Amuse Bouche (31 page)

Amuse Bouche

recovered from an exhausting swim. He had been working it.

I looked away and chastised myself while 1

searched my shaving kit for hair gel. "How desperate is this?" I asked myself. "Cruising a gym locker room! How pathetic! Was no one safe from a horny Russell Quant?" I smiled as I thought about Mr. Emmeline. Everyone at the YW knows about the old guy. He has to be one-hundred-and-two if he's a day. He comes to the gym every morning for a swim. However, he spends about five minutes in the water and forty in the locker room. This is partly because he doesn't move fast, but mostly because he's a flasher. And everyone is fair game. He doesn't discriminate based on age, race or sexuality. He has one trick, which he plays over and over always assuming his victim is someone he's never met before. Poor eyesight is a handicap he uses to his advantage. The first time it happened to me, I thought I was helping this kindly, old grandpa-type. I had just arrived and was changing from my street clothes into gym shorts and a I when old Mr. Emmeline shuffled over to me with this look of utter helplessness on his wizened face. He was wearing a baggy pair of swim trunks and his pear-shaped body was damp from a recent swim. He asked if I'd be a good boy and give him a hand. Of course 356

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you can't say no to someone like that. He told me he'd torn his swimsuit while getting out of the pool and was now trying to get out of them but his hands were too arthritic and he couldn't untie the knot in the drawstring. And sure enough his gnarled hands were tugging away at the string that kept his shorts up and indeed there was a nasty knot. A little weird, but what are you going to do, let the old guy stand there forever in his torn, wet trunks?

I leaned over and began working on the knot. That's when he showed me where his shorts were torn. Right at the crotch. And in exposing the gaping tear, he also exposed his century-old frank-and-beans. For a moment I was stunned and kept working on the knot, trying not to look at his pride and joy. But then things began to change size. I stepped back, pulled a pair of cuticle scissors out of my shaving bag and suggested he cut the cord. Of course his hands were too arthritic to do that either, so I accommodated him one more time and added twenty minutes to my workout that day. 1 really didn't believe his guile until he did the same thing to me about two weeks later and has done it to me about once a month ever since.

I've now watched him do it to several other guys. The dexterous actually get the knot undone before he can give them a peek, but the 357

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wise just tell him to keep trying it on his own.

I feel sorry for Mr. Emmeline. I don't know if he's gay or just wants someone to look at his package for some other reason. But the YWCA is not a meat market kind of place. It certainly isn't known to be where the buff gay boys work out. I sometimes wonder if I should suggest one of the other gyms to Mr. Emmeline.

1 decided catching a glimpse of an attractive body through a mirror was a far cry from accosting another guy with torn swim trunks.

But looking at this guy's strong, brown back one more time, I giddily wished I had the guts to try it. I was going to die! The swimmer had finished towelling off and was now bending over to peel off his trunks. I had to watch. I had to. I definitely could not move from my spot at the sink. I needed the.. .support of the counter for a while.

I felt like a twelve-year-old discovering the Playboy Channel. A rivulet of sweat ran down my forehead. He was turning around. It all happened in slow motion. I had little time left before being caught. I was going to make the most of it. My eyes travelled up from his muscular thighs to the wonders of his freshly exposed manhood. Couldn't stay there too long without being branded a pervert. A quick trip up the rippled abs towards the mounding chest and...

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I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I stared.

My eyes fastened onto the object in question, my fear of discovery forgotten.

A half-heart pendant.

The journey my eyes had begun in lust now ended in astonishment.

Things only got worse. Above the pendant was the face of Father Len Oburkevich.

"RUSSELL?" THE VOICE WAS FAMILIAR but s o u n d e d as if it came from underwater. I saw the smile on the handsome face, the pronounced cheekbones, nose and jaw. I couldn't help but look back down at the mountainous chest, still heav-ing from the exertion of recent exercise. And the pendant. Half a heart. The other half of the one I found in Tom Osborn's apartment? What did it mean? "Russell?" he repeated. I could see him walking towards me in the mirror, fastening his towel about his narrow waist. "It's me, Father Len."

I turned and smiled as if I'd just caught sight of him. Detectives are sometimes required to be actors. "Father Len," I said as I held out my hand. " I hardly recognize you without your...your regular clothes on."

"I
stopped wearing
my
collar in the pool.

The chlorine in the water was turning it pink,"

he said.

I laughed. "I have to admit, I've never seen a priest in a gym before."

"How do you know?" Good point. "We're everywhere!"

He had a sense of humour. I liked that. I was growing to like everything about this taboo 360

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package. I could see by the strain on his face he wasn't up to his best game. The words were clever and the smile was there, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was a man in mourning. His eyes were sombre and the corners of his mouth fought against turning upwards. "How are you doing?" I asked in such a way that he'd know I meant it as more than just a polite question.

"Well, I'm glad I decided to come here today.

Exercise was just what I needed to take my mind off things for a while."

"Making your body hurt as much as your heart does?" I couldn't believe the sap coming out of my mouth, but I wanted to keep talking to this guy. Without the black robes and starched white collar I felt as if I was talking to an entirely different person. He was just another human being. A hunky, male one. But despite all that, a burning question loomed in my mind. Why was he wearing the half-heart pendant? Did it make him a suspect in the murder of Tom Osborn?

One brother killing another—fratricide? One a Catholic priest, one a gay man. Pretty different lifestyles and points of view. It wasn't too much of a reach to imagine they could be enemies. But mortal enemies? And didn't priests take a vow not to take another life? I was pretty certain it was one of the Ten Commandments. I'd have to watch the movie again.

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"I'll be okay. Thanks for asking. Are you still working on my brother's case? Still not convinced Harold killed him?"

"Yes, I'm still chasing around a few leads." I watched his response to this. Was it making him nervous that I was still snooping around, or was he glad?

"I'm glad," he said. Phew! "Listen, if there's anything I can do, please call me. I want to help if I can." With that he raised his hand to my bare shoulder and gave it a quick pat. I tightened the nearby muscle group. " 1 have to rush. I'm meeting my parents for dinner. But I hope we talk soon."

"Yes," I said. "That would be good."

I returned to my mirror, watched Father Len get into the shower, felt the scalding burn where he'd touched my shoulder and let my mind do a few somersaults. What about the pendant?

Why didn't I ask him? When Kent Melicke left Tom at 2:00 p.m. he said he'd seen no sign of it.

But it was there when I searched the apartment.

How did it get there? The murderer? Was it Father Len? Yet the salesclerk at the jewellery store said a woman, not a man, purchased the pendant. Who was that woman? Or did the pendant mean nothing at all? Perhaps Tom had it hidden until he was alone, pulling it out after Kent left. A gift from his brother he'd never get 362

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a chance to wear? Or was I getting soft about this because I had a woody for Father Len? How ridiculous. The man was a Ukrainian Catholic priest for chrissakes...I mean, for Pete's sakes!

And nevertheless, I couldn't allow personal feelings to interfere with a case. That was a basic rule of being a private investigator that should never be broken. So why didn't I just ask him?

Tongue-tied—or did I just want a reason to see the sexy priest again?

Barbra greeted me at the door with quiet dignity, but I could tell she was excited to see me. I let her out and by the time I'd filled one of her bowls with kibble and another with fresh water, she wanted back in. It was 8:30 and I'd missed supper. The message light on my answering machine was blinking with the same insistence as the growls in my tummy. I hit the play button and began a search through my fridge and cupboards for something edible.

The first message was from Errall, sounding rushed and out of breath. "Russell, I need to talk to you. I spoke with Solonge Fontaine. Wait until you hear this! She still identifies the man she met as Tom Osborn—even after seeing a picture of him! So either somehow or other he was really there after all or Solonge Fontaine is lying 363

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through her teeth! Call me as soon as you can."

I dropped whatever I was holding and stared at the phone. Had I heard Errall correctly? I was trying to decipher the message when a second one interfered. "I see lights and I'm betting you haven't had time for dinner yet." It was Sereena. "Open your door."

I glanced over my shoulder at the back door.

Barbra was already staring out the window at my neighbour who was holding aloft a container of something undoubtedly delicious. I grinned and ran over to let her in. Barbra gave our guest a quick nuzzle, sniffed the air near the container and then retreated to a favourite spot to curl up in. She was well-acquainted with Sereena and instinctively knew that whatever was in the bowl was not about to end up in her belly.

"I was at this thing tonight where they served way too much creamy lobster goop," she said, handing me the offering as she passed by me. "I'll trade you for a glass of something brisk and exotic." Her voice fit the description of the wine she ordered.

"It's a deal. Should it be heated?"

"I generally prefer my wine at room temperature, but suit yourself."

"Har har har, I meant the goop."

"I prefer it cold. Only because it shouldn't 364

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be. Try it and see." She disappeared into the next room to select a bottle from my meagre collection while I found a fork and tried out the leftovers. Not bad. Sereena returned with a nice California white and two oversized glasses, and proceeded to empty the contents of one into the others. For a peaceful moment we sat atop the stools beside the kitchen island and enjoyed consumption.

"You look preoccupied," she said.

I nodded as I took a healthy swallow of my wine. "I'm trying to make sense of a phone message that came in right before yours. I'm afraid I'm going to have to be rude and make some phone calls."

She shucked her head to one side. "I asked for your wine, not your company." She said it in a tone that made me wonder whether or not she was being serious.

I reached for the cordless and quickly dialled Errall and Kelly's number while chewing on a forkful of meaty lobster. No answer. I left a message on the machine. Just in case she was working late I tried Errall's office number and was diverted to a computerized switchboard operator.

I was dumbfounded. How could Solonge Fontaine have identified Tom Osborn as her visitor? Had I been fooled again by the passport?

Was it a fake planted there for me to find for 364

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some reason? I was getting more than a little fed up with the constant flip-flopping of facts. Yes Tom was in France, no he wasn't, yes he was, no he wasn't...which was it? Had Tom Osborn been in France or not? He couldn't have been!

His passport proved that, didn't it? Damn! This case was driving me crazy.

I reached into a nearby cupboard drawer and pulled out a City of Saskatoon phone book. I found the "W's" and a listing for R. Wurz on Saskatchewan Crescent. Swanky neighbourhood. I dialled and reached his wife who told me Randy was working late that night. I tried the number for QW Technologies but reached the answering service. I wondered if Randy was still in Tom's office trying to find something on his computer that might give us a hint as to what had been in the TechWorld lab.

"You're doing the right thing, Russell,"

Sereena murmured as she carefully inspected her flawless manicure.

I looked over at my guest. Although I knew better than to ever admit it to her, I'd almost forgotten she was there. Sereena Smith is not the type of woman you don't notice, even if you're trying not to. "Excuse me?"

"Continuing to search for Tom Osborn's murderer. It's time well spent."

I laid down the phone and gave my full 366

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attention to my neighbour. She wore a simple silk lounging outfit of midnight blue and her dark hair was piled high in a mass of intricate curls. This was "just got back from a fancy shindig" chic. "Why do you say that?" Did she know something about this case? I'd never discussed any details with her, only generalities.

"Harold Chavell is okay in my books. He would not have committed this crime."

I
was surprised to hear his name come from her lips. "You know Harold Chavell?"

Her chiselled chin bobbed up and down. I could see the shadow of a long ago scar. "Yes, I do."

"Why didn't you say something before this?" I should have guessed. It was no surprise Sereena and Chavell would sometimes travel in the same social circles, the same circle as Anthony and Jared. Saskatoon was a small city and the group of elite even smaller.

"You never asked and I saw no reason to mention it before now. He's not my best friend, but we've certainly done the same functions for many years. I know what type of man he is. He may have a peccadillo or two in his back pocket, but who doesn't? He is not a murderer. I can assure you of that." She shrugged as she took a languorous sip of wine. "Whether you believe me or not, of course, is up to you."