Flight of Aquavit (49 page)

whereabouts. And then, not long after, Anthony

had called about Jared. But it wasn’t until early the

Anthony Bidulka — 389

next morning when an anonymous caller gave the

police our approximate location that they had suf-

ficient cause and information to make a move.

We spent some time being interviewed by

Darren and his team of investigators, giving a

detailed description of how the kidnap occurred

and how we survived. They were working on try-

ing to identify the anonymous caller, a woman,

but had yet to have any luck. Eventually they

released us into the welcoming custody of our

loved ones.

As I moved into the embrace of my mother,

Kelly and Errall, I was struck by the thought that

only a short while ago, if I’d have gone missing,

no one would have been the wiser. At least not

right away. And by then it might have been too

late. Instead, I was amazed to find that what I had

been struggling with the last couple of weeks—an

increasingly crowded life, particularly the pres-

ence of my mother—had actually demonstrated in

a dramatic way exactly how it made my life bet-

ter—by saving it.

My mother knew of my tradition of hosting a

Christmas Day come’n’go and, even while I was

missing, insisted on keeping the stove busy in

preparation for my undoubted safe return and a

party to celebrate it. (In actuality, I think it was my

mother’s way of coping—some of us eat when

we’re stressed, my mother cooks.) So that evening,

after a quiet dinner together, she returned to the

kitchen to putz and I retired to my den with

390 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Barbra and Brutus to think through my case in

front of the fire. We stayed like that for a long time

and finally, the seemingly depthless cold that had

invaded me, body and soul, over the past twenty-

four hours began to seep away.

Christmas morning, instead of being a groggy,

draggy mess as I expected after the previous day’s

ordeal, I awoke with a clear mind. I lay in bed for

another twenty minutes listening to the comfort-

ing sound of canine snores and calmly considered

all that had happened over the past two weeks.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, my moth-

er was in full holiday gear: red dress and shoes,

green earrings, necklace and apron. Our guests

wouldn’t be arriving for several hours but she

informed me that with all there was to do to pre-

pare for the day she’d have no time later on to get

herself all “gussied up.”

While my mother fed the dogs, I searched

kitchen cupboards and drawers and finally came

up with an apron of my own. It was sleek, black,

made of raw silk, tailored to slim one’s hips and

emphasize one’s chest, and wholly inappropriate

for anything other than show. But I didn’t care. I

was gonna bake and cook with my mother on

Christmas morning. In that bliss we remained for

about an hour, laughing and chatting about noth-

ing while we toiled like Santa’s elves. And then

she said it. It was an innocent enough comment

but it was just the lubrication I needed to fit the

pieces of the puzzle slipping and sliding around in

Anthony Bidulka — 391

my brain into place…well, almost into place.

“What did you say?” I asked her to repeat it.

“I said I hafn’t made dese kind cookies seence

I vas girl in school. Dere so simple to make, but so

goot, ya? You like, uh-huh?”

“Oh yeah,” I said as my mind focused on three

seemingly disparate things: a bomb, a scarf and

high school chemistry class.

“Mom, are you under control here? Would it be

okay if I went out for a little while?”

“On Chreestmas?” She sounded like she was

not in favour of the idea, but I think deep down

she was happy to get me out from under foot.

I made one call and then headed out to solve

my case.

Chapter 21

I KNEW THERE WAS A RISK that a knock on the door on

Christmas morning might elicit nothing more than

dead silence, but as it turned out, luck was on my

side. The man who answered the door was fiftyish

with wavy, thinning hair turning grey at the tem-

ples and in flecks throughout. “Merry Christmas,”

he greeted with a toothy smile when he saw I was-

n’t his mother-in-law (that was just my guess).

“Mr. Soloway?” I asked, almost certain this

was the man from the photograph I’d seen in

Daniel Guest’s office a couple of weeks ago.

“Yes, that’s right. How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to be bothering you on Christmas

morning, but I’m an acquaintance of your wife’s

and I was wondering if I could have a brief

moment of her time.”

He was wearing one of those over-the-top

Christmas sweaters married men wear only once

a year at the urging of their spouse. He’d probably

worn it on Christmas day for the past five years

and would do so for the next five. It bore a psyche-

delic arrangement of bright colours made even

brighter against the skin of a man who normally

wore grey or navy business suits. “Well, we’re just

about to head out for the day,” he said, sounding

a bit protective, uncertain about my intentions.

“What is this about?”

“I interviewed your wife for a magazine arti-

cle,” I answered, trying to sound serious but not

Anthony Bidulka — 393

ominous. “And I really need to confirm some

quotes before we go to press this afternoon.”

I’m sure this seemed odd to him given the day

it was, but he was too polite to say so. (I often rely

on the politeness of strangers.) “I see, well, won’t

you come in?”

I stepped into a modest foyer with stairs at the

far end leading up to a second floor. Next to the

staircase was a hallway with a doorless entryway

on each side through which I could see a formal

sitting room to the left, dining room to the right.

“Anita!” Mick Soloway called out in the direc-

tion of the hallway. “There’s someone here to see

you.”

I watched the expression on Anita Soloway’s

pleasant, freckled face change in slow motion

from wonder to wariness as she came down the

hallway and recognized my face.

“Oh,” she said as she sidled up next to her

much taller husband, like a baby bird looking for

protection under its mother’s wing. “Hello,” she

cheeped. “Mr. Woodward?”

“Anita,” I said quickly, “how nice to see you

again and to meet your husband. I was just telling

him that I had something to discuss with you in

private. You know,” I said with a wink, “that little

matter we were talking about?” It wasn’t smooth,

but at least I was giving her the option to discuss

her recent activity in private if she so chose.

She was a little slow on the uptake. Still sur-

prised to see the reporter from
Today’s Entrepreneur

in her front foyer I guess. “Are you talking about

the article you’re writing about…” she began to

394 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

ask, her eyelids blinking madly as she began to

make certain connections in her head.

“…about how to make stink bombs,” I finished

for her, shooting an innocent grin at her husband

who was again beginning to look a little con-

cerned about what I wanted with his wife.

“Oh that!” she finally said with a follow up

lopsided smile in her husband’s direction. I’m

sure that smile couldn’t have come easy at that

particular moment in her life. “Yes…yes, that little

matter, yes, that…thing.”

She needed help. “Perhaps we could discuss it

in private?”

“Wellllllll…we were just about to go out and

it is Christmas morning…”

I gave her a look that told her she was pushing

the limits too far with my not-infinite patience.

“But of course, why don’t you come in here,”

she said with a flourish of her arm indicating the

sitting room. “Mick,” she said to her husband who

was now looking entirely confused, “would you

mind giving us a few minutes? It shouldn’t take

too long.”

He shook his head good-naturedly and said,

“Of course. I’ll just go up to my office.”

“That’s fine, that’s good, yes, we won’t be

long,” Anita Soloway said, her face now so pale

even her freckles were disappearing.

We wordlessly watched her husband mount the

stairs to the second storey and out of sight and

then entered the sitting room. We sat on matching

armchairs next to an unlit fireplace, facing each

other.

Anthony Bidulka — 395

“Now what’s this about?” she asked, going for

the bewildered innocent approach. I’d have prob-

ably done the same. She crossed her legs showing

off stylish going-out-for-Christmas-lunch shoes.

“I know about everything,” I said, trying to

look almost bored, “I just want to know why.”

Her hands played nervously with one another

on her lap. “What do you mean? What are you

talking about?” Her delivery was as bad as you’d

expect from first day in acting class.

I didn’t have time for games. I had Christmas

plans too. “You delivered a stink bomb to my

home, Mrs. Soloway. And not only did it smell

bad, but also it frightened my mother and her

friends. I want to know why and I want to know

how you’re involved in the blackmail of Daniel

Guest.”

She stared at me in a way I imagine Little Red

Ridinghood first looked at the Big, Bad Wolf.

I could understand how she’d be confused. As

far as she knew, I was a reporter doing a story on

the Guests, not the person whose house she had

delivered her stink bomb to. “Mrs. Soloway, my

real name is Russell Quant. I’m a private investi-

gator.” I pushed harder. “I know you’re involved

in the blackmail and possibly the kidnapping and

intended murder of my friend and me.”

By this time the woman had turned near scar-

let in colour. “No, that’s not true! None of it!” she

cried, but kept her voice low for fear of her hus-

band overhearing us.

I shook my head disbelievingly. “It was the stink

bomb, Mrs. Soloway, that put me onto you. A silly

396 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

move. How many people—adult people—know

how to make a stink bomb? But they might remem-

ber, I suppose, if they’re a chemistry teacher…which,

suspiciously enough, is what you are.”

“I…I…I…what are you talking about? Of

course I’m a chemistry teacher, but what does that

have to do with you or…or the rest of this non-

sense?”

“You delivered your stink bomb to my house?”

I said again.

Her face blanched as she sputtered out, “I did

not deliver the bomb…I just…I just made it for

her…” She stopped there, knowing she’d gone too

far and said too much…and that ultimately it was

too late. “But that’s all! I don’t know anything

about blackmail or kidnapping or murder! For

God’s sake, you’ve got to believe me!”

“If you didn’t deliver the bomb, then who

did?”

“I don’t know!”

“Mrs. Soloway, who did you make the bomb

for?”

She was silent, looking down at her lap for the

next few seconds.

“Mrs. Soloway? This isn’t going away. I’m not

going away. Some serious things have happened.

I know you’re involved, I’m just not sure to what

extent. Who was it? Who?”

Her voice was so quiet at first I didn’t hear her

answer. I asked her to repeat it.

“Cheryl.”

It was the answer I had expected. A bomb, a scarf

and high school chemistry class. Anita Soloway,

Anthony Bidulka — 397

Cheryl Guest and the driver of a three-ton truck. All

tied together by a brilliant burgundy scarf with a

bright orange J. Thames tag. I’d seen it around the

neck of the man driving the kidnap vehicle. A gift

from Cheryl Guest to her collaborator?

“Cheryl left the bomb at my house?” I ques-

tioned Anita further.

“I guess, I really don’t know. All I know is that

she asked me to make one for her.”

“Why? You must have asked. She’s your best

friend. I’m sure she didn’t just order up a stink

bomb without you wondering why.”

She hesitated. I was asking her to betray her

friend. Well, too bad.

“Why?” I urged once more.

“I told her…I was the one who told her about

Daniel.”

“Told her what?”