Amuse Bouche (21 page)

"I've told you everything I know right now."

I could see by the look on his face that he wasn't buying that line. "I'll be expecting to hear from you." With that he slid out of the booth and stood up. He caught sight of Marushka shyly peeking at him from behind the kitchen door. She did this with all new customers who'd ordered the Ukrainian full meal deal. He gave her a thumbs up sign. She smiled and disappeared.

"You'll wait for the bill?" he asked without offering any currency from his own pocket. I watched him stride from the restaurant followed by more than one set of admiring male eyes.

I had walked the several blocks from my office to Colourful Mary's to meet Darren. But the earlier drizzle had now settled into a sodden downpour making a long walk undesirable. 1

used that excuse to stop into several shops Amuse Bouche

along the way back. When I arrived at PWC

forty minutes later I wasn't any drier than I would have been otherwise, but I did find a great piece of Mel Malkin raku and a pair of slip-on Skechers. I stopped at my car long enough to deposit my shopping bags in the trunk and proceeded inside.

"Tracking down some felonious ducks?"

Errall, in a killer pinstripe suit and wide-collared shirt, stepped out of her office. "Why don't you come in for a visit while you dry off,"

she suggested. "I've some great news."

1 followed our house attorney into her office.

Errall's workspace is much different from my own. It takes up nearly one half of the main floor and is divided into three connecting areas.

There's the desk area, the client meeting area and the research area. The room is smartly planned, impressive and, I think, somewhat cold.

"Look at this." Errall sat behind her desk and tossed a magazine across its expanse in my general direction.

I picked up the copy of
Western Living
magazine and gave her a "what's this about" look.

"Page seventeen," she told me.

I sat down on the chair opposite the desk, mopping wet hair out of my eyes.
Western Living
is a magazine dedicated to gracious living in 238

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western Canada. It features beautifully shot ads for numerous hoity-toity shops—many located in good old Saskatoon. Had Kelly coughed up the dough for an On Broadway advertisement?

1 found page seventeen but saw nothing. Again I looked at Errall and shrugged.

"The interview. Read the interview."

I studied the page again and saw an article about Margeaux Clemence, an up-and-coming Calgary interior designer. Scan, skim, scan, skim...ah hah! I found it. And I quote, "It's the little things, not immediately noticeable, that can really make a room sing. I call them secret treasures. Two of my favourite ways to add character and cachet to a room are a Norma Cilante tapes-try and a Kelly Doell wooden bowl or platter.

They are one-of-a-kind items and simply beautiful. They grab the eye without trying."

Wow, I thought to myself, my friend is famous. I grinned from ear to ear as I reread the complimentary words.

"Pretty big stuff, huh?"

I glanced up at Errall and saw for a moment what Kelly loves about this woman. She was radiant with pride for her mate. ""This is amazing!" I enthused. "I've got to call her right now."

"Actually I just got off the phone with her.

How about joining us for sushi and too much sake tonight at the Bessborough?"

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"I'd love it. Is she pretty excited?"

"She is so jazzed. She may never make it down off the ceiling. Now, I want to hear about France and your case. It sounds intriguing."

Since moving into PWC, Errall has acted as my business and personal attorney. That arrangement of legally bound confidentiality allows me to talk freely with her about my clients. And I was definitely at the point where I needed someone to talk things over with. It's at times like these when my relationship with Errall becomes something much different from our usual state of agreed-upon acrimony— something neither of us cares to inspect too closely.

I spent the next ten minutes bringing Errall up to date on the basics of the Chavell-Osborn case up to and including the recent discovery of Tom's body at the bottom of Pike Lake.

"So let me see if I have this right," she responded following my soliloquy. "Off you go to France, blah, blah, blah, you come back empty-handed and then, poor old Tom ends up dead in Saskatoon."

I didn't quite agree with her description of my time in France but generally she had it right.

"Yes. At some point after I had my final contact with him, Tom boarded a plane for home—who knows why—and meets up with his murderer."

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"When exactly was that?"

"What?"

"Your last actual contact with Tom Osborn in France?"

"Wellll... I suppose he could have been anywhere when he arranged for the messenger in Sanary-Sur-Mer, so my last real contact with him was at La Treille Muscate in Cliousclat..."

Errall nodded vigorously. "Okay, and the last thing that puts him there is the note he left in your mail slot, right? So he could have left Cliousclat and been on his way back home as early as Saturday noon, right?"

It was possible. Everything after the note was more than likely a ruse. "Tom would have had to drive to a larger centre, perhaps Orleans, but from there it would have been easy to catch a plane with connections back to Canada. He could have been back in Saskatoon on Sunday or even late Saturday." I didn't get back to Saskatoon until Wednesday night.

"But why?" she mumbled half to herself as she mulled this over, then said, "Maybe he really did need some time to himself and that's why he was in France. But when you showed, he decided the gig was up and came home," Errall theorized. By the look on her face I knew her brain was abuzz with possibilities. "And Harold Chavell told you that he never heard 241

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from or spoke to Tom after Tom had left for France?"

"That's right," I said.

"Could he be lying?"

I had to seriously consider this possibility.

Was my client lying to me? Was my client a murderer and using me for some sort of corrob-orating alibi? "I suppose so, but Errall, why would he hire a detective to find someone he wanted to kill? That's just too obvious."

"Maybe that was the point." Errall narrowed her eyes until they were two blue beacons.

"Being too obvious is sometimes a pretty clever ploy; too obvious for anyone—including a jury—to believe it could be true."

"All right, but if Harold convinced Tom to come home in order to kill him, why would Tom then send me on a wild goose chase, unless...unless it wasn't Tom who arranged for the messengers at all, but..."

Errall was right there with me. "...Harold pretending to be Tom! He could easily have made the necessary calls from Canada. Or had an accomplice do it. He needed to keep you in France perpetuating the lie he'd so carefully manufactured while he was doing the dirty deed!"

My blood began to curdle as Errall and I concluded our grisly fairy tale gone bad. One that 242

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left me with a conniving client who'd committed murder and was using me as his unwitting accomplice.

Was Harold Chavell the type of man who could kill his own lover? He certainly did seem to give up easily after I called him from Sanary.

If our suppositions were true, by that point he'd have no further need for me in France. Tom was already dead and under several feet of water in a Saskatchewan lake. And I'd established the fake alibi of Tom's disappearance. He took me off the job because he thought it was over. I had played my role exactly as he'd designed it. But then the body was discovered. And he immediately put me back on the payroll.

It made sense. But that didn't make it true.

When 1 returned to my office, the first thing I did was check my e-mail. Finally. Success.

There was a message from TWirp.

Dear "Friend,"

I don't know what meeting you're referring to.

There is nothing to discuss.

Where's Tom?

That was it. I read it several times in order to squeeze as much information out of the few Amuse Bouche

words as 1 possibly could. The last line was the most interesting. "Where's Tom?" Apparently TWirp had no knowledge of Tom's death—or else he or she was playing with me. This was now a murder case and I didn't have time to screw around. I decided to push TWirp and see if it paid off.

Dear TWirp,

By now you'll have heard of Tom Osborn's
death. I know the two of you met before he
died. I know he was unhappy with what you
had to say. As far as I can figure it, you're
either the murderer or you'd like to help me
catch the murderer. It's your choice.

Russell Quant

Private Investigator

My note contained some lies and half-truths.

Using my name was a risk. But sometimes in my business you had to use lies and risk to get anywhere. I clicked Save Draft. I'd send it as soon as news of the murder hit the airwaves.

TWirp could be a big help to me. Or, TWirp might hunt me down and kill me.

244

LATER THAT NIGHT I MET KELLY and E r r a l l at Stovin's Lounge in the Bessborough Hotel for sushi and sake to celebrate Kelly's new-found fame. It was one of those nights when everything serious in your life gets tossed aside in favour of gaiety and you're simply happy to bask in the warm company of friends. Halfway through our second bottle of rice wine, Anthony and Jared showed up, post some splashy event or other, and together we laughed the laugh of the carefree until three cabs showed up to take us home.

When I first opened my eyes on Sunday morning I was gratified to see the weather co-operating with me. It was definitely a stay inside day. Exactly what I needed. Although it was 8:30 a.m. the sky was still inky and a turbulent wind slashed through the trees. It looked miserable out there. An Amur Maple near my bedroom window scratched at a pane already trembling from the blustery weather. I looked down at the foot of the bed where Barbra was curled into a tight ball. I heard the comforting sound of the furnace cutting in and snuggled deeper under my quilt.

As I luxuriated in my nest, the events of the Amuse Bouche

past week and a half washed over me. It was difficult to believe I'd met Harold Chavell only twelve days ago. I was tired and needed a break. I was still jet-lagged from my trip to France for Pete's sake. Once I gave myself the permission to take the day of , a sense of well-being overcame me. Vet, instead of closing my eyes for another dose of sleep, I had this sudden urge to jump out of bed and do all those lazy, permissive things that make a day off so special.

I shrugged into my favourite pair of faded blue, threadbare sweats, let Barbra out the back door and put on a pot of coffee. I considered a quick trip to the gym. But then it wouldn't be a day off, would it? By the time Barbra wanted back in I had poured her kibble, topping it off with one of those soft dog treats that look like a T-bone steak, and fixed myself a tower of Pop Tarts. I pulled a comfy blanket out of the linen closet and took root on the den sofa in front of the TV and fireplace. I read, watched a couple of movies, dozed, petted my dog and ate unhealthy food. I did not let the thought of Tom Osborn or Harold Chavell enter the house. All in all, it was a cozy, wonderful day.

Bright sunshine and chipper air signalled a return to work on Monday. Throughout the city, 246

Anthony Bidulka

trees emblazoned with bright autumn plumage belied the evidence of abandonment laying about them in deep, crunchy piles. I spent all of that day and most of Tuesday contacting the rest of the people on Chavell's lists. It was a rather discouraging couple of days. Everyone was still in shock over the news of Tom's death.

Everyone seemed to have the same story. No, they hadn't seen Tom before he'd left for France.

No, they did not hear from him while he was there. No, they did not see him after he returned and before he was murdered. No, they had no idea who could have killed him. I was getting nowhere fast. And to top it off, TWirp was ignoring my latest e-mail. I had either scared him or her off or else made a silent enemy.

By mid-Tuesday afternoon I had hit a wall.

There were a few people left to contact, but they were either out of town or screening their calls.

I needed to refocus my efforts. I considered the possibility that someone was involved who was not on either of these lists. Someone Chavell didn't know about or didn't think to include.

Although, more often than not people are murdered by someone they know, there are excep-tions. Maybe this was one of them. Maybe I was looking in the wrong place.

For every case I work, I keep a file labelled Herrings. In it I place information I have yet to 247

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follow up on or don't really know what to do with. Generally these are the bits and pieces I pick up or hear about during a case that usually mean absolutely nothing. But, instead of allowing them to burrow around in my brain, I let them go, knowing I've put them someplace safe where I can revisit them whenever I need to. If I ever need to.

I opened the Chavell-Osborn Herrings file and pulled out a piece of paper and began making phone calls. I hit pay dirt in about twenty minutes.

"Yes," the woman on the phone said after I had described the sketch I held before me. It was my rough depiction of the half-heart pendant I'd found in Tom Osborn's apartment. "We do sell silver, half-heart pendants. They're called Joined in Love. Absolutely stunning pieces. Signature Jewellers are the exclusive dis-tributors of the Joined in Love collection in Saskatoon. There are also rings and..."

"Yes, that's it, ma'am. Do you sell many of them?" This had to be it. Not only did the pendant match the description, but she also confirmed the Signature Jewellers jewellery boxes are unmarked and burgundy with cream-coloured silk interiors.