Amuse Bouche (25 page)

I had come to suspect Solonge Fontaine to be a colourful but ultimately shallow character, yet to her credit she jumped swiftly to her friend's aid. "I need to know about your visit with Tom Osborn."

"But we spoke of this. When we met a short time ago. We spoke of this."

"Yes, I know, but I was wondering if you could describe Tom Osborn to me."

"Describe?"

"Yes. Tell me what he looked like."

" 1 don't understand. What he looked like?

Medium. Medium everything. Brown hair of some sort, I'm sure. Youngish. That's about all I recall." Vague was Madame Fontaine's middle name. I'd have to go about this another way.

After ensuring her she'd been of immeasura-ble help, I hung up. I looked at my watch. It was closing in on 4:30. Good. There was a chance Errall would still be downstairs in her office. She had something I needed. I dialled the number.

Amuse Bouche

"Errall Strane, Law Office, Lilly speaking.

How can I help you?"

"Sorry Lilly, it's Russell upstairs. Errall's not in?"

"No, she's on her way to a client meeting across town. You could try reaching her on her cellphone."

I did that.

"Russell, where are you?" Errall asked when she heard my voice. "Were you at Tom Osborn's funeral today? Did you hear they've arrested Harold Chavell?"

I ignored her questions and got right to business. "Errall, I know you're busy, but I need some help."

"What is it? You sound odd. Is something wrong?" I heard a blast of her car horn. "Pick a lane, asshole!"

I told her the brief version of what I'd found out.

Aside from the occasional profanity directed at fellow travellers, she listened without comment to my story until the end. "Wow. Now there's a twist to the story I bet you didn't expect. What can I do?"

"You have a scanner in your office, right?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Does Lilly know how to use it?"

"No, but I'm planning to work tonight after 288

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this meeting, so I'll be back there in a couple of hours. What do you need?"

"I need you to scan a picture of Tom Osborn and e-mail it to Solonge Fontaine."

"So she can tell you once and for all whether or not she met with the real Tom Osborn?"

"Right."

"But don't you already know the answer?"

"According to the passport, yes, but I want proof. And, if after seeing Tom's picture Solonge still insists she met with him, and we can prove he wasn't there, then we know she's lying and therefore part of the whole scheme."

"If we can catch her in a lie she might be convinced to let us in on the plan and maybe lead us to the murderer." Errall was a bright person.

She added cryptically, "Assuming she isn't an accomplice—unwitting or otherwise."

"Exactly."

"Clever."

"Of course. I've told Solonge to expect the picture and wait for someone to contact her about it."

"I can do that. Any idea where I can find a picture of Tom?"

" I have a recent one Chavell gave to me. I suppose I could leave it with Lilly before I go..."

"Don't worry about it, if it's your only one you'll probably need it. When I get back to the Amuse Bouche

office I'll track down a photo from the QW

Annual Report or their website. Give me her e-mail address."

I love efficient people.

Osier Street is in an area called Varsity View near the university. It's a beautiful, heavily treed street with a mixture of old character homes and massive reconstructions that attempt, fairly successfully, to fit in. Colleen and Norma lived in the former. I pulled up to the white and pastel green bungalow. There were several cars in their wide driveway. Through a large front window I saw a group of people sitting around in a living room. I guessed that perhaps some of the less desirable guests at the wake had found their way back here, to safer ground.

Norma answered the door with her colourful complexion and ready smile and invited me in to the front room. There were about a dozen people. Most of them I'd seen earlier that day either at the funeral or the Wagner's home. Kent Melicke was slouched down in a big easy chair that seemed to envelop his slender frame. He looked up at me but said nothing.

"So we meet again," Colleen said. Her voice had a rough edge to it. Although it was not yet 286

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5:00 p.m. I was certain she was drunk. Looking around the room and surveying the inventory of empty glasses and beer bottles I was pretty certain everyone was well on their way to being unable to drive home.

"Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if I could speak with you alone. It won't take long,"

1 said, knowing Colleen was the last person who admitted to seeing Tom alive. I wanted to shake her up a bit with my news to see if anything interesting rattled to the floor.

"Are you placing me under arrest?" A little belligerence was creeping into her tone. Perhaps this was not the right time. She looked around at her mates and snorted as if to say,
"I
double dare you!"

"I'm not a police officer," I told her uselessly.

"So what is it? What do you need to ask me?

Do it right here. None of us has anything to hide." She looked at the others and snorted again. "At least not when it comes to Tim!"

Some of the others laughed with her, or, perhaps at her. She'd just called her best friend, buried that morning, by the wrong name. Time to lay off the rum, I'd say. Sober, Colleen Arber was a strong, opinionated woman. I respected that. Drunk she was just a blabbering fool. Not very attractive.

"Tom," Norma corrected her quietly. She Amuse Bouche

seemed to be the only one in the room not drinking.

Colleen eyed her partner but continued onwards. "Come on, mister private eye man, what is it? What's on your mind?"

To hell with it I thought. Maybe this
was
the perfect time. With a little bit of alcohol lubrication her true reaction, or anyone else's in the room for that matter, might be easier to spot. I began, clearly enunciating every word, "I've come across some information that suggests Tom was never in France. He never left Saskatoon. I just wanted to see if you knew anything about that. You
were
the last person to see him before he left." She didn't have to know about the Saturday visitors spotted by Mrs. Coyle.

Boom! It was like I'd lit a cannon in the room.

The wake after its explosion was deafeningly quiet. I studied the faces around the room, especially Colleen's and Kent Melicke's. They were surprised. Were they surprised about Tom never leaving the country, or were they just surprised I'd found out? That was the important question. 1 wasn't sure if I could answer it. Yet.

"Are you accusing us of something?" This was from Kent who until now had remained quiet and sullen in his cushy chair. I thought it interesting that he took on the shared burden of guilt so quickly. Until now, I think most people 290

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in the room assumed I was suspicious of Colleen only.

"No, not at all. I'm just trying to find out the truth."

"I told you the truth," Colleen said. Her voice was suddenly clear, officious and strong as if the alcohol in her body had instantly burned off. "I was the last person to see him."

"How do you know that?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"How do you know you were the last person to see him? How do you know someone else didn't come to see him that night after you left or maybe the next day?"

1 saw a quick, uneasy exchange between her and Kent before she answered. "Of course I don't know that What I meant is that I was the last of our group of friends, the people at the rehearsal party, you know, these people, who'd seen him. I can't speak for anyone else."

1 nodded. "You know that for a fact?"

She stared at me, her lips like two bands of steel against her teeth. "It's not like I went around and asked everyone. That's your job, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is." I made a deliberate pass over the faces in the room. Most of them looked a little shocked to suddenly be considered a suspect in a murder. Good. "Well,, did anyone else see or Amuse Bouche

talk to Tom after Colleen dropped him off at his apartment on Friday night?"

No one said anything. I was hoping one of them would jump forward and tell me something I didn't already know, but no such luck.

"Would you like a beer or something else to drink?" Norma offered kindly.

I declined and, as politely as I could, made my way out. I was satisfied that I had sufficiently stirred the pot. It was time to let it simmer.

From Osier Street I headed downtown. Clark Shiwaga was one of the senior partners of Bell Brown Shiwaga, better known as BBS. Their offices are on the eleventh floor of the Saskatoon Square Building on the corner of 4th Avenue and 22nd Street. It was now almost 5:30 and I hoped their hours of business extended beyond that time. I circled the block a few times until someone who'd been waiting to pick up his spouse pulled out of the perfect parking spot. I was the only one in the elevator going up.

Everyone else was going down. Not a good sign. I stepped off the lift just in time to see a woman who I guessed was the BBS receptionist struggling to lock the heavy, glass, front doors.

"I'm sorry," I said through the space between the doors. "I guess I'm a little late for my Anthony Bidulka

appointment. Parking down there is miserable!"

The young woman had dark, almost black, hair and tiny black-rimmed spectacles. Bags under her eyes told me she'd had a tough day.

She struggled to pull open the door. "You have an appointment? I don't remember seeing anything in the book. Which lawyer were you booked to meet with?"

I followed her into the main foyer of the office. Yes! I was in! "Mr. Shiwaga. Can you please tell him Russell Quant is here." I was betting my client's lawyer would feel obliged to see me. She motioned for me to take a seat and disappeared behind a wall. I took a seat in the plush waiting area and took in the incredible view offered by floor to ceiling windows. From eleven storeys up, if you squint just a bit, Saskatoon can look like a bustling metropolis.

Most of all, I noticed the trees—in parks, down boulevards and along the riverbank. The October sun sashaying towards the horizon gave the streets and buildings a crisp, clean look.

"Mr. Quant." Clark Shiwaga's bulk swag-gered into the waiting room. He held out his hand for a manly handshake and directed me into a nearby meeting room.

"Have you come up with something?" he Amuse Bouche

asked as he closed the door and invited me to take a seat, which we both did. "Mr. Chavell, as you might imagine, is getting a little anxious."

"Actually I did find something interesting." I let the sentence drop there. For some reason I wanted him to ask for it.

"Oh, what is that?"

Thank you. ''Apparently, Tom Osborn was never in France."

The lawyer scowled. He looked genuinely perplexed. Either that or he was a good actor.

"What are you talking about? The ticket was gone. Mr. Chavell's friend in Paris confirmed she saw him there."

"I found Tom's passport. He did not travel out of the country. At least not recently. I've arranged to send a photo of Tom to Madame Fontaine. You may recall she had never met Tom before. I believe that when she sees the photo, she'll tell us the man who visited her apartment was someone else."

"Then who? Who was it? And where was Tom?"

"That's what I was hoping you could help me with."

He was silent.

"I know you visited Tom the morning of the wedding." Risk time. I needed to know if the silvery-brown truck Mrs. Coyle saw outside 294

Anthony Bidulka

Tom's apartment building belonged to Clark Shiwaga. I needed to know if Clark Shiwaga was more involved in this than he was letting on. I was betting I'd only find out the answer to one of my questions. For now.

With almost no hesitation, he replied, "That's right."

My eyes widened a little. That was too easy.

My client's lawyer seemed to be in the habit of keeping things from me and 1 wasn't in the mood for it any longer. "Why didn't you mention this to me before?"

"I didn't see a need. If you remember, 1 wasn't involved in this until after you returned from France. When Tom was found dead, our concern was what happened to him after he returned from France, not before he left."

He was right. I hated to admit it. But things had changed now. Depending on when Tom was actually killed, Clark Shiwaga's Saturday morning visit might be important. Or not.

"Then you won't mind telling me why you were there?"

"Tom had some papers to sign before the ceremony. "

"Papers?"

"Although the wedding was not a legal ceremony, Tom and Mr. Chavell, wisely I might add, treated it as such. They were putting certain 295

Amuse Bouche

legal agreements in place to protect themselves including a living will and a pre-ceremony agreement—kind of like a pre-nuptial contract. I was having Tom sign the final documents. Of course he had already agreed to do this."

Typical lawyer. Talk about bad riming. The papers couldn't be signed the week before rather than the morning of the wedding?

"About what time was this?"

"Our appointment was for eleven Saturday morning. Tom had already approved earlier drafts of all the papers so it only took us about ten minutes and then I was gone."

So it would seem Colleen Arber was officially off the hook. Tom was still alive the morning after she'd dropped him off But something else was bothering me. "Harold never mentioned this when we first met. Was he unaware of your visit?"

The attorney shrugged his hulking shoulders. "Apparently so. But he wasn't unaware that the papers needed to be signed before the ceremony."

I had no choice but to live with that explanation. "What state of mind was Tom in when you saw him?"

"Tom was a pretty easygoing guy."

I found it interesting the lawyer called Tom by his first name but still referred to his client as 296

Anthony Bidulka