Amuse Bouche (4 page)

The apartment did not appear to have been abandoned or left in a hurry. It did not look like a place from where someone had been abduct-ed. Chavell was probably right. The last time Tom Osborn left his apartment, it had been on his own terms. I checked the closets. No suitcases. Very few clothes. And what there was looked like work clothes: suits, shirts, ties, shiny dress shoes.

It was time for a closer look. The first thing to catch my eye was a cardboard package on an armoire pushed up against the wall near the dining table. I picked up the small box and spied remnants of tape on its underbelly sticking to snatches of torn gift-wrap. This had been a present. Perhaps a pre-wedding gift? There were no markings on the box and there was no card. I opened it and pulled out a burgundy case, also unmarked, and swung up its lid. Inside, nestled in cream-coloured silk was a silver chain and attached to it a gleaming pendant. I lifted the chain out of its box for a closer look. The pendant was also silver and looked to be the left half of what was once a heart shape. Unique. I wondered who owned the right half. I found it interesting that Tom had decided to leave without it and that he had left it out in plain view.

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He obviously planned to do something with it.

Did he not want it? Was it a gift he planned to return? Had it been sent to him or was it personally delivered? The heart shape said romance to me. My best guess was that it was a gift from Chavell. A gift Tom decided to leave behind when he took his luggage and left town.

I pulled a pen and blank cheque from my jacket pocket. On the backside of the cheque I did a quick sketch of the jewellery. When I was done I carefully replaced the gift where and how I'd found it and continued my search.

Drawers and nooks and crannies that are often home to secrets, revealed none. I felt under furniture, checked behind pictures and in the refrigerator, rifled through books, sock drawers and stacks of papers, but came up empty.

I had learned from Chavell that Tom was a partner in QW Technologies, a high technology firm he co-founded with a college buddy.

Except for a few technical manuals with chapters full of gobbledygook it appeared he kept his work at work. Not even a computer. Odd.

Most computer geeks like to keep a computer nearby at all times. Actually, almost everyone has a home computer nowadays. But maybe he owned a portable laptop and took it with him.

As I continued to snoop around I was beginning to get the feeling Tom not only kept his work 38

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away from home, but he kept his home away from home too. There were a few framed photos of Tom, Chavell and others who I assumed were either family or friends, but nothing seriously hinted at his relationship to Chavell or the upcoming wedding. There were no signs of a hobby or forms of entertainment other than a small TV. There was little of a personal nature to find. About as much as I'd expect to see in a cabin or weekend retreat. I knew Tom had packed enough clothes and personal supplies for two weeks in Europe, and maybe that would explain the absence of T-shirts and jeans and funky sweaters, but why was there no ham-burger meat in the freezer, no dirty sneakers, no shelf full of novels and magazines?

I picked up the phone and heard the telling beeps indicating Tom had messages, but without his SaskTel password I wouldn't be able to access them. I hit the "redial" button to check the last phone call made from Tom's phone and reached the answering machine for someplace called TechWorld. I made a mental note. 1

punched *69 which gave me the last number that had called Tom's phone. It was Chavell's home number. No surprise there.

I pretty much concluded Tom didn't really live here. At least not often. This apartment was likely a ruse to make it appear that Tom and Amuse Bouche

Chavell did not live together as a couple. But I was certain they did live together and I'd bet it was at Chavell's castle rather than in this modest apartment. An expensive ruse, but one that I'm sure worked well. Perhaps it was family or co-workers who had made creating and maintaining this falsehood a necessity in their lives.

And if this was a fake home, 1 had to question how much authentic information I was bound to collect here. Even so, I could not leave without performing the worst job. I always saved it for last. The kitchen garbage.

Unappetizing as it sounds, it's a must-do in any thorough search. Often I ended up with nothing but smelly hands, but now and again, amongst the apple peels and eggshells was a gem of knowledge. And knowledge is power.

The key to this part of an investigation is to have some idea of what you hope to find or what could be important. Otherwise garbage and clues can look surprisingly alike. In this case, the best I could hope for, would be anything that might tell me how Tom spent his time between the Friday night rehearsal party and his Sunday morning flight to Paris. There were two slightly soiled dishes in the kitchen sink so I expected I might have to rifle through leftovers. I also hoped to find a card that might have accompanied the silver chain. Lady Luck
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wasn't on my side. I didn't find either. Tom must have recently taken out the trash. The refuse barrel was empty except for a scrunched-up, brown paper bag, I retrieved it and flattened it out on the kitchen counter. Embossed on the front was the name of a vegetarian restaurant near Broadway Avenue called The Blue Carrot Cafe. I got the carrot part, but why blue?

Inexplicable use of colour bothers me—first the answering machine light and now this. I tossed the bag back into the garbage.

Before leaving premises I have not been formally invited into, I generally find it a wise practice to sneak a peek out the windows. Just to see what 1 can see. Not that I expect a squadron of police cars with lights flashing and cops with guns drawn awaiting my exit, but you never know. I pushed my fingers through two slats of Venetian blind and peered through the space I'd created. The window I'd chosen looked over the parking lot behind the building.

In the light of a street lamp I could see a dense-ly populated bicycle rack and roughly twenty vehicles. Over half were of the ubiquitous sports utility vehicle variety—Blazers, Jirnmys, Jeep Cherokees. Didn't anyone drive a car anymore? I wondered if one of them belonged to Tom. Chavell hadn't mentioned whether Tom owned a vehicle or whether or not it too was 41

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missing. Did he use it to get to the airport? Did he call a taxi? Or did someone pick him up?

More for the list of things I did not know.

As I was about to switch off the hallway light on my way out, my eyes fell on the glass bowl filled with change sitting on the alcove shelf. I had almost missed it, but among the metallic money was a small gold key I picked it up and examined it closely. It was on a thin silver ring with a tiny fob in the shape of an elephant's head. Based on its shape and size I immediately ruled out its being for a vehicle or a standard door. Just to be sure I slipped it into the lock on the apartment's front door, but, as I'd guessed, it was much too small. In my mind I mentally retraced my steps throughout the apartment to see if I could recall coming across anything locked I couldn't get into. There was nothing, no safety box or diary or even a stray padlock.

What was this key for? Tom had kept it in an easily accessible spot telling me he probably used it on a regular basis or at least wanted to ensure quick access to it.

Leaving the apartment, I ran down the stairs to the lobby doors. Again the key was obviously too small, I glanced around for other opportunities for a tenant to use a key. I spied a wall of mailboxes next to the elevator. That had to be it! As luck would have it, the mailboxes yielded 42

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yet another nonsensical numbering system that did not appear to have any apparent relationship to the intercom or apartment numbers. This was probably a good security measure but a pain in the ass for someone in my profession. I had no choice but to try them all. Again I was thankful for the lack of security cameras.

Minutes later 1 remained stymied. The key was about the right size for the mailboxes, but it had failed to unlock one. I returned to the apartment and took another quick tour looking for someplace to stick the mysterious key. Nothing.

Drat. 1 knew if I didn't find out what this key was used for, I'd wake up in the middle of the night thinking about it.

I glanced at my watch. Almost seven. I was hungry, I knew Barbra would be too and I still had to pack. I pocketed the key and ran around the apartment switching off the lights. For the second time that night I was about to extinguish the hallway light and pull open the door to leave when suddenly I froze in my tracks. This time it wasn't a key that stopped me. It was a knock at the door.

Shit!

I could taste my heart in my throat and it didn't taste good. I had been way too close to opening that door and stepping into the arms of someone who'd be expecting to see Tom Amuse Bouche

Osborn. Not good. No, worse than that. Stupid and careless came to mind. And it got better.

Could they see the hallway light under the door? Suppose whoever it was out in the hallway had seen me flicking lights on and off like a disco strobe? I glanced down but couldn't tell how wide the space was. How far was I from being the subject of a 9-1-1 call?

Another rap on the door.

I stood there trying not to breathe as if the sound of it might pass through the door.

Again. This time the knock was accompanied by a man's plaintive voice, "Tom? Tom? Are you in there? We should talk about this!"

As if walking on hot coals I approached the door. I leaned in close until my right eye met the peephole. He was young and blond with dark brows gathered together in a frown.

I heard another voice. A woman.

Goddamnit, how many of them are there out there, I wondered. I saw the man's head turn to his left.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I sez yer wasting yer time," the woman's voice said. Or sez. "He's not home. So stop all that knockin' and wailin.' Are yeh hungry? I've got some cutlets over here."

The man looked confused. Can't imagine why. Cutlets? He stepped out of the peephole's 44

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visual range but I could still hear his voice. "Are you talking about Tom Osborn? Do you know him?"

"Of course I know 'im. We're's neighbours, aren't we?"

"I guess. Not home, huh?"

"Nah, But he's never around much."

"Oh. So you haven't seen him around in the last couple of days?"

"Nah. Hasn't been home for days. I'da seen or heard him if he had. Yer not hungry? Yer a skinny boy."

1 hoped the young man at least smiled or shook his head. If not, his sudden departure was rather rude. Eventually I heard a door close which I hoped meant cutlet-lady had gone back into her apartment. Even so, I waited another full five minutes before concluding it was safe to move on. I switched off the remaining light and left Tom Osborn's apartment, making sure the door was locked behind me.

My home is my castle, a place where I re-ener-gize and take refuge from the world. The house is on a large lot at the dead end of a quiet, little-travelled street. A grove of towering aspen and thick spruce neatly hides it from the view of the casual passer-by. Even some of my neighbours Amuse Bouche

don't know the house is there. When I first saw the lot it felt to me like one of those enchanted fairy tale forests, the kind with elves and fairies and mischievous gnomes. I knew I'd fit right in.

Inside the house is a unique mix of open, airy rooms and tiny, cozy spaces, each appealing to me depending on my mood. The backyard had been a labour of love of the previous owner from which I now reap the benefits. A six-foot-high fence encircles it and its population of fountains, birdbaths and trellises. It is a wonderful never-never land of lovingly planted flora, well-placed clay pots and metalwork benches, and stone-laid pathways that lead into leafy enclaves hidden throughout the expanse.

Although 1 knew little about gardening when I moved in, I am now an avid student and it has quickly become a much-loved summertime hobby. At the rear of the lot, accessible by way of a back alley, is a two-car garage with a handy second storey I use for storage.

When I first came to the big city from small town Saskatchewan to attend university, my mother's brother, Lawrence, took me under his mighty wing. It was not, however, through any sense of duty or responsibility for his sister's kid, for in actuality I hardly knew him before then. He and my mother did not get along.

Lawrence helped me out because, as I later
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learned, he saw in me a younger version of himself. I don't know how accurate he was, but I'm glad he thought so. Lawrence hosted extravagant dinners and parties populated with bizarre and interesting people and I was always invited. He was larger than life. He was attractive, well-mannered, well-educated and well-heeled.

I wanted to be him. When he travelled, which was often, I was given the keys to the house,, the cars and the impossibly bountiful lifestyle that went with them. It was almost too much for a nineteen-year-old farm-boy. I'll never know why, but he trusted me implicitly with all of it.

Tragically, Lawrence did not return from his last trip. He was killed in a skiing accident. He was fifty-one at the time.

In his will, Uncle Lawrence left me a sum of money with one simple instruction: Buy a Dream. I was a Saskatoon police officer when Lawrence died. I wasn't unhappy with my job, but I wasn't thrilled with it either. I liked the work but I just wasn't cut out to wear a uniform and drive a car with a bubble. I knew becoming a detective in a small Canadian city was a risk, career-wise and financially, but in all other ways it promised a much superior lifestyle. No boss-es. No shift work. No doughnut jokes. And, I still got to solve criminal riddles, help good guys and get rid of bad guys. Perfect. In theory.

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The Saskatoon Yellow Pages reveal only a handful of investigators for hire. Is it a matter of less population equals less crime, or is Canada simply a less Pi-oriented country? All I knew was that this was one career that guaranteed a rocky start. So, it was the money from Lawrence that allowed me to quit my steady police job, pay off the mortgage on my house and survive the first months of my new life. As instructed, I had bought a dream.