Flight of Aquavit (41 page)

had travelled up and down both sides of the car’s

previously pristine silver body, the block heater

cord had been sliced and the windshield had been

egged and now, after hours in sub-zero tempera-

tures, resembled a very sturdy meringue pie. For a

moment I stood in shock, not believing what was

before me. For a moment I felt like a helpless child.

For a moment I was empty, hurt, pained.

And then I got mad.

But that only helped so much.

I went back into PWC and called the cops and

the garage and later a cab.

Merry Christmas.

It was a little after 8 p.m. by the time I made it

home, tired, grouchy, hungry and liable to spit. As

I exited the cab and trudged towards my front

door, I saw that my house was obviously in a

much better mood than I. All the exterior lights,

Christmas and normal ones, were ablaze and

through the front window I could see the

Christmas tree we’d decorated shining with the

326 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

intensity of a thousand silver bells. It was, after all,

the twenty-second of December, I told myself, so

despite my bad luck and disposition, the house

had its right to be happy.

I had no idea who they were, but they were in

my living room, lined up on the couch like a col-

lection of life-size dolls. The one on the left, in her

early sixties and tiny as a bird, had eyeglasses the

size of small dinner plates and thicker than ice

cubes. Through them I could make out two unfo-

cused pupils. On the right was the oldest woman

I have ever seen (who was still upright). She kept

the few strands of hair she had left pulled into a

tight, white mini-bun at the top of her head. Both

ears were plugged with monstrous-looking appli-

ances that I took to be the first hearing aids ever

invented. They must not have worked too well

because I noticed that when the others spoke they

habitually raised their little old lady voices

beyond their natural ranges and directed their

words in her direction. The one in the middle was

as wide as she was tall with a wattled face like

Plasticine. Her eyelids and lips were thick like

freshly risen dough and her hair was a purplish

helmet. I found myself continually having to ask

her to repeat herself, claiming to have missed her

words when I really hadn’t. She spoke with a

heavy Eastern European accent and as if she’d

downed too many vodka shooters.

They were the “See No Evil,” “Hear No Evil,”

“Speak No Evil” monkeys.

And moving about in front of them like a busy

bee was my mother, serving tea and dainties to

Anthony Bidulka — 327

this threesome she called “the neighbour ladies,”

even though I’d never laid eyes on any of them

before.

“You must have some of your mother’s tea,”

screamed Hear No Evil. “It is absolutely delicious!

The best tea I’ve had all day!” And then she

laughed uproariously at her little—very little—

joke.

“Oh, well, that’s very kind, but I just…”

“Dyew leave herewidda dyermodda?” this

from Speak No Evil.

I looked desperately at my mother for help.

“Oh no,” my mother answered for me. “Dis is

Russell’s home. I’m just veesitor.”

I looked sideways at my mother then nodded

agreement at Speak No Evil.

I watched as she poured out some hot brown

liquid and realized I’d never known my mother to

drink tea, never mind offer it to guests. It all looked

like some bizarre little-girl tea party that had gone

on for
way
too long. If I didn’t know better I’d say

my mother was trying her hand at what she’d

consider “city” entertaining. Was this what she

thought these neighbour ladies expected from

her? In the country having the folks from the next

farm over in for a cup o’ java or whiskey shot was a

regular occurrence, but not here. At least, not in

my neighbourhood. And where had she come up

with the elaborate tea service? Each saucer was

embossed in gold with a subtle monogram: SOS.

SOS? Where on earth did my mother get these—off

the Titanic? It certainly wasn’t from my cupboards.

And even from a distance I could tell the delicate

328 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

pieces hadn’t come from Superstore where Mother

gets most of her fine china.

“You look just like your mother, dear,” See No

Evil said to me as she adjusted her vision-aid

apparatus for a better look. “Except you’re so tall

for a girl.”

Hear No Evil thought this was hilarious and

roared with laughter. “Oh Virginia, this one’s a

boy, not a girl!”

“I thought Russell was a peculiar name for a

girl.”

“Itzak ahand soaman fercrysakes! Why can

yewnot seethees?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Virginia com-

plained to her Pillsbury Dough friend with a

mightily mean-looking frown.

“Now, now,” my mother cooed, her accent

smoothed into some refined dialect unrecogniz-

able to me, “haf more tea.”

The doorbell rang.

What the heck was going on around here I

wondered, feeling more than a little dazed and

confused. Were there more cronies yet to arrive? I

decided it was none of my business and headed

for my den with the dogs while my mother

answered the door.

The discord was sudden, each shriek setting off

another until it was a choir of shrill pandemoni-

um. It started with my mother’s resounding “Oi,

bojeh!” This got Barbra and Brutus aroused. They

took off out of the den for the living room, barking

their response to what sounded like an alarmed

call for help. Then came the yowls and screeches

Anthony Bidulka — 329

of the monkey ladies. I too sped for the living

room, all the while thinking two things: what the

hell is going on today and what the damn hell is

that reeking smell!

As I ran into the living room, the four women

and two dogs were running out, escaping…what?

Danger? Another peeping Tom? Was it Jane Cross

again? No. They were fleeing the malodorous

molecules that now pervaded the room. Sitting on

the coffee table, next to the exquisite tea setting,

was a lovely package, wrapped in red paper. The

lid of the package, topped with a large green bow,

had been lifted off, no doubt by my mother. The

box had been rigged so that when someone did

that, voila, a most unpleasant scent, like aging

human waste, was released. Not harmful, except

to the senses.

A stink bomb.

It took an hour to clear out the smell; it took a signif-

icantly shorter time to clear out my mother’s guests.

Amongst them they couldn’t see, hear or speak, but

they could all most certainly smell, and this was one

odour they wanted nothing to do with.

My mother described over and over how when

she’d answered the doorbell, there was no one

there, only the package on the doorstep. It was not

addressed to anyone and although she would nor-

mally have assumed it was for me, Kelly had

promised to drop off some baking and somehow

she thought this was it, just in time to serve her

new friends. Wrong.

330 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

After the peeping-Tom incident and now this, I

was pleasantly surprised by just what a resilient

old bird my mother really is; not at all faint of

heart. I explained to her that both incidents were

no doubt related to my current case, that things

like this sometimes happen in my line of work, and

she seemed to accept that without much problem.

She didn’t like it, but she accepted it. I however did

have a problem. I was beginning to seriously

worry about her safety. I now knew that our peep-

ing Tom had been Jane Cross and although I still

didn’t know why she’d been sent to spy on me, I

was convinced she was harmless, a little rough

around the edges, but harmless. But now this.

Where did this come from? Who would have done

this? Was this just kids playing around?

Coincidence? Or had I royally pissed someone off?

I woke up on Tuesday morning with that uncom-

fortable feeling I get in the pit of my stomach

when I sense I’ve done something wrong or

missed some important thing or date but can’t

quite put my finger on it. Although I’d never

admit it out loud I was beginning to worry that I

was out of my league, that somehow this investi-

gation—if it still was one—had gone hurdling out

of my control and I wasn’t going to be able to stop

it. Had I made a mistake somewhere? What was

it? What was I missing? What clue wasn’t I listen-

ing too? Without opening my eyes I used my foot

to nudge Barbra. She weighed a ton this morning

and her bulk had me pinned under the blankets.

Anthony Bidulka — 331

“Sheesh,” I said, finally opening my eyes and

trying to sit up, “what has my mother been feeding

you!” I was about to shoosh her off the bed when I

realized the bulk against me wasn’t only Barbra.

With his head resting on her hindquarters and his

back tucked up against my right side was Brutus. I

looked at him. He looked at me. We both knew a

line had been crossed. He had never stayed the

entire night in the bedroom before, never mind on

the bed. I didn’t know what I felt about having

double the dog poundage in my bed every night,

but for now I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

I was touched that he’d come to feel comfortable

enough in my home and with Barbra and myself to

spend the night with us. It was either that or…he

had given up on Errall and Kelly.

After what happened to my car and the stink

bomb I felt a need to protect my mother, but I had

a lot to do and didn’t have time to stay home to

babysit her. So, once I got myself together and

found her at her usual station in the kitchen, I

tried to convince her to at least spend the day at

Kelly and Errall’s house. But she was having none

of it. She reminded me how she had won a show-

down with a scraggly old coyote who once upon a

time deigned to steal hens from her chicken coop.

How can you argue with that? We finally agreed

she would stay in the house while I was out (using

her van), but with the doors locked and that she

wouldn’t answer the door or phone and would

call Sereena if she had any worries at all. It wasn’t

perfect, but it was the best I was going to get.

332 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

When I was shown into Daniel’s office later that

morning he was not alone. Sitting near the desk

was his partner, Herb Dufour. The faces worn by

the two men told me they had been discussing

serious issues.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “I can wait until

you’re done.”

“It’s okay, Russell,” Daniel said, indicating for

me to take the chair next to Herb’s.

I nodded a hello to the other man as I took a

seat. The eyes over his sharp nose were distressed

and his brows were knitted tightly together.

“We were discussing the latest development,”

Daniel said.

“You mean about what happened in New

York?” I asked.

“No,” Daniel answered. “About these.” He

gestured towards a bouquet of flowers, still in the

paper wrapping they’d arrived in, lying on

Daniel’s desk. “They came this morning. The

envelope attached was addressed to me. Thank

goodness our receptionist didn’t open it.”

He handed a small card across the desk for me

to read.

To Daniel Guest,

Love,

Your Boyfriend,

Loverboy

I cringed inside. There was no more doubt.

Loverboy was still out there.

Chapter 18

LOVERBOY WAS BACK.

The words left little up to the imagination. The

message and accompanying flowers from

Loverboy were a warning. It was a taste of what

was to come if Daniel continued to disobey and

withhold payment. It was also proof positive that

James Kraft was not Loverboy—or if he was,

someone else had taken over the role after his

death. I looked up at my client. I knew what was

going to come next. He was going to give in. He

was going to pay the money. We were now no

closer to finding out who Loverboy was than

when he first hired me. And he couldn’t afford to