Amuse Bouche (23 page)

"Hello." I recognized the deep female voice as belonging to Darren's wife, Treena.

"Hi Treena, it's Russell Quant."

"Russell! Why don't I see you anymore? You really should come for dinner soon." From our little visits at parties and cop get-togethers in years gone by, I was pretty sure Treena had caught on to the fact that I was gay. But for a smart gal, she hadn't caught on to the fact that 260

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her husband and I were not close.

"I know. I'm sorry. Just keeping too busy, I guess."

"You're just like Darren." I hope not! "Let me get him for you."

After a moment I heard the phone being picked up again. "Quant."

"Hey Darren. Your wife just invited me over for dinner," 1 said, a devilish glint in my eye.

There was silence at the other end of the phone while He-Man figured that one out.

Finally he said in his dry tone, "Do I have to be here?"

"Ha. Ha. You called?"

"Yeah. You sitting down?"

I didn't like the sound of that. "Mmhmm.

What's up?"

"Just thought I'd let you know. We've made an arrest in the Tom Osborn case."

I took a big gulp of my wine. Something told me I was going to need it.

"It's Harold Chavell. We've arrested Harold Chavell for the murder of his lover."

I don't know why my immediate reaction was anger. Although I wasn't about to admit it to anyone (least of all to myself), since my talk with Errall, I had slowly begun to convince 261

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myself that my client was indeed guilty. But if that were-so, why was I so angry that the police had arrested him? It just seemed too neat and easy.

"Damn it, Darren! Why did you do that?

Because they were gay lovers? Because they were two men who wanted to get married?

Because one man dumped another man?"

Darren said nothing for a moment. He was smart enough not to fuel my fire. Then he said in a calm, steady voice, "Because Tom Osborn's body was found floating face down in Pike Lake near a cabin owned by Harold Chavell.

And because we found the murder weapon— registered to Harold Chavell—at his house in Cathedral Bluffs."

The news stunned me. Harold Chavell

owned a cabin at Pike Lake? Was
that
where Tom really lived rather than the Main Street apartment? I assumed he lived with Harold in Cathedral Bluffs. Why hadn't anyone told me about the cabin? And what about the gun?

Would Chavell have been so confident that he wouldn't have even bothered to dispose of the murder weapon? Maybe originally—when everyone still thought Tom was lost in France— but after the body was discovered? Why wouldn't he hide or dispose of it? Something was not right here. More and more, I was coming to 262

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doubt the scenario imagined by Errall and myself. Harold Chavell was not a murderer.

Suddenly, in a moment of unexplained clarity, I was certain. My client was being framed.

TOM'S FUNERAL WAS AT 10:00 A.M. on W e d n e s d a y morning. Harold Chavell was arrested for his murder on Tuesday. He certainly wouldn't be attending the service. But I was interested in who would be. It may sound a little heartless, but funerals are a perfect place to spot potential suspects. And, I have to admit, after chasing him halfway around Europe and back, I felt a bit of a connection to Tom Osborn. I wanted to pay my respects to this man who remained a mystery to me.

The sun was out in full force, but every day now it took a little longer for the morning air to defrost. I arrived at Saints Peter and Paul Church forty-five minutes early. I parked my car on the street opposite the church's front entrance from where I could easily watch the mourners as they entered. Even this early, the church's parking lot was nearly half full. And more interesting, one of the vehicles in the parking lot was a pewter-coloured Land Rover. The same vehicle Mrs. Coyle spotted outside Tom's apartment? I would have to find out who owned that baby.

A crowd was turning up to mourn this man's unfortunate passing. I could see a num-Anthony Bidulka ber of people had a head start on their crying before they even entered the sanctuary. It appeared Tom Osborn was loved and would be missed. 1 was dreading the Ukrainian Catholic funeral service. They have a reputation for being highly emotional affairs.

From my vantage point, I watched the guests arrive, many of whom I recognized: Randy Wurz turned up with his peacock of a wife; the big-haired QW receptionist; some of Tom's neighbours including Mrs. Coyle; Clark Shiwaga; Colleen and Norma; and, surprisingly, I spotted Darren Kirsch running up the steps at ten to the hour. What was he doing here? He had his shooter behind bars. Or did Darren also have doubts about Harold Chavell being the murderer? I was about to get out of my car and follow Darren inside when two immaculately clean, black sedans, followed by a hearse, pulled up to the front of the church. It was the cortege.

As if choreographed, all the vehicle doors opened at once, expelling the family. I recognized Kathryn Wagner, trying to comfort a young child pressed against her thigh. Beside her was a thick-bodied man with thinning hair who I took to be her husband. Father Len, looking worn and distressed, was graceful in simple, long black robes. He kept a protective arm wrapped around an elderly woman whom I Amuse Bouche

guessed was his mother. Another man remained slightly behind the pair, a rumpled hat in his strong, farmer's hands. There was no doubt that he was the father of Tom and Father. Len. He looked just like his sons, only thirty years older.

His deep-set eyes seemed on the verge of spilling cobalt blue ink. No parent should have to attend his child's funeral. Of all the sorrowful faces, his was the most stricken. Although it made no sense, I wished I could rush over and give him a hug. Boy, what a wuss I am! The funeral hadn't even begun and I didn't even really know Tom Osborn, but the sight of his bereaved father brought me close to tears. I couldn't help but wonder where Harold Chavell would have fit in with this group. If at all.

I waited until the procession of casket and family had entered the church before I followed at a discreet distance. I was too late to find a seat in the main hall of the church so an usher directed me to a side room where we could observe the service on a monitor. I saw Darren at the back of the room and squeezed in next to him.

"Wow. Popular guy," 1 said quietly.

No response from the big lug.

"I hope you brought your hanky. Ever been to a Ukrainian funeral before? They're the saddest. I've no idea what they're singing but the music is so mournful it wouldn't surprise me if 266

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afterwards we all rushed to the University Bridge like lemmings and jumped off"

He mumbled something that sounded like "mmhmphf."

"Why are you here anyway?" I whispered.

He glanced at me, then away. "I just wanted to see who showed up."

"Like the real murderer perhaps?"

He gave me a pained look. "Can it, Quant."

"That's the only reason I can think of for you to be here. But let me give you a little advice." I felt like needling him a bit. "When you're on a stakeout, it helps when you don't arrive late. 1

saw you running in at ten to."

He turned and gifted me with a Cheshire Cat grin. A smile from Mr. Kirsch is a rare thing.

"And I saw you pulling up to the front of the church about half-an-hour before that. Nice car.

Rotary engine, right?"

Damn. He had beaten me. Where had he been parked? I didn't see him at all. I put a finger to my mouth and whispered, "Shhhhhhh!

This is a funeral."

As expected, it was one of the saddest funerals I'd ever been to. The songs, most sung in Ukrainian, sounded like sullen death marches.

Babas wailed in their pews and four eulogists 267

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mined every tear in the house. Sad and long.

I've attended my share of funerals and I've found that some cultures are quite reserved when it comes to expressing sorrow at memorial services—even going so far as to give them joyful sounding names like "Celebration of Life" or "Beginning of a Glorious Journey."

Ukrainians seem to have a need to get it all out right then and there. None of this weeping in our remoulade six months later while on vacation in the Caribbean. Not a bad idea really.

At noon, when it looked to be almost over, I gently prodded Darren in the ribs and took my leave. I wasn't bored or trying to be insensitive, but I wanted to be back in my car before anyone else left so I could see who owned the pewter Land Rover. I didn't have long to wait. The truck was driven away by none other than Clark Shiwaga, Chavell's lawyer. Well. I'd catch up with him later.

I was greeted at the door of Kathryn Wagner's home by Hank, her husband, who directed me to food and booze laid out in great abundance on two massive banquet tables. It was a dizzying display, set on linens decorated with colourful Ukrainian embroidery. The house was

crammed with people chattering away as if it 268

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were a cocktail party. Not knowing what else to do, I headed towards the buffet. Through gesticulating limbs and bobbing heads I caught a quick look at Tom's father, standing shock-still in the centre of the living room, not even pretending to pay attention to the mournful ramblings of the oversized women who surrounded him. The eye of the storm. At the bar I poured a 7Up for myself and a potent rye and Coke.

Using my elbows as protection, 1 struggled through the crowd to the side of Mr.

Oburkevich. He looked at me blankly. I said something inane and pressed the drink into his calloused hands, He took a sip. He looked at me again and nodded his thanks. As 1 moved away from the ruined man I caught sight of his son, Father Len, watching from across the room.

I found myself drawn to a group of five men.

They were gay. How did I know that? It was pretty easy in this crowd. The men were unusually pretty. Even those who weren't physically gifted looked attractive because they emanated that thing that said they cared about how they looked. They wore more jewellery and of better quality than Kathryn's. And the hair - always a giveaway. Stylish and shiny. They smelled nice.

They were barely touching the too-sweet, bubbly wine in their glasses—obviously accus-tomed to something better (or pretending to be).

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And, my best hint of all: Kathryn Wagner was staring daggers at them. My conclusion: A courageous group of Tom's friends who dared the wrath of his homophobic sister by showing up. Just what I was looking for.

Although I'd never do this at a gay bar, and many would tell me I should, I unabashedly approached the clique and held out my hand to the one nearest me. "Hi, I'm Russell Quant. You must be friends of Tom?"

A mink-haired man accepted my hand, without much choice really, and introduced himself and the other four. Two Dougs, a Kent, a Rick and a Bob.

"And who are you?" Doug number one asked somewhat haughtily. They were on the defensive. Fair enough. As far as they knew, I was Tom's cousin Igor who'd come to kick their butts.

"I'm a private investigator." That got their attention.

"What are you investigating? Didn't you hear? They arrested the murderer yesterday.

Harold Chavell. Tom's lover." The man said the last two words a little louder than necessary. I think he was deliberately trying to piss off the hostess. By the look of her, he was doing a fine job.

"I'm working for Mr. Chavell."

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"Trying to get him off?" the one called Kent said. "Don't you think that's a waste of time?"

I focused on the man who'd been introduced as Kent Melicke. J recognized him. His was the face I saw through the peephole at Tom's apartment. Attractive. A little on the skinny side.

Late twenties or early thirties, I guessed. He had blond hair scissored into wisps around his face. He wore tortoiseshell glasses that likely weren't prescription. Perhaps he and Mrs. Coyle shopped together. But whereas she was saving money, he was going for a look. "Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Makes sense to me. That's all."

I studied the man's face. Did he know something or was he simply being dramatic because the role appealed to him? I couldn't be sure. I scoured my memory and did not recall a Kent being on either of the lists that Chavell had given me. I was pretty sure none of the other men I'd just met were either. "Had you seen Tom recently? Before he went to France or maybe after he got back?"

Kent's eyes widened a smidgen. "Are you asking
me?"

I didn't want to cause panic. "All of you. Any of you. I'd be interested to talk with anyone who might have had conversations with Tom around that time."

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"No," Kent told me. "I hadn't seen Tom in a little while."

I looked at the others who indicated the same. It made me wonder. Were these really friends of Tom's? I glanced at the food on the plates of the five. Only Kent's held none of the wide selection of meat available. A vegetarian? I glanced around his neck for signs of a pendant but saw none. I felt a warm palm on my shoulder.

It was Father Ten.

"Len," Kent Said. "I just wanted to...I had to come and express my sympathies. 1 don't know what to say. I'm just so sorry." There were tears forming in his eyes. The other four men circled about him. protectively their eyes shifting back and forth between the priest and Kent. I began to understand. These weren't friends of Tom's.

They were Kent's friends. Here to support him through a tough time.

Father Len nodded and gave the man a kindly look. He reached out and took Kent's hand in his own, holding it rather than shaking it. For a moment I was inexplicably jealous. "I know. I know how you feel, Kent. Thank you so much for coming. Tom would be glad you were here."

Kent nodded, fighting back sobs. He with-drew his hand. "We're going to go now. Sec you around maybe?"

Len shook hands with the other men, gra-272

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ciously asking their names and thanking them for coming as he did so.