Amuse Bouche (19 page)

"For now?"

"Like I said, in this industry, things change 212

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faster than you can say microchip. It's a turbulent world out there. We have to keep pace."

"You're worried then?"

"Nah. Tom just needs some time to get himself together. I'm sure he'll be calling soon.

Generally he's a pretty level-headed guy."

My ears pricked up. Generally? Had there been times in the past when Tom Osborn had shown hints of behaviour that was not level-headed? "You mean he's done something like this before?"

I could feel the space between us grow cold.

Randy Wurz pulled back slightly.

"Oh no. Nothing like this...exactly."

Was this man was trying to tell me something without actually saying the words? Was he uncertain whether he could trust me? I had to tread carefully. "No, of course not. But sometimes he gets upset about things? He needs to get away from work for a few days?"

"He gets anxious," Randy said, obviously growing uncomfortable with the conversation. I guessed he was wondering what the line was between betraying his friend and helping him.

"About personal stuff."

I nodded. "He talks to you about that sort of stuff?"

He made a funny movement with his head that wasn't a shake or a nod. Maybe it meant 213

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"sort of" I didn't get to find out because at that moment a sparkling creature in a low-cut gown nuzzled Randy's side like an impatient cat.

"You two aren't talking business, I hope!"

She said it as a half-serious, half-joshing warning. It was the wife. It's hard to explain exactly how she pulled it off, but she wore her party dress in a way that conveyed without doubt not only how expensive it was but that she certainly hadn't bought it in Saskatoon. I checked her neck to see if she'd accidentally left the designer tag untucked. She hadn't.

"No, not at all," Randy quickly told her.

He introduced us and they glided away soon after under the guise of having to refresh their drinks. I didn't think Randy Wurz wanted to go any further with our talk. He was probably feeling guilty about revealing the confidences of a friend. I was anxious to hear those confidences.

Damn cat. This was the first indication I'd had that perhaps the relationship between Chavell and Tom Osborn was not quite as rosy as I'd been led to believe. It was not so far-fetched that Randy Wurz would know something Tom's family or friends did not. Sometimes it was easier to confide in a third party outside your inner circle. Randy would have been the perfect candidate if Tom needed to unload. He was someone Tom had a long-standing friendship with 214

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and someone he trusted.

So what did this mean, I wondered.

1 was standing in the middle of the lively room when another thought hit me in between the eyes.

Anthony.

Why did he immediately assume I'd want an introduction to Randy Wurz? He hadn't even asked why.

As the beautiful people of Saskatoon bustled around me, 1 tried to recall our conversation.

Had 1 said anything to lead him to guess the importance of QW Technologies to me?

The pieces began to fall together. Harold Chavell said he'd been referred by an acquaintance. Someone who'd assured him I could be counted on to recognize the special sensitivity of the case. Anthony Gatt.

Harold Chavell and Anthony Gatt? Very possible. Now that I thought about it, it was quite likely these two men would know each other. Actually, given the similarity of their lifestyles and social standing in a community the size of Saskatoon, it was near impossible that they didn't.

I found Anthony deep in conversation with a local newscaster and the dean of the College of 215

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Commerce. He saw the look on my face as I approached and extricated himself from the duo with practiced aplomb, diverting me into a private nook behind an oversized saltwater aquarium.

"You're vexed with me," he said with alarm-ing insight. "Yes, I suggested Harold give you a call about finding Tom."

The frothy head was blown right off my latte.

"You know Harold Chavell and Tom Osborn?"

I asked as I watched the colourful reflections of exotic fish swim across Anthony's face.

"Yes, of course. For years."

"Why didn't you tell me you knew them?"

"Would it have made a difference?"

I didn't appreciate the smirk on his tanned face. I was happy to see a strand of flaxen hair askew at the back of his head. I didn't tell him about it. "I would have liked to have known, that's all. I appreciate your recommending me for the job. I just wish you'd have told me. For one thing, it would have saved me a lot of trouble trying to find out who Chavell and Tom really are."

"1
can't help you there. Jared and I know Harold and Tom, but only the public facade.

That's all most people know of them. Not many people get any closer. They are very private in that way."

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"But you're two high-profile gay couples making it in the straight world."

"Oh crap on that. We know they're gay and they know we're gay, but so what? It doesn't make us anything more than nodding acquaintances. Just because you see someone with the same coat you're wearing doesn't mean you start having drinks together. It just means that you have the same good taste. That's all. In fact, the only time we've ever traded on the discreet knowledge of our shared sexuality was when Tom disappeared. Chavell called me hoping I could suggest an investigator. He didn't want to use his regular lawyer or advisors. This was extremely private. I knew you'd keep it that way. You and I didn't need to discuss it."

I nodded. "No. I suppose not."

"Our connection to and success in the straight world is a tenuous one at best. We succeed at it because we play by their rules most of the time. Or at least we make them believe we are. We can escort a man to ritzy social events, refer to ourselves as 'we' and 'us' make no excuses for leaving at the same time, and hold our heads high—just as long as we remain scandal free. But, one nasty homosexual imbroglio and we lose more ground than for a thousand straight divorces. And that's our story. Harold and Tom have even more to lose because many 217

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of their circle supposedly don't know they come as a pair."

I nodded my understanding and an irritating thought entered my mind. Was this why Chavell asked me to stop looking for Tom? Had it suddenly occurred to him that he could avoid scandal by simply ignoring what happened? I hoped not.

After I got home I gratefully slid off the second skin that was my outfit and deposited it on the dry-clean pile. And that was being generous. My first intention was to throw it in the garbage. It was late but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. I had to ease myself down from the high-octane infusion of Anthony's party. I shrugged on my bathrobe and went to the kitchen, Barbra at my heels. A glass of water for me, a dry biscuit treat for her. We went into the den that doubles as my home office. It's a small, square room hidden down a hallway from my bedroom. I've filled it with bookshelves, a big desk, a couple of heavy leather couches, and best of all, a gas fireplace that ignites with a flick of a switch. Barbra loves this room. Like many dogs, she's fond of small spaces and she adores the instant heat of the fake fire. I turned it on, and as is her habit, she stretched out before the grate and immediately 218

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fell into a snore-filled slumber. I plopped down into my comfy desk chair and opened my e-mail. The inbox had only one message in it. It was a joke of the day from a Mend in Regina.

Delete. I was about to close the program but instead I hit the compose button. There was one more person I wanted to talk to. In the "To"

space I wrote
"[email protected]" I
n the empty message screen I typed:
Dear TWirp,

I know about your meeting with Tom Osborn.

Let's meet to discuss.

A friend,

R

I reread my brief message once and hit Send before I could change my mind. This was a big part of my job, throwing out a fishing line without being sure what I might catch, if anything at all.

I stretched out on the floor alongside my dog and read a chapter of a novel by firelight before eventually heading off to bed.

That night, while Saskatoon slept, more leaves turned from green to shades of orange, maroon and yellow. Some simply froze to brown.

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Normally I don't go to PWC on weekends unless I'm on a case. And even then, I tend to work from home. Although 1 wasn't officially on the Chavell case anymore, a mind game of information racquetball drove me out of bed and into my office on Saturday morning. I wanted to make notes and flow charts and update character descriptions. I still felt I had a puzzle to solve and suspected someone in Saskatoon was the missing piece. It was a frustrating process. I barely knew the questions, never mind the answers.

Generally weekends around PWC are quiet, so I was startled later that morning by a knock at my door. Alberta barely made it in during the week, never mind the weekend, but Errall and Beverly occasionally had clients in on Saturdays and sometimes Sundays.

"Looking for Dr. Chaney's office or Errall Strane?" I asked the man I found on the other side of my door.

He was tall, square, with hair just a touch longer than a brush cut. He wore a light brown trench coat over a suit and carried a serious briefcase. He looked like a football player dressed for church. "You're Russell Quant?" he asked in a surprisingly cultured voice.

"Yes."

"Could I have a few minutes of your time?

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My name is Clark Shiwaga. I'm Harold Chavell's attorney."

Oh, oh. Chavell must have found out I was still prying. I moved aside to let the man into my office and closed the door. Had Chavell sent over his brute of a lawyer to rough me up? Or maybe I watch too many cop shows.

"Would you care for something to drink, Mr.

Shiwaga?"

He shook his blocky head.

"Please, take a seat." I indicated the chair in front of my desk. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and took my place. "How can I help you?"

"Late tonight or early tomorrow morning the media will carry a story about a body pulled from the bottom of Pike Lake."

I stared at the man. I didn't understand why he was in my office on a Saturday morning, in his lawyer drag, telling me this story about a body. "Yes?" Not a snappy reply.

"I'd like to have your assurance that you will not reveal to anyone, for the time being, what I'm about to tell you," Mr. Shiwaga said.

Seeing as Chavell no longer employed me, I didn't owe him or his legal eagle any assurances. "I'm not certain I can do that. Not without more information about what you're thinking of telling me." Suppose this body had been murdered and he was about to tell me who the Amuse Bouche

killer was? Caution was important here.

"Your
temporary
silence is to protect the family. The next of kin has not yet been notified."

"Whose next of kin?"

It seemed forever before he answered my question. And when he did, I was speechless.

"The body in the lake, Mr. Quant, is that of..Tom Osborn."

THE NEWS STRUCK ME LIKE A SPEEDING FREIGHT

TRAIN. "Did you say Tom Osborn? Are you telling me it was Tom Osborn's body they found in Pike Lake?"

Clark Shiwaga nodded. I could not read the look on his face. He didn't appear prepared to elaborate.

"How can that be? Tom Osborn is in Europe."

"Not anymore."

"Why are you here, Mr. Shiwaga?" No use beating around the bush.

"Mr. Chavell would like to hire you. I have a cheque to retain your services. Same amount as before. Is that appropriate?"

"What is it exactly I'm being hired to do?"

"Last time he wanted you to find Tom. This time, he wants you to find his killer."

He was murdered! "He was murdered?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"How? How do you know all this if it hasn't even been made public?"

The big lawyer studied his hands for a while, pausing before he answered. "I have contacts."

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"Contacts who just happened to know that your client would be interested in this information?"

"Yes."

This didn't jive with what I'd heard from Anthony last night. According to him, Chavell had called him for suggestions on a private investigator because he specifically didn't want to involve his own lawyer. Yet here was that lawyer sitting before me and acting as if he was in on the whole thing. How to phrase this delicately? "I was Under the impression Mr. Chavell did not use his business advisors in personal matters." Hopefully mat would get the point across.

Shiwaga seemed a bit put off by this. "I handle all of Mr. Chavell's legal matters. Business and personal."

So much for tact. It rarely works. "Do you know Mr. Chavell is gay and that Tom Osborn was his partner?"

"Yes." The answer came quickly.

"Does Mr. Chavell know that you know?"

"Yes. However Mr. Chavell believes most other people do not have that information."

"But he is incorrect in that belief?"

Shiwaga's eyes never left mine as he nodded slowly. "To a certain extent... yes."

"So once the Pike Lake body was identified, 224

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your contact knew you and your client would be interested?"'

"Will you take the job?" he asked without answering my question. I knew the answer anyway.

"There's one big difference from the last time Mr. Chavell hired me. The police weren't involved. Now they are. It's their job to find the killer. I used to be a policeman in this city and I can assure you they will undertake a complete and thorough investigation."

"Yes, I'm sure they will. However, there are some...special circumstances here."

"Such as?"

"It is only a matter of time before investigators from the police and media get wind of the relationship between the victim and Mr.