Amuse Bouche (35 page)

Tom's office at QW, I found calamine lotion in the bathroom just down the hall. Although it didn't mean anything to me at the time, it's a peculiar thing to have in a bathroom and it stuck in my mind. That's why 1 went back to QW that night. And to see if I could find anything more to incriminate Randy."

Chavell gave his head a confounded shake.

"How the hell did he pull it all off?"

"I think finding Tom's plane ticket when he attended the rehearsal party was a bit of pure luck."

"But he could never use it."

"He didn't need to. He already had his own ticket. He destroyed Tom's. But it certainly has-tened your conclusion that Tom had left on your honeymoon without you. Once in France, he dropped enough bread crumbs to convince anyone that Tom was hiding in Europe."

"I must tell you that I've had quite a bit of squawking from my friend Solonge in Paris.

She has registered shock, horror and a fair amount of titillation
at
having been considered by you as an accomplice in the murder," he said, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. "But why was she insisting that Tom had visited her?"

"An honest mistake. Indeed it was Randy Wurz who visited Solonge, pretending to be Tom. Randy and Tom are quite similar—size, 403

Amuse Bouche

height, hair and skin colouring. Randy knew she'd never actually met Tom, and he had a copy of your itinerary. After I found Tom's passport, I asked my associate, Errall, to send a picture to Solonge to verify that indeed the man she'd met was not Tom. She sent her a page from the QW annual report. That page contained a picture of
both
Tom
and
Randy.

"1 know Solonge is a friend of yours, but having met her, I wouldn't call her a real...

detail...kind of person. She probably didn't even bother to read the print below the photos identifying who was who. I told her we were sending her a picture of the man who was Tom Osborn but at the same time Errall regrettably also sent her a picture of the man who was pretending to be Tom Osborn."

Chavell nodded then said, "He certainly did a thorough job of setting me up."

"His Plan B. If the body did show up, which it did, it would be found near your property, the murder weapon—which he stole during the rehearsal party and returned the night of the wedding—belonged to you and had your prints on it, and the victim was the lover who'd recently jilted you. The only mistakes he made were arranging for the messengers in France who couldn't speak English and not finding and destroying Tom's passport."

Anthony Bidulka

"And I suppose not knowing Dave Biddle had been in the lab with Tom and knew about the games was also a big mistake. If it wasn't for that, under their partnership agreement, Randy could have easily found a secretive way to profit from the games without throwing any suspicion on himself."

"That too," I agreed, happy to acquiesce that Randy Wurz was nowhere near infallible.

Chavell shook his head, took a long slug of his coffee and after swallowing asked, "Is this what all of your cases are like, Russell?"

Although I knew the answer, 1 deliberated.

Had this been a watershed case for me? Had I crossed some sort of line as a detective—no longer a Shelley Hack-type "Charlie's Angel"

but a full-blown Farrah Fawcett-Majors? Would all my cases from here on involve more than a missing casserole dish or wayward cat? Did I want them to? "Not all, Harold," I said contem-platively, "not all."

It was late. Friday. Everyone else at PWC had already left for the weekend. I like being alone in the building. And there's something about the utter silence, the dark outside the window, and the headlights of commuter vehicles travelling on Spadina Crescent that inspire me to get Amuse Bouche

paperwork done. I was closing my files on Harold Chavell and Tom Osborn. The case was solved and final bill paid in full (plus some) before I'd even had a chance to make one up.

That did not happen every day. But then again, cases like this did not happen every day.

As I often do at the end of an investigation, I couldn't help wondering what to call this case.

As I thought about it, I pulled a cold Great Western brew from my desk-fridge, along with a frosted mug and one of those tiny juice box containers of Clamato. I mixed the clam and beer in the mug and sat back in my chair. It was a pleasurable feeling. The case was over. I'd caught the bad guy. I had money in the bank.

Sure, maybe I wasn't the most experienced P.I.

around, but I'd done damn fine for my first big case. And—there was absolutely nothing that I
had to
do.

Until the next case.

I pulled myself back up to the desk where I'd piled the folders. I had used purple ones this time. From a drawer I selected a fine-point black marker and on the tab of each of the purple files I wrote,
Amuse Bouche.
An unlikely name, but I knew it would recall for me every detail: the supposedly jilted lover, the overnight flight to Paris, chasing a ghost across the French countryside, my first experience
with Amuse Bouche,
406

Anthony Bidulka

being taken off the case, being put back on the case, the cinder blocks in the bed of poison ivy and shooting a murderer. It hadn't exactly been a "party in my mouth," but it had definitely been exciting.

I hesitated on the last file. The Herrings file. It still contained one item that beckoned me like the smoke of a denied but much desired cigarette.

The sketch of the half-heart pendant.

A half-heart pendant connoted a certain level of...what? Like? Love? Did the damn thing mean anything at all? I wasn't sure.

I was surprised, and a little relieved, when, instead of Olga, Father Len himself answered the front door of the rectory. But I was taken aback by the unwelcoming look that crossed his face. It lasted only an instant, but it had been there. I looked at my watch. Almost seven. "I'm sorry, Father, is this too late? Or am 1 interrupt-ing something?"

The charcoal-haired priest smiled his disarmingly sexy smile and stepped aside to let me in. "No, no, no, Russell. Please come in."

I gladly left the chilly night outside and followed him up a staircase to a sitting room.

"Coffee or tea?" he asked. "Maybe a shot of something to warm you up?"

407

Amuse Bouche

I smiled. Did he mean real alcohol or was he offering me sacramental wine on the rocks?

"What are you having?"

"Are you a scotch drinker? I have some Oban that's very nice."

Another smile. "That sounds perfect."

While Father Len busied himself at the liquor cabinet, I looked around the room. Pretty fancy for a house full of priests and Olga. I was expecting a plastic-covered sofa, a black-and-white TV

perched on a rickety TV tray, and ragged throw rugs on the floor. I settled myself into the black leather couch and awaited my drink.

Father Len returned holding two cut crystal shorts with a generous splash of rusty amber liquid in each. He handed me one and sat next to me on the couch. Suddenly it felt as if my entire relationship with this man had changed, and along with it, the temperature in the room.

I felt hot. His closeness magnetized and repelled me at the same time. I could smell his cologne. Had he worn cologne before? It was nice. Maybe too nice. Like a pheromone eliciting a response I knew I could never allow.

But 1 was no longer a detective investigating his brother's murder. And he wasn't my parish priest. We were two men having a drink on a Friday night.

"Where is everyone? It seems very quiet."

Anthony Bidulka

"Don't tell anyone 1 told you, but the other priests are out playing bingo." He grinned.

"They're addicted. Every Wednesday and Friday night."

"And Mrs. Doubtfire?"

He cocked his head to one side, then chuckled when he got the joke. "You mean Olga?"

I nodded.

"She doesn't live here. She's just down the block though if you'd like me to invite her over."

I grinned. "Maybe next time."

"I'm sorry I was a bit hesitant when I answered the door."

"Oh, that's okay. I get that all the time."

He laughed. "No, really, I'm sorry, Russell. If it wasn't for you, we might never have solved Tom's murder. Or worse, they could have put the wrong man in jail for it."

"Just doing my job."

"It's taking me a while to make peace with God about Tom's death. And it's taken me a while to spend a day without thinking about him every second."

"And then I turn up and remind you."

He winced. "Well, sort of, yes. I was surprised to see you."

"I should have called."

"Don't be silly. I'm glad you stopped over.

Amuse Bouche

From here on in I'll think of you as the guy I drink scotch with, instead of the private detective who solved my brother's murder."

"Sounds good to me." And it did. But there was one piece of business remaining. I hated to break the mood, but I wanted to get it over with.

"There was one more thing, Father Len."

"Yes?"

"When I was searching Tom's apartment for clues, I found a gift that looked as if it had recently been opened. It was a half-heart pendant.

People who were in Tom's apartment immediately before he left for Pike Lake didn't see it and he never mentioned it to them. Harold knew nothing about it. Neither did Kent Melicke. Yet there it was, fairly obvious, in his apartment.

There was no indication where he got it from or from whom. And then I saw its mate...I'm assuming it was the mate...I saw it..."

"...around my neck," Father Len finished my sentence and fingered the chain hidden under the fabric of his shirt.

"Yes."

"You're right. It is the mate to the pendant you saw in Tom's apartment."

"Did you give it to him?"

"No. It was a gift to both of us. From our mother. And I think I can guess why no one else knew about it."

410

Anthony Bidulka

I had recently been considering the merits of a trusty sidekick. Perhaps father Len was a good candidate, I thought to myself.

"I received my pendant by mail on the Friday before the wedding. 1 imagine Tom received his on the same day and in the same way. With all that was going on, he likely didn't get around to opening it until Saturday, and probably not until he was alone."

It made sense. He had a visit from Clark Shiwaga, lunch with Kent Melicke and then, before he left for the cabin he opened his mail from the day before. And voila, a package from his mother containing the gift. Possibly an "I know about the wedding and I'm not coming, but here's a little something for you anyway" gift.

"But why didn't he put it on?"

The priest laughed and chucked me on the shoulder. "Would you? Have you seen it?"

I was surprised. I'd never considered Tom, and obviously his brother too, simply didn't like the gift. "But you wear yours."

The smile faded. "It means something completely different now that Tom is gone."

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"It's...it's an unusual gift from a mother."

"What do you mean? Hasn't your mother ever given you something tacky?"

411

Amuse Bouche

"It's not that," I chuckled as I spoke. "But the pendant itself...the half-heart thing...it seems more like something someone would give a lover."

"Ah. Yes. I see your point. There's a story behind the half-heart thing. You see, Tom and I are twins."

My head dropped and my eyes pulled up to stare at the man. I don't know why it seemed so inconceivable at the time. I had guessed the two brothers were close in age but I had no idea they were fraternal twins.

"Mom always referred to us as two parts of one heart. I think the saying came from when we were bratty kids demanding to know which one of us she loved more. So I'm sure when she saw the pendants she felt they were made for us."

"That is a wonderful story."

"After the funeral she told me that with Tom gone, she only had half a heart left."

Father Len downed his remaining scotch, pulled the glass out of my hand and headed away to pour refills. As I sat there waiting, all I could do was focus on the warm spot where his skin had grazed mine.

It's like a fever that sets my blood afire and clouds my mind. The cause is always different.

412

Anthony Bidulka

It might be a smell, a sight or one of many sen-sory stimulations or deprivations that drive me into the fever. Before it happens 1 am only dimly aware of its impending arrival. After it's gone I'm sometimes fulfilled, sometimes guilty, sometimes euphorically sated. But always, I am unable to resist.

The hand felt dry and cool as it buried mine within its cave and led me down unfamiliar hallways into a bedroom. Except for the dull illumination of a floor lamp in one corner, the room was dark. We stopped and faced each other as two strangers. At every point of contact my skin tingled as if it had just received a mild electric shock. Our eyes did all the talking. And they came to a speedy agreement.

The silence was drowned out by the blood rushing into my ears...and other places. Thump, thump, thump. 1 placed my mouth over his and tasted him. Cinnamon. I tasted of scotch. Oban. I teased his tongue with mine until it fought back.

The battle continued for eons. In need of air I pulled my lips off of his and sank them into his neck. He smelled like oranges. My hands sought further excitement. They slipped from the small of his back to the mounding fabric below. I cupped one hand under each buttock and pulled him up and closer to me. He began to breathe deeply, as if winded from running a marathon.

Amuse Bouche

I pulled back from him, but only far enough to watch his face as I unbuttoned his shirt. He started to help me but I gently pushed his hands away. I deliberately left his cuff buttons buttoned so that when I pulled the shirt off his chest and shoulders it fell in a tangle around his hands but would go no further. Captive.

He stood there, bare chested, his arm muscles quivering with excitement. I gave him a crooked smile filled with lustful communication that could not be put into words. I approached him and bent forward. His chest reflexively surged forward with each ministration. Next I followed my tongue to the tender area under each arm. He groaned as I painted him with my saliva. He fought to release his hands from behind his back, but not that hard.