Amuse Bouche (27 page)

"So here it is," he said unenthusiastically.

"You have your own key to the place?" I asked innocently (but not really).

"When Mr. Chavell was arrested he gave me all of his keys. For safekeeping." He then added for good measure, "He trusts me."

I nodded in a "yeah, whatever" kind of way.

"Can I look around?"

"I'll be in the kitchen." He turned and walked off

As I watched him leave, I grimly admitted to Amuse Bouche

myself that Chavell's lawyer was probably right. There was likely nothing here to help Chavell's case. The police would have gone over this place like a Hoover vacuum. I wasn't exactly sure what I hoped to find, but if this was where Tom Osborn met his untimely death, I knew in my gut I couldn't ignore it. After another quick scan of the porch, I headed further into the dwelling. The next room was a smaller sitting area with two doors—one led into a bedroom and through the other I could see a kitchen where Shiwaga had found himself a beer and was leaning against a counter enjoying it. I decided to try the bedroom first.

I could tell the room was expensively decorated. The massive sleigh bed and matching suite were made of a knotty pine that looked rustic and aged but had. definitely not come from a bargain antique shop. In one corner of the room was a cozy area with a loveseat, two plump easy chairs, a couple of shelves (more knotty pine) heavy with books and a fireplace.

Thickly woven rugs warmed the hardwood floor, and on a coffee table a remote the size of a dinner plate controlled a battery of entertainment options—stereo, DVD, big screen TV. Even before I saw the framed photographs on the fireplace mantle, I knew Harold Chavell and Tom Osborn had, together, called this place home.

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I now knew why Chavell had chosen this out-of-the-way location. A luxurious oasis hidden amongst the anonymity of mediocrity. This was where they lived as a couple, at a distance from the
city, at
a distance from other people and from their high-powered public careers.

This wasn't just a summer cabin. It was a year-round home. During the week, Chavell lived in his ornamental castle in Cathedral Bluffs and Tom in his antiseptic apartment on Main Street, but together they set up house and home, here on Pike Lake. This was where they existed as Harry and Tom, the couple. This was where they'd had fun, relaxed and cooked together, and made love. This was why Tom's apartment appeared so barren. This was why Mrs. Coyle rarely saw him on weekends.

I made my
way
to the fireplace and studied each picture displayed there. One was of Chavell, looking unusually casual in jeans and a T-shirt, barbecuing something in the backyard, a private smile on his face, a beer in one hand and a basting brush in the other. There was a picture of Tom napping with an equally zonked out Siamese cat perched on his chest. Another photo showed Tom on a summer day running naked from the spray of a water hose and the last one was of both of them in a canoe, on Pike Lake at dusk, looking golden and fit and utterly content.

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This was what I had been missing all along.

Through all of this, I never had a good sense of the relationship, of how Chavell and Tom really felt about one another. Friends and family gave me details, but, with unknown agendas abounding, J listened to their words with a healthy dose of skepticism. Now it was clear to me. They had wanted to get married. They should have gotten married. Someone stopped that from happening. Now, one of them was dead and the other in jail. 1 looked again at the picture of the two of them in the canoe. The camera had caught them in a split second of perfect happiness. 1 whispered, "I'm sorry."

I was yanked from my reverie by a noise.

Shiwaga. It was time to move on. I made my way through the sitting room into the kitchen.

The lawyer was swigging his beer and looking impatient,

"Find anything?" he asked.

I shook my head and looked around. Like the rest of the rooms the kitchen was artfully done so as not to appear too modern, yet it lacked nary a culinary amenity known to man.

Certain that Shiwaga had me on an internal meter which he'd undoubtedly find some way to charge me for, I moved through the rest of the cottage, quickly assessing the potential for hidden clues. But the only thing I found hidden in 312

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that cabin at Pike Lake was evidence of a life shared by two men who loved one another.

I had to find out what the autopsy report had concluded about Tom Osborn's time of death.

That meant Darren. I had been trying unsuccessfully to call him all day. He must have been on the street. It was time for more drastic and irritating measures.

After a quick trip home to let Barbra out and inhale a submarine sandwich, I pulled up to the Kirsch residence on Sommerfeld Avenue near Holliston Park. It's a family-friendly area of older, utilitarian homes, aging lawns and healthy cedars. I had never been to Darren's home before and for some reason I was curious to observe how and where he lived when he wasn't being Oscar the Grouch. Here he was husband and daddy and neighbour. As I walked up the path to the front porch, I saw in the glow of a street lamp, a massive willow tree on the front lawn that had yet to lose any leaves.

A rake was leaning against the side of the house waiting to be called into service. I knocked. The door opened and a petite Darren Kirsch looked up at me. His son.

"Hi," I said, "is your dad at home?"

"Who are you?" His seven-year-old voice Amuse Bouche

had a lisp caused by some missing teeth.

"My name is Russell. What's yours?"

Before the kid could answer, a young girl stepped into the doorway behind him. She looked a little uncertain as she stared at me. She was too old to be a daughter. Fifteen, maybe sixteen.

"Hicanlhelpyou?" The words spilled from her mouth as if she wanted nothing more than to get them out of there. Her arms were wrapped around her skinny frame to ward off the evening chill.

"Hi. My name is Russell Quant and I'm looking for Darren Kirsch. Am I at the right house?"

"Ohyeahheliveshere."

"Could I see him? Is he home?"

"Wellsortabutnotrightnow. I'mthe babysitter. "

"It's date night," piped up the more eloquent youngster.

I looked down at the boy. "Your mom and dad went on a date?"

"They just want to get away from us for a while," he said with an infectious giggle. Cute kid. The babysitter I wasn't so sure about.

"Yeahthatsright. Buttheyjustwent tothe DQon8th. I'mjust the neighbour. Saidthey'dbe backinanhour."

"Thanks. Good night."

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As soon as they closed the door I jumped into the Mazda, Batman-style, sort of, and pointed it towards the Dairy Queen on 8th Street. It wasn't far and I was betting they might have even walked. I drove what would have been their most direct route but spotted no couple that met their description.

The Dairy Queen on 8th, unlike others in the city, is nothing more than a simple glass-encased booth located on a large lot (a prime piece of real estate) with loads of parking space surrounding it. It serves walk-up customers only and is closed throughout the winter months. Like the greening of grass in spring and colouring of leaves in fall, it is a popular belief that the opening and closing of this particular DQ are sure signs of the change in season. It heartened me to see the cheerful lights of the tiny kiosk still blazing well into the dusk of a chilly October night.

I pulled to a stop and surveyed a meagre crowd in fleece jackets and woolly pullovers waiting for their ice-cream treats, refusing to give up an activity best left for summertime. I spotted the Kirsches immediately. Treena Kirsch isn't a supermodel but she's damn pretty with curly, auburn hair, immense brown eyes and a tiny, fit-looking body. I'd begun to notice Darren showing signs of a slight paunch, but even 315

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wrapped up in a thick cotton jacket I could tell Treena kept herself in fighting shape. She's a really bright and cheerful person. Some people like that are just irritating, but Treena seems to know how to maintain her effervescence at the perfect temperature depending on the situation.

She is a University of Saskatchewan grad with a Bachelor of Education degree, who always expected to and did leave her career behind when the kids started coming. It had been a pro-motion as far as both she and Darren were concerned. According to Treena, she and Darren each had a role to play and did so without a word of complaint or feeling of guilt. Darren works long, hard hours, cares for the children and provides funds to run the household.

Treena works long, hard hours, cares for the children and runs the household. The arrangement seems to work for them.

As I got out of my car and ambled towards the two waiting in line to order, 1 wondered whether Darren was aware of the wealth of personal information I'd traded with his wife over punch at several years' worth of police social functions. I stopped where I knew they'd eventually have to notice me and pretended to study the outdoor display board that listed the myriad of ice-cream treats available to me.

"Russell!" Bingo.

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I turned and smiled at Treena Kirsch, ignoring Darren altogether. "Treena! How are you?" I approached.

She gave me a quick hug and pulled back to allow her husband to greet me. He was stuck.

"Quant," he murmured.

"Hey Darren," I said, enthused, playing the part to the hilt. I may have been overdoing it, but so what. "Say, seeing as you're here, buddy, do you have a minute?"

"I mightta guessed."

Treena jumped right in. "You two boys go talk while I order our stuff, but then that's it.

This is date night."

I could tell by the look on his face, Darren was wishing she hadn't told me that.

"Date night? Isn't that sweet." I smiled at the happy couple. Darren frowned at me.

"Well, you can guess how easy it is to forget about our relationship when there are three ras-cals running around the house demanding every bit of our attention," Treena explained.

"Absolutely." I motioned towards a wooden picnic bench at one side of the kiosk. "We'll be right over there."

"Do you want me to get yours?"

"Huh?"

"Your ice cream. Do you want me to order it for you?"

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"Oh." I'd nearly forgotten my ruse. "No. No thanks. I'm not sure what I want yet. I'll get it later."

"Okay."

I walked over to the picnic table and hoped Darren was behind me.

He was.

It was chilly out but bearable. We stood with our hands buried in our pockets and our jaws set tight.

"I found something you should probably know about," I told him. I thought it would be advisable to start with the "give" part of our give and take relationship.

"Have you been snooping where you shouldn't be?"

"Who decides where I shouldn't snoop?"

"Obviously no one. What did you find?"

"Tom Osborn's passport."

Darren's eyes flashed with curiosity. "Where did you find it? We were all over his apartment and office and Chavell's house and cabin.

Nothing like that turned up."

"He had a storage locker in the basement of his apartment building."

"How did you...? Never mind, I don't want to know. What else did you find down there?"

"Not much. But the passport was interesting."

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"Exact date of return to Canada."

"No." Now I had his full attention.

"What do you mean, no?"

"There were no stamps for France in the passport, Darren. Tom Osborn was never there."

"How can that be? For Pete's sake, you're the one who said he was there!"

"1 was led to believe he was there. But he wasn't. I never actually saw him. People allud-ed to the fact he was there. I received notes supposedly from him. But I never actually saw him in the flesh."

"Damn! Who would do that? Why? What kind of game is going on here?"

"All very good questions. Just not very original."

He gave me a curdled look. "Are you sure the passport was his?"

"Yes."

"Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"

"I just found it today and you weren't answering your phone."

He shook his head, deep in thought and began pacing back and forth in front of the picnic table, in and out of the splatter of light from a spotlight mounted on the DQ kiosk. "Time of death..."

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Excellent! If he could tell me what I wanted to know without my asking, he'd still owe me one. "Uh-huh?"

"Of course, the formal reports from the enquiry aren't available yet, but we do have some information. The body being left in cold water was screwing with the tests. But y'know, we weren't too worried about a precise time of death because we were certain we had the right man. Chavell had motive, the body was disposed of near his property and the murder weapon was covered in his prints and found in his house. We didn't push it any farther."

"And what do you think now?"

He stopped pacing and seemed to concentrate on the question before he gave me his answer. "To tell you the truth, not much different. I still think Chavell did it. Maybe even more so now. He's just one smart cookie. He sent you to France to find someone he'd already killed.

How clever is that? If you don't have an alibi for when the murder was actually committed, then simply remove any suspicion that there even was a murder. All he had to do was make it seem as if the victim had left the country and disappeared. And he sets you up to prove it!

That's freaking brilliant!"

Inside, I grudgingly agreed. "Whoever killed Tom Osborn went to a lot of trouble to weigh 320

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down the body with cinder blocks and dump it in the lake," I argued. "They never expected it to be found. They weren't worried about time of death or an alibi. They never expected to be caught."

"But if the body did get loose—as it did—it makes it tough for us to pin it on anyone because time of death is indeterminate and everyone's alibi is out the window. Could have been anyone. But by having you place Tom in France, Chavell had everyone thinking the murder took place a week after it really did—at a time when he could easily conjure up an alibi.