Aloha, Candy Hearts (11 page)

After catching my breath and brushing myself off, I walked over to about the same spot where the boy had been standing. I turned my head up and stared at the door too high, which I’d left open.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The kid was right. There, etched on the wood—by years and weather, I was guessing—was a perfect replica of a flower.

“Hallelujah,” I whispered to myself with as much reverence as if I’d just spotted the image of Santa Claus in the clouds on Christmas Eve. “I found it. I actually found it.” I was smiling like a fool.

Even though I’m no horticulturist—or whatever you call flower specialists—there was little doubt in my mind that the flower on the door was a lily. I admired my lily for several seconds.

Very cool.

What wasn’t cool, however, was that I was going to have to crawl back up on that roof to secure the door the way it was when I’d first found it. Not only was it rude not to, I didn’t want to help out anyone else who might be chasing the same clues as I was.

And there was one more thing that wasn’t very cool. The first two verses of Walter Angel’s treasure map had led me to a next location. But a flower carved on a door? What could that have to do with “Now to fame’s portrait in a frame”? Unfortunately, I had no idea.

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Late Sunday evening, I found Sereena Orion Smith in her backyard. She was sitting in a gazebo that would have looked at home on any southern plantation. To complete the picture, she sipped a mint julep while reading a Winston Churchill biography. She was wearing a diaphanous lounging outfit that seemed to be made of summer flower petals. A gentle sonata played over a set of invisible speakers and the air was soft. I almost hated to disturb her. But I needed her help.

She poured me a drink from a waiting pitcher while I found a comfortable spot amongst the colourful cushions on the bench next to hers. The sun had just set and flickering candles illuminat-ed our perfect cocoon.

“Of course I’ll watch over Barbra and Brutus,” she responded to my request without hesitation.

The next favour was going to be a little tougher. “Would it be okay if they stayed at your house, rather than you coming over to check on them?” I knew this was an imposition. Sereena was on DD6AA2AB84

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good terms with my schnauzers, but she wasn’t in the habit of hosting house guests, human, canine, or otherwise. This was why, if I was planning to be away for longer than a night or two, I had the dogs stay with Errall. “It won’t be for long.”

“Of course. You know I’d do anything for you, Russell…within reason.” Sereena’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “But you just came home. Why away again so soon? And why do you want none of us in your house while you’re gone?”

I did my best to explain the last twenty-four hours since I’d returned from Hawaii, right up to finding the flower etching. The basic message was: my home is no longer safe for me or my dogs or dogsitters.

She nodded and sipped as I spoke, and when I was done, she laid a gentle hand on my thigh and asked, “Have you put disinfec-tant on that knee?”

I glanced down at the angry looking scrape I’d gotten at Trounce House. “Sure.” I hadn’t.

Wordlessly laying her drink aside, Sereena left me to go inside.

A few minutes later she was back with a few things, and began ministering to my abrasion. I never could get away with telling my neighbour even the tiniest of lies.

“So you believe finding this treasure is the key to finding out why this man was killed?” she asked as she dabbed away.

“And by whom.”

“The person in the white truck?”

“Possibly,” I answered, then added, “I think so.”

“So why not go after the truck? Why traipse around on this ridiculous treasure hunt?”

“How exciting would that be?” I responded with a little boy grin I knew she enjoyed. Then I sighed, and said, “Of course I’ll go after the truck if I get a chance. But I never know when or where it’ll show up. At least with the treasure map I have something solid—well, sort of solid—to go on.”

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that going into hiding from the white truck won’t help you find it,” she succinctly pointed out.

“That’s true. But I have to leave something for the police to do.

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Aloha, Candy Hearts

ing about the white truck finding me first. It’s not me they really want. It’s the treasure. Since they’re after me, they obviously don’t have a copy of the map. Without that—or me—they’re pretty much out of luck.”

“And you have no idea what this thing is you’re looking for?”

I shook my head. I knew it sounded bad. I was desperate to get my hands on something I couldn’t identify. But sometimes a detective has nothing else to go on but faith.

“Stay in touch. Remember the wedding on Saturday.”

“Of course. This will only take me a day or two. And being at the wedding for Anthony and Jared is a priority.” I quickly added with an impish grin. “As is helping you.”

“Are you all right, hon?”

Sereena was eyeing my wringing hands. There was nothing to see though. I’d taken the ring off.

“Right as rain.”

“Where will you go?”

I’d already made the call.

The new and improved Ash House wouldn’t be open to residents for another month or two, while the niceties and accoutrements and landscaping and general finishing-up-touches were completed. But I didn’t need any of that. I just needed a roof over my head where no one would think to look for me. I couldn’t stay at my house, my office, or any of my friend’s houses (I had no idea how much White Truck Guy knew about me and my life). The new Ash House, vacant and a few kilometres out of town, was perfect.

When I’d called Ethan with my proposal that I move in for a day or two, he’d readily agreed. He actually liked the idea of having someone there. During the day it was busy enough with tradespeople and the like, but at night it was empty and secluded on its five-acre lot just south of the city limits. I wasn’t sure if I was keen on the idea of playing live-in security guard, but turnabout is fair play, I suppose.

It was almost ten-thirty at night when I pulled into the yard.

Although the newly paved driveway was lined with a charming DD6AA2AB8

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parade of Victorian-style lamp posts, the power had obviously not yet been connected, as they sat dark. The only source of light came from the porch that wrapped around the three-storey, asymmetri-cal Queen Anne-style house with its fanciful towers and turrets.

Jared and Ethan had done a masterful job of designing the place. It was immediately inviting and a feast for the eyes. I was hoping the porch light meant that Ethan had already arrived to hand over a set of keys.

I left the Mazda in a near-completed lot that would soon be used for visitor parking, and headed for the house with my sleeping bag and duffel. The path from the lot led me through an expanse of thick and gnarly prairie caragana that had been there long before the house. I appreciated the use of native vegetation, and the trail was made navigable by recently laid fieldstones, but the lights weren’t working here either, so my progress was halting.

I made it only halfway before I stopped altogether. I cocked an ear.

I definitely heard something.

Why an unfamiliar noise in the dark would make me stop, rather than speed up, I don’t know. Weird Quant gene, I guess.

I listened. Something was definitely rooting around in the underbrush. Human or beast? From far off I heard the unmistakable yowl of a lone coyote. Then several more answered back. I decided I didn’t care to find out who or what was out there after all. I picked up the pace.

Happy to have reached the porch without incident, I tossed my stuff onto a wicker chair and turned to knock. That’s when I saw the face peering out at me through the screen door.

“Who are you?” I said, a little louder than required.

“Damien.”

Before I could react, Ethan’s smiling face appeared behind the man.

“Russell, it is you. We thought we saw a set of lights pull into the yard. Welcome to Ash House!” And with that he threw open the door and his arms for a hug.

I hadn’t actually seen Ethan for several weeks. Busy with work, avoiding temptation, that sort of thing. He looked good.

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He’d cut his normally shaggy hair short. Suddenly scruffy Scooby Doo had become a sleek Great Dane. He was wearing cut-off jeans, which he filled out in all the right places, and an appropriately named muscle shirt. As we embraced, I could smell sweet sweat mixed with a light, orangey cologne.

“Sorry,” he said with his ever-ready smile, “I’m a mess. We were working on the pool house today. Dirty work. Hey, you’ve met Damien, right?”

Wasn’t that the name of the little devil kid from The Omen?

“Uh, no. Not ‘til just now.”

Ethan flashed an embarrassed smile. “Oh, well, uh, Russell, Damien Janzen. Damien, Russell Quant.”

As he made the introductions he placed an arm around the other man. International signal for: we’re together. My heart plum-meted to the soles of my feet. They’re seeing each other. Something in my stomach curdled.

I shook hands and tried for a polite smile. Outside I was fine, inside I felt black and ugly, and I thought I might throw up on the newly planted potentilla bushes. Instead, I said, “Thanks for agree-ing to this. And for meeting me here so late.” I hadn’t told him the exact reason, other than to say it had to do with work.

“Hey,” Ethan said, “anything to help out the local gumshoe.

Besides, we were here anyway. This place has got to be shipshape for Saturday.”

“Yeah,” Damien spoke up. “I think it’s so cool that you’re a detective and all.”

I’d like to say he was trollish looking, or at least afflicted with a Shih Tzu under bite. But Damien was undeniably good looking…in an aging boy-bander kind of way. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It is cool.”

“Come on in,” Ethan said as he stepped back to let me through.

“How about we give you a quick tour before we take off for the night?” he said with obvious pride in his new home.

“Of course,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure I could bear to spend that much time with Ethan and his new boyfriend.

As we made our way through the large house, room by room, each carefully planned for the maximum comfort and ease of its DD6AA2AB8

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eventual inhabitants, it was obvious to me that the place was going to be perfect. The first two floors had spacious suites for about a dozen residents, along with the requisite facilities, public spaces, a mini-gym, well-stocked library-gamesroom, and a movie screen-ing room complete with comfy couches and a popcorn machine.

The third floor was for Ethan and his daughter, Simon, but sadly no room for Damien. (I added that last bit myself). There were a great many superb features: charming nooks and crannies, and, befitting a Queen Anne house, wonderfully flamboyant touches. I made a note to set up a meeting with my financial planner and have him start planning to find a way to plop me into Ash House in my dotage.

Half an hour later the boys were headed back to the city and, I hoped, their respective homes. Left alone in the big empty space, I wandered around for a little longer on my own before deciding it was time to hit the sack. Without any beds in the place yet, I meant that literally.

It was almost midnight when I fell asleep on the back porch to the sound of a trillion crickets. I’d originally set up my sleeping bag in one of the bedrooms, but the night was so beautiful I couldn’t resist. I needed something lovely and peaceful to assuage the muddle of emotions battling for dominance in my head. So many things were weighing on me. The murder of Walter Angel. The confusing treasure map. My engagement to Alex Canyon. Ethan Ash. Alex Canyon. Ethan Ash. And things weren’t going to get better any time soon, for tomorrow morning I was doing something I’d been dreading for a long time. Saying a last goodbye to a friend.

Kelly Doell and I had attended the same small town high school.

Years later, we reconnected in Saskatoon and became best friends.

For many years, she and Errall lived the life of a typical lesbian couple. They met, they moved in together, they got a dog (Brutus), they pooled their k.d. lang CDs. Things were going swell for them.

Errall was a workaholic lawyer and Kelly had found success as the owner of a popular craft gallery on Broadway that featured many of her own wood and pottery creations. Then cancer struck.

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The disease took Kelly’s breast and most of her inner glow.

Eventually, she packed her bags and moved away. Ran away?

We’d had little contact with her for years. And then, two years ago, she simply showed up again, and Errall took her in without a backward glance. Errall and I have had our issues over the years, but I’ll always admire her for that. Of course, I have no real knowledge of what happened behind closed doors, but to all outside eyes, they once again became a devoted couple. We eventually learned that what had taken Kelly away from us in the first place—

cancer—had brought her back. She’d come back home—back to Errall—to die. And a year ago, she did.

A container of ashes can be a great comfort, or a grim reminder of a loved one. Burial of a body in a casket isn’t for everyone. But at least once it’s done, it’s done. It’s not as if you bring the casket home with you, with the expectation of having it displayed on your mantle. A casket is left in the ground, and mourners are left with a lifetime of pictures and memories. But an urn of ashes demands to be dealt with. Somehow. Errall had been in agony for months, deciding what to do.