Aloha, Candy Hearts (21 page)

There was no use fighting it. I pulled out plates and forks and poured the milk.

“Russell, what do you think?” Beverly asked, sincere worry painted on her pretty face. “Do you think she’s doing the right thing?”

“Of course she’s not doing the right thing!” Alberta exclaimed.

“She’s gone gaga over everything that’s happened to her this past year, Kelly’s death being top of the list. Yes, it’s sad. Yes, take some time off. Yes, go sit on a beach for a couple months if you have to.

Yes, get laid by women of questionable morals. But don’t change your whole life to the point that it’s unrecognizable from what it was before. Makes no sense. Beverly, you know this. It’s your thing. This could be a case study in one of those textbooks you’re so fond of. Am I right? Do you want your pie heated?”

“No, thank you.”

Alberta handed out slices of the pastry and plunked herself down. “Let me tell you, just in case it’s not obvious to the whole world, Errall Strane is over compensating. It’s typical. Happens all the time in cases like this. Right, Beverly? The death of someone close forces you to confront your own mortality. Do enough of that, and you begin thinking it’s time to throw caution to the wind, DD6AA2AB8

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do all those things you’ve always wanted to do.”

“Is that wrong?” Beverly sagely questioned.

“It is when you’re already doing what you always wanted to do. I’ve had these talks with Errall before. Here and in the spiritu-al world. She grooves on being a lawyer. She grooves on PWC the way it is. But she’s lost control and gone gaga. Beverly, you can see it, right?” Alberta laid a multi-ringed hand on Beverly’s arm, but did not wait for an answer. “She’s grasping for something, anything, that she thinks will make her feel better, more alive, more excited about life. All because she’s got fear in her, like a big red flashing light in her head, telling her she could lose it all any day now like Kelly did. I can see it all around her. Every time she passes by, my skin shifts because of the negative energy of terror radiating from her aura.” Alberta shivered and made a “brrrrrr” sound to make her point.

“What she’s forgotten is that the law and PWC can do that for her again; they can revitalize her. If only she gives it some time.

This whole idea of selling shmatte to businesswomen is just a bunch of bull doo-doo.”

“Alberta,” Beverly broke into the psychic’s soliloquy with a gentle but firm tone in her voice. “I think it’s important that we try to look at this from a perspective outside of the fact that Errall’s decision means we’re going to have to move our businesses out of PWC. We need to consider what’s best for Errall. Whether or not we think it’s the right plan, maybe we need to respect her decision.

What do you think, Russell?”

The ruffles on Alberta’s blouse stiffened with her indignation.

“I’m not just saying this because I’m going to lose my office. You know that. To tell you the truth, I rarely use that office for work.

Most of my clients prefer the atmosphere of my home rather than a sterile, downtown office environment. It’s a little less, shall we say, corporate.”

I nearly choked on my pie. I’d never been to Alberta’s house, but I couldn’t imagine an office less “corporate” looking that the one Alberta resided in at PWC.

“I stay at PWC for several excellent reasons,” Alberta continued, holding up her pudgy hand, preparing to count them off. “I DD6AA2AB8

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Anthony Bidulka

stay because it’s a good place to store my stuff. I stay because my aura enjoys having a place to exist other than home. I stay because I believe it’s healthy for a psychic to take in new vibes on a regular basis. And mostly,” she stopped there, having reached the ring finger on her counting hand, for a meaningful pause and to give Beverly and I pointed looks, “I stay because of you. I love you, and you, and even Errall most days. And,” she held up her pinkie finger to indicate a fifth reason, “without all of you and PWC, I wouldn’t have anyone to have an office Christmas party with.

“Russell, I know you agree with me. I know you think this is wrong.”

“Maybe Russell doesn’t agree with you, Alberta,” Beverly con-tended. “He also had a close relationship with Kelly, and Errall too, for that matter. He may think starting over is the best thing for her.”

“I am getting so sick of everyone getting on the starting over bandwagon as soon as things get a little rough,” Alberta responded. “Russell, you know what I’m talking about. It never lasts.

Remember when Kelly left town? Nobody was happy about that.

Quite the opposite. She really pissed off a lot of people. But she wanted to ‘start over.’ But she came back, didn’t she? When things got even rougher, she knew where to go. She came back to what she knew.

“Then Jared decided to leave Anthony because his face got all screwed up. He wanted to do guess what? ‘Start over ’.”

I stared wide-eyed at Alberta. I didn’t think anyone else knew about that. Damn psychic.

“Well bah humbug to that!” Alberta exclaimed. “Now they’re getting married on Saturday. You see? When people really need help, when they really figure out what life is all about, they see as clear as day that what they already have in their lives is most often the best thing for them. Just like keeping PWC the way it is, and staying a lawyer is what is best for Errall Strane. I promise you,”

her voice fell an octave into foreboding, “if she does this thing, she’ll wake up one day and regret it. She’ll miss being a lawyer.

She’ll miss PWC. And she’ll miss us.”

“Oh, Alberta,” Beverly let out a heavy sigh. “Despite all your DD6AA2AB8

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furor and feather flapping, you may be right.” She gave me an apologetic glance. “But I promised Russell we wouldn’t keep him long.”

“Good pie,” Alberta said, with a lick of her lips.

The two women headed for the front door.

“Thanks for the talk, Russell,” Beverly said. “We knew you’d help us get some clarity on the matter. I guess the next step is for one of us to talk to Errall.”

“Russell will do it of course,” Alberta said, petting the dogs and kissing their snouts. “You’re so good about handling her.”

“I don’t know if she wants to be handled,” Beverly said as they made their way out the door and down the walk.

“I think that’s exactly what she needs right now,” Alberta responded.

I shut the door. Had I actually said anything the whole time they were there? I was too tired to remember.

I had never understood what they meant when people said, “I used muscles I didn’t even know I had,” until the morning after the marathon day of deck building. I woke up Thursday morning with yowling spots of pain spread quite liberally over my entire body, some in places “I didn’t even know I had.” Fortunately my plans for the day did not consist of anything too physical. First I checked the bookshelves in my den and found two Simon Durhuaghe books. I’d purchased both with good intentions, but when push comes to shove and I just want to relax with a good book, I generally choose genre fiction over serious literature.

After a light breakfast, heavy on the fruit, I collected the Durhuaghe books, his journal, my laptop, a fresh pad of paper, the schnauzers, and a glass of iced tea, and headed for the backyard.

I set up behind a froth of Russian sage and ray flower near the back of the property, where Beta grapevine and Virginia creeper had taken over a wrought iron gazebo. The result was a covered area I treated like an outdoor living room for the few months each year that prairie weather made it possible. I’d filled the space with outdoor couches and comfy chairs, and strung it with cheerful DD6AA2AB8

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patio lanterns. The sun was already baking the yard, and mid-summer bloomers filled the air with a drowsy scent. For the first while I just sat there, petting Barbra’s head, watching Brutus sniff things. I sipped my drink and tried to organize my thoughts.

Thoughts about Alex and Ethan and Errall and Walter Angel and Simon Durhuaghe. To be a good detective, you had to learn to compartmentalize. Today could not be about me. I needed to push my boy troubles aside. And Errall too.

I began to focus on Walter Angel. The discovery of the journal and its damning contents made me reconsider the little old man I’d met on the plane. First off, I had to consider the question: why does anyone want to find hidden treasure? Personal gain, of course. But gold coins and rubies were not what Angel had been seeking. He’d wanted this notebook. Why? What could he possibly gain from the secrets it held?

I could think of only one thing. Money. Blackmail money. Even though he didn’t have it in his possession—yet—Walter Angel must already have known what was written in the journal, and how he could exploit it. But that led to a lot of other questions.

Who was this Helen who gave him the treasure map in the first place? Did she give it to him? Or did he take it? Either way, why did she bother creating the thing in the first place? Assuming she wanted him to have it, why didn’t she just tell him where the journal was? To hide the notebook and create the treasure map would have taken an awful lot of time and effort. It was almost as if she hoped no one would find it. Ever. But if that was true, why not hide it and forget about it? Or burn it? Why the map?

I had few answers, but there was one thing I was quite certain of. The map was important. Someone had murdered Walter Angel because of it.

I grabbed the pad of paper and started writing down names.

Suspects.

Helen (maker of the treasure map)—who is she?

Simon Durhuaghe

Simon Durhuaghe’s wife?

Sherry Klingskill—where is she?

Sherry Klingskill’s fiancé (husband?) DD6AA2AB8

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White Truck Guy—who is he?

Other? Someone unrelated to the map?

I liked the last option the least. I put aside the pad and replaced it with my laptop. Without a last name, there wasn’t much I could find out about Helen. But I could do a little investigating into the life of Simon Durhuaghe. I tapped a few buttons and I was on my way.

Durhuaghe had an official Web site of course. Those are always good for some basic factual information. I found out the author was seventy-one. He still kept a house in Saskatoon, but spent most of his time in a place he had bought many years ago in south-west Nova Scotia. He was born in small town Saskatchewan and was educated at the University of Saskatchewan. A Quill & Quire reviewer once referred to him as a “god of words,” a moniker that stuck and was repeated by others many times over the years. He received the Order of Canada in 1987. He had been married to the same woman, Olivia, for more than fifty years. His latest tome, Down this Rutted Road, was being considered for numerous presti-gious literary prizes and awards. The best news of all, however, came from the Web site’s events calendar. Durhuaghe was in town.

He was scheduled to do a reading at McNally Robinson bookstore that very night. I planned to be there.

In the meantime, I decided to try finding out a little something about the wife. Spurned spouses are always good suspects. I returned to the browser and typed in Olivia Durhuaghe. Most mentions of her name were little more than that, noted in articles about her husband. Disappointed, and debating a fresh glass of iced tea, I typed in the name Sherry Klingskill.

Suddenly the computer came to life.

I sat up straighter and stared at the list of sites that Google popped up. My eyes were pulled into the screen like planets to the sun.

“Holy shit,” I said, not quite believing what I was seeing, not quite believing who Simon Durhuaghe’s one-time teenage girl-friend had become.

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By the time I arrived at the bookstore, the place was packed. It was only seven-thirty p.m. and the guy wasn’t slated to read until eight, but every seat in the Prairie Ink restaurant, where readings are held, was taken. I took in the size of the crowd with awe.

Spending time with a good book is one of my favourite activities, but I’d never attended an author reading before. By the looks of things, it was a pretty popular thing to do. Or maybe it was just that Durhuaghe was a member of that pantheon of literary celebrity that commands a crowd no matter where or when they appear.

Regardless, McNally Robinson was the place to be that night in Saskatoon, bubbling over with the heady excitement of rabid readers. Who knew?

I looked around for something to lean on, in lieu of a seat, and caught sight of two hands wildly waving in the air. One belonged to my sister, Joanne, the other to my mother. They were seated on folding chairs in one of the overflow sections behind a half wall, from where latecomers could still get a decent view of the per-DD6AA2AB84

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formance area. What on earth were they doing here? As far as I knew, the only things my mother ever read were recipe books and Harlequin romances. She thought no one knew about the Harlequins, but I’d found her stash with great titillation one Christmas when I was eleven and searching for gifts.

I wedged myself into the tight spot, past a serious-looking librarian type and an old fellow in a wheelchair, with an oxygen tank, thick glasses, and a hearing aid in each ear. I plopped into the waiting chair next to Joanne, and leaned across her to give Mom a quick kiss hello.

“Dat chair vas supposed to be for Auntie Mary, but she decided she couldn’t come because her feet hurt,” Mom announced in a louder voice than I’d hoped for.