Flight of Aquavit (21 page)

once upon a time and had bundled her dark tress-

es into a spectacular maze of intricate patterns at

the top of her head. Her face and figure hid no

secrets. Anyone who looked at her would know

they were seeing one of the world’s great beau-

ties—less than perfectly preserved—but a beauty

nonetheless. We stepped into the ballroom and

saw a scene that would be duplicated in hotels

164 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

and restaurants and halls throughout the city that

night and every night from then until late

December: the office Christmas party. Women in

gowns of Rudolph-nose red, mistletoe green and

gaudy gold that would be worn eleven times over

two-and-a-half weeks of holiday events; men in

the same dark suits they wore to work but jazzed

up with festive ties and colourful shirts; portable

bars manned by bored university-aged bartenders

pouring eight dollar bottles of wine for five dol-

lars a glass; platters of uninspired appetizers get-

ting cold and turning up at the edges; a DJ arrang-

ing his collection of almost-hits from the ’80s and

’90s; a rakish-looking Christmas tree decked out

in a few lights and fewer decorations; and a collec-

tion of round tables draped in bright linens

topped with a centrepiece of pinecone and fake

holly. I saw several women and men give Sereena

the once-over. I was pretty sure one of the wait

staff was checking me out.

“Swill?” Sereena suggested after having her fill

of long-distance admiration.

We walked through the crowd of strangers, 150

or so of them, and eventually made our way to the

front of the bar line. I saw by his nametag that our

bartender’s name was Derek. I wondered if he

also worked at gatt. “What type of white wine do

you have?” I asked.

He held up a bottle of the singular selection

with a look on his face as if even he, a poor univer-

sity student with a part-time job as a banquet bar-

tender, was accustomed to far more desirable vin-

tages.

Anthony Bidulka — 165

I smiled pleasantly and told him to pour two

glasses.

“So who exactly are these people?” Sereena

asked once we’d found a spot to stand without

danger of having our wine jostled but not too far

from the bar, where we’d no doubt return.

“Most of them are staff of DGR&R and their

spouses or dates, a handful of clients…i.e.

myself…and their demure, close-mouthed com-

panions…i.e. you.”

“Was that humour?” she asked without appar-

ent recognition of it being so.

“I guess not.”

Her practised eye roved the room and she com-

mented, “Care to wager on whether we’ll be eat-

ing chicken tonight?”

“Here comes my client,” I whispered as Daniel

Guest in a black suit, crisp white shirt and bright

red tie approached.

“Did you get my message?” he asked conspir-

atorially as soon as he was within conspiratorial

range. He had to be the only man in the room who

could possibly be within perfume-smelling dis-

tance of Sereena Smith and not notice her. Gay as

a party hat.

“I did,” I replied. “And I’d like to introduce my

‘date’ Sereena Smith.”

Daniel shifted his attention and studied

Sereena with googly eyes. He expertly com-

menced laying on the charm. Sereena expertly

accepted it. I let them coo back and forth for a

minute then made them stop before I’d need

something stronger than wine.

166 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“I’d like to talk to your receptionist about the

woman who showed up at the office,” I told him.

“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “That would

arouse too much suspicion.”

“Doesn’t the fact that a woman was nosing

around your office and asking questions about

you already raise suspicion?”

“Well yes,” he admitted, “but that’s different

than having a PI asking questions on my behalf. I

don’t want Colleen or anyone to know…” He

stopped there and looked at Sereena and then

back at me.

“Sereena had to be told certain things before

coming out with me tonight.” I told him. “In case

you hadn’t guessed—she isn’t a real date.”

He looked churlish and maybe a bit sheepish at

having fawned over her like a lovesick Lothario

when she’d already known he was fond of sleep-

ing with men. “Oh,” he said. “That’s fine.”

It better be fine, I thought to myself. It wasn’t

my idea to bring a date to this shindig.

Sereena did her part by smiling beguilingly at

my client, kind of a wink-wink nudge-nudge kind

of smile that I’m sure further withered his manly

ego.

Daniel moved even closer into our already

tight circle and spoke in a quiet voice. “I guess

what’s important is who is this woman and why is

she following me.”

“Agreed, but I have to be able to ask more

questions to find out.”

“Not now, not now,” he whispered harshly.

“Let’s talk about this later.”

Anthony Bidulka — 167

The reason Daniel suddenly put an end to our

conversation was not too subtly joining our group

by threading her hand through his crooked arm.

She was physically the same height as Daniel, but

several inches taller with heels on. Her short,

multi-toned blond hair had been curled and

teased into a busy do, her toothy smile and big

brown eyes were bracketed by a bevy of wrinkles,

like small fissures in her caramel-tanned skin.

“I’d like you to meet my wife, Cheryl,” Daniel

said. “Sweetheart, this is Russell Quant and his

girlfriend, Sereena Smith.”

Girlfriend? Sereena and I quickly exchanged

amused looks and politely shook the proffered

hand. Unlike many women who, through varied

means, manage twenty-eight-year-old-looking

faces well into their forties but couldn’t hide their

age when you looked at their hands, Cheryl Guest

was the opposite. Her face looked ten years older

than her chronological age, but her hands were

lovely and smooth, with nails professionally

French-manicured. They were hands meant for

teacups or Palmolive commercials.

“So you’re girlfriend and boyfriend?” Cheryl

purred with the friendliness of a cougar about to

leap on prey. She was speaking to Sereena but her

eyes continually darted back to me, assessing me

like a side of beef she wasn’t sure would fit in her

deep freeze. “How lovely. How long have you been

together?”

“Why do you ask?” Sereena smoothly shot

back, unabashedly surveying the gold lamé dress

barely held up by two spaghetti straps on the

168 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

other woman’s figure.

Cheryl was momentarily thrown off-balance

by the unexpected answer, as intended, giving

Daniel the opportunity to jump in.

“Russell is considering using DGR&R,” Daniel

told his wife.

Likely relieved to be pulled from the maw of

an unwinnable battle of wits with Sereena (and if

not, she should have been), Cheryl turned her full

attention on me. “What’s to consider? DGR&R is

the best.”

We all laughed lightly, except Sereena who is

oblivious to the need for laughter unless some-

thing is actually funny. And even then a laugh is

seldom a guarantee.

“What business are you in, Mr. Quant?” Cheryl

asked.

“I’m a private investigator.” I could see out of

the corner of my eye Daniel beginning to squirm.

We hadn’t discussed the answer to this question—

I’m sure he was hoping for some kind of white

lie—but I’d decided I’d lied enough for him for

one evening.

She lowered her wineglass, forgoing a planned

sip. “Really? I’ve never met a private investigator

before. How interesting. Do you do most of your

work here in Saskatoon?”

I nodded. “Mostly. It all depends on the case.

It’s a small business, but growing. So I’ll need a

good accountant soon.”

Another man drifted into our group and

looked expectantly at Daniel to provide introduc-

tions. He was well over six feet and heavy-looking

Anthony Bidulka — 169

without being overweight, probably an impres-

sive athlete in his younger years. With a head cov-

ered in curly greying hair I guessed him to be in

his late forties, although his unlined face looked as

if I might be off by several years. He had a sharp

nose and strong chin. All in all a pleasant combi-

nation of features.

“Russell Quant, Sereena Smith, I’d like you to

meet Herb Dufour, one of the partners at

DGR&R.”

I was glad he dropped the girlfriend thing. We

all shook hands and he complimented the appear-

ance of the two women in the group without

seeming slimy or insincere.

“Well, it shows how naive I am,” Cheryl Guest

continued, not ready to leave the subject of my

profession. “I wasn’t even aware there were detec-

tives in Saskatchewan. Herb, did you know that

Mr. Quant is a private detective? I’ve always

assumed the police took care of everything.”

“They usually do,” I told her. “There aren’t too

many of us around.”

“Now tell me what sort of cases you work on.

Is it murder and mayhem? Anything I’d have

heard of? What type of people are your clients?”

She seemed genuinely interested and I was

about to share some juicy details that were almost

true when Daniel interrupted.

“Darling, I’m sure those sorts of details are

confidential. And besides, it’s about time we

found our seats.” He began to look around the

room as if he’d just heard a dinner gong.

“Is that correct, Mr. Quant?” Mrs. Guest

170 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

squeezed in one more question.

“Yes,” I assured her as I would a client. “I keep

a lot of secrets.”

“That must be difficult,” I heard her say as she

was led away, smiling at me and Herb, complete-

ly ignoring Sereena.

“Mr. Quant,” I heard a new voice say behind

my right ear. “How interesting to see you here.”

I turned to find Lois Vermont standing there in

a suit that looked remarkably like the one I’d seen

her in when I last met her at the SBA offices

except that this one was dark green. The scarf

draped around her neck was the exact same shade

of green with a small red berry design along its

edge. Her hair hadn’t moved an inch but I was

surprised to see she’d bothered with a dash of lip-

stick and perhaps even a little blush. Instead of

making her prettier or more feminine which I

imagined was the intent, the makeup simply

made her appear fake, doll-like.

“Likewise,” I answered with a prim smile iden-

tical to her own.

Lois nodded curtly at Sereena, gave me an “I

knew it!” look—obviously in reference to her

guess about Daniel Guest being my client—and

headed off into the milling crowd.

Daniel had started a trend. Most of the people

in the room were heading towards tables and

selecting dining companions.

“Would the two of you like to join our table?”

Herb Dufour had reappeared at my elbow with

the gracious invitation.

This was a lucky break. I was here to meet

Anthony Bidulka — 171

some of the other important players in Daniel’s

world and Herb Dufour was certainly one of

them. As far as I knew, he was the only other per-

son Daniel had admitted his gay experiences to.

“We’d love to, thank you,” I said.

Herb held out his arm for Sereena, which she

expertly made use of, and led us to two seats at

one of the tables near the front of the room. As we

sat down I noticed Daniel and Cheryl at the next

table, Daniel appearing noticeably uncomfortable

with the seating arrangements. Did he expect us

to eat in the kitchen? I smiled and gave him a lit-

tle wave.

Also at our table was Herb’s date for the

evening, an attractive woman named Marilee

Yuen. And, in a conspicuous attempt at mixing

management with non-management, our other

dining companions were an entry-level account-

ant and her husband and the file room clerk and

his girlfriend. Herb introduced me as a potential

client of the firm. Since that wasn’t how Daniel

had introduced me to Herb, it was evident the two