Amuse Bouche (14 page)

She shook her head and grimaced until her crimson mouth looked like a flattened figure eight. "I don't think I'd know about those type of people, if you know what I mean."

I nodded and began to rise.

"There is one girl, come to think of it. He 153

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mentions her fairly often. Colleen something.

Last name sounded Presbyterian or Anglican or something. You know the kind of name I mean?

Maybe English? I know Mama and Papa hoped she was more than just a friend, even though she isn't Catholic and is quite bossy. Tom brought her to a few of our family dinners. Last time we saw her I think was for my own birthday party last year. We had a barbecue. And food like you wouldn't believe! 1 think Mama was measuring this girl up for a wedding dress.

Tom is getting to the age where he needs to marry, if you know what I mean? Anyway, that's all I know. Colleen something. She was nice, I suppose—but bossy. I wonder if she knew?"

"If she knew...?"

She looked at me as if I might be simple-minded. "You know. About Tom and his type.

That may have been what broke them up. I never saw her again after my birthday party."

I forced a smile and got to my feet. "Thank you for your time. I appreciate your help. This is my card. If you trunk of anything else that might be useful or if you or your parents hear from Tom, I would really appreciate it if you would call me."

She looked at me a little suspiciously. I think it was beginning to dawn on her that I might be 154

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on Chavell's "side" and possibly one of his "type." "We'll see," she said.

Back in my car 1 pulled out the lists and looked for the name Colleen. There was a Colleen Arber on both. Looked promising. I dug around behind the driver's seat and found the City of Saskatoon phone book I always kept in the car just for this purpose. I had reasons to be distrusting of directory assistance. But that's another story. I activated my cellphone and called the number I found listed next to Arber C.

"Hello." A woman's voice.

"I'm calling for Colleen Arber."

"I'm sorry, Colleen's at work. Can I pass her a message?"

Darn! "Actually 1 was hoping to talk directly to Colleen."

"Well, she's usually home by six. You could try back then."

I was hoping for something more. "You wouldn't have her work number?"

The woman hesitated then asked, "May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Russell Quant. I'm a private investigator and a friend of Harold Chavell's."

Bit of a lie there, but I thought it might be helpful. "I'm trying to track down Tom Osborn."

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"I knew it!"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know Tom didn't show up for the wedding, right?"

"Yes. That's why I'm looking for him. No one seems to have heard from him since."

"Exactly. Colleen and I are getting worried.

Harold told us Tom went to France without him, but that just doesn't seem right. He wouldn't just leave without calling. Unless something was very wrong."

I was beginning to think the woman on the phone would be just as informative as Colleen Arber. "Are you a good friend of Tom's?"

"Yeah, sure. But Tom and Colleen go way back. They are best friends. I'm sure she'd want to talk to you about this. She works at Dutch Growers. You can find her there."

I thanked the woman and set out to find Colleen Arber.

Dutch Growers is a massive greenhouse and nursery easily recognizable by the full-size, functional windmill, the base of which is the front entrance of the retail area. I parked in a nearly empty parking lot. October is definitely low season. Outdoor gardeners have already harvested their vegetables and prepared 156

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shrubs and flowerbeds for winter and declared themselves retired until spring. As soon as I stepped into the large, sunny building the first thing I noticed was the smell of fresh mint, dill and tulip bulbs. It's always spring in Dutch Growers land no matter what time of year it is outside. I took a grateful whiff and proceeded into the store.

As I passed through the craft area I realized 1 had not only forgotten to ask the woman on the phone her name, but also how to recognize Colleen. 1 wasn't winning any awards as a detective. I blamed it on jet lag. I dragged myself away from a beckoning display of clay pots after promising myself to return at a later date and proceeded to the rear of the store where the indoor greenery was housed.

"You must be Russell Grant," a sinewy, brown-haired woman with sharp features said to me from behind a thick stemmed philoden-dron.

I rounded the overgrown houseplant and held out my palm. "Quant, Russell Quant."

She pulled o f f a glove and shook my hand with a strong grip. Her palm was tough as leather and her skin a tanned hide. "Sorry, I guess Norma got that wrong."

Apparently Norma had called ahead and told Colleen to watch out for me. "That's okay."

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"I want those over by the figs, Kristie!" She yelled over my shoulder, startling me. "They'll drop all their leaves before supper if you let them stay there. Come on, you guys! You know better."

I looked over my shoulder at a group of worker ants following Colleen's bellowed instructions.

"Sorry about that," she said, her intense eyes focused once again on me. "This isn't the perfect time to talk. We're rearranging the greenhouse and starting to move some of the outdoor plants today. It's gotten a lot colder a lot quick-er than we'd expected. I wouldn't even take the time but Norma said it was about Tom. I want to help if 1 can."

"Yes, thanks. I was wondering if you could tell me a little about Tom, how you know him and what you know of his relationship with Harold Chavell."

Every so often her eyes would dart away to assess the activity of her minions but she seemed intent on answering my questions.

"Tom and I have been friends since our club-bing days in the eighties." I wasn't sure what that meant but I let her continue. She was either talking about going to nightclubs or else a prim-itive form of hunting. "We've been through everything together. New relationships, good 158

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relationships, broken relationships, new friends, old friends, dying friends, career ups and downs, family problems, you name it. We made it through together. Tom is a great guy, Mr. Quant. 1 think you would like him.

Everyone does. He's not only cute as a button, but he is genuinely nice and sincere. He really cares about his friends. And he is smart. He's one of the few gay men I know who put his dick aside long enough to make something of himself. He went to university and then started
QW

and now it's a big success. Despite all that, Tom has no ego whatsoever. He's just a regular guy.

That's why I love him so much."

Well, you couldn't ask for a more glowing review than that. "What about Harold Chavell.

What do you think about him and their relationship?"

She smiled. It was amazing how it softened her craggy face. All of a sudden I had a much different opinion of this woman. Mostly I was less afraid of her. But the smile disappeared as quickly as it had developed when she caught the eye of another worker and silently but force-fully made a hand signal that communicated something I couldn't decipher. This woman could train recruits at an army base.

"To tell you the truth, at first I wasn't too excited about the whole thing. It took me a Amuse Bouche

while to warm up to Harold. He's so different from Tom. More standoffish. And inflexible.

And rigid. Or at least that's how he seemed at first But, I suppose, someone like him doesn't get to where he is by being a pushover. After they were together about a year, I began to realize that maybe I'd read the man wrong and tried to make more of an effort to get to know him. Once we both let down our guards, I really came to understand and respect him. You might even say I like him. They have a good relationship. I just can't understand what could have made Tom take off like that. And to not even call me! It doesn't make any sense, Mr.

Quant. I'm glad Harold hired you. I know there is something wrong. I can feel it."

"So if something had happened to make Tom change his mind about getting married, you think he would have told you about it?"

"I don't kid myself that Tom tells me absolutely everything just because we're best friends. But something like that? Yeah, I think he would have told me."

"When was the last time you saw Tom?"

"The night before the wedding. There was a small get-together for friends at Harold's house.

A rehearsal party, I guess it was." She gave me a look. "Were you there?"

I had told Norma I was a friend. Lies always 160

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catch up to you. But in my job you had to take the chance and run until they did. "No, no I wasn't." Not very convincing.

"I was Tom's designated driver that night.

He didn't drink much but I drove him back to the apartment anyway. It was kind of a joke, making Tom and Harold spend the night apart.

It was an early night. We stopped at Earl's Lounge on the way for one last singles drink and then 1 took him home. I went up for a quick chat, some coffee, nothing heavy, and then I left.

It must have been around eleven. Through all of that, he didn't say a thing to make me suspicious he was getting cold feet. If anything, he could barely wait for Saturday to come. He seemed pumped. He said he'd make it to the ceremony on his own. I offered to pick him up but he joked about Norma and me needing all the time we could get to coax ourselves into dresses and makeup. He said he'd be fine on his own." She looked away for a second. She was too tough for tears but I saw a look of concern and maybe some guilt in her eyes.
"I
didn't get that there was anything wrong. I guess we should have gone to get him."

"If he was intent on running away I doubt that would have made any difference," I told her softly.

She nodded then looked away again. "I'm 161

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sorry. I have to get back to work. I don't have anything else to add anyway. But let us know if.. .when you find him."

"One more thing?"

"Yes?" She was beginning to sound a little impatient.

"What kind of vehicle does Tom drive?"

"A black Jimmy."

"Do you know where it is?"

Her eyes tightened as she thought this over.

"No. I just assumed it was at the apartment. In the parking lot behind the building."

It was probably one of the collection I'd seen there. "I'm sure you're right. I just thought I'd ask."

I handed her a card and watched her march off

Strike three?

So far the only thing I had learned was that Tom seemed to be a great guy, loved by his sister and best friend. I was beginning to get more of a sense of who Tom Osborn was and what he might or might not be capable of According to these two sources, Tom Osborn had every intention of going through with the wedding. Yet something changed his mind. Something made him run. Something made him cut off commu-Anthony Bidulka nication with family and friends.

It was getting late and I had three strikes under my belt. But hell, I never liked baseball anyway. Still parked outside Dutch Growers, I studied the lists one more time. Now that I knew Oburkevich was Tom's real last name, I looked at the roster with a different eye. Father Leonard Oburkevich was on both lists. Was he an uncle? Would a priest attend a gay wedding?

Curiosity got the better of me. I had to find out.

Letting my fingers do the walking, I searched the Yellow Pages under the heading for Ukrainian Catholic churches. There were only four. In no time flat I found Father Oburkevich at Saints Peter and Paul Church on 11th Street.

The woman who answered the phone offered to put Father Oburkevich on the line but I made some excuse and hung up. Whenever possible, I find meeting people in person is much preferable to a phone conversation.

Saints Peter and Paul Ukrainian Catholic Church and its rectory are two of the most unique buildings in Saskatoon. Not only because they're far from traditional in design, but also because they appear so hopelessly out of place. On the corner of the block sits the rec-163

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tory, a two-and-a-half storey edifice consisting of two side-by-side octagonal structures with domed roofs attached to a garage right out of
The Flintstones
and seemingly inspired by a Greek island resort with its whitewash and bright blue panels. Next to it, across a paved lot where 1 was parked, is the church. This dirty-white monstrosity resembles a giant, headless worm with its mounding sections sliced length-wise and left sitting on a bed of grass. Was it a misunderstanding with the architect?

It was late Thursday afternoon so I was betting the priests would not be in church. But what do I know about what priests do on Thursday afternoons? I approached one of the rectory entrances and hesitated. I was stumped.

Is a rectory like a church or like a home? Do you just walk in? Or do you knock? I knocked.

An elderly lady answered the door. She squinted at me from behind thick, wire-rimmed glasses and chipmunk-like, overly rouged cheeks. "Who is it?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Russell Quant."

"We don't give out food or money here."

I looked down at my appearance. Did I look like a beggar? This was a fairly sedate and respectable neighbourhood as far as I knew. I was surprised she would expect a panhandler 164

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at her door. "I'm looking for Father Len Oburkevich," I said as sweetly as I could.

"You won't have any better luck with him, young man. No food. No money."

I decided she must be in need of a new eye-glass prescription. Otherwise I'd really have to rethink my wardrobe. "No, I don't want food or money. I'd just like to talk with Father Oburkevich."

"You planning on getting married?"

Huh?

"You here to discuss preparation for marriage?" Her tone was barely more welcoming now that she suspected I was a future groom looking for guidance. I could see the old-lady-powder that had shaken off her cheeks and neck onto her dress collar. I showed remarkable restraint by not offering tips on her appearance and listened politely as she continued. "There's another class beginning tomorrow. Do you want me to put your name down? It's at seven-thirty. I'll need your intended wife's name too."