Amuse Bouche (11 page)

He handed me the paper with scribbled handwriting on it. "Is this your handwriting?"

"Yes. From the phone call."

Tom had never even met this guy. He called it in. "Can 1 have your name?" I didn't think this guy was going to be any more help, but I didn't want to lose track of him, just in case. The man reached into his pocket again and produced a business card. I studied it. Indeed, Mr.

Smouldering Eyes Painchaud was in the messenger business. 1 pocketed the card.

"Would you perhaps ]ike to share a drink with me?" This from him. A sexy smile. He looked like one of those guys who probably wasn't even gay but thought, "Hey, I'm cute, you're cute, let's give it a go."

I smiled back. Also sexily. Maybe my battered ego would escape somewhat intact from this evening. "Thank you, but no. I should 118

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return to my hotel and pass this message on to Mr. Chavell as soon as possible."

He reached out and ran his hand down my arm and let it rest near my wrist. I shivered.

"And then?" he questioned/ his eyes asking more. Okay, maybe he was gay.

"And then it will be very late. But thank you."

With a wink he pulled away, turned and was gone from my life forever!

Melodrama—it's just one of those things you need to pull out of your purse once in a while.

By the time I dragged my lust-sick ass back to my hotel room it was about 2:00 a.m., making it 6:00 p.m. Monday evening in Saskatoon. I dialled Chavell's number. He'd just gotten home from work. I read the scribbled note to him and couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy.

1 could tell he was taking it hard and having a difficult time believing it to be true. I found myself desperately searching for a way to give him hope.

"I think I'll pay Mr. Painchaud a visit tomorrow. Maybe I can find some way to trace Tom's call. Once I get a handle on these new friends of his, I should be able to pick up his trail again. I just have to start talking to people. A Canadian 119

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tourist, especially this time of year, is pretty easy to spot." I was making it up as 1 talked, making promises I wasn't sure I could keep.

"It's over, Russell." His voice was so low I could barely hear him. Chavell was fresh out of hope and nothing I could say was going to give him any.

"It doesn't have to be, Harold."

"I know, I know. I don't doubt you could find Tom again. But to what end? How much clearer does he have to make it? He left me at the altar.

He runs away to Europe. He hides from you.

And then he leaves this message. What more does he have to do or say for me to get it through my thick skull that it's over?"

I didn't say anything. What he was saying did make some sense. Tom was not being subtle.

"It's done, Russell. You can come home now.

I've found out what I needed to know."

I wasn't certain if I agreed with him. As clear as Tom was about his future intentions, he still remained mute about the real reasons for his actions in the first place. His message said something about problems Chavell wasn't aware of. What were they? If he were my lover I would need to know more. But hey, I'm the curious type. That's why I became a detective.

In the end though, the client is always right.

"I'm sorry, Harold." I was.

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I heard a dry swallow, then, "You'll send me a bill when you get back?"

"I'll call you as soon as I get home. I should be able to find some flights tomorrow."

And that was it. Tom Osborn was still gone.

Harold Chavell was still the confused, jilted lover. And I was out of a job. But I knew I was the lucky one.

Although I was now on my way back to Saskatoon, I couldn't help but give in to a pang of homesickness and a need to check on my dog. Wimp. I dialled the phone.

"Hello," came the terse greeting. Errall.

"Hey Errall, it's Russell. Just getting home from work?"

"I just walked in the door and I'm late for a dinner meeting thing and
your
fucking dog just puked all over the living room carpet."

"Told you not to feed her people food. Her stomach can't take it."

"Nothing but dry kibble every day is verging on abuse, Russell. Where the hell are you, anyway? Can you come over and clean this up?"

"Sorry—still in France. Where's Kells?" My nickname for Kelly, along with anything that rhymed with Kells or Kelly.

"She's at her studio. Ohhhhhh shit!" I heard the phone drop, a few well-vocalized profanities and then the phone being picked up again.

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"She just did it again! On my Louis Vuitton briefcase! Listen, I don't have time for this right now. Why don't you call back later? Barbra is fine. Don't worry about her. I guess
I'm
going to have to clean up this crap? I'm wearing a seven-hundred-dollar suit, y'know."

"Appreciate it. Love ya both. Give Barbra a smooch from me. Bye." I hung up in record speed. I allowed a slow smile to fill my face as I thought of super yuppie, Errall Strane, crouching over a pile of dog barf. Good girl, Barbra.

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EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, a little hungover, I began a frustrating day of trying to get home.

With a little luck and the time difference now on your side, a savvy traveller should be able to get back to Saskatchewan from Europe in the same day. But that wasn't to be the case for me. If I'd heard the phrase "you just missed it" one more time, I'm certain I would have exploded. I ended up having to overnight in Paris in an even smaller hotel room than that in Residence la Concorde. I eventually found myself back in Saskatoon at 8:30 p.m. on Wednesday night, a week after I'd left. My mood was not terrific by the time I arrived by propeller plane at die John G. Diefenbaker Airport. To add insult to injury, October had arrived since I'd been away and with the turning of the month, our temperate, crisp, invigorating autumn had retreated into an early winter. There was no snow on the ground but as I traversed the tarmac from plane to terminal, a wicked wind bit into my skin like a hailstorm of icicles.

Waiting for my luggage to be spit out from the sluggish carousel seemed to take forever.

But finally, bags in hand and head bowed against the freezing wind, I trudged towards 123

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long-term parking, reminding myself why 1

live here. The RX7 did not look happy to see me, as if wondering how dare I leave it outdoors with all those SUVs and ATVs that think they are better prepared to deal with the harsh weather conditions of Saskatchewan. After I'd stuffed it with luggage, the rotary engine turned over easily, not through any dedication to me but because it was desperate to get back into a nice warm garage. Little did it know I wasn't quite ready to go home.

The runway of lights that began where Cathedral Bluffs gravel road became the smooth pavement of Harold Chavell's private driveway and ended up half a kilometre later at his front door was impressive. My personal rule was to never show up unexpected at anyone's door after 10:00 at night. I had a good half-hour's grace. As I approached the Chavell turnoff, I noticed a small car parked off to one side of the unpaved road. I slowed down, wondering if the driver needed help. It was a yellow hatchback, probably ten or fifteen years old. No one was in it. I guessed the driver had run out of gas or experienced mechanical problems.

Although the car was left closest to Chavell's, the driver could have chosen any one of several 124

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neighbours' houses to walk to for help. But just in case, I kept an eye out as 1 turned right and directed my car down the well-lit roadway.

Pulling up to the house's grand front entrance, I glanced around for a valet but it was obviously his night off Tsk, tsk, tsk. I hopped out of my car, climbed the steps to the front door, hit the doorbell pad and heard yet another in its repertoire of classical excerpts. Who needs a stereo system?

I could tell by the look on his face that Chavell was surprised and maybe a little annoyed to see me standing there. He invited me into the foyer but no further.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he said.

He was wearing a dark sweater and dress pants. I could smell a sharp-tongued cologne.

He looked thinner than I remembered.

"1 just got in."

"Well, I do have company. Perhaps we could speak another time?"

What company was he talking about? I hadn't seen any cars other than my own parked in front of the house. Unless...the yellow hatchback parked back on the road? But why park so far away? "I'm sorry to disturb you." I was. Really I was. I hate when people arrive unannounced at my door and expect me to drop everything because they happened to have the time to visit.

Amuse Bouche

But, I couldn't ignore my growing feeling of uneasiness. Something was not right about this whole case. I hated giving up and it felt like that was what Chavell was asking me to do.

"I couldn't stop thinking about Tom all the way home. You hired me to find out why he left you and I didn't do that. There's something else going on here and I'd like to find out what it is.

But you're right, we can talk about this some other time. Maybe tomorrow?" As 1 said the words I wondered if Chavell would think I was trying to wrangle a few more chargeable hours out of him.

"Actually, let's finish this right now. I can't go on with this any longer. You did your job— everything I asked. It's clear from what you told me that Tom is anxious to get away from me. For now and maybe forever. I'm confused and distraught. . .but I have to deal with that in my own way. It isn't easy. However, I don't need any more information from you. I've heard all I care to. You have to understand.. .this isn't the type of experience I desire or welcome into my life. It's tawdry and disreputable and disruptive. If it's a matter of the bill, just send me an invoice..."

I shook my head. "The retainer you gave me is more than sufficient. In fact I'll write you a cheque for the unused portion."

"No. No, please, keep it. I'm sure this job 126

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went far beyond what you normally do. I appreciate that. And I appreciate your continued discretion. Please keep any extra. It is well worth your efforts."

I like being stroked as much as the next guy, yet I couldn't help but get the feeling that I was being brushed off What did he mean by saying the whole thing was disruptive? Was Tom's disappearance being relegated to the category of an annoying disruption in Chavell's otherwise orderly life? One more try. "I do think there is more to find out here."

"No, there isn't." His answer sounded pretty final. I looked into his eyes and tried to decipher what I saw. Was this a guy who just wanted to get back to his company or a guy whose heart had been publicly thrashed by his lover and just wanted to, finally, leave it be?

"Can I ask you one question before I go?"

"Of course." Always the gentleman.

"Did you give Tom a half-heart pendant as a gift recently? Perhaps as a pre-wedding present?"

He slowly shook his head. "No."

If he was beat, he was really beat. Chavell gave no indication of being the least bit curious about the pendant or why I'd asked the question. You don't have to tell me twice! Well, maybe twice, but never three times. As far as Chavell was concerned, Tom Osborn was a 127

closed chapter in his life. I wished him goodnight and headed toward my waiting car. I heard the front door close behind me and quickly diverted myself toward the window of what I knew, from my earlier visit, to be the office/sitting room. Lucky me. The drapes were open.

Looking comfy on the eggplant couch were two men, obviously awaiting Chavell's return. One was attractive, older, elegantly dressed and, I'd bet my bottom dollar, gay as a garden party; the other looked much the same but about twenty years younger. Neither of them looked like the type to be driving a rusted yellow hatchback.

Knowing Chavell might be waiting to hear my vehicle leave, I pulled away from the window and headed for my car.

Having a suspicious mind is a common and useful trait in my business. As I drove away I couldn't help wondering who the men in Chavell's sitting room were and why they were there. Friends? Potential new lovers? Business partners? Relatives? Were they simply enjoying a convivial evening together or was there more to it? Was my imagination getting the best of me or was I just tired from all the flying? I had no easy answer. As I came to the main road I noticed the yellow hatchback was gone.

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I pulled into my garage off the back alley behind my house, glad to be home. No matter where I've been or what I've been doing, I always love coming home. Home means peace, quiet, comfort, happiness and warmth among a million other good things. Entering my house without Barbra greeting me with her well-controlled enthusiasm and loving eyes is something I never get used to, but it was too late to swing by Kelly and Errall's to retrieve her now.

I pulled my suitcase into my bedroom. It's a large room with an ensuite bathroom and walkin closet that takes up the whole north end of the house. French doors open onto a small, bricked pad surrounded by flowerbeds. 1 decided to unpack some other time with the exception of my toiletries, which I'd need before "some other time." I peeled off sticky airplane clothes and pulled on my bathrobe as I headed towards the kitchen. I thought about a bowl of low-fat gra-nola but settled on a glass of white wine. As I poured, the phone rang. I leaned towards the handset and saw "S. Smith" printed out on the call display. I picked up the handset.

"Was that a wine cork I heard popping?"

I shook my head and smirked. "Uh-huh."

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She wore a mustard mandarin jacket held together with clasps that looked like frogs straining to hold hands over her bra-less torso and a pair of matching palazzo pants. Standard Wednesday night attire for Sereena. She curled up in one corner of my living room couch, tucking her bare feet under herself.

I offered her a goblet of the white and settled in next to her.