Flight of Aquavit (31 page)

today.”

Herb snorted through his nose and looked

away. After a moment he said, “I’m sorry for my

outburst. I’m just worried about Daniel and this

mess he’s gotten himself into.”

“And worried about what the effect would be

on DGR&R if the blackmailer makes good on his

threat?” I wasn’t being paid to be Mr. Nice Guy.

We stared at one another.

Dufour relented. “That…is not…wholly unim-

portant, it’s true, but my concern, first and fore-

most, is Daniel’s well-being. You can choose to

believe that or not, it doesn’t matter to me.”

And with that we shook hands like gentlemen

and I left.

I spent the next couple of days checking up on

DGR&R employees and spending oodles of time

pulling surveillance duty outside the post office

watching P.O. Box 8420. With payment due on the

fifteenth, certainly Loverboy would be anxious to

collect. But all I managed to accomplish was an

over-familiarity with the upholstery of my car.

More and more I was becoming convinced that

Daniel’s idea of going to New York to find James

Kraft was the most worthwhile course of action

we had. I managed to book a seat sale flight to

New York and Sereena, who’d been to the Big

Anthony Bidulka — 245

Apple many times before, decided to tag along to

do some Christmas shopping, visit friends and

maybe show me a thing or two in one of her

favourite cities in the world. I even played around

with the idea of dipping into savings and bringing

my mother along with us. Sereena was a sport

about it, promising to research the best “colourless

dress stores” for my mother’s shopping pleasure.

But in the end, my mother convinced me she

would be much happier staying home for the cou-

ple of days I’d be gone, taking care of the dogs and

catching up (?) on Christmas baking. And, smarty-

pants that I am, I used the situation to get Kelly

out of the house by making her promise me to

physically check in on my mother (not just phone

calls) at least once a day.

It was the Wednesday afternoon before my trip to

New York City when I gave up on the post office

for the day and returned, bug-eyed and dejected

to the office. As usual at this time of year, PWC

was empty even though it was not yet 5:30 p.m. I

was about to head upstairs when I first heard the

noise. I was wrong. PWC wasn’t empty.

There was someone else in the building. And

that someone was in my office.

Chapter 13

THERE IT WAS AGAIN. The sound of shuffling from

upstairs. Someone was definitely in my office.

I racked my brain to think of who it could be,

what they were doing here and how they’d gotten

into the locked PWC building. Was the intruder

the Herbal Essences peeping Tom? I was not in the

mood to be hairsprayed in the eyes again. Could it

be the unknown stalker in the blue car?

Step by careful step, I skulkingly topped the

staircase and gazed about for something to use as

a weapon. My gun, as usual, was nowhere handy,

but that was probably a good thing. I don’t like

playing with guns—unless my playmate has one

too. There was nothing, no baseball bat, no heavy

brick, not even an umbrella. What I did have was

a three-foot tall, plastic candy cane Lilly had hung

from the stair banister. A three-foot candy cane

and the element of surprise.

Brandishing the faux candy treat like an axe, I

slipped soundlessly across the small second floor

landing to my office door. I could see a light com-

ing from beneath it. Pretty bold move on the bad

guy’s behalf to be using lights. I shifted the yule-

tide weapon into my left hand and grasped the

doorknob with my right. In one motion meant to

startle, I turned, pushed, burst into the room,

brandished the red and white armament in front

of me and yelled out, “Hold it right there!” (a term

left over from my days as a policeman…and

Anthony Bidulka — 247

watching too many episodes of Angie Dickinson

in
Police Woman
).

And there, jumping up from a chair in alarm,

was someone I knew—and the last person I

expected to see.

Cheryl Guest stared at me with wide eyes. The

air was heavy with her gardenia scented perfume.

I decided she looked better than she had at the

DGR&R Christmas party—without her hair

stretched and pulled into a shape it didn’t want to

be in, no excess makeup attempting to hide her col-

lection of deep wrinkles or over-the-top designer

clothes on her non-designer body. She wore a light

beige pantsuit, no doubt compliments of J.

Thames, which nicely camouflaged her ample

hips and small chest and complemented her café-

au-lait tan. Her hair was combed back from her

face and except for a few stray strands around her

forehead, held there by a pair of tasteful diamond

pins. It was a simple hairdo; almost refreshingly

honest in how it revealed her face in all its age-

and sun-damaged entirety.

I laid the candy cane to rest against a bookshelf

and approached her. Even though she’d surprised

me as much as I’d surprised her, I couldn’t help

feeling sorry for her; the startled look on her face

somewhere between tears and terror. “I’m sorry,

Mrs. Guest, I thought you were an intruder. The

front door was locked, the lights were off, I…I…I

just thought…well, how did you get in here?”

She placed a delicate hand over her beating

chest and attempted a smile. “Oh my.”

Uh-huh. Not quite the answer I was looking for.

248 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

She fell back into her chair, so I went to mine,

directly across from her behind my desk. I offered

her coffee or water, which she declined. I stared at

her tight smile.

“I apologize, Mr. Quant. In some ways I’m a

compulsive person and when I make up my mind

to do something I just go out and do it whether it

makes sense to or not. And, particularly

this…I…well, I wanted to do it…to be

here…before I changed my mind. When I got here

it seemed everyone had left for the day except

for…Alberta? Is that her name? Anyway, I am

grateful to her for allowing me to wait in your

office. I think if I’d been in the waiting room…so

close to the door…I would have been long gone

by now.”

I glanced over at my phone message machine

and saw a blinking light. No doubt Alberta telling

me she’d deposited a client in my office and then

up and left her alone in the building. For anyone

else, a bit unusual, for Alberta, not so much. “I

see.” At moments like this I find it best to say as

little as possible and allow the other party to bab-

ble on and fill the silence.

Mrs. Guest pulled a Kleenex from her purse

(which matched her outfit nicely—the purse, not

the Kleenex) and dabbed both corners of her lips.

She was acting and sounding like she was nerv-

ous, but there was something else about her per-

formance I couldn’t put my finger on. Her eyes

were on me like honey on toast, assessing me. “I

was glad to meet you at the party the other night,

Mr. Quant. As I think I mentioned then, I’ve never

Anthony Bidulka — 249

met a real private detective before. I’ve only seen

them on TV or movies or read about them.

Saskatoon seems so…safe to have a need. But I

guess I’m naive about that sort of thing.

Sometimes when I read the newspaper in the

morning I’m amazed at the goings on in certain

parts of the city and realize how far removed I am

from it all. You know…like the…the west end or

down 20th Street. But it’s mostly bad kids and

the…well, the Native population, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t about to answer her and give cre-

dence to her obvious prejudices, racial, geograph-

ic, and otherwise.

When she noticed my silence she simply nod-

ded as if agreeing with herself and continued on.

“Anyway, meeting you had an impact on me. It

has pushed me to make an important decision

about something I’ve been thinking about for a

long time.”

Now this was getting interesting.

“A decision that involves you, Mr. Quant. I’d

like to hire you.”

“Oh?” Still sticking with the “don’t say much”

bit.

Although her well-tended hands moved con-

stantly from purse to lap to hair to the lapel of her

suit, her cocoa eyes remained steadfast on my

face, anxiously searching out some kind of infor-

mation she’d come here to find. “I’m afraid I

don’t know how this works now, Mr. Quant.

You’ll have to help me. I don’t know what comes

next. Do I make an appointment to see you again

about this…this matter? Do you require a down

250 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

payment or something? It’s…it’s…well, it’s

Daniel. I believe he’s having an affair and I want

you to find out if it’s true and who she is. I have

to know the truth. It’s all so obvious. He’s been

distant for some time. But you know how it is,

you probably see it all the time, the wife is the

last to know…or at least the last to accept the

truth. This past weekend for example. At his own

office Christmas party—it was after you’d

already gone, I think—he disappeared for over

an hour and barely even managed a half-baked

explanation as to where he was. And then the very

next night he tells me he has to work late—on a

Saturday—and comes home in the middle of the

night. He’d gargled with Listerine but I could tell

he had alcohol on his breath. And I think there

was a trace of lipstick on his face!”

I almost choked on that one. Little did she

know the lipstick on her husband’s face was like-

ly his own—or rather Clarissa’s.

“So as you can see, I need help, Mr. Quant. I

need your help. And quickly. I want to save my

marriage.”

Throughout her speech my mind was racing

like a rabbit from a fox. I wasn’t expecting her visit

and I certainly wasn’t expecting what she had to

say. Part of my mind was feverishly composing a

response to her request to hire me and the other

was assessing the implication of her suspicions on

my client and my case.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mrs. Guest.”

She looked surprised, almost baffled. “D…did

I do something wrong?”

Anthony Bidulka — 251

“No, of course not. However, given that I know

your husband and am considering using DGR&R

as my accountants, I just don’t feel it would be

ethical at this point for me to accept the job. I’m

sorry.”

Her eyes narrowed and lips tightened. “Are

you covering for him? Do you know about the

affair? Do you know who she is?”

I felt sorry for Cheryl Guest. She was desper-

ate. She was angry. She was trying whatever she

could to find answers. And I was in a difficult

position. I hate outright lying (well…sometimes),

but in this case my first loyalty was to my client.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Guest, I have no information for

you. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

She seemed to accept that. She rose, keeping

her back stiff and straight and I followed suit.

“Then I guess I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry

about all this. I’m sorry to have taken up your

time,” she said as she headed for the door.

I followed her and opened the door to let her

out. “Not at all.” I wanted to say something like

“It was nice to see you again” but by then it

seemed trite.

She was almost over the threshold when she

turned and faced me one more time. “Will you

tell Daniel about this?” It was an interesting choice

of words. She wasn’t asking me not to, only if I

was planning to.

“Of course not.” Ouch. That hurt, because I

knew I was lying again. In my job a lie here and

there is part of the territory. That doesn’t make it

any easier to do.

252 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“Why do you do it?”

My heart stopped. Her gaze cut into me.

“What?” I asked weakly.

“Men. Why do you cheat? I’ve watched Daniel

turn into a mess. He’s not sleeping much, he does-

n’t eat, he pretends he’s okay, but I know he isn’t.

Never mind what it’s doing to me. Is it worth it,