop. Where will you go, sir?”

Quantz sobered before their eyes. He looked around the room.

Neil and Tony waited while reality sank in.

Quantz looked up at them. “You’re right. Now I’m homeless. And broke. What’s going to happen to me?”

He slid from his chair to his knees. “Oh God. Why did this have to happen to Sophie? Now, I have nothing.” Sobs ripped through his thin frame, and he bent forward until his forehead rested on the floor.

He moaned. “You don’t know what it’s like. To lose your wife like this. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye or tell her I love her.”

Neil’s breath caught in his chest. He pushed his black memories away and gestured Tony over. “If this is an act, he should win an Academy Award, but if it isn’t, we can’t leave him like this. Apparently, he won’t talk to Victim Services.”

The cold from the tile floor seeped through his boots. Tony threw a knit blanket over the prostrate man on the floor. “Do you have a psych ward at the hospital?”

“Are you kidding me? We have six beds, and they’re usually full. But I was thinking more of a tag-team from the church. The ladies seem to be looking after his meals and cleaning. Maybe a few at a time can babysit him until he dries out.”

It was mid-afternoon before they left Quantz in the capable hands of a committee of women who promised to keep an eye on him.