Aloha, Candy Hearts (22 page)

Raising my eyebrows at Joanne, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Simon Durhuaghe? Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world. He’s a fu…he’s a real genius. Can I smoke in here?”

I shot her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glower.

“Besides, I thought it would do Mom good to have a night out on the town. It’s so fu…it’s so dull sitting around doing nothing on that farm every day. You really should get her to go out more. See,”

she said, nodding her head in the direction of our mother, who had begun a conversation about beets with the young man sitting next to her. “She loves this. She loves meeting new people.”

“She goes out,” I told my sister, already feeling a little peeved with her for making general pronouncements about Mom’s well-being. She was acting like Saint Joanne, come to meet the needs of the desperately wanting. In a few days she’d have disappeared in a puff of smoke, and then who would be left to take Mom to readings? Me, that’s who. Not her. Me. Not that I wouldn’t take Mom to readings, if that’s what she really wanted to do.

“Vhat kind book ees dis?” Mom, finished with her beet story, leaned over to ask us.

“This one is called Down this Rutted Road,” Joanne informed her. “It’s a multigenerational study of a family who pass through life watching their male offspring suffer an ever worsening mental deficiency, yet grow from a developing ability to love those who DD6AA2AB8

152

41

-B193

-AD32

-4CDB

-3503D88E1

Anthony Bidulka

care for them. It’s an exceptional read. You should try it, Mom.”

“Oh, vell, I don’t know…”

“Come on,” Joanne said, grabbing Mom’s arm. “I’ll take you to the bathroom before the reading starts. And while you’re in the can, I’ll get you a copy. He’ll even sign it for you after.”

“Oh, vell,” Mom uttered, not quite sure what to say to that. “I should go to the batroom.”

“Russ, you’ll watch our seats, okay? They’re like vultures around here. Guard them with your life.”

And off they went.

The man who’d heard all about beets from my mother gave me an empathetic smile. I smiled at him and sat back to wait for whatever would come next.

After spending a full day researching the writer on the Internet, re-reading the telling entries in his diary, and grazing through the two Durhuaghe novels I had on hand, The Archbishop’s Son and Coming by It Easy, I fancied myself somewhat of a Durhuaghe specialist. I hoped there’d be a quiz at the end of the reading that night. At the least, there would surely be a question and answer session. Of course, I had questions the author probably didn’t want to answer.

Before leaving the house, I’d remembered to adjust the suspect list I’d come up with earlier. I scratched off Sherry Klingskill’s name and replaced it with Sherry Fisher. Below that, I added another name: Cantor Fisher, and in brackets I noted: (Mayor of Saskatoon).

Yup, Simon Durhuaghe’s west side girl had indeed landed herself an important east side guy, one who would one day become mayor of our fine city. Cantor Fisher ’s obvious wealth had come from the profits of a family dynasty that included a province-wide string of drugstores, a “homemade” burger franchise, and all the wildly successful subsidiary business ventures that went along with them. Probably bored with counting money, he had entered politics, first as a city councillor, then, following an unexpected landslide three years ago, becoming the top guy at City Hall.

There’d been nothing particularly wrong with the incumbent candidate. He was tried and true, free of controversy, and ultimately a DD6AA2AB8

153

41

-B193

-AD32

-4CDB

-3503D88E1

Aloha, Candy Hearts

big snooze. He’d simply been around a term too long. Pundits claimed the people were bored. They were looking for a younger, dynamic leader to match the good times forecast for the city and province as a whole. Cantor Fisher fit the bill.

A good match for her husband’s pizzazz, Sherry Fisher had been the most visible and verbal mayoral candidate’s wife in recent memory. The public seemed to respond well to her. She was gregarious and devoted to good causes, particularly “helping the children.” She added an extra bit of sparkle to a normally dowdy public office. Cantor and Sherry Fisher were touted as a breath of fresh air.

I think I voted for the other guy.

As I waited for my sister and mother to return, and fended off a couple of aggressive would-be chair squatters, I scoured the room for any sign of the mayor ’s glamorous wife. Wouldn’t that be a corker? But of course, she was nowhere to be seen. What I did spot, however, were several cliques of giggly young women, the type you’d expect to see offstage at a rock concert, waiting to throw their panties at someone like that guy from Guns N’ Roses.

What were they doing here? Durhuaghe must really be some kind of hound dog to still attract such young groupies. How did he do it?

According to Durhuaghe’s diary, the affair with Sherry hadn’t lasted all that long, ending sometime before her twentieth birth-day. (Perhaps she’d gotten a little too long in the tooth for him?) In my online research, I was surprised to find not even a single mention or hint of the affair with Sherry, nor, for that matter, with any other girl, teenaged, engaged or otherwise. By all accounts, the Durhuaghes were a long-loving, devoted couple. Then again, this was the world of CanLit, not Hollywood. The Star Phoenix and Globe & Mail weren’t competing with Perez Hilton for juicy gossip.

Eventually Joanne and Mom came back, my mother the proud (ish) owner of a brand new Simon Durhuaghe novel. I suspected she’d use it as a doorstop. At ten minutes after eight, the crowd suddenly grew hushed. The bookstore events coordinator, an attractive young woman with a pixie face behind serious eyewear, stepped behind a microphone set up in the far corner of the room.

DD6AA2AB8

154

41

-B193

-AD32

-4CDB

-3503D88E1

Anthony Bidulka

She looked a bit nervous and awed by the size of the crowd. After a few fawning minutes—you’d swear she was in the presence of a deity—she invited the man of the hour to the mic to a thrush of rousing applause. Even my mother clapped as if Durhuaghe was her long-lost son.

At seventy-one, Durhuaghe was still a mighty handsome and virile looking man. He was tall, with a bit of a stoop—either a mark of age or the sign of someone who spends too many hours hunched over a computer—and rangy looking. On his broad, bony frame he wore a simple navy jacket over a white shirt, and a pair of well-worn jeans. His hair was a shock of unkempt silver, longish, parted on the side. He had a habit of continually pushing aside stray locks that regularly fell over his brow. His eyes were such a startling grey, I could see them from as far away as I was.

Although he smiled at the audience, the eyes did not follow suit, and his unique laugh, low and throaty with a quivering cadence, was as irregular as its appearance.

When the man finally began to speak, you could have heard a sequin drop. They were eating him up. For the first fifteen minutes, all he did was talk. Not even necessarily about the new novel, but rather random experiences he’d had as an author over the past fifty years. It was interesting stuff. Eventually, he did turn to his latest book. He opened it to a pre-planned page and began. His voice projected well in the large room, his enunciation was clear and precise. He was quite obviously a practiced reader. A professional at work.

Twenty minutes later, Durhuaghe softly closed his book. He gazed at the assembled fans, some smiling, some wiping away tears, as they applauded his undisputed talent. I saw on his face that this was a man used to the admiration of others. Mom clapped too, but a little less enthusiastically than before. In his reading, he’d made a few explicitly sexual references that would not have gone over too well with her.

It was after ten by the time I, wanting to be the last, made it to the front of the book signing line. Joanne, using the “my mother DD6AA2AB8

155

41

-B193

-AD32

-4CDB

-3503D88E1

Aloha, Candy Hearts

can’t stand too long” bit, got through much quicker, then took Mom home. As I stepped forward and handed Durhuaghe my book, I had to give the guy credit. He had patiently signed books and chatted with his readers for over an hour, yet I noticed no perceptible flagging of energy or willingness.

“I really enjoyed your reading,” I told him truthfully. His was the kind of book I could listen to. Read the whole thing? I wasn’t sure about that.

“Thank you. And to whom shall I make this out?” he asked politely as he opened the book to the title page.

“Russell Quant, Private Detective,” I said, watching for his reaction.

“Well,” he responded with a faint smile, “that’s quite a title you have there.” And that was it. He began signing the book as I’d requested.

“Mr. Durhuaghe, I know it’s been a long evening for you, but I wonder if I might have a word with you in private about a case I’m on.”

Now he stopped signing. He looked up at me with those cool, eagle eyes. “Oh? What type of case?”

“Murder,” I said, going for shock. I wanted this guy’s attention.

“Well,” he said, once more lowering pen to paper, preparing to continue with his signature. “That’s very interesting. But I don’t know anything about murder. I write literary books, Mr. Quant, not murder mysteries,” he informed me with barely camouflaged disdain for the genre.

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” I quickly clarified. “This is about a real murder. One that happened quite recently, in Saskatoon. One that you may be involved in. Indirectly of course.” I added the last with a cheap smile.

He lay down his pen and sat back in his chair. “Oh, and how is that? You’ve certainly piqued my interest now. Who was it that was murdered?”

“Walter Angel. He was murdered at the Saskatoon airport.”

His face remained the same. I could detect no telltale sign of recognition. Or guilt. Then again, I didn’t know Mr. Durhuaghe DD6AA2AB8

156

41

-B193

-AD32

-4CDB

-3503D88E1

Anthony Bidulka

too well yet.

“I’ve only recently returned to the city,” he said. “But, now that you mention it, I think I may have seen something on that in the papers.”

He was right. The Star Phoenix had been running daily stories, sometimes more than one. The paper recounted the shocking killing at the airport, complete with photos of the murder scene, and printed unrevealing statements from the Saskatoon Police Service spokesperson, airport officials, and anyone else who cared to offer an opinion.

“I fail to see, however, why you would think that I’m somehow involved, indirectly or otherwise.”

“How about if I buy you a coffee and fill you in?” It was a little awkward standing there, him sitting under a spotlight at a table covered with books. There wasn’t anyone left behind me in the line, but several fans were milling about the room, probably hoping for a chance to speak with their favourite author in private.

Maybe they wanted to pitch book ideas, or get his opinion on a manuscript they’d written. I had no idea if that sort of thing really happened to writers. But from what I could see, Durhuaghe certainly had some hangers-on. A few I’d classify as definite literary groupie types, and of course there was the contingent of young women I’d noticed earlier.

“How about you fill me in right here and now.” His voice sounded mocking, then took on a steelier tone. “As you said, it’s been a long night.”

It wasn’t ideal, but looked to be the best I was going to get. So I went for it.

“At the time of his murder, Walter Angel had something in his possession that led to information about your past.” He either already knew about the treasure map, or if not, I didn’t intend to tell him. “This information, Mr. Durhuaghe, was the kind I suspect you might not want brought to the public’s attention.”

Durhuaghe stood to his mighty height and gave a dismissive wave with his hand. “Oh who cares about any of that? The past is past. It’s dreary. It’s old news and it’s tired news. There’s nothing worse.” He began to pack up his things.

DD6AA2AB8

157

41

-B193

-AD32

-4CDB

-3503D88E1

Aloha, Candy Hearts

“Do you know the specific information I’m referring to?”

He released a practiced chuckle. “Of course not. I’ve done more stupid things in my life, Mr. Quant, than you could ever dream up of. And I forget most of them quicker than I do them.

Now, if that’s everything…?”

“This is about Sherry Klingskill, now Sherry Fisher, the mayor ’s wife? About the ‘time’ you spent together when she was much younger.” I’m nothing if not tactful. Well, sometimes.

The man’s face changed. His eyes grew even colder and the skin at his jowls drew tight as he clenched his jaw. He leaned into me and placed a long finger on my chest. “Rumour and innuendo are dangerous things, Mr. Quant. And be they fact or fiction, you’re talking about a time long ago, long over, long forgotten.

You’d be wise to forget it too.” He pulled back. “I fully admit I’ve done many foolish things in my life. But I’ve nothing to hide. From you or from anyone else. Now, young man, I think I’ve put on a good show tonight. I’ve earned a glass of scotch and an embrace from my loving wife, who is waiting for me at home. So I know you’ll understand if I leave you now to claim my reward.”

And with that, he stalked off, his shoulders noticeably more stooped than at the start of the evening.

I looked down at the book he’d been signing for me. He’d written: For Russell Quant, Private Detective. But no signature. Now I’d have to buy the damn thing.

After shelling out $34.95, I headed for the parking lot. Even though I’d left the top down, I still locked the Mazda’s doors, which also activates the car ’s security system. I was just about to unlock the driver ’s side door when I heard a “Hey, you!” behind me. I turned and found a tough looking woman, in her mid forties, approaching me.