Amuse Bouche (15 page)

I was beginning to lose faith I would ever get through to this woman when a tall, thick-bellied man with a full beard appeared behind her. He was wearing a navy, short-sleeved shirt fastened at the neck with a white collar. Thank goodness.

"Father Oburkevich?" I asked hopefully.

"That's all right, Olga, I'll talk to the man,"

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he said as he gently directed her with a big hand on her frail shoulders towards the staircase behind them. I wondered if she'd ever make it all the way to the top without him. He turned to me with a hearty smile. "You're not here for food or money right?"

I smiled back. "No. And I'm not getting married either."

He winked and stepped aside to let me in.

The chill was beginning to turn my nose red.

"1 didn't know there were panhandlers in this area."

"Most of them don't live here, they just come here from other parts of the city. They make a circuit of all the churches, hoping for the best.

Sometimes they get lucky. Father Shaddock is a real softy. Gives them cookies." His gentle voice was full of patience and understanding and good humour.

"Thank you for letting me in, Father Oburkevich, I just need a few minutes of your time."

"Actually I'm Father Hryniuka. Can I help you or do you need to see Father Len?"

How many priests lived here? "Oh. Well, I'd really like to talk to Father..."

"You can call him Father Len. Everyone does. He's in the church if you need to see him."

I must have looked uncertain because he then 166

Anthony Bidulka

added, "He's not saying mass. I think he's working on a sermon. He likes to write in the church. Gives him inspiration. Me, I like a big desk, a bright light and a glass of scotch!"

I thanked the hearty cleric and made my way across the parking lot to the church. The wind was picking up again and I was certain I could see the occasional snowflake flutter by. I scaled the church steps and heaved open the heavy door where the worm's head should have been.

I walked through an empty foyer and opened a second set of doors. Incense. The musky scent threatened my stomach but just as quickly made itself comfortable in my nose and soon 1 hardly noticed it. I saw a single head in a pew maybe two-thirds of the way up the left-hand side of the dimly lit church. It was quieter than a gay bar before midnight. Although no signs were posted I found myself walking at half-speed. I wasn't trying to be quiet, and actually hoped the priest would hear me so I wouldn't startle him, but my rubber-soled shoes made no sound. 1 stopped one pew back from where he toiled over his sermon.

"Excuse me," I said.

The priest turned and gave me a beatific smile.

I froze.

I stared at the collar around his neck, the Amuse Bouche

white of it a blindingly bright beacon in the murky light.

I couldn't speak.

Father Len Oburkevich was the statue.

I could tell by the look on the priest's face that he recognized me too but couldn't remember from where. Should I tell him we were checking each other out at Colourful Mary's just a couple of hours ago? But something gave me the suspicion that the way I had noticed him was not the same way he had noticed me. Maybe it was the white collar, I don't know. I said nothing. I was trying to build up a new supply of saliva in my mouth.

"Hello," he said, gracefully sliding out of the pew and turning to face me. "You look familiar."

I hate to admit it, but I blushed. "Hello, Father. My name is Russell Quant."

"Quant? Hmmm, no, I don't think I know that name. Oh wait a minute, I saw you this afternoon at the restaurant!" He smiled his Greek god smile with a satisfaction known only to supreme beings of exquisite beauty.

"Oh really?" I said, playing stupid, as if the last thing I'd be doing is looking at another man in a restaurant. In reality, everyone knows it's one of the official sports of the Gay Olympics 168

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and I was always open to a little training.

"Yes, yes, at Colourful Mary's, I was waiting for my lunch order. They have the best Ukrainian food in the city. Don't tell anyone,"

he said, winking at me and rendering me breathless over what he might say next, "but it's as good as my mother makes."

I laughed and agreed. I could barely keep on my feet standing so close to this man. He seemed to radiate a glow that drew you closer to him. His eyes shone and he placed his hands on his slender hips rather than piously clasped together over his crotch, as I'd expect of a man of the cloth. I could smell the gentle fragrance of his cologne. He wore a black shirt with the ever-present collar and those nicely fitting jeans I'd admired earlier.

They're right. Denim
does
go with everything.

'•What can I help you with, Mr. Quant?"

"Call me Russell."

Another smile. I liked making him do that.

"Russell then."

I gave myself a mental slap in the face before continuing. Not only was this man involved in my case, but he was also a priest for Pete's sake!

"I'd like to speak to you about Tom Osborn. I understand he's a relative of yours?"

"Please, sit down," he said, indicating the Amuse Bouche

pew he'd just vacated. His face showed sudden concern. I plopped down in the spot still warm from his body heat and he moved in next to me.

"Tom is my brother. Has something happened?

Are you with the police?"

I don't know why I automatically assumed Father Len Oburkevich would be an old uncle or distant cousin. Now that I looked at him, I could pick out obvious similarities between the two men. "I'm a private investigator. I was hired by Harold Chavell."

"Is this about Tom not showing up for the ceremony?"

"You knew about that?" Of course he did. He was invited.

"Yes. I was there. Did Harold hire you to find out what happened? Do you know where Tom is?"

"Yes. And as far as we know, Tom is still in France."

Father Len shook his head and looked away.

"Tom, what are you doing?"

"1 take it you haven't heard from him?"

"No." His attention was back on me.

"Before the ceremony, did you have any idea something might be wrong?"

"Not at all. He was very excited and happy to be taking this next step in his relationship with Harold."

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"How did you feel about that? I know the Catholic Church does not particularly embrace gay relationships/'

"That's true." He hesitated and I was beginning to think he wasn't going to answer the question. "But Tom is my brother. I love him very much. As long as he and Harold have a relationship built from love, that cannot be a bad thing." He gave me a lopsided grin. "That is my position, not that of the church."

"Do you have any idea why Tom would have done this?"

Again his head moved from side to side.

"I've thought about it since the day he left and I've talked to Harold about it. I can't think of anything to explain his actions. However, even though I'm a priest and Tom and I are close, he is not in the habit of confessing to me."

"I see." Another dead end.

"Do you think Tom is in danger?"

I was surprised at the question. Was he in danger? Is that why he ran away? Is that why he blew me off in Sanary? "I don't know."

"Is there anything else I can do to help?"

There was nothing. This case seemed to be going nowhere. Maybe Chavell was right.

Tom's actions didn't seem to make sense to anyone who knew him, but it wouldn't be the first time someone did something no one expected.

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And maybe Tom meant to keep his reasons a secret. "No, thank you, Father."

"I'll pray."

Now there's a comment to help you remember who you're talking to.

We shook hands and I tried not to rush out of the church.

Outside the horizon was dimming and it smelted like snow. I sneered at the sky. It was too early in the year for the white stuff. If it snowed now, it would be a long winter. And the kids would have to wear coats over their Hallowe'en costumes. I hate when that happens.

I decided to call it quits on the Osborn case.

If not for good, at least for today. All I wanted to do was go home and snuggle with my dog in front of a roaring fire.

I groaned. My dog wasn't home and the firewood was in the garage.

Errall and Kelly live in a great two-storey house on Pembina Avenue. It's built on a hillside with a partial view of downtown and a rolling, woodsy backyard that Barbra loves to investigate. I first met Kelly in high school, too many years ago to count. Back then we weren't best friends, but we knew each other. We liked one another well enough but just moved in different 172

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circles and neither of us had any idea the other was gay. After graduation we pretty much forgot about one another but reconnected several years later at a gay dance in Saskatoon. We've been best buddies ever since. I like Kelly because she reminds me that there is calmness and serenity and simpleness in the world. A visit with Kelly is like taking a relaxation pill.

Kelly is a potter and woodworker, an artist of growing fame, particularly for her spectacular, gaily painted bowls and plates. She owns and manages On Broadway, a small retail gallery in the artsy Broadway Avenue area that features many Saskatchewan artisans along with her own work, I was glad to see Kelly's face when the front door opened.

"Kells Bells, how are you?" I asked as we hugged and simultaneously moved inside the house.

"Terrific. You've come for the beast? They're in the backyard. Brutus will hate to see her go.

He loves having his sister here. Want some coffee or something to drink?"

I followed Kelly into the rustic kitchen at the back of the house. She is maybe five-foot-two and has an athlete's build, stocky and muscular.

Errall is fond of saying Kelly looks best in nothing but a sports bra and boxer shorts. She keeps her wiry, reddish-blonde hair short. Her face is Amuse Bouche

small but her eyes and mouth are big and wide.

It gives her a sort of cutesy, Teletubby look that she hates but everyone else finds adorable.

"I don't want to interrupt if you're busy getting dinner ready or something."

"I do have to get to a pottery workshop I'm teaching in a bit, but I was just finishing eating.

You can keep me company. Want a taco?"

We each hopped up on stools set around the kitchen island where Kelly's half-eaten plate of food was sitting. "No thanks. You eat."

"There's fresh coffee," she said as she dug into her refried beans.

I helped myself and settled in again at the island. "Where's Errall?"

"Work. Big surprise. She's really been killing herself lately. A couple of big cases going on."

We spent the next half-hour talking about nothing like friends can do. Afterwards, as I prepared to head outdoors to retrieve Barbra, we spied both dogs through the window.

Except for Brutus being about an inch taller, they were twins standing stock-still under a large ash tree, heads quirked to the right watching with childlike curiosity as the first leaf of autumn fell to the ground.

174

FRIDAY MORNING WAS ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS

that make you shake your head at the wonder of Saskatchewan weather. Whereas the night before we seemed on the brink of snow, Friday began with a brilliant sun in a powder blue sky unblemished by a single cloud. I drove to work with the top down revelling in the twenty-two degrees Celsius temperature. When I entered PWC, I tossed Lilly a cheery hello and headed up to my office.

I hit the message button on my answering machine and listened as I made coffee. In addition to a message from my buddy, Anthony, I was interested to learn from two other calls that the seeds of my little investigation from the previous day had actually sprouted shoots.

The first was a message from Randy Wurz, Tom's business partner. It was short and sweet and professional, giving me a number should I still want to contact him.

The second was from Colleen Arber. This sounded a little more interesting. "Mr. Quant, this is Colleen Arber, Tom's friend from Dutch Growers. I've come up with some information you should hear. You said to call. Ahhh...how about this, work isn't good, so how about we 175

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meet at the band shelter in Kiwanis Park at 9:00

p.m. tonight? I'll be there anyway, so if you can't make it that's okay. I'll be hard to reach by phone. Hopefully we'll see you there. Oh, by the way, Tom's Jimmy
is
in the parking lot behind his apartment building."

I poured myself a mug of coffee and stepped out onto the sun-splattered balcony. Kiwanis Park was right across the street from my office, but the band shelter was a few blocks away on the other side of the Bessborough Hotel, which blocked my view. I sat on a deck chair and let the sun beat some colour into my cheeks. What I was really doing was debating a dilemma.

Should I let this case go, as my client had suggested, or should I keep going as my gut was telling me to?

The phone messages from Randy Wurz and Colleen Arber bothered me. They probably wouldn't lead to much, but even so I couldn't very well call them up and say, oops, forget it, I don't need your help anymore. And I had already bent the truth with these people yesterday, having pretended that Harold still had me on payroll.

As the sun's rays warmed me, I ran familiar scenarios through my head and added a new one. Suppose Tom Osborn had recently tested positive, couldn't bring himself to tell Chavell Anthony Bidulka

and therefore decided not to go through with the wedding. Possible? No matter what the real story was, I realized the bottom line was that Chavell didn't want to know the truth. If he did, he wouldn't have quit so easily. What was 1

expecting to achieve by continuing with this? It wasn't my wedding that had been ruined. Even if I found out what really happened, would Chavell appreciate it? Maybe he'd announce to all that I was the best private investigator in the world? Not likely.