Amuse Bouche (22 page)

"No. They're a unique item. Not too many available..." I think what she was saying was 248

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that they were expensive or else not popular or both.

"Well I'm interested in a sale that took place recently. About two or three weeks ago." I was taking a wild guess at when the pendant was likely purchased.

"Is there a problem with your purchase?" She was beginning to sound a little less exuberant.

"Not at all. It's just that I recently had a birthday and received the pendant as a gift through the mail. Unfortunately, whoever sent it must have forgotten to include a card and there was no return address on the package so I don't know who to thank."

"Oh dear, that is unfortunate. Let me see..."

1 could hear the clicking and clacking of computer keys and some movement of paper, then, "Yes. This might be it! I remember now. We sold one set almost three weeks ago. Would that be about right?"

My hopes soared. "Yes indeed. Could you describe the man to me?"

"Oh, it wasn't a man who purchased the pendant, sir. It was a woman. An elderly woman. I remember it because I had to count out the cash.

She paid in small bills. Very irregular."

You've got to be kidding! My soaring hopes crashed to the ground like a kite out of wind.

Either Tom Osborn was having an affair with a Amuse Bouche

grandma or I was skipping down the wrong path.

An elderly woman answered the door and for a crazed moment I wondered if this grey-haired, spectacled vixen had purchased the Joined in Love pendant for Tom. "Good afternoon, ma'am."

Her eyes squinted as she looked up at me.

She had shrunk to less than five feet but made up for it in girth. A hairnet covered most of the steel-grey hair gathered into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a once lovely summer dress of pale blue with tiny yellow and white flowers. I suspected she purchased her reading glasses from the drugstore for sixteen ninety-five, hoping for the best improvement in sight that that amount of money could buy.

"Afternoon? It's darn near five o'clock! Supper time! Whaddaya want? How'd yeh get in here?"

I wasn't about to admit to her how I'd nefar-iously gained entrance into the sanctum of her apartment building. I didn't think she'd approve. After all, she paid good money for the security offered by the building and there was no use making her doubt her safety. "My name is Russell Quant. I'm a detective working on the 250

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Tom Osborn case." I hoped that told her enough.

"Terrible news, that was. Not safe anywhere these days." Had she been reading my mind?

Although I had only heard her voice, I was certain this was the same woman who'd chatted up the visitor outside Tom's apartment while I was inside, about to wet my pants.

"I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"Yeh weren't interested in what J had to say before."

My ears perked up. "How do you mean?"

"Right after they found the body. Yeh cops were here talking to us. Gathered us all downstairs in the common room. Eight o'clock at night, too! Don't yeh know respectable folk are bound to be in bed by that time? Anyway, yeh said yerd be by to talk to each of us separately.

Never saw hide nor hair of yeh since. Now yeh come by at supper time!"

"Sorry ma'am. Is there a better time I could come back to see you?"

She pulled back from the door and

motioned me in. "Nah, yeh may as well come in now. Get it over with. Come on. In with yeh.

I knew a woman once, name of Marguerite Quant. Know 'er?"I smiled, shook my head and squeezed by Amuse Bouche her Buddha belly into the front hallway of her home. Mrs. Coyle lived across the hall and down a bit from Tom's apartment. The layout was identical but in reverse. Other than that, they were as different as two apartments could be. I guessed Mrs. Coyle had moved the contents of a fairly large house into the apartment without giving or throwing away a thing.

Except for the pathway needed to traverse from one room to the next, every piece of floor space was covered with furniture or boxes, and every surface was utilized to display neatly arranged knick-knacks. I could see she tried her best to keep her possessions in order but the sheer vol-ume was overpowering. Many of her things were tiny: porcelain animals, commemorative teacups and glass figurines. I imagined the poor woman spending her days moving from shelf to shelf with a cloth trying to stay ahead of the dust. The apartment smelled of lemon Pledge and herbal tea. Not unpleasant really.

"Sit down at the table," she instructed.

I did as she told me and was dumbstruck as she placed a dinner plate, cutlery and a matching cup and saucer in front of me. "Oh. This isn't for me, I hope?"

"Yeh hafta eat." She was too busy in the fridge and at the stove-top to pay much attention to me.

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"I, ah..I really...no thanks, Mrs. Coyle, I'm not hungry. I just have a few questions for you and then...or maybe I'll come back some other time." I made a move to stand up.

"Sit back down," she said without turning around. "Don't get yerself tied in a knot. Yeh gotta eat."

I noticed she hadn't set a place for herself.

"What about you? Aren't you going to join me?"

"I ate 'bout an hour ago. Yeh'U eat and I'll talk."

I was beginning to understand why the cops didn't pursue a statement from Mrs. Coyle. I tried to think of another excuse to leave but nothing kind came to mind. The china and flat-ware before me were old. The plate looked so thin and worn, I thought I'd see right through it if I lifted it up to the light. The edges were grey-ing and little spider-web cracks marred the delicate rose and leaf pattern. I was anxious to turn the plate over for more information. Had Mrs.

Coyle served me on her Sunday best? Or had she found this at a garage sale? Within minutes she forked a deep fried cutlet onto my plate along with a scoop of instant mashed potatoes and a healthy glop of golden-coloured gravy.

She filled my cup with lukewarm water, threw in a tea bag and sat down opposite me, the chair 253

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wheezing under her considerable bulk. I eyed the cutlet suspiciously and wondered if it was the same one that she'd offered the blonde man who'd been knocking on Tom's door.

"Do yeh wanna say something first or should I just tell yeh what I know?"

"Well, I'm interested in whether you knew Tom very well, when the last time was you saw him, whether you've observed anything suspicious..."

"Got it." She used a soup spoon to squeeze the tea bag in her cup against its side, making the water a medium brown. I did the same. "That Tom, he was a nice fellow. Didn't know him too well. Just hellos in the hallway, he'd hold the front door open for me now and then, that sort of thing. I asked him to come over to play canasta one night but he didn't have the time. He wasn't home too much from what I saw."

That coincided with my belief that Tom's apartment was not his full-time home. "I was wondering..."

"Mr. Quant, yeh can ask me all the questions yeh want, but there's only a thing or two I know yeh might find useful, so let me get to it." She gave me a steady look. 1 had never come across anyone quite so direct when it came to providing evidence. I nodded my head and dug into my cutlet. I needed a sharper knife. "On the 254

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Friday night before he disappeared, he was dropped off here by some woman. I remember that 'specially 'cause like I sez I'm usually in the bedroom by eight.. .not always asleep, but in my room...any ways, that night I couldn't sleep 'cause of...well I guess I don't know why not...but I couldn't sleep and I caught sight of that gal dropping him off Think she came up for a spell too. The whole thing was odd. As I sez, he wasn't here much and especially not on weekends. Almost never saw him on weekends. I'd seen her with him several times before though.

I'd say they were close friends. I may have overheard her name once. Colleen maybe it was."

I had to hide a grin. I was beginning to realize Mrs. Coyle was an observant neighbour.

"After that no one else came to see Tom 'cept for someone in a silvery-brown looking truck on Saturday morning. And maybe someone in a little yeller car after that. Not sure 'bout that one.

One of my shows was on. Hard to keep track of things when one of my shows is on. I think Tom went out sometime in the afternoon but I don't know where. Never saw or heard him again after that. But like I sez, he wasn't usually here much on weekends anyway, so I didn't think much of it. That's it. That's what I know."

I confirmed the Saturday she was talking about was the Saturday of the wedding. The sil-age Amuse Bouche

very-brown truck I concluded had to be a pewter-coloured Jeep or similar type vehicle.

"How do you know the owner of the silvery-brown truck was visiting Tom?"

"I saw it pull up in front of the building at eleven o'clock in the morning and then right after, heard a knock on Tom's door. Later, 'bout eleven-fifteen, 1 hears someone leaving Tom's apartment then see that same truck pull away.

Whoever was in it visited Tom I'd say."

I nodded. It sounded like a fair conclusion.

"And possibly someone in a yellow car visited Tom after that? About what time?"

"Woulda been about twelve noon."

"Did you see or hear when the yellow car left?"

"My shows were on!" she said, as if defend-ing herself.

"And about what time after lunch did Tom leave the apartment?" I was betting she could answer to the minute.

"I'd say around two-thirty, two-thirty-five maybe."

"And you're certain he didn't return after that?"

"Well, he musta. When I went out later I saw his truck in the back parking lot. I jus' didn't hear him come back in. Heard him leave, but didn't hear him come back. Like I sez, never 256

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saw him again after he left at two-thirty-five."

This was surprising. Eagle-eyes-and-ears Coyle missed Tom coming home, yet he evi-dently did return with his truck at some point that day, I knew from Colleen—and now Mrs.

Coyle—that Tom's Jimmy was in its parking slot. But perhaps he never came back up to the apartment. Or maybe he hadn't used the truck at all. From her apartment Mrs. Coyle could see street parking in front of the building, not the residents' parking lot in the rear. She only knew Tom had left because she'd heard him leave his apartment. But where did he go at 2:30? And how? With his bike? Did someone pick him up? Had he packed his bags and gone to stay with a friend? A lover? Perhaps whoever it was that drove him to the airport the next morning? Or could he have taken an earlier flight? Maybe he left Saskatoon on Saturday night. Or maybe Mrs. Coyle was wrong, and Tom did spend Saturday night in his apartment.

"Did anyone try to visit Tom on Saturday night?" I wondered if Chavell or someone else had attempted to find him after the wedding was cancelled.

"If it was after eight o'clock, I couldn't tell yeh. I was sleepin' with my earplugs in."

Earplugs? It made sense actually. How else 257

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would an insatiable snoop get any sleep?

"What about Sunday morning? Did you see or hear Tom or anyone else?"

"Nobody. I'da told yeh already if I had."

"What about when Tom came back from France? Probably on Saturday or Sunday of last week. Did you happen to catch when he got home?"

She shook her head, looking at me like I might have a hearing disorder. "Like I sez, I never saw him again after he left on Saturday.

He never came home again. Ever."

As far as I knew, the cops had yet to determine time of death. Perhaps Mrs. Coyle was right. I imagined someone meeting Tom at the airport, waiting with him for his luggage and then, taking him away to be killed. Maybe he never made it home. "Is there anything else you can think of that might be of use?"

She looked at me with an odd look on her face. "If there was, why wouldn't I have told yeh already?"

Okay, stupid question. I quickly downed the last bite of my cutlet and waited for it to clunk to the bottom of my churning stomach. I left a card with Mrs. Coyle, thanked her for her help and dinner, and left.

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I spent an hour or so at the airport with pictures of Tom and Chavell (just in case) hoping for someone with a good memory for faces. It was a Jong shot, but I wanted to try
pinning
down the time of Tom's return from France. After ticketing agents I talked to security guards, parking lot attendants, retail salespeople, wait staff in the restaurant and finally the bartender. Nothing. I returned home feeling a little dejected.

1 had taken out some chicken in the morning and planned on having a stir-fry- Although Mrs.

Coyle's skinny little cutlet and suspicious mashed stuff hadn't filled me up, I wasn't sure my belly was willing to accept anything but fresh fruit or some nice veggies. I decided to wait and see. I put on a country-boy-inspired, red-and-black fleece jacket and a pair of Nike running shoes and drove Barbra to the dog run just south of the city limits. The dog run is a scruffy piece of land on the river where dog owners can unleash their pets and let them run free. Every time we visit I wonder how we escape without a big canine free-for-all but somehow it always turns out fine. Everyone, owners and pets alike, is always on best behaviour. Although Standard Schnauzers are ener-getic dogs that will take as much exercise as they can get, Barbra isn't one of those dogs who goes mad with robust enthusiasm when let free Amuse Bouche

in the wild. She loves it for about forty minutes then she'll run up to me with a look on her face saying, "Tell me again why we're out here when there's a nice comfy sofa at home?"

By the time we got back to the house it was dark and cold outside. As we stepped into the warmth I revelled in that wonderfully invigorating feeling of having been out in the fresh, clean air. Barbra immediately went to lie down in front of the fireplace in the living room. That was my cue to make a fire. So I did. Once my dog was satisfied, I checked my machine and was surprised to find Darren Kirsch tersely leaving a number where he could be reached. It had to be important. I couldn't recall him ever phoning me at home before. I still wasn't hungry so
I
washed some green seedless grapes, put them in a bowl, poured a glass of Merlot, took a spot in front of the fire with my goodies and returned the call.