Amuse Bouche (16 page)

I left my spot in the sun and went back inside to fix another coffee and return to my desk. I pulled out the papers I'd need to write up and close the file. But my head just wasn't into it. My mind continued to whir with indecision. I finally decided on a compromise. I would do nothing further to actively pursue clues in the case as I'd done yesterday. That meant no more interviewing family or friends or making inquiring phone calls. But, I would follow up the leads I'd already cultivated. It was unprofessional to let a lead dangle after you'd asked for help. I could sell that to Chavell if he ever caught wind of what I was doing.

Besides, I wasn't charging him.

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I grabbed the phone receiver and dialled the number Randy Wurz had left on his message.

"Randy Wurz,' came the brisk reply. I could tell from the number and the poor reception that I'd reached a cellphone.

"Mr. Wurz, this is Russell Quant."

"Oh, Mr. Quant. Glad to hear back from you.

If I lose you I'll call you back from a pay phone.

I'm in my car on my way home from Regina."

"Sure." Regina, the capital city of Saskatchewan, is about a three-hour car ride south of Saskatoon. "Business trip?"

"Yes. I've been away for several days, but my secretary reached me yesterday and told me about your visit." I bet she did. "Terrible news about Tom. I can't believe it. I'd be glad to do anything I can to help."

It sounded to me as if the QW receptionist was making things out to be a little more dramatic than they were. I thought I'd better diffuse the situation. "Oh, there's nothing to really worry about. I hope I didn't give your secretary the wrong impression. We know Tom's in France. Mr. Chavell would simply like to find a way to contact him. I understand Tom is in the habit of checking in with you whenever he's away from the office. Have you heard anything from him in the last two weeks?"

He hesitated as if thinking about it, then 178

Anthony Bidulka

answered, "No. Nothing."

"Is that surprising to you?"

"Well sure, but my wife and I were at the wedding. I just assumed he wanted to keep a low profile for a while. It was a pretty embarrassing evening. For both of them. I had no idea he had broken off contact with everyone though. I didn't know he was actually missing."

"Well, as I said earlier, he's not missing, just...out of touch."

"I'd say that's understandable under the circumstances, wouldn't you?" Without waiting for an answer he said, "My secretary said you wanted to have a look in Tom's office. I don't know how it will help but I told her it would be okay to let you in. She keeps a spare set of keys in case we lose ours. I'd let you in myself, but after I get back into town I'm in meetings away from the office for the rest of the day."

So, the secretary
did
have keys to the offices.

Wasn't she the sly one? "I appreciate that.

Thank you."

"Absolutely. Anything else I can do, you just let me know. Tom and I go way back. We went to university together. I've been worried about him ever since the wedding was called off Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you kept me up to date with what you find out, Mr. Quant. We'll talk soon."

The connection ended. I wasn't sure if his 179

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cellphone cut out or if he'd hung up on me. No matter, I got what I wanted.

I cleared the line and dialled Anthony Gatt's number. Although my Uncle Lawrence was single at the time of his death, Anthony, I suspect, was the love of his life. They had parted amica-bly some years prior to the fateful trip that claimed my fabulous uncle's life and had remained the best of friends. After Lawrence was gone, Anthony became my Auntie Mame.

He is sometimes friend, sometimes father, sometimes mentor, sometimes protector.

Anthony has been thirty-nine years old several times over and judging by how he looks, he'll pull it off for many more years. He is tall, dashingly attractive in a Robert Redford
-Great
Gatsby
kind of way, and has a vocabulary to kill for with just enough of an English accent to sound well-educated but not patronizing.

Anthony spends his days overseeing his high-end menswear stores called gatt (small "g") with outlets in Saskatoon, Regina and, oddly enough, the chic Whistler ski resort in British Columbia. His goal is to dress the prairie man as if he regularly shopped the runways of Paris and Milan. At night, Anthony is a leader of Saskatoon society, throwing extravagant parties in his penthouse apartment, some gay, some not, some a daring mix of both. He is involved 180

Anthony Bidulka

in one way or another with the opera, symphony and several theatre groups, and, known for his financial generosity, is a sought-after guest at every fundraiser in town. He is the only person I know who owns more than one tuxedo.

Anthony's partner in life is the stunning Jared Lowe. In his early thirties, Jared is in the twilight of a successful modelling career. When barely a teenager, Jared won a talent search con-test sponsored by a local modelling agency and soon found himself carried off on the wings of a fairy to the glittering world of international fashion shoots. Anthony met Jared at a fabulous party in some fabulous place and they began a fabulous long distance relationship that neither took seriously—until they realized they were in love. Despite the glamour and excitement and fame, Jared's fondest wish has always been to return home to roost forevermore. So for him to find a lover who not only lived in Saskatoon but also could, at least temporarily, survive equally well in the fast-paced world of modelling, made a coupling with Anthony Gatt a perfect combination.

Although neither admits it, I believe Anthony and Jared do more for allaying homophobia in Saskatoon than a thousand gay pride parades. They do it not by raising placards or pushing their lifestyle into peo-181

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pie's faces, but by simply being there, where you wouldn't necessarily expect a gay couple to be, coexisting with the "normal" crowd and fitting in perfectly. Often, by the time anyone gets around to discussing the possibility that they might be a couple of homosexuals, it just doesn't matter anymore.

"Russell! How terrific of you to call!"

1 hate people with call display, even though I have it too. I like my calls to be a surprise.

"Actually, you called me. I'm returning your message."

I could visualize Anthony's winning smile as he swivelled about on the fine leather chair in his penthouse home office with the command-ing view of the South Saskatchewan River. "Yes, that's right, I'd forgotten. How are you anyway, dear boy? I haven't heard from you in days.

Heard a rumour you'd been in France. Did you look up Sophie?" Anthony knows someone glamorous in every country in the world.

"I didn't have the chance. Working, you know. How are you? How is Tared?"

"Ask him yourself. He's flying in for tonight."

Oops. I was getting that nasty feeling like I'd forgotten something. "Tonight?"

"I was calling to inform you of the proper attire for the evening, but apparently I have to 182

Anthony Bidulka

tell you about the entire event. Again!"

Now I remembered. Anthony was throwing a "welcome to the city" cocktail party for die new artistic director of one of the local theatres.

Normally 1 could get away with not attending, but lately Anthony was claiming astonishment at my consistent lack of male companionship, and he was a stalwart supporter of the idea that in order to find a mate you had to step out on occasion. I had only agreed, several weeks ago, when he assured me there would be no blind date waiting for me next to the punch bowl.

Been there, done that, got dumped. "Is that tonight?"

"You remember the address?" Smartass.

"Goodbye, Anthony." I hung up the phone before asking what I should wear. Knowing Anthony, it could be anything from formal to pool-party chic. Oh well, if 1 didn't fit in I'd just have to leave early. Besides, I could always count on my wonderpants.

When I stepped into the reception area of QW

Technologies later that afternoon, the secretary gave me a wary smile of recognition. "Hi," 1

said, returning it and wishing the world was the kind of place where I could give her some much needed advice on her retro hairdo. Somebody 183

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had to tell her. But, come to think of it, I was ripped at her for not letting me into Tom's office the last time I was there. Sure, it was her job, but she didn't have to be sneaky about it, pretending she didn't have a key. Maybe she deserved bad hair. "I spoke to Mr. Wurz this morning. He said you'd be able to let me into Mr. Osborn's office now."

"Oh sure," she readily agreed, as if she'd forgotten our earlier conversation.

"I hope he told you where the key was." I couldn't help myself.

She gave me a funny look and led me

through a door into the back. Apparently the entire decorating budget had been spent on the reception area. The rest of the office was pure Home Hardware, inexpensive but utilitarian.

The secretary passed by three doors, unlocked a fourth at the end of a hallway and then went away without offering me coffee, water or a "see ya later." Something told me she was beginning to catch on to my snide remarks and astonished stares at her hair and wasn't liking me much. I closed the door and began to snoop.

Tom's windowless office was small and without much furniture. It was as neat and impersonal as his apartment. The walls were bare except for a corkboard heavy with pinned up notes and articles, all pertaining to comput-184

Anthony Bidulka

er stuff His desk drawers and filing cabinets were, surprisingly, unlocked. Trusting guy, I guess. Or maybe he simply had nothing to hide or keep safe. 1 snooped through files and found little of interest. I checked his "in" basket and found several unpaid invoices from a place called Tech World. I remembered the name from when I'd checked the phone in Tom's apartment. I made a mental note to see what I could find out about Tech World and moved on.

I booted up his computer and was able to get into his documents folder without a password.

Not everyone protects their computer files with passwords and although this made it simple for me, it raised doubts in my mind about whether I'd find anything important. The folder was labelled "QWHD" and contained five files. I opened each of them and scanned some rather dry reading material and spreadsheets.

Nothing was striking me as significant. I did notice that several of the documents made reference to information that could be found on "QWS," "MSHD," "TWHD" or "NavyHD." I was sure "QW" referred to QW Technologies and I guessed that "HD" was short for hard drive, but the other letters meant nothing to me.

I opened his e-mail and was halted by a request for a password. Finally, some safe-guarded information. I clicked on a button that 185

Amuse Bouche

told the e-mail server I'd forgotten my password. It then asked me what my mother's maiden name was. I pulled out my cellphone and dialled Kathryn Wagner's number. She couldn't quite figure out why I'd want her mother's maiden name, but she finally revealed it, just to get rid of me. Budnyk. I typed it in.

Voila! Tom had received 137 new e-mail messages since he'd last read them. After several minutes I'd only gotten through a handful and realized I'd have to order in food if I intended to read all of them. I'd be willing, but I didn't know how long Ms. Sassy Pants Secretary was going to let me stay. I decided to focus on the ones that were obviously personal in nature.

There were two desperate messages from Chavell but it was a third message that caught my attention.

Torn,

Thanks for agreeing to see me. 1 know you're
uncomfortable about what J have to say. But it's
important You can't go through with this until
we talk.

Go through with what? The wedding? A business deal? A new haircut? There was no name at the end of the message. I scrolled down hoping this was a reply to an original message attached 186

Anthony Bidulka

below. No luck. The sender's address was
[email protected]. "TW
" in big letters, "irp"

in small. TWirp? Was it an acronym? Did the "TW" have any relation to the "TW" in "TWHD" ? TechWorld? Were they initials?

Someone with the last name of Wurz or Wagner perhaps? I had no idea what "irp" could stand for. Whoever TWirp was, he or she had had a meeting with Tom. I checked the date and saw the message had been sent late Thursday, the night before the rehearsal. Tom and TWirp could have met any time after that and before Tom's Sunday departure. I jotted TWirp's e-mail address down on a piece of scrap paper and stuck it into my pants pocket.

I hurried through a few other messages and although none of it was compelling, I took notes on what 1 found. Most of them were repeat messages from a handful of acquaintances wondering where Tom was. Obviously not wedding invitees.

I was about done when Charo stuck her nose into the room. "I'm getting ready to lock up.

You about done? Mr. Wurz called. He was surprised to hear you were still here."

Now what do you suspect she was trying to tell me? I had one more thing to do though, so I had to stay on her good side. "Oh wow. Time really goes by fast. I'm real sorry to keep you Amuse Bouche

waiting, especially on a Friday night. Perhaps I could meet you here tomorrow morning, say around seven or so? I can finish up then. I don't want to keep you waiting tonight."

She looked at me as if I was an alien.

"Saturday?"

Yes, it is a day of the week, I wanted to tell her. Instead I smiled sweetly and pretended to get ready to leave. "Or Sunday would be okay too. I know Mr. Wurz wants this to get solved as soon as possible. It'll just take me a few minutes more."

She wasn't totally buying my act, but she wasn't taking any chances either. "I'll give you ten more minutes. Then 1 gotta get outta here, y'know. I'm meeting my friends at Champs."

Like I needed that information. And I could imagine the stories she—the new Erin Brockovich—would be telling after a few too many Labatt Lite with her friends. Big smile again. "Great. That's all the time I need." 1 kept on smiling like a cheeky monkey until she left the office As soon as she was gone I felt in my jacket pocket for the key I had taken from Tom's apartment. I still had not found the lock that matched it and this room held many good possibilities. His desk, several filing cabinets, a dusty suitcase behind the door.