Flight of Aquavit (39 page)

ily of gnomes that prostituted themselves as a

means of religious expression (you figure it out). I

wasn’t the best of company because I was still on

the lookout for Jane Cross and more than a little

distracted thinking about my midnight meeting

Anthony Bidulka — 309

with James. But Sereena was, as always, under-

standing and a trooper and kept up more than her

fair share of the conversation.

With about ninety minutes to kill before cab-

bing it to James’, Sereena and I returned to The

Sherry and said our goodnights on the lift. As was

becoming a habit, when I entered my room the

telephone message light was flashing.

“Russell, it’s James.” This time, the third, his

voice sounded much different. It wasn’t sleepy, it

wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t oozing with sensuality, all of

which I’d experienced in the past twenty-four

hours. Instead, this voice was melancholy

and…desolate.

“Russell, I’ve decided to tell you the truth. I am

Loverboy…”

I was stunned. My heart sank and my knees

buckled. Luckily the bed caught me. I placed a

steadying hand on the bedstead and stared at the

phone as if it were a snake about to bite me.

“I am so sorry for what I’ve done…”

My chest began to heave as I heard the unbe-

lievable. And beyond my mind, the mind that was

listening to the stilted words, was the rest of me,

beginning to feel the pain, the betrayal.

“What I did was wrong. And it will stop…”

Oh shit. Shit. Shit!

“Tell Daniel he has nothing more to fear from

Loverboy.”

And then somehow I knew. The dread built up

in me like an explosion, and I began to shake

before I even heard it…

The shot.

310 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

It was over.

Loverboy was dead.

I did all the right things. I called the police. I

jumped in a cab and got over to James’ apartment

as fast as I could. The cops were already there.

They let me through when I told them who I was.

I had to see the body. I was the only one there who

could identify him. I didn’t know who his friends

were or who else he knew in New York City. I real-

ly knew very little about James Kraft. I was able to

tell the police how to reach his parents. At least

they wouldn’t have to see him…that way.

As a former police constable, I’ve seen death.

I’ve seen it in many horrific forms. But it’s differ-

ent when it’s someone you know. Even for just a

little while. And now, I carry that picture of James

wherever I go. Along with the sound of the shot-

gun blast that ended his life. It’s always there,

lurking, somewhere in the back of my mind.

The cops were interested in me for more than

one reason. Not only had I called in the emer-

gency, I was familiar with the victim, could give

background as to the events that had led up to his

death and there was a gift-wrapped box found in

James Kraft’s apartment with my name on it. That

“something you’ve been looking for”? My ring.

The ring I’d given to his mother. Thinking it was

something he really wanted back, she must have

couriered it to him.

After spending the night with members of the

NYPD into the wee hours of Sunday morning,

they reluctantly allowed me to return to my hotel

room in time to pack and catch my flight back to

Anthony Bidulka — 311

Toronto with the proviso I make myself available

to them any time during their investigation. They

couldn’t rationalize holding me for a suicide.

After all, I provided them with the proof—I’d

heard it happen.

By 10 p.m. Sunday, a rather sombre Sereena and I

were back in Saskatoon where pan-Asian was

something you bought in a kitchen supply store

and midtown, uptown and downtown were all

the same place. I dragged my bags from the cab

and through the frost-covered jungle that was my

front yard. The house was dark except for an out-

door light left on above the front door. I let myself

in as quietly as I could so as not to wake my moth-

er and was affectionately nuzzled by two half-

asleep schnauzers. I sank to my knees and sucked

up their warmth and affection like a brittle sponge

desperate for water. When I looked up, there was

my mother, in her bright blue housecoat, those

crazy slippers and her head wrapped in a babush-

ka. As soon as she saw my face she could tell some-

thing was wrong. Something I couldn’t tell her

about. But as I rose to my feet and she embraced

me, I realized I didn’t have to. She knew all she

had to. Her sonsyou was in a bad place and need-

ed some comforting.

We didn’t say much after that. I eventually sent

her off to bed and I transported my luggage from

foyer to bedroom. Once I’d slipped into my thick,

cozy housecoat, I trundled my way into the den. I

couldn’t sleep. The memory of my short time with

312 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

James Kraft, from start to gruesome finish was like

a horror flick on endless playback in my mind. If

it didn’t end soon, I feared I might go crazy. I

needed a distraction.

I sat behind my desk and pulled the top copy

of a pile of three
StarPhoenix
towards me. My

mother had taken to putting the newspapers

there (rather than using them as drip pans for

bacon) if I didn’t get a chance to read them in the

morning. I glanced at the Saturday headline. Yet

another slam-dunk project for the south down-

town development site had fallen through. Most

of the front page and many within were filled with

reactions from talking heads. I couldn’t concen-

trate on the meaningless words and eventually

tossed the paper aside.

Making sure I had a pen and pad handy, I acti-

vated my voice mail. Several messages were

blanks. A couple were early Christmas greetings

from out of towners. The final call on the machine

was from Daniel Guest. He said he was calling

from his office on Friday afternoon—two days

ago—asking that I call him back—but not at

home—on an urgent matter. That was odd, I

thought. Daniel knew I was going to be in New

York looking for Loverboy. It was now after 11

p.m., beyond the polite hour for a telephone call.

Besides, he’d said he did not want to be called at

home. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

I glanced at my desk calendar and saw, with

shock, that Thursday was Christmas. Was I ready?

Where had the time gone? What happened to all

the fun Christmassy stuff I’d planned to be doing?

Anthony Bidulka — 313

Ahhhh crap, I was in a lousy mood, about to start

seeing ghosts of Christmas past, present and

future.

I rose from my desk and headed for the cabinet

that housed my entertainment centre. I knelt in

front of it, pressed on the power buttons and

began rifling through the satellite music channels

until I came to one titled “Traditional Seasonal.” I

selected it and heard the strains of “We Wish You

a Merry Christmas”—the part about “figgy pud-

ding.” I hit the off button. The silence fell on me

like a heavy cloak. I hung my head and had a lit-

tle cry.

The next morning I was up and out of the house

before my mother cracked the first egg. I couldn’t

sleep. In my car I tried Daniel’s office number; I

wanted to tell him the news about James in per-

son. But it was still too early and I reached the

night bell answering service. With no where else

to go, I headed for PWC and was in the kitchen

before 8:30 a.m. refilling the coffee mug I’d emp-

tied on the drive in. I have an adequate coffee

maker in my own office, but every so often I have

a hankering for the flavoured stuff Lilly makes for

the clients. Plus, at this time of year, there is

always a big selection of home-baked goodies to

fill my face with. A habit of mine when feeling

depressed. Choosing between a peanut butter

cookie with a Reeses Pieces face and a slice of

banana loaf crammed full of cranberries and wal-

nuts, I had my back turned when I heard someone

314 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

walk in. I swivelled around. Errall. She looked

tired and pale and if I didn’t know better, thinner

than when I’d last seen her. She was holding an

unlit cigarette in her left hand.

“Errall, hey,” I said with little enthusiasm.

She just looked at me with little of her own in

return. She poured coffee and gave her cup a sus-

picious sniff, wrinkling her nose at the Mocha

Grand Marnier blend. “What the hell is this shit?”

And she walked out.

I guessed we’d talk later.

I heard Beverly and Alberta chattering as they

headed into the kitchen. I hoped for a friendlier

reception. I needed something positive, uplifting

this morning to pull me out of the dark place I was

in.

“Hi, Russell,” they greeted in unison.

“Have you tried Beverly’s cookies?” Alberta

exclaimed as if I’d die if I hadn’t. “They are the best

I’ve ever taste…Russell, what happened?”

Must have been the look on my face? Was my

cheek still raw? Or was my psychic aura pure

black?

Beverly sensed something too or else she just

instinctively trusted Alberta’s lead. She approached

me and reached out to give my forearm a squeeze.

“Russell, did something happen in New York?” her

voice and face pure motherly concern.

I gave them a sketchy outline. They were, of

course, horrified, particularly Beverly who I’m sure

guessed the suicide had some relation to my

working for Daniel Guest. After a minute or more

of comforting, Alberta picked up half a dozen

Anthony Bidulka — 315

peanut butter cookies, stuck them in a crocheted

pouch that hung at her hip and left. Beverly

remained behind and fixed herself a cup of coffee.

“I’m glad we’re alone, Russell,” she said quiet-

ly after she was done. She was leaning against the

counter with her arms crossed so that her coffee

cup was suspended just under and to the left of

her chin. Her brown hair was in a controlled wave

as usual and she wore a nondescript mauve

sweater and skirt set. “Is there anything I should

know?” Her words came out slowly. I was sur-

prised to hear them. This was murky territory as

far as client confidentiality was concerned—even

though we were both working with the same

client—and Beverly was a stickler for following

rules in this regard. I looked closer at her face. It

looked…different. There was an unspoken mes-

sage there. What was she asking me…or…what

was she telling me?

I swallowed hard. We stared at one another. I

slowly shook my head and asked, “Is there any-

thing I should know?”

“You really should try one of those cookies,

hon,” she said and walked out of the room. And as

she did, I heard a sound escape from under her

breath, a whispered, “Yes.”

I went back to my office without a peanut butter

cookie. Somehow I didn’t think I could get it

down. My first matter of business was to contact

Daniel. I couldn’t be certain how soon the local

news would pick up the story of a local man com-

316 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

mitting suicide in New York City—if at all—but I

wanted him to hear about it from me. And, of

course, I had to tell him that, as I’d been hired to

do, I’d found his Loverboy.

“Russell, thanks for calling,” Daniel sounded

amiable, no hint of the urgency apparent in his

phone message.

“Sorry I didn’t return your message sooner…”

“I know, I know, you were in New York finding

James Kraft and I want to hear all about that…”

He didn’t know yet. “It’s just that I was upset at

the time and forgot you were away.”

Upset? “Did something happen? You could

have called me at the hotel.”

“Yes I know, but when I settled down and

thought things through rationally, I realized there

was nothing you could do until you got home

anyway. And even so, there’s nothing you can

really do.”

“What is it? What happened?”

“While you were gone,” he said, “I was con-

tacted by Loverboy.”

Chapter 17