Amuse Bouche (20 page)

Chavell. My client is concerned that suspicion will fall quickly upon him when that happens.

Not only is that suspicion unfounded, but it would be...cataclysmic to Mr. Chavell's reputation in this city. You already have all the background information. You respect the sensitivity of the matter. You know the people involved.

Certainly some of the work you did for the former case will help you here. And, you know Mr.

Chavell is innocent."

"I don't know that, Mr. Shiwaga."

He acknowledged this fact with a curt nod.

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"Mr. Chavell greatly valued his relationship with Tom Osborn. Above all else, Mr. Quant, he wants to ensure everything possible is being done to find out the truth about what happened to Tom. Mr. Chavell knows that with the police involved your freedom to investigate will be restricted. He knows this may all come out to the public eventually no matter what you or I do. But if that happens, he wants someone who is looking for the truth while the police are being blinded by erroneous assumptions or simple homophobia or both. Certainly you can understand that?"

I nodded.

"Then you'll take the case?" he asked one more time. The man held out an envelope that contained another retainer cheque. I felt a twinge of guilt. But that didn't last long.

Finding Tom Osborn's killer was not going to be a walk in the park. I took the envelope and set it down on my desk without opening it.

"How was he killed?"

Shiwaga's shoulders relaxed. He took my question as a yes. Which, I guess, it was.

"I don't have that information."

"When was he killed?"

"I don't have that information."

"Was it last night? Two days ago? Three?

Your contacts must have given you some idea."

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"They didn't."

"What
do you
know?"

"I know Tom Osborn is dead."

Some contacts.

Clark Shiwaga rose, indicating an end to our meeting. I followed suit and shook hands with the lawyer. I caught him glancing around my office and sensed he did not approve of the decor. I guessed that, as attorney for one of Saskatoon's richest men, Clark Shiwaga was not used to doing business in a less than pristine environment. I was about to say something but instead showed remarkable restraint and graciously showed him out.

Clark Shiwaga hadn't been much help. All I knew was that Tom Osborn was dead and my client's head might find itself on the chopping block for it. I had to have more details before I'd be able to efficiently work this case.

"Kirsch," the voice answered the phone.

"Kirsch, it's Russell Quant."

There was a slight pause. He'd been waiting for the call. "Back from Italy already?"

Bugger. He knew very well that it was France. "France."

"Oh right. That's pretty much the same thing though, right?"

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I tried to stifle a groan. He loved to play the redneck with me. "Pretty much." If you let on that he was getting your goat, you were lost.

"I'm looking for some information on a body pulled from Pike Lake yesterday."

Again the hesitation. "Body?"

"Darren, don't screw with me. We both know what I'm talking about."

"In that case, we both also know that information has not been made public yet."

"Do you know who it was?"

"Mmmm."

Darren Kirsch, I hate to admit, is no dummy.

I had no doubt that as soon as the body had been identified as Tom Osborn he'd have remembered our conversation. He knew I'd gone abroad to search for Tom. He just hadn't counted on my knowing about the murder so quickly.

And fair enough. If it weren't for Clark Shiwaga, I probably wouldn't have heard about it until after the weekend, along with the rest of the TV

audience. "You hungry?" That would take him further off guard. We'd never eaten together.

"Uh,nah..."

"One o'clock. Colourful Mary's. Downtown."

I hung up.

I was confident he'd show up. He wasn't sure how much I knew, but he knew 1 knew something. He couldn't risk the chance of miss-228

Anthony Bidulka,

ing out on information about a fresh murder case. Inviting him to a gay-owned restaurant was just my way of tweaking his nose for being such a prick.

I spent the rest of the morning fattening my file on the now re-opened, new and improved, Chavell case. Upgraded from "Errant Lover" to "Murder." This was a definite step up from "The Case of the Missing Casserole Dish."

Before leaving for the restaurant I checked my e-mail. I was hoping my message to TWirp would elicit a quick response. It hadn't.

It was a few minutes before one o'clock when I walked into Colourful Mary's. The Saturday lunch crowd was noisy. Most of the customers were off for the weekend and happy to loll about over fruity teas and dessert rather than having to dash back to work at five minutes to one. A dreary autumn drizzle and mushroom soup sky cloaked the diners in the cozy, warm space. I shook the rain pebbles off my black lambskin jacket and scanned the room. A couple of familiar faces but no one I really knew. Good.

Mary was showing a group of university students around the bookstore. One or all were probably thinking of doing a psychology paper on homosexuality. Always a trendy subject. I Amuse Bouche

caught her eye and she nodded toward the rear of the restaurant.

Darren sat alone in a small booth, nursing a jar of juice. He looked uncomfortable and perplexed. Good. Just as I'd hoped. Darren Kirsch is the archetypical City of Saskatoon policeman. I generally dislike stereotypes, but in this case it's hard to deny. I know. I used to work with these guys. Every other policeman in Saskatoon is six foot plus with a top heavy, muscular body, short, dark hair, neat, dark moustache, deep-set, stern eyes and a snarly nose. Most have either been hockey players or football players or brought up on a farm. It's uncanny. And Darren has "the look." But as I appraised him now, I saw there was something more. It was his eyes. They weren't as harsh as I've always thought they were. Maybe it was because he didn't know I was around. They seemed soft and almost innocent And, arche-type or not, he is cute. Cute, cute, cute and as het as a muscle car.

As I slid into the booth, the innocent look on Darren's face disappeared rather quickly.

He was no pushover. I wanted something from him and he wanted something from me. And neither of us was ready to give it away.

"Like the place?" I asked. "Come here often?"

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"No, but I bet you do," he said.

I frowned. "Why would you think that?"

The grimace on his face was priceless.

"Before you got here, I thought I'd take a look in the magazine rack for an auto mag. I found one called
Hot Rod."

I almost choked on my tongue. I valiantly fought to keep the corners of my mouth from turning upwards. "Not what you were looking for?"

"Not quite. But I bought you a subscription as a birthday present."

"Thoughtful of you."

"Uh-huh." He took another sip of his juice and surveyed the room with a practiced cop's eye. He shifted uncomfortably on the pumpkin-coloured leather booth.

"The food is actually quite good here."

"I already ordered for both of us," he said to me as if we'd been married for fifteen years.

I wasn't sure I'd agree with his choices but I didn't want to argue this early in the meeting.

"Great."

"How do you know about the body, Quant?"

He'd obviously exhausted his ability for small talk. So much for getting to know one another.

"It was on the news," I lied.

"Tomorrow's news."

"Uh-huh." Damn. He caught me.

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"How do you know?" he repeated.

"Alberta Lougheed, who works out of the office next to mine, is a psychic. She told me."

Playing cute with Darren was a risk. The look on his face told me I'd best try another tack. "I heard it from a client. Well, actually my client's lawyer."

"Who's your client?"

"Who's the body?"

Darren looked away while a waiter filled our water mugs and took my drink order. I took the time to consider my next move. It was obvious we were heading for an impasse. 1 wanted information about Tom's death. Darren wanted information on who my client was and why I'd been hired to find Tom Osborn in the first place.

I knew 1 couldn't tell Darren about Chavell. If I did, he'd be the cop's number one suspect in no time. 1 couldn't reveal his identity. But I had nothing left to offer.

"Darren, I know the body was Tom Osborn."

He nodded. "You know a lot, don't you?

Name's the same as the fellow you were looking for in France. Did you find him?"

"No." There. I'd given him something. Now it was his turn. "Can you tell me what happened?

I understand it wasn't a simple drowning."

"No it wasn't, and that's why I can't tell you any more."

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At this rate, this conversation was going to be over before our food arrived. I hate silent meals. "Darren, I know you'd like to know who hired me to find Tom Osborn. But I can't tell you that. Not yet, anyway." If the police found out about Tom and Chavell on their own, I could certainly tell Darren a little more then. "I guess what I'm saying is that I can't offer you anything right now, but I'd appreciate anything you could tell me about how Tom Osborn died." All 1 had to appeal to was our professional relationship, which to date wasn't much, and the possibility of useful information later on. Cops and private eyes, it was a give and take deal. But right now, I needed to take without giving. Not a position of strength.

Darren remained silent while our lunch was served. I looked on in surprise as Marushka herself brought out plate after plate of doughy tri-angles, some stuffed with potato, others with cabbage or stewed fruit, and floating in cream and butter, along with thick slabs of meat so tender they barely kept their shape.

"Now this boy knows how to eat!" she proclaimed as she patted Darren's shoulder and waddled away.

Darren began filling his plate without a word.

"Was there any country in particular you had 223

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in mind to feed when you ordered all this?"

He shook his head, reddening at the ears. "I couldn't understand what she was saying most of the time. I told her to make enough for two."

I snorted. Enough for two in Marushka language means enough for two herds.

Then he said, "He was found by two elderly Pike Lake residents on a walk."

Pike Lake is a small oxbow lake twenty minutes southwest of Saskatoon. It's surrounded by a couple of rows of cabins hidden amongst bluffs of spruce and aspen trees, a modest beach and a camping area. It's a popular weekend retreat for city folks who want to get away but don't want to drive north to one of the more scenic lakeside resorts that Saskatchewan is known for, "I thought Pike Lake was closed this time
of
year," I said.

"There are a few permanent residents out there. Anyway, the body had floated to the top and got caught in some brush by the side of the lake. The autopsy results won't be in for a while, but we don't need 'em to determine cause of death. He didn't drown. He was shot in the back of the head."

I lost my appetite. Shit! Shot in the back of the head. What a cowardly act I shook my head as I imagined Harold Chavell hearing this grisly news. I could barely stomach it. Chavell must 234

Anthony Bidulka

have been inconsolable.

Darren continued. "Interesting thing, there were rope burns around the ankles. Looks like the body had been weighted down with cinder blocks but somehow came loose. Guess the murderer didn't get his Boy Scout's badge for knot tying. Anyway, whoever killed him went to a lot of trouble to ensure the body was never found."

I shook my head in disgust.

"This is all speculation right now, Quant. I'm just telling you "what we've seen so far. Nothin's been proven."

"I understand." Darren needed to cover his ass.

"Do you think your client committed the murder?"

The question was so unexpected I asked him to repeat it.

"Your client, is he the murderer?"

Our eyes met over the steam of piping hot sausage. I didn't like what I saw.

"Harold Chavell," he said easily. "Is he our shooter?"

I tried my best poker face, but it was too late.

Darren already knew about Chavell.

"I've given you information, now you give me something," he said in a rough voice. "Why did Chavell hire you? What did you find out?

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Did you meet with Osborn before he was killed? Did he come back to Canada with you?"

Suddenly I'd become a bigger part of the police investigation than I'd ever considered.

Fortunately 1 wasn't easily intimidated by police interrogation techniques. Especially when the policeman in question was now chomping on perogies. "How did you find out about Chavell?"

"Once we identified the body we began contacting family members."

Kathryn Wagner. I wouldn't doubt Tom's sister would point her ruby-coloured fingernail at Chavell as a suspect as fast as she could. "I already told you why Chavell hired me. Tom had gone missing in France and I was hired to track him down. But like I said,! never found him. I came back to Canada alone. I never even spoke directly to Tom."

"Harold Chavell is still your client?"

"Yes."

"You're working this murder investigation then?"

"Yes."

"You'll follow appropriate protocol when dealing with police on this matter?"

In a murder investigation, everything is a police matter. Did Darren really want me to promise to be a good boy? I'd get nothing 236

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accomplished. "I think we can be helpful to each other," I said.

"You haven't been much help to me today."

he said as he tossed down his fork and wiped his lips with a napkin. "As I see it, I've been the one giving out all the help and you...well, you've just been having lunch."