Amuse Bouche (12 page)

"Start the fire, Russell," she urged with a hint of the feminine wiles she knew wouldn't work on me but enjoyed using.

I looked at the black pit that was my fireplace and knew I'd have to go out to the garage to retrieve firewood. "I'm not moving another inch. You start the fire. Trie logs are in the garage."

"Fuck the fire."

"I thought you'd see it my way."

She gave me a sour look and surly smile. An interesting combination only she was capable of "So? How was it? Buy anything I should comment on?"

"No time for shopping. Work, work, work."

"Idiot."

"Well, I did get a little tipsy in Chateauneuf-du-Pape and almost had sex with a French delivery man in Sanary-sur-Mer."

"'Little' and 'almost' are poor adjectives for 130

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life's adventures," she told me.

"Are they adjectives?"

"Tell me the story when you've been physically ousted from Chateauneuf for having sex with a delivery man in the town square!"

"But I do that on every trip," 1 whined.

Sereena was an excellent quipster but our relationship was deeper than that. "How was it?" she asked with a new face. Same words, different question.

I thought about how to answer.

"Disheartening."

I spent the next fifteen minutes giving her a rundown of what had happened without divulging too many specific details. I always maintain client confidentiality—even after I've lost the client.

"Your instincts are right," she said. "There is something wrong. Affairs of the heart are complicated things, but not that complicated. I think you're disheartened because everything you found out in France doesn't coincide with what you thought you knew about the relationship in the first place."

She was right, as usual. I didn't know Harold Chavell and Tom Osborn well, but they had planned to spend the rest of their lives together.

In fact, they were so serious about it, they had invited sixty of their closest friends and family 131

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to watch them commit to that very thing. Tying the knot in the straight world could be a nerve-racking event. To do it as two men was that times ten. They hadn't entered into the decision lightly. Yet now, they had both, in their own way, simply given up on it. Chavell was wash-ing his hands of the whole "disruptive" thing.

Tom abandoned not only his life partner, but family, friends and a successful business. That was fantasy, not reality.

I poured us each a refill.

A cloudless Thursday morning arrived almost instantly. 1 felt no guilt whatsoever showing up at my office well after 10:00 a.m. I parked in one of the four spots behind PWC. Errall's bright blue Miata with black leather seats and Beverly Chaney's sensible sedan were already there.

Alberta Lougheed lives close enough to walk to work but that didn't necessarily mean she was in. As a psychic, her hours are even stranger than mine. I entered by the front ground floor door instead of the metal fire stairs thinking I should inform our group receptionist, Lilly, that I was back in the country. However, as I approached her, I realized I wasn't even sure that 1 had told her I was leaving in the first place.

If anyone had told me what Lilly's last name 132

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was when I first moved in to PWC, I had since forgotten it. And now, a year later, I was too embarrassed to ask. Especially since she is the sweetest person I have ever met and she treats us, her four employers, as if we arc the most famous people in our respective professions. She looks like a spunky sixteen-year-old but is probably twenty-four or so and 1 know she has at least two kids and a burly, hockey-playing husband. She is white-blonde, smiley, and has a round, bright face. Although eighty-five per cent of Lilly's workload comes from Errall's law practice and Beverly's psychiatry office (they both really know how to create paperwork), Lilly works for all of us. Her unique ability is making our clients feel comfortable. And imagine the collection of people who end up in our waiting room—people in the throes of being sued, having a mental breakdown, spiritual crisis or, worst of all, my clients. Lilly treats them all with the same sense of respect, grace and patience. And they love her for it. As far as I'm concerned, she is the most important person at PWC.

"Hi Lilly, I'm back." I sidled up to her high receptionist's desk and rested my elbows on the counter.

Biggest white smile ever. "Oh, I was thinking you must be away. You're so lucky getting to travel as much as you do. I'd love to travel.

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Where were you this time?" Not a hint of guilt over my failure to keep her informed of my whereabouts. Had to love her.

"France. Mostly in the countryside."

"Wow! How was it?"

The waiting room was empty so I felt okay giving her a few details about the trip. She seemed so sincere about wanting to hear it.

"Any messages for me?" I asked after I was done.

"I put a few calls through to your office.

They probably left messages on your voice mail.

And this package was delivered for you." She reached under her desk and handed me a ten by thirteen, sealed, brown envelope.

I thanked her and headed towards Errall's office but Lilly waved me off. "With a client,"

she said. I'd wanted to tell Errall I was back and arrange a time to pick up Barbra, but that would have to wait.

Back in my office I sat behind my desk and convinced myself that going through my mail should be top priority. A few bills, some junk mail, one cheque from a prior job and finally the brown envelope Lilly gave me. The return address was in Cathedral Bluffs. It was from Chavell. Lilly's "date received" stamp told me it had been delivered the day after my first meeting with him. I opened it and pulled out two lists.

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One was a typewritten, alphabetically arranged inventory of Tom's friends and relatives that I had asked for before being thrown on a plane to France. There was also a handwrit-ten list of wedding guests. A note from Chavell, paper-clipped to the top of the thin sheaf, read, "As requested, H. Chavell." The script was tight and pointy and looked as if it had been hastily written. A gentler, flowing hand had prepared the wedding guest list. Tom's? Immediately I was struck by the inconsistency of a man who'd write out this list with such care, and plan for months an elaborate event to celebrate his love for another man, only to discard it all. I knew Chavell wasn't interested in having me continue on this job, but the money he'd paid me would more than cover a little unsolicited over-time. Besides, I didn't have much else to do.

Other than type up and close the case file. And I really wasn't in the mood for that. I promised myself I'd give it one day only. If I didn't End out anything interesting by tonight, I'd give it up and begin typing.

I took the lists with me and made my escape through the back door. It was times like this I most appreciated my career. If I didn't feel like 135

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sitting in my office doing paperwork I could just leave and no one cared. Not to mention that making money by snooping around in other people's business is usually a great way to spend time. As I headed for my car, I was glad I'd chosen to wear my lined, mid-length, black leather coat. A bit of last night's wind was still in the air and although the sun was blasting its yellow rays all over the place it felt cool.

I knew Tom was a founding partner of QW

Technologies. That was as good a place to start as any. Like many of the high tech companies that had sprung up in the city, babies of brilliant entrepreneurs, QW was located at Innovation Place. Adjacent to the University of Saskatchewan campus, Innovation Place is a collection of impressive buildings that house over one hundred different organizations. Once a province dedicated to the sole pursuit of growing wheat, Saskatchewan has been shaken and led by changing times to embrace diversification. Most noticeably and successfully, much of that diversification has come from information technology and agriculture-related biotech ventures. Innovation Place is one of the most rapidly growing and successful university-related research parks in North America. Its role, simply put, is to supply facilities, on a commercial basis, to support the research and 136

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development community in Saskatchewan.

Driving into the business park one can almost hear brain cells bouncing against each other, and I'm always amazed by the seemingly peaceful cohabitation of multi-million dollar global enterprises and upstart R&D companies trying to get a break.

I turned off Preston Avenue onto the tree-lined Innovation Boulevard. I drove by buildings that are amongst the most structurally advanced and glitziest in the city. Not bad for a bunch of whitecoats. I pulled into a guest parking lot and got out of my car. The reflection of the powerful prairie sun off the tinted glass of The Galleria building was nearly blinding. I jogged down a set of cement steps into a landscaped bowl, complete with splash-ing fountain, hoping to avoid spontaneous incineration.

Once inside The Galleria building, one of the main complexes, a helpful security guard, obviously used to people unfamiliar with the maze of the research park, provided me with a photo-copied map of the area. Fortunately for me, QW

Technologies was one of the businesses within The Galleria and using a highlighter, he traced my route from his desk into the west wing where he told me I would find the QW office.

After following the directions down a series of 137

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long corridors, I found the correct door and walked into a small and sedately decorated reception area with a secretary behind a desk.

Behind her was another door which, I guessed, led to the inner sanctum of QW.

"Can I help you?" She had dark hair styled in the late seventies—feathered on top and on the sides but flat in the back where she couldn't reach with her curling iron. Yuck. I could tell she was quite thin, even under a heavy, fuzzy sweater with a wide cowl neck riding up her chin. I couldn't decide if she'd be pretty even with a twenty-first century makeover.

"I
was wondering if I might speak with Randy Wurz?" This was Tom's business partner •who I'd noticed, along with his wife, was on the wedding guest list.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wurz is out of town. Do you have an appointment?" Her fingers were still poised over her computer keyboard waiting for me to go away.

"I don't. My name is Russell Quant. I'm a private investigator." I flashed her my business card as if to prove my claim. That done, it was time for a bit of lying. "Actually I'm working for Tom Osborn's family."

She gave me the best interested look she could muster at that time of day. "Has something happened to Mr. Osborn? He's on vacation, y'know."

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"We're not sure. Mr. Osborn normally stays in very close contact with his family but they haven't heard anything from him in days.

They're a little concerned. I'm checking it out."

I wasn't sure how much Farrah knew about Tom and Chavell, so J was careful with my words. It wasn't my job to out anyone.

"Oh, well, does Mr. Wurz know all this?"

"I don't know. That's what I was hoping to talk to him about. You haven't heard from Mr.

Osborn, have you?"

She shook her head. The feathers swished then settled back into place. "No, nothing.

Actually, that is kinda weird now that 1 think about it. Usually he calls in pretty regularly when he's away. Y'know, to see how things are going or talk to Mr. Wurz." She finally relaxed her typing fingers and placed them on her lap.

"I was also hoping to maybe get a look around Tom's office." I thought I'd slip that in and see how she'd react.

"I.. .1 don't think I can do that. At least not till I talk to Mr. Wurz. I wonder if he knows what's happening even, huh?"

"There may be nothing wrong. The family just wants to make sure. They thought I might get a clue to where he might be if I could get into his office." Let's try this again.

"I'm sorry I can't help, y'know. I don't even Amuse Bouche

go into Mr. Osborn's office when he's away.

Both Mr. Osborn's and Mr. Wurz's office are locked. And I don't have the keys."

She was a bad liar with bad hair. I wasn't sure searching his office would be much help but I was sure this woman was not about to let me in. "Maybe you
can
help me." Doubtful.

She nodded warily, narrowing her eyes.

"Just what kind of business is QW

Technologies anyway?"

She moved her head to one side and opened her mouth into a perfect "o." "Wha?"

"What is it you do here?"

"Ohhhhhhhhh. I get it. I thought everyone knew that, y'know. We make computer games mostly."

"I didn't know that. Anything I'd have heard of?"

"Avenging Angel is the best one. You heard of that?"

I had to admit I hadn't. I still preferred board games to computer games. I left my card with her along with the message to have Randy Wurz call me when he returned. Well, that was strike one. And, as far as I could tell, the office angle seemed like a dead end anyway. 1 doubted Tom was the type to bring his personal problems to work. However, Randy Wurz and his wife were on the guest list for the wedding.

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Obviously they were close enough friends to be included in that select group. If the chance presented itself, I decided, it still might be worth my while to have a talk with Mr. Wurz.

It was noon when I drove away from

Innovation Place and my stomach told me I was hungry. I used the University Bridge to cross the river and headed toward Colourful Mary's on the south end of downtown. Mary's is a combination restaurant and bookstore owned and run by a couple named Mary Quail and Marushka Yabadochka. Mary is half First Nations Cree, half Irish and Marushka is Ukrainian. A feisty pairing to say the least. Colourful Mary's is Saskatoon's only publicly admitted, gay-run restaurant, but over the years it has developed a wide range of loyal clientele. Of Mary's gay customers, about seventy per cent are women— mostly because of the popularity of its owners with the lesbian crowd. But in part it's also because a large portion of the bookstore's inventory is of a distinctly female nature. Of the non-gay customers, a whole gaggle of them are little old ladies who live in a nearby seniors complex. Colourful Mary's is probably as far as they can walk without requiring portable oxy-gen tanks. They come mostly in the early morn-141