Amuse Bouche (17 page)

No go.

Anthony Bidulka

Taking one last look around the room I admitted defeat. Except for the e-mail from TWirp, Tom's office had not been communicative. I placed the key back in my pocket and left the room. As I headed back to the front I passed by the other doors. The first two were locked and I guessed at least one of them had to be Randy Wurz's office. The third door opened into a washroom. I glanced at my watch and judging I had at least two minutes grace before being hunted down by Heather Locklear (the Sammy Jo years), i ducked inside, closing the door behind me. It was a bright, antiseptic room with the requisite bathroom facilities, sink, toilet, cupboard. I opened the mirrored cupboard doors above the sink to see what lurked behind them. As it turned out, nothing much but a collection of skin care products, hairspray, room deodorizer, Aspirin, eyewash solution, hydro-gen peroxide, calamine lotion, Polysporin and rubbing alcohol. The bottom cupboard held a refuse container that had recently been emptied.

As it had in Tom's apartment, the question ran through my head: Had I not found anything simply because there was nothing to find, or had I missed it?

Or...had someone already taken it?

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It was after seven and already dark when I pulled into my garage. I heard a single, low "woof from Barbra as I approached the back door of the house. She greeted me with a wag-ging tail and as much subtle excitement as a laid-back Schnauzer can muster. Never a mood.

Never a headache. Never a bad day. Barbra was always happy to see me. And no matter what anyone said, I know my coming home was the high point of her day. And come to think of it, it was usually one of the better parts of my day too.

As was our habit, Barbra submitted to a quick pat on the head before running off to her favourite pee spot. I barely had the chance to knock back a couple ounces of cold juice straight from the cardboard container before my dog indicated her desire to be let back in with a staid scrape of her delicate paw against the door. Usually she spent a few minutes sniffing around but not today. I let her in and noticed a tiny cardboard tube fastened to her collar. Had it been there a few minutes earlier? It must have been. Inside was a note. It read, "I've been fed and played with and why aren't you ready yet?

Hungry? Don't know what to wear? Go next door. Love, Barbra."

I recognized the writing. And the odd sense of humour.

Anthony Gatt.

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Although the message attached to my dog was from Anthony, the invitation was to visit Sereena. Standing on her stoop I held up the cardboard vial when she answered my knock with an innocent look. She smiled with her mouth. It was the best I could hope for. I have never seen her smile with her eyes. Something in her past doesn't allow it. "My life has been arranged?" I said.

"Only a very small portion of it and doubt-less for your own good," she told me as she sashayed her way to the kitchen. I followed.

Sereena's distinct and unique flair is on full display in her home. Each room is an ever-changing work of art. I know that if I ever spent more than six months away I'd never recognize the place. Sereena seems to care little about blending one room's look into the next. She regularly and unrepentantly mixes periods and paint colours into bizarre cornucopias that defy contemporary mores. The result is sometimes disarming, sometimes spectacular and always unmistakably "Sereena."

I particularly loved the current kitchen. It reminded me of Santorini, one of my favourite destinations in the Greek islands (and, incidentally, of the church on 11th Street). All bright white, blue and red. We sat in an austere nook of rough-hewn stone where she'd already laid 191

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out white wine chilling in a clay pot and bowls of herbed tomatoes, dark-skinned olives, chunky feta and hunks of torn bread. 1 wondered if she ever ate Chinese food in here. Or would she have to change the decor first?

"This is great, Sereena. But why?" I asked, dipping a piece of bread into a plate of oil, bal-samic vinegar and minced garlic. I had a party to go to later, so I veered away from the garlic as much as possible.

"You're so suspicious. Have you always been?" Nice ploy. She was in a duelling mood.

"Not suspicious. Just curious. It's not every day my neighbour takes my dog for a walk, feeds both of us, and then plies me with wine."

Not every day, but often.

She cocked her eyebrow. "When I ply someone with wine, the last thing they're doing is talking about it."

I laughed. "I believe that." She was wearing a simple muumuu of icy blue silk. The colour emphasized the steel in her eyes. She knew this and used it to great effect.

"Anthony's party tonight. He knows how busy you are right now with this case you're sort of on. But he thinks it's important you take some time to enjoy yourself as well. I agree with him. You should go to this party. Strike that. You will go to this party."

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Now I was suspicious. "Is he setting me up again? Is there going to be some unbearable blind date scene to get through? If there is, I am not going!"

"You should be so lucky. There's no one left in this city willing to go out with you, Russell Quant. You've turned them all down."

"That is not true!" It wasn't. I hoped it wasn't.

She poured me more wine. "lust go to the party, Russell. All you have to do is take a shower, slip on this shirt and..."

"What? Slip on what shirt?" I saw the wrapped package sitting on a nearby chair.

"You're going to dress me! You bought me a shirt?"

"And pants."

I was shocked, "B-b-but, why... I can't believe you did this..."

"Not me. I have better charities to waste my money on. It was Anthony."

"I lake it Anthony doesn't trust my taste in clothes?"

"He said you should consider it an early birthday present." She looked at me as if assessing my ability to withstand her next comment. Apparently I passed the test. "He also said that if you showed up in 'those black pants' he would strip you naked in front of all 193

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his guests."

Those black pants? Could he have meant my wonderpants? He didn't like my wonderpants?

By 9:00 the temperature had dipped dramatically from the pleasant daytime high. There would be one doozy of a frost over night. I quivered inside my black leather coat with the fur lining as I walked toward the band shelter to meet Colleen before heading to Anthony's party. I left my car nearby on 20th Street where, strangely enough, the block between Spadina and 4th Avenue had nose-in parking but only on one side of the street. Kiwanis Park was pretty much abandoned on a freezing October evening. I knew that much later it would come alive with cruising cars and young men tough or desperate enough to brave the cold in the hope of finding some action. Unfortunately, I realized, I would fit right in. Anthony had selected a rather form-fitting costume for me.

Shudder. After trying it on and tossing it off just as quickly, I was forced to wear it when I realized my black wonderpants, the official pants of social gatherings, were still balled up at the bottom of my suitcase. Even wonderpants couldn't survive that. I really had to unpack soon.

The slacks were a dove grey and some sort of 194

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crushed velvet material that seemed anxious to highlight every crevice of my lower body. They were tight around my lower waist and upper thighs, then flared out. The matching sweater was also grey, kind of fuzzy, V-necked and tight.

I wasn't a fashion nerd, I knew that what I had on was in all the magazines and likely featured in the window of gatt, but 1 still missed the familiarity of my black pants. Surprisingly "crushed velvet" and "kind of fuzzy" clothes were not as warm as the words suggested. As I stood in the lighted area near the hulking, white band shelter that was nothing more than a domed platform, formally known as the Virny Memorial, shaking like a vibrator, I seriously considered returning home to change into something that was made of fleece. Then I saw two lights approaching me. Cyclists.

Two women dismounted and joined me in the minimal protection of the band shelter. They each wore paunchy jackets and leg warmers and looked toasty warm.

"This is my partner, Norma Epps," Colleen introduced the other woman.

Norma was a dark-haired, fit-looking woman with the reddest lips and cheeks I'd ever seen. It wasn't cosmetics or exertion from biking—she just had naturally bright colouring.

She shook my hand enthusiastically. Whereas 195

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Colleen was standoffish, her lover was much more willing to be friendly. Another case of opposites attracting.

"Hi. We spoke on the phone. I was the one who told you where to find Colleen."

"Yes, of course. Nice to meet you, Norma. 1

appreciated your help."

"No problem."

Colleen spoke up. "Sorry about all this cloak and dagger, meet you at night in the park stuff.

It wasn't until I told Norma what I'd suggested to you on the phone that she pointed out how weird it might have sounded."

I shook my head to be polite. "No, really, it's okay. I'm glad you called."

"It's just that at work it's too busy to talk and Norma and I go biking down here almost every night."

"Somehow Colleen thought meeting here at nine o'clock on a Friday night is a normal thing to do. But, only if you're a cyclist," Norma explained.

I smiled and nodded. "Good bike paths here." It was getting cold. "You said you had some information?"

Colleen shifted gears just as efficiently. "Yes.

I don't know if it's important, but I thought you should know. After we spoke, I decided to take a look around Tom's apartment. We have an 196

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extra key. He has no plants or pets, so we've never really used it, but he wanted us to have it in case of an emergency."

I hadn't wanted Colleen to start doing her own detective work, but from the little I did know of her, I should have expected it. "Did you find something?"

"Yes. His bike is missing."

"Tom was into biking too," Norma explained. "We often did the Meewasin Trail together and usually a few long distance trips in the summer."

I bobbed my head, unsure of the importance of the information.

"I know you were wondering about Tom's whereabouts the day of the wedding," Colleen said. "And I know for a fact that when I dropped Tom off the night before, the bike was in his apartment. Now it's gone. He must have ridden his bike somewhere on Saturday, or before leaving for France on Sunday, and didn't go back to his place."

"Or he did go back but didn't bring the bike with him," Norma added.

This was interesting news indeed. But what did it mean? Had Tom ridden his bike over to a friend's house and had the cohort drive him to the airport? But certainly he hadn't hauled his luggage by bicycle? Or did he go somewhere 197

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by bike and for some reason return by some other means? Regardless, this could mean someone other than Colleen was the last person to see Tom.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely," Colleen told me. I hadn't known her long, but I trusted that when she said something, she meant it. Nothing much left her mouth without being well thought out.

"Tom is a fanatic about his machine. He babies that thing like it's a pet. He never leaves it outdoors. It was expensive—a Trek 5200 road bike.

What a beauty—bright blue, handmade in the US, an OCLV 120 carbon frame—that's

Optimum Compaction Low Void carbon—one hundred grams lighter than the 1999 Tour de France winner—it's the world's lightest, strongest frame material. Anyway, my point is, he wouldn't just leave it somewhere without a very good reason. I think if you find that bike, or who has it, you might find answers to some of your other questions."

"You could be right." 1 was getting quite cold by this point and stamped my feet to encourage blood flow. I looked forward to finding warm respite soon, but apparently our meeting wasn't over yet.

"We talked with Harold," Colleen said with little emotion. But there was something power -

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ful going on in her eyes.

"Oh?" I said lightly. I knew what was coming.

"Harold has no idea what you're doing, does he?"

I met the woman's searching eyes with what I hoped was an innocent look. "Why do you think that?"

"We didn't tell him." This from Norma. She obviously wasn't the game playing type.

I looked at Colleen question)ngly. What was going on? If they talked to Chavell and found out I wasn't working for him, why not tell him?

Why protect me?

"It seems to me that you're looking out for Tom," she said, answering my question before 1

asked it. "Trying to figure out what happened."

"Yes," I told her, "that's true."

"If it isn't," she said darkly, "we'll have something to talk about."

I wasn't sure if I'd just received a threat or simply a serious warning, or even which of the two I'd prefer. I thanked the women and watched them pedal away.

I had all these clues, the missing bike, the key that unlocked nothing, the half-heart pendant, the mysterious e-mail message and the fact that Tom didn't seem to be the type to just up and run away. Each on their own seemed trivial, but Amuse Bouche

together they painted a picture I couldn't figure out. Yet. All I really wanted to do at that point was go home, warm up and think about what I'd just heard. But duty called. Anthony and Jared live in the penthouse suite of the Radisson building, a mere two-minute walk from where I stood. I convinced myself I should at least make a quick appearance. And maybe, if I was lucky, I could get away with keeping my coat on and no one would have to see my outfit.

A BLACK-SKIRTED, WHITE-BLOUSED WOMAN offered to take my coat at the door. Her badge told me her name was Betsy and that she was on loan from The Saskatoon Club, a private business club only a few blocks away. I pretended to debate and finally told her I'd keep my coat on for a while until I warmed up. Although I knew the fur lining might make me hot in no time, the black leather was an okay match with my party boy outfit and gave me that covered up feeling I like when I step into a crowd of strangers.