Stain of the Berry (14 page)

It was noon the day after my encounter with Dr. Dubrowski when I was sitting in a rental car outside Duncan Sikorsky's apartment: on Nicola Street in the city's West End. (I had gotten the address from his mother via Moxie and Missy Banyon's mother-mothers love me.) Judging by our less than affable telephone conversation from the day before, I was pretty sure Duncan wasn't about to invite me into his apartment for bubble tea, but he couldn't stay in there forever. After I arrived, I'd called his number using my cellphone and hung up when he answered, so I knew he was in there. Eventually he'd have to come out into the world, I'd confront him someplace where I couldn't be refused entry or thrown out. Until then, I was in for a couple of butt-numbing hours.

As with many who set up house there, the mouse in my game of cat and mouse lived the entirety of his life of concealment within a fourteen-block radius centered around the West End. He lived there, worked there, ate there, socialized there, grocery shopped there; he had no need for a car. And ultimately, neither did I. When Duncan finally came out of his apartment just after 3 p.m., he hoofed it down Nicola towards Davie. So out I got, took a deep whiff of the pleasant moist air and followed suit. Duncan was tall and 59 of 163

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lanky with bad posture and spiky dark hair styled into a faux hawk that needed a touch-up. He wore a pair of rugged looking, low rise, boot-cut Ansil jeans with a wallet chain hanging to mid-knee and a hoodie over a white T to keep himself warm on the chilly, overcast day. On Davie, he made a left and followed the street to Starbucks where he purchased a grande latte then, after crossing to the other side of the street, continued on, passing Burrard, Hornby, Howe, Granville, Seymour and stopping just before Richards Street where he disappeared through a doorway.

Once he was inside, I hurriedly made my way to the door and saw that it was an entrance to a small art gallery called Black Canvass. By the look of the product displayed in the single window facing the street, this wasn't a cheap print and reproduction place, but rather a serious gallery that handled a small number of original pieces by local artists-none of whose names I recognized-with one thing in common: they liked the colour black. Each of the three large pieces featured in the window had black as the predominant colour with only a few other tints at the dingy, near-black end of the pigment scale thrown in for contrast.

The subject matter was gothic, brooding, overwhelmingly morose: wan looking people in poses of regret, remorse or restriction by way of bondage; nonsensical scenes depicting wild swirls that reminded me of black holes and jagged, ragged buildings that looked like the kind of places where acts of crazed violence would regularly be committed. Each 36" x 48" canvas was given a name like
Vortex of Hell
or
Death
Dream.
I guess they'd look all right in the right kind of room-like maybe a dungeon or torture chamber.

Why don't you help yourself to some dip, it's right over there on the table next to the
Schism of Damnation.

Because of the movable wall on which the paintings were hung, it was impossible to see inside the store, but as I stood there, trying to appear as if I belonged, a group of six tourists pushed their way past me and into the gallery; I guess they were in the market for a portrait of hellish black death. I saw by a sign on the door that the gallery was open from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m., checked my watch and debated going in. Duncan had obviously taken the late shift and would be there until closing. Now that I knew where he was, I thought it best to give him time to do some work before I ruined his day. Besides, I was starving. I'd sat in that car for several hours without so much as a cup of coffee. So, after committing the gallery's address to memory, I headed back up Davie and then to Duncan's apartment building to retrieve my car. I left it in the parking lot of my Davie Street hotel, Opus. Feeling like I needed some exercise and fresh air, I took a quick jaunt down to English Bay Beach at the end of Davie for a glimpse of water (as a prairie boy must) then headed for the Oasis Pub for a snack and a beer. Everything handily within a fourteen-block radius.

I decided the best time to return to Black Canvass would be an hour or so before closing, with the hope that most customers would have cleared out by then and Duncan would be relaxed, readying to close up and head for home. The day had remained overcast and grey, and by 8 p.m. as I made my way down Davie toward the gallery, the streets were dim and gloomy but bustling with late-night shoppers and diners, revellers departing from Thursday night happy hours, coffee gangs high on gossip and caffeine and the always-present parade of street urchins. I wove my way amongst the maddening crowd and was just passing Marquis Wine Cellars when something caught my eye on the opposite side of the street.

There is very little that looks out of place on Davie Street, but a six-foot-five, dark Amazon with a nearly bald pate except for a stripe of blue dissecting it into two perfect halves, wearing a Janet Jackson circa
Rhythm Nation
uniform and massive gold hoop earrings-two in each ear and one in her nose-qualifies. She looked like...Grace Jones. Could it be the same woman Anthony had spied eyeing me up on Broadway Avenue in Saskatoon last week? Naaaaaaah. But could there be more than two (other than the original of course)? What the...?

I decided to test my theory. I made an about-face and headed back in the direction I'd just come: past Genesis Nutrition, the Suntanning Centre, The Dish restaurant, up towards Denny's. I crossed Thurlow before tossing a look over my shoulder and across the street to see if I'd grown a tail. Nothing... nothing...

then, oh yeah, there she was, her shiny, blue-striped head bobbing inches above all others. Her gleaming 60 of 163

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eyes were drilling a hole into my back, creating an easy entrance for the chill of apprehension that began creeping its way up my spine. Who was she? Had she followed me all the way from Saskatoon? What did she want with me? There was only one question I didn't need an answer to; I just knew it in my bones: This woman was dangerous.

I picked up my pace and whizzed by The Samurai restaurant, Gay Mart, Stepho's and Fresgo Inn and was bearing down on The Parkhill Hotel when I dared another look behind me. Was she gone? Had I been imagining things? Nope. There she was, making long-legged strides, crossing to my side of the street. So I did the same in reverse. Crossing at mid-street, I dodged intermittent traffic, and, once safely on the other side, headed directly into The Pump Jack, hoping the dark, crowded pub would offer me safe refuge. The place was hopping, the music loud, and the atmosphere, although going for leather-and-studs-rough-and-tough-ness, was more convivial and jovial with its preponderance of teddy bear daddies and the boys-who-love-'em having a laugh over a couple pints of brew and games of pool. I was perhaps a little out of place in my off-white khakis, purple T and a distressed look on my face, but I tried my best to blend in. I chose a spot about midway down the long, narrow room from where I could keep an eye on whoever came in through the front entrance.

“Can I buy you a beer?" a portly gentleman in a black leather vest that barely reached halfway around his hair}' torso asked me in a surprisingly refined voice.

"Ah shit," I answered to his bewildered, mustached face.

"Huh?"

Behind his bulk I'd caught sight of Grace. She'd just stepped into the place and her beady, bright eyes were covering the crowd with the intensity of laser beams. She wasn't giving up easily. I pushed my face into that of my leather-clad gnome admirer and asked, "Is there a back way out of this place?" Certainly a place like this would know the importance of a handy back door.

"Sure, sweetheart, but don't you want a drink first?" Was I moving too fast for him?

"I gotta take a rain check on the drink," I told him in some haste. "Right now, I really gotta get out of here."

Nobody loves drama more than a guy in a gay bar. Without further prompting, my new best friend took my hand and together we scrambled away under the cover of the carousing crowd toward the rear of the bar. With a sure-footedness that belied his ungainly shape and size, the man led me through a maze of people and corridors until we came to a door with an exit sign above it. Hallelujah. We burst through it as if we'd just been released from prison...or a Billy Graham crusade. "What's your name?" I asked my companion.

"Rufus."

I gave Rufus a big slurpy one on the lips and took off like a jackrabbit. Eventually I came to a street called Broughton. I wasn't familiar with it but I knew it was heading away from Davie, which was just what I wanted, and began hoofing it. After some minutes I reached Robson. If anything, I knew that Robson Street, with its eclectic mix of retailers to meet the varying tastes of everyone from tacky tourist to serious shopper, would be even more crowded than Davie and easier to get lost on if Ms. Tall Thang was still on to me. I turned right onto Robson and allowed myself to be swallowed whole by the swarms of people, like a minnow caught in a school of spawning salmon. I kept going, regularly checking my back.

The crowd thinned the further I got until eventually, I reached Richards, the cross street for Black Canvass. Only then, not having seen my tracker since the Pump Jack, did I deem it safe to return to Davie.

I'd spent a lot of time eluding Grace Jones and it was nearing 9 p.m.-closing time for the gallery-and getting dark out when I popped my head into Black Canvass, setting off a door chime. The entire gallery was no bigger than my hotel room (not big). The walls were roughed up plaster painted the colour of 61 of 163

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dirt-all the better to show off the sunless, murky canvases, hanging like giant sleeping bats from wires attached to the dark grey ceiling. Near the rear of the store was an unmanned, waist-high counter and behind it a curtained doorway that likely led to a back area used for storage, bathroom and probably not much else. The room was heavy with silence, no radio or street sounds, and the air smelled vaguely of curry and marijuana. After a brief wait, the heavy fabric at the doorway parted and out stepped Duncan Sikorsky, chewing on something that he was trying to swallow at the same time.

"Hi. How are you today?" he mouthed the words, managing not even a single expression across his long, narrow, almost-handsome face.

I would have loved to play the polite customer for a while but that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I'd already wasted too much time allowing him his work day and then playing hide-and-seek with Matilda the Hun. "Duncan, I'm Russell Quant. We talked on the phone yesterday."

I saw the thin face stiffen and his fetching dark eyes grow immediately wary under a furrowed brow. I saw now that he had a nose ring and a silver stud implanted below his bottom lip. It looked good on him.

The fear did not.

"Wh.. .why are you here?" he stammered, taking a step back toward the curtain. "What do you want?"

He was terrified. What on earth happened to this guy to make him so scared? Did he still think I was somehow responsible for Tanya's death? I wondered if there was a back door and if he was frightened enough to use it, leaving me alone with all these paintings-of-the-damned. What was he so terrified of?

Little ol' me? Was I
his
boogeyman?

"I just want to talk to you. About Tanya."

"She's dead for real, isn't she?"

I nodded. "I'm afraid so."

His face was crumbling and his eyes were moist when he uttered the word, "You?"

"Me?" Me what? "Duncan, I-"

"Did you kill her?"

Aw man, jeepers. "No, of course not," I told him in a soft un-murderer type voice. "She committed suicide. Last week. I'm a private investigator hired by her family to find out why."

This seemed to calm him some, but not much. He stopped edging backwards and his shoulders lost some of their rigidity. "Suicide? Suicide?" he repeated more to himself than me. He looked at me, pleadingly. "Are you sure? Are you sure it was suicide?"

I hesitated. That was all he needed.

"You're not, are you? That's why the family hired you. They don't think so either, do they? It wasn't an accident, not Tanya. Moxie's death was no accident either."

"Duncan, if you can calm down a bit and tell me what's going on, maybe I can help. What do you think happened to Tanya and Moxie? Why are you so scared?"

The young man seemed to gain resolve, some heretofore hidden resource of strength, as he straightened up to his full height, passed by me to the front door and turned the lock. He returned to his original spot behind the counter and said, "I'll show you why."

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Once-stunning works of art had become works of horror. Duncan had led me into the back room behind the curtain where indeed the gallery stored a small inventory of unhung pieces: old pieces from a recent installation not yet retrieved by the artists, sold pieces not yet picked up by the purchasers and new pieces waiting for wall space. Amongst them, in the dim, murky confines of the rear storage room were three more. Three vandalized, disfigured, destroyed pieces. But there was nothing random about the mutilation.

It was planned. It was grotesque. It was meant to send a message.

These canvases, in sharp contrast to the pieces currently on display, were once joyful representations of children picking berries on beautiful, sun-dappled summer days. Now each bore a symbol corroded onto its ruined surface by splashes of turpentine or low-grade acid. The first was brandished with a
B,
the next two each with an O.

Oh hell. The same cryptic message Tanya and Moxie received. Right before they died.