Stain of the Berry (2 page)
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BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...
"Should I call the police? Tell me exactly what's happening." I felt like a 911 operator. "Is there someone there with you right now?"
And then-dial tone.
It was turning out to be one of those mythical Saskatchewan summers. The days long and hot and dry, often punctuated by nameless winds born of the same capricious airstreams that give rise to the gentle Mediterranean zephyr, the dust-laden Saharan sirocco, the insistent French mistral, the dry Egyptian khamsin, the Rocky Mountain chinook and the indefatigable African harmattan.
Our summer nights come late on a rising moon of many colours. And when it's hot enough and conditions are exactly right, careless skies unleash a fury so powerful it's as if the whole world is under the unpredictable control of Seth, the ancient Egyptian god of storms. These are wild, crazy storms that blow like hurricanes across the prairies, fracture the sky with kilometre-long, jagged fingers of lightning and deposit enough water to float an ark. After minutes or hours-one can never be sure which-the storm passes, leaving behind rainbows so perfect they might have been drawn by a child, fields of diamonds born of water droplets, and the sweet, sweet aromas of everything that is fresh and new.
Yet as much as prairie folk pray for rain to bolster crops (whether you're a farmer or not does not really matter), they also need hot and dry conditions to turn thin green stalks into fat golden ones. So thankfully, in between these glorious bursts of wet, most of our Saskatchewan summer days are bone dry. And as dry as the weather was, so too was my business.
My name is Russell Quant. A few years back I decided to leave my stable, scheduled, regular-cheque-every-month job as a police constable for the Canadian prairie city of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and hang my shingle as a private detective. Saskatoon's population is somewhere over the 200,000 mark and growing, with a large network of towns, villages and farming communities surrounding it. So, there's stuff for a detective to do, just not always. And not always interesting.
My cases have run the gamut from The Case of the Stolen Perogy Recipe to murder-with emphasis on the perogy side of the scale. And lately, business had been bad. My resume' of recent cases was looking pretty sparse and my bank account even more so. I had reached a point where I'd begun to think I'd never work again and would have to sell the family jewels-which consist of a green-tinged, silver ID bracelet from my first high school boyfriend (well, I pretended he was my boyfriend) and a pair of cufflinks (one broken) that had belonged to my late father but which he'd never used.
You see, every year, sometime in June, the population of Saskatchewan slips into a comatose state of inactivity that lasts for the duration of our short but sultry summer months. People go to lakes. They golf.
They camp. They have celebratory barbecues for no apparent reason. They eat copious amounts of tiger-tiger and grape-flavoured ice-cream. They attend a plethora of summertime festivals and go for long walks. They do just about anything but work. And apparently, troublemakers-the people who keep me in business-have the same routine. But come September, with the first whiff of cooler evening air, the populace grudgingly slough off their sloppy sandals and loose-fitting shorts and slip on their most rigorous dress shoes and slick business suits, at the ready for action. Kids are back in school. University hallways are packed. Committees are formed. Boards return from hiatus. Decisions are made. Hobbies are reborn.
Business is done and, thankfully, evil-doers get back to doing evil. I could hardly wait. Until then, I was relegated to long mornings at home before schlepping to work to stare at the phone, rearrange files and hope for something interesting in the mail, like a flyer for two-for-one geranium plants at my favourite greenhouse.
My office is on Spadina Crescent, just out of downtown, in an old character house that used to be called the Professional Womyn's Centre. Several years ago a young lawyer, Errall Strane, purchased the property, did some remodelling and in deference to a piece of history, renamed it the PWC Building. After renovations, PWC was left with four office spaces. Errall runs her law practice out of the largest suite on 10 of 163
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the main floor, the balance of which is rented to Beverly Chaney, a psychiatrist. Two smaller offices on the second floor belong to Alberta Lougheed, a psychic, and me. Mine is the smallest, but the only one with a balcony and a view that more than makes up for its size. From the small deck I can gaze across Spadina Crescent at beautiful Riverside Park and over to the South Saskatchewan River.
Because of the disturbing phone call, which had kept me tossing and turning the rest of the night, it was close to 11 a.m., later than usual (really) when I pulled into the gravel lot behind PWC. I hustled up the metal staircase that hugs the rear of the building and takes me directly to the second floor. I think at one time it was meant to be a fire escape, but now the ancient railings are so unstable I'm the only one who dares to use it. Stepping indoors, I heard the unexpected; it was the sound of...what was that noise? It sounded distantly familiar. It was activity-maybe even bustle? I peered over the banister of the stairs that lead down to the main floor. The PWC reception area is dominated by a massive circular desk which divides the space in two: a waiting area for Errall's clients to the right and one to the left for all the rest of our clients. The spot of honour behind the desk is home to our ever-cheerful group receptionist, Lilly. As I looked down, all appeared as usual, except for the fact that there were a number of people milling about, sitting in chairs, drinking coffee, chatting with Lilly. Who were these people? They appeared to be...clients. Some were for Errall (these were easily distinguishable by their serious manners and clothes to match). The others were for Beverly and...could it be...some for Alberta too? I glanced at Alberta's office door, decked out with a never-before-seen, handwritten sign that said in quite serious-looking print: Spirits At Work-Do Not Disturb!!! This Means You!
Holy cow. Even Alberta was busier than I was. Could it be that it was just me suffering from summer doldrums? I looked down at my business attire, which over the past few weeks of heat wave and inactivity had slowly but surely deteriorated to consist solely of wrinkled khaki shorts, one of my collection of diva concert Ts (Cher, Shania, Whitney) and a pair of flip-flops that had seen better days. I backed away from the banister as if beyond it was the Twilight Zone and scooted into my office shutting the door soundly behind me.
Shit. This didn't feel good. Everyone else was busy. What was wrong with me? My last paying client had been Bohdan Mazurchewich who paid me less than four hundred bucks two week; ago to find out what his wife did while he was out of town on business. Turns out she ordered-in, rented Meg Ryan movies, drank daiquiris and banana milkshakes, hung with girlfriends, laughed a lot and in general enjoyed life. Something she apparently didn't do while Mr. Mazurchewich was at home. This was definitely information he needed to know. I should have charged him more.
I selected a Diet Pepsi out of the mini bar fridge that holds up one end of my desk and took a seat, pulling my Daytimer front and centre to study its contents. What was on my schedule? Lunch today with Anthony. Next week was Darrell and Nick's seventh anniversary-I had to remember to send a card-and Brutus was due for a dental exam at the end of August. Today was July fifteenth. I sipped my drink and stared at the phone.
Fringe Festivals, with their culturally diverse, mind challenging-and sometimes boggling-array of live theatre and off-the-wall entertainment, occur annually in cities across the continent, and Saskatoon's version is reputedly one of the best, maybe not for its size, but certainly for its heart and energy.
Everything takes place in a handful of venues and blocks in the historically rich Broadway/Nutana area of the city, and it was along these busker-lined, poster-plastered, sun-drenched streets that I meandered until it was time to meet Anthony for a late lunch.
Owner of several high-end menswear stores carrying his surname (with a small "g") gatt, Anthony is a man of indeterminate age (far beyond his forties and maybe even his fifties?), immeasurable means (lots of dough), and unquestionable breeding (speaks with a smooth English-accented flourish), all topped off with a dashing Robert Redford/Jay Gatsby handsomeness. He and his partner, Jared Lowe, are in the vanguard of the Saskatoon society set. Anthony is wise in the ways of the world, gay and straight, and 11 of 163
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determined to make me so as well, taking his role as my friend/instructor/occasional pain-in-the-ass very seriously. If I didn't love him so much, I'd hate him.
"You cannot be serious," Anthony said a little too loudly as he strode towards me wearing exquisitely tailored pants just this side of white, a shirt of orange and pink that defied the odds by looking just right on him, and a pair of white leather shoes that were making a comeback that week.
I looked at him questioningly, pretending I didn't know what he was talking about when of course I did.
Anthony can be a bit of a snob and as much as he tries to mentor me, insisting that I hold wineglasses properly by their stem and keep my elbows moisturized, I also have a role to play in his life in teaching him how to loosen up and get a little down and dirty.
"You really don't expect me to eat meat that's been marinating in sun and flies since six a.m. off a stick, do you?" He'd obviously caught sight of some of the wares being offered by food vendors who were lining the streets, selling everything from corn on the cob to sushi to deep-fried Mars bars. "And without a seat or a glass of wine to choke it all down with? Barbarous!"
I nudged him forward with my right arm, me in my messy flip-flops and him clip-clopping in his fancy shoes next to me. "Anthony, you haven't even given it a try. This is what you do at the Fringe."
"No, this is what you do if you live in a Third World country and have vultures eating carrion in your backyard. Seeing as that fate has yet to befall us, I have a better idea."
"You said I could pick the restaurant."
He shot me a disgusted look above the rim of his Maui Jims.
"That is correct. And, even without consulting my Oxford, I can tell you that the definition of restaurant includes tables and chairs, handsome servers, menus listing outrageous prices and suggestions for jaunty aperitifs and..."
"Okay, okay, I give up." I knew my friend well enough to have mentally given up five minutes before.
"Suspecting your treachery, I took the liberty of calling ahead," he told me as he ably maneuvered me by the elbow across the street toward one of his favourite local dining establishments.
In the bustling game of restaurant roulette, Calories is one of Saskatoon's better established players.
And in a city-apparently one of many-that purports to have more restaurants per capita than any other in North America, its chances of continued survival and thriving success are surprisingly good. For whereas the city is rife with Asian, Greek and Italian (i.e. pizza) establishments, Calories is one of only a handful of Saskatoon restaurants that offers a truly gourmet dining experience and one of considerably less than half a handful that are listed as "French" in the Saskatoon phonebook. From a menu pasted behind a window near the front entrance, I could see that today's offerings included a vegetarian special of herb ragout in a Taleggio cream sauce; sautéed frog legs and asparagus tips
persillade
with a tapenade drizzle and raw arugula; along with a towering blah-blah-blah of blah-blah-blah infused with blah-blah-blah that sounded absolutely irresistible. Not a pepperoni, avgolemeno soup or bowl of special fried rice in sight.
Anthony yammered on. "...And I was able to secure one of the outdoor tables so we both can have our way. You can still be out in nature amongst the odours of beef jerky and unchanged infants while I get to keep my nose over a glass of chilled rose. How's that?" We pulled up to a scant collection of blue, bistro-style, metal tables pressed tightly against the restaurant's facade and roped off from the maddening crowd by a row of black metal poles with chain strung between them. Indeed one of the tables had a Reserved sign on it. A pretty girl with a sweating pitcher of cold water swooped down and removed it as soon as she caught sight of Anthony.
We sat down; Anthony discussed the menu with our cute, shaved-headed server, consulted me and then 12 of 163
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ordered.
"So tell me what's been going on," Anthony asked with knowing eyes and concern in his voice. "You strike me as a bit melancholy."
"Nah, I just really wanted some of that meat on a stick," I answered back in full smart-ass mode.
"It's Sereena."
I looked away, making a show of being busy drinking my water and watching a fire-eater perform on the median. Sereena is my neighbour-that is she
was
my neighbour until she disappeared last year...or rather, never came back from a Mediterranean cruise. Her house went up for sale (still was) and I've not heard from her since. I don't know why I was so surprised. Sereena Orion Smith has always been an enigma to me and to most people. When people ask me about her, I tell them to listen to that song from the early eighties, "I've Never Been to Me" by Charlene. Like the gal in that song, I have no doubt that indeed Sereena has been "undressed by kings...and seen some things that a woman ain't s'posed to see."
That is the easy answer, the answer I give because really, despite all the time we've spent together, she remains elusive, shrouded in mystery parts of her forever unknowable to me. Yet, I
do
know her; I feel an undeniable and intimate connection with her. The question for me isn't "Who is Sereena Orion Smith?" but rather "Who
was
Sereena Orion Smith?". There is something guarded about her, as if protecting a past she never wants fully revealed. Still, there were times she'd tossed about names of places she'd been and people she'd known, adventures she'd had, not to gloat or boast, but in loving memory of a life lived well (and perhaps a bit raunchily). Yet somehow, the reality of what she was before she came into our lives remains illusory, like some fantasy story that is never told the same way twice.