Stain of the Berry (12 page)

I asked the question I most wanted answered. "Why does the boogeyman come after someone in the first place?" If I knew why, I could find out who.

"Lots of reasons. Fear. Anger. Retribution. And sometimes," she said with a glint in her eye, "just for the fun of it."

There was nothing fun about what had happened to Tanya and Moxie. Not for them, anyway.

"Anyone is susceptible to the boogeyman, Russell," Alberta added, petting the side of the crystal ball with a plump finger, the back of her ring making a languid sound as it slid over the glass surface.

I frowned at her. "What are you talking about?"

"You should be worried about more than your clients."

The air in the space around us seemed to disappear as Alberta's glittering eyes moved toward the crystal ball.

"What are you saying?"

"He's here, Russell. The boogeyman is in this room."

I felt my cheeks grow suddenly hot. "What's he doing in your office?" I asked, keeping my voice-and hopefully the mood-light.

"He came in with you."

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To shake the image of the boogeyman out of my head, I decided to walk the several blocks to Colourful Mary's, Saskatoon's only openly gay-owned and run restaurant-slash-bookstore. It's owned by my friends, Mary Quail and Marushka Yabadochka. Mary is half First Nations Cree, half Irish and Marushka is Ukrainian-a combination which makes for unique choices in terms of reading material and menu selection.

I wanted two things from my visit: lunch and information.

Now that I knew Tanya and Moxie had been lovers, I had a new direction for my investigation. My clients wanted to know why Tanya died. Suicide or not, I had to wonder if it had something to do with her relationship with Moxie Banyon or, more likely, the systematic harassment the two women had in common.

I was greeted at the front entrance by Mary, whose beautiful oval face lit up the entire eatery. It was busy, as usual, with no room left on the desirable outside deck, so Mary took my hand and led me inside to a small wooden table painted bright purple and situated on the invisible barrier that separates restaurant from bookstore. I took a seat on the sunflower-yellow chair she pulled out for me and accepted her recommendation of a garden tomato salad with strips of hot, spiced bison and a glass of iced tea. While she placed my order I surveyed the room; Colourful Mary's is always a people-watcher's delight. There were the little old ladies with portable oxygen tanks and walkers who'd made the short trek from a nearby senior's high rise; the downtown business-suit types grateful for an hour in a place where it was safe to loosen their ties and pantyhose; and of course the foodies who were drawn in by the aromas wafting out to the street from Marushka's kitchen. At any given time there is always an assortment of patrons from both the Aboriginal and LGBT communities, which are a mainstay of the customer base, and, of late, there was an inexplicable influx of politicians and city officials. If Mary and Marushka weren't careful, they'd soon have to expand their popular eatery, but that always seems to be the kiss of death for this type of restaurant, the kind that relies on ambiance, homemade food and unassuming charm to lure repeat customers.

When Mary returned with my meal, she plopped herself down in the berry-blue chair across from me and let out a breath. "Phew. What a day. What a summer. It's been like a zoo in here every day since May. What's going on in this city? Somebody finally put us on the map or what?" she said with a smile.

"How you doing, sweetheart?"

"I know you're busy, but do you have time for a question or two?"

"Oh sure, for you, anytime is a good time. Besides, the girls and boys have the floor covered. My job is to seat people and make nice. But since you got the last table, I think I got a minute or two. What's up?

Wondering what to have for dessert? Marushka made up a batch of her mom's nalehsnikeh-they're rolled up crepes with peach or strawberry or prune inside, served hot and sprinkled with cinnamon."

"Watching the waistline," I said sadly. Damn, I hated having to say that. It sounded old. I speared a piece of tomato and chewed on it dejectedly. "Actually, it's about a case I'm on. Since you two are in the know in the lesbian community, I was wondering if you or Marushka know anything about two women: Tanya Culinare and Moxie Banyon. They were a couple a while back, like until March or so. Late twenties, early thirties. Tanya worked shipping and receiving for V. Madison Steel, Moxie hung out with a guy named Duncan Sikorsky until she moved back to Moose Jaw in late March, early April."

Mary was nodding with her beautiful dark-clay eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah, yeah, I think I know who you're talking about. Not so much the Tanya girl, but Moxie and Duncan, I'm sure they used to hang out here a bit. Haven't seen them in a long time though, but I think that's because they used to come in when Butterfly worked here. Butterfly and Duncan had a thing going for a while."

Perfect. "Butterfly's not here anymore?"

"No. He went back to school and needed night shifts, which I couldn't give him at the time. I think he 52 of 163

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picked up some hours at the Victorian though."

Butterfly Missaskquahtoomina-according to the Saskatoon phone book-lived in the basement suite of a house on Lansdowne Avenue. Unless Butterfly was taking summer session classes, university was out until fall and since he was a nighttime waiter, I was hoping I'd catch him at home.

"Yeah," a bleary-eyed twenty-something mumbled from the space he'd created when he opened the apartment door in response to my knock. He was bare chested and wearing baggy blue boxers that rode very low on slim hips. His shoulder-length hair was luxuriously black and needed a comb-through.

I resisted the urge to look at my wristwatch, which I knew would tell me it was after 1:00. I wasn't being judgmental, just jealous, desirous of a sleep-till-noon-day and non-existent hips for myself. "Are you Butterfly?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I'm looking for a friend of yours, Duncan Sikorsky. Is he here by any chance?"

"Duncan? Noooo, he's not here. He's in Vancouver, man." He was rubbing his eyes making the skin around them turn a fiery crimson. "What you want him for? Hey, who are you dude?"

"I'm a friend of a friend. We're just kinda looking for him." How's that for a detailed response? "Can you give me his phone number or something?" I was trying for the laid-back approach.

Butterfly was suddenly very still. He was now fully awake, his soulful, dark eyes alert, and with something other than cobwebs filling his head. He looked at me strangely. "Hey, I don't think that's a good idea. I don't know you. And Duncan wanted to get away from his shit here. I gotta go, man." He began to pull back and close the door.

Why were all these people so spooked?

"Hey, hey, hey," I said hurriedly, shoving a foot against the door to keep it from slamming into my face.

"This friend of ours, she died," I said in a serious tone. "That's why I want to get in touch with Duncan. To tell him." A lie, but at least it stopped him from shutting me out.

"Oh shit, man," he said, distress pouring over the comely blunt edges of his young face like syrup over ice cream. More eye rubbing. "That's brutal. Who is it? I can maybe call and tell him."

Oh no you don't. "The family would rather I do it in person. You know how it is."

He looked confused. "Uh, yeah, I guess. I suppose I could give you his number...but, like, don't give it to anyone else. Really, man, you have to promise. Duncan had some shit going on down here and he needs his privacy, y'know?"

I was desperate to ask what kind of shit he was talking about but I thought the question might be answered with a door splinter in my nose. "Sure, of course. Thanks Butterfly."

"Hold on."

As Butterfly stepped away from the door I saw why I wasn't getting an invitation inside. On a couch, barely covered by a sleeping bag, was an obviously naked man. And stumbling down the hall, like a barely conscious, newly born colt, probably off to the bathroom, was another. I smiled at Butterfly when he returned with a paper on which he'd written Duncan's phone number, and wished him a very good day.

Ah, to be a university student again.

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"Hi. Is this Duncan?" I was on the balcony off my office, standing at the railing watching a foursome of eighteen-year-olds playing a late afternoon game of Frisbee in the park.

"Who is this?" the man on the other end of the phone line answered back. Not very friendly for an ex-Saskatonian.

"My name is Russell Quant..."

"Are you the guy who visited Butterfly today?" Good news travels fast.

"Yes, that's right. Butterfly gave me your number."

"Who are you really? What do you want with me?"

"Moxie Banyon..."

"I know. She's dead. You didn't have to tell me that. I was at the funeral."

If only this guy would let me finish a sentence. "And Tanya Culinare..."

"What about Tanya?"

"Do you know she's dead too?" It wasn't the most empathetic way of breaking the news but he wasn't giving me a chance.

There was silence. Then a sob. "Fuck you, man! Fuck you! She is not! You're a fucking liar!"

"I'm sorry, Duncan. I didn't know if you knew."

"How...why...oh shit! Oh Shit! Did you kill 'er, man? Is that what this is about?"

Whoa! My heart skipped a beat and my cheeks flamed. I'd certainly accused others of murder in my day, but I'd never been the one being accused. It was not a pleasant experience, especially coming directly out of left field. What was this guy thinking? "Duncan, hold on a second..."

"Don't you ever call me again! Do you hear me! Leave me alone! I don't ever wanna see you or hear from you! Do you understand? Leave me alone! You just leave me the fuck alone!"

The line went dead.

I had the distinct feeling that Duncan Sikorsky had run away from Saskatoon to hide from something or someone. But why? And why did he immediately assume Tanya had been murdered-by me-when I told him she was dead? Had he suspected his good friend Moxie had been murdered too? Is that why he left Saskatoon? I had my work cut out for me. After consulting with my client via a phone call to his office in Seattle and arranging for Barbra and Brutus to sleep over at Errall's, I booked myself on an early morning flight to Vancouver. I had just hung up with the rental car company when Lilly called me from downstairs to tell me I had a visitor-Victoria Madison of V. Madison Steel. Interesting what seeps out of the woodwork if you just give it time.

I had Lilly show Tanya's former boss up to my office and after the social niceties were out of the way, Vicky and I sat down and regarded one another carefully across the cluttered surface of my desk.

"I'm surprised to see you," I told her with a hint of a smile. "Seeing as the last time we met, you had Bluto deliver your kind regards."

"I'm sorry about that," she said, readjusting her bulk in the chair. "But I knew you weren't who you said you were. I was just looking out for Tanya's best interests, that's all. You can understand that."

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I could. "Have you thought of something you think I should know, Ms. Madison?"

"Vicky. Call me Vicky, everyone does. And yeah, Mr. Quant, I do want to tell you something. But I'd wanted to check you out first, make sure you really were who you said you were. After all, you
did
lie to me about your identity when we first met."

Alright already, I lied to you. Detectives do that sometimes, get over it.

"You see it was me who told Tanya to call you in the first place."

A surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I don't know if she ever did it, but I'm the one who told Tanya to call you."

Tanya
had
called me. At 2:30 a.m. on the day she died. I just didn't know it was her at the time.

"You see, Tanya didn't have a lot of friends, but she and I, we got along. I was her friend, even though I was her boss. She reminded me of myself when I was her age. She was young, not too comfortable with her sexuality, having trouble keeping relationships going...with friends, family, lovers, anybody. When she first came to work for me she was a real closet-case, 'scared of her dyke shadow' I used to call it. I kinda figured she was a lesbian when I hired her, but we never really talked about it until we ran into each other at a women's dance some months later. I ended up taking her under my wing I guess, tried to guide her, help her. My girlfriend thought she was a hopeless cause, thought it was like me taking in a stray cat that was too far gone to ever housebreak, but I didn't think so. Eventually she started to do okay I think. I encouraged her to get more involved in the community, join a choir, do some sports, try to make some friends, become more social, that kind of thing.

"Then she met Moxie. Moxie was good for her. Tanya was quiet, withdrawn at times, too serious, Moxie was just the opposite. Then Moxie got kinda weird on her and left town."

"Kinda weird how?" I thought I knew the answer, but it never hurt to get substantiation.

"I don't really know. Maybe that's just my view of things. Tanya didn't like talking about it much. She just said Moxie was getting harassed or something like that and had to leave town for a while. That really upset Tanya. She kind of went into a tailspin after that, started having problems of her own. It was almost as if..." She stopped there with a look on her face as if she'd just thought of something.

"As if what, Vicky?"

She looked at me, her tiny cocoa eyes opened wide above her mounded cherry cheeks. "It was almost as if she thought she was experiencing the same harassment that drove Moxie away."