"Please, take a seat over here," Mr. Furberry told me in his quiet, gently nasal voice, indicating a low slung couch covered in rich, burgundy velvet. "I'll return shortly. If you'll excuse me." And with that he left the room, rolling the tea trolley in front of him.
After a couple minutes, I contemplated either leaving or snooping. I can usually be counted on to do the latter, so the debate was short-lived. I stood up, feeling a bit like a bull in a china shop, stretched and began to look around. All of Mr. Furberry's things were aged, but fine and well taken care of, possibly cherished keepsakes passed down from ancestors. I flipped through some photos, mostly grainy black and whites, but they meant little to me. I checked out one of the bookcases and found the contents curious and indicative of an eclectic taste in literature. Mr. Furberry enjoyed non-fiction-biographies mostly-of silver screen legends, political heroes and infamous criminals. He also read travel books, adventure tales and historical accounts on a wide variety of subjects. There was not a paperback amongst the bunch. I heard the trolley's wiggle-waggling wheels and plopped myself back on the sofa just in time.
"Did you enjoy looking at my things while I was away?" the man said lightly as he began to pour tea, his expressive eyebrow once again perched high on his head.
Whoops. Busted. But how? Did he have one of those paintings with the eyes that move? I looked around for one and picked out a couple that easily fit the bill. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"No, no, my good fellow, I didn't mean you shouldn't; I meant I hoped you did. You see, that is why I've collected and display my fine things: to share with guests and companions."
Er, okay. I thought a comment on his "fine things" was called for, especially if I expected any help out of the guy. "The portraits on the wall are lovely. Are they of your relatives?"
He gave me a hard-to-read look as he handed me a delicate china cup three-quarters full of tea and answered simply, "No."
Newton Furberry lowered himself onto an upholstered straight-back chair next to the tea trolley and across from me. He made a production of offering me lemon or milk for my tea-I took neither-and dripped a few squirts of lemon into his own.
"I sometimes take milk in the evening, but during the day it seems too much, don't you think?"
Huh? Was this a scene from Pride and Prejudice? "Mr. Furberry, did you know Ms. Culinare well?"
"Oh yes, of course, I suppose we must get right down to business," he said in a scolding tone that told me I'd failed in my social graces. But hey, I'm on a clock.
"Thank you, yes. Did you know her well?"
He thought on that a moment, sipping at his tea then carefully placing it with its matching saucer down on a wee table next to him, not on the trolley which apparently was for service purposes only. "Indeed, Mr. Quant, Ms. Culinare and I had a relationship." He stopped there and did the eyebrow thing again, staring at me as if waiting to register my shock. I disappointed him again. "No, no, it's not what you think. My goodness, she was just a child and...well, my tastes run a little more to the...shall we say, exotic and," more eyebrow action, "decadent."
"I see. Can you tell me about the relationship you did have with Ms. Culinare?"
"Sandwich?"
And indeed, on a tray was a concentric patterned mound of delicate "sandwiches," or rather what I'd call sandwich wannabes. These so-called sandwiches were two slivers of paper-thin white bread without crust between which were even thinner slices of cucumber. This guy was really into the high tea thing. And I'm all for it too if I'm at the Empress Hotel in Victoria on a dull, wet day, but not today.
"No, thank you. They look lovely though."
He sniffed and daintily helped himself.
I waited for him to nibble the thing to nothingness, which took all of one point five seconds and asked again, "About Tanya Culinare?"
Furberry sighed enough to raise his bird-like chest and said, "We played chess. Sunday afternoons this past winter. She wasn't very good, but I was instructing her and she was improving. I was disappointed when she gave it up."
"I'd be interested in anything you can tell me about her."
He gave me a quizzical look. "You said you were investigating her death? Oh my, I've just realized I've allowed into my home a complete stranger. Mr. Quant, just who is it that you are? I assumed you were with the police, but now I think not."
"I'm not with the police," I said in my most reassuring voice. "I'm a private investigator."
I thought I saw a hint of a smile beneath the man's Grecian Formula'd moustache.
"Really? How fascinating. More tea?" he offered, visibly thrilling to the intrigue factor of having a detective in for an afternoon sip.
"No, thank you."
"Who is it that's hired you?"
"Tanya's parents," I told him. "They're uncomfortable with the ruling of her death as a suicide. I'm investigating the possibility of there being something more to it."
Another questioning look with the eyebrow at its zenith. "Yet you ask me to tell you about her? Wouldn't her family be able to give you the best information in that regard?"
I thought about how to respond and finally went with, "I'm afraid not."
Mr. Furberry's face visibly fell. He tsked a few times. "I see. My, how sad, how truly sad." He looked away for a second, dabbing the tip of his nose with a hanky he'd pulled from a breast pocket, then returned his gaze to me. "How can I help?"
Ahhhhhhhrrrrrggggggg! "Can you tell me what kind of person Tanya Culinare was?"
"She was not what I, or most other people I would imagine, would call a warm person. I got the distinct sense that she did not allow people to get close to her very easily. Getting to know her would not be a simple thing. She was direct, opinionated, no nonsense." He hesitated for a moment as if in thought, then added, "and fragile. Yes, in many ways she was a fragile young woman. Beneath it all she was kind and helpful. That's how we first became acquainted, you see. I'd come home from a book buying sojourn, laden down with heavy packages, and I'd misplaced my keys. Ms. Culinare happened by and took care of everything. She invited me to rest in her home while she called the building superintendent and arranged to have me let into my apartment. She even went so far as to arrange a new set of keys to be made for me and then picked them up and delivered them to me. She was a very capable woman. At some point she noticed and mentioned my chess set-which I always have set up-do you play, Mr. Quant? Oh never mind that now-and I offered to teach her in exchange for her help that day." He took a deep breath. "I was very saddened by her untimely death."
"Were you surprised by it, Mr. Furberry? Did anything you and Tanya talk about during your chess lessons ever lead you to believe that she might commit suicide?"
The man absent-mindedly tossed two cucumber sandwiches into his mouth like peanuts, momentarily forgetting his genteel manners while he considered my question.
"I was about to answer no to that question, Mr. Quant. As I've already told you, she was a very capable person. I'd have a hard time imagining what could possibly drive her to such an act of desperation. However..."
Yeeeesssssssss?
"However, beneath her protective armour I sensed a woman of heightened emotions. Although I never really witnessed it, I could believe that when she was angry, she would be livid; when she was sad, she'd be desperately so. This is fully speculation on my part, Mr. Quant, I've nothing to support my words, you understand?"
I nodded. And what the heck, I tried a cucumber thingy. "You said Tanya gave up her chess lessons with you. Why did she do that? And when?"
Again he gave the questions some thought before answering. "I suppose we played three maybe four times in all, between November of last year and March of this. I invited her two more times after the last, both times she turned me down without reason and I stopped pursuing it at that point. Which, I think, was justifiable on my behalf, wouldn't you agree?"
He carried on without my response. "I don't really know why she stopped. The last time we played she
seemed distracted, a trifle pricklier than normal. I recall asking her if there was something bothering her, but she passed it off as being in a bad mood. Perhaps she'd simply lost interest, in me, the game, I don't know. I spoke to her only once on the phone after that-a conversation in which she gave me short shrift-and I never really spoke to her again after that. These apartment buildings seem so small, you'd think one would run into neighbours every day, at least in the hallways or lifts, but in truth, that rarely happens."
Interesting. I wondered if something of import happened to Tanya Culinare in March, something that might have led to her eventual demise four months later, something that had required a bat under her bed. "What about other people coming and going from her apartment? Did you meet any of her friends?"
"No...er, well, now just a moment, there was one girl. I cau...met her as she was letting herself into Tanya's apartment one day. She obviously had her own key or had borrowed it. She said she was a good friend of Tanya's."
"When was this?"
He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Around Christmas, possibly."
"Do you remember what she looked like? Her name?"
"Dark hair," he answered slowly. "Very pleasant smile as I recall. That's all though. No name."
I wondered if he was talking about Moxie. I pulled out the picture I found in Tanya's apartment and showed it to him. "Is this the girl with the key to Tanya's apartment?"
He nodded. "Yes, that's her. Nice smile, wouldn't you agree? Who is she?"
I ignored his questions. "Mr. Furberry, this is important. Did you, in all the time you spent with Tanya, ever get the sense that she was afraid?"
"Afraid?" he asked as if he'd just now heard the word for the first time.
I shrugged. "Of someone? Of having her apartment broken into? Of...of...of anything?" I was reaching here.
He raised his cup of tea to his lips and took a slow sip. "Afraid," he repeated. "Well, Mr. Quant, I have a passing acquaintance with fear. Generally I would say that Ms. Culinare was not afraid, but now that you mention it...that final phone call...yes, I suppose so. I suppose her manner could be described as someone who was afraid of whoever might be on the other end of the phone line." He let out a chuckle. "But she certainly could not have been afraid of me...do you think?"
I shrugged. I decided I'd gotten all I could from Furberry, at least for the moment, and rose to leave. "Thank you for your time, I appreciate it."
"Mr. Quant, you asked if any of the people in these portraits on my walls are family." He stood too and crossed over to an armoire and selected a heavy, bound photo album. "I want to show you something."
I joined him and looked down at the album. He turned to a page that displayed a crumbling but carefully preserved picture of a rather rugged looking couple next to some kind of plough. "My parents," he said quietly. He turned the page to a picture of a young fellow who looked like one of those miner guys who sing in Rita MacNeil's choir when she does that song "Working Man"-what're they called? Men of the Deeps?-except a lot dirtier and a lot sadder looking. "This is Vilmer Kaufmann," Furberry told me using a faraway voice. "Every day this man lowered himself into the ground, into the dirt and choking dust of a potash mine, emerging only after many hours of bone-cracking labour looking like dirt himself. He hated every moment of it. He was often scared too."
I nodded, not sure what to make of this. "This is your relative then? Your father? Brother?"
"Me," he said, turning to look at me with one last raise of his mighty eyebrow.
I looked back at the face of the man in the picture, obscured by black grime and misery. Vilmer Kaufmann and Newton Furberry were indeed the same person.
I glanced questioningly at the portraits.
"Strangers," he said.
I nodded.
"I lived with my parents until they died. I lived a frugal life. I saved every cent so that the day I retired I could scour the grease and dirt from my skin, from my hair, from under my fingernails, change my name and buy myself the genteel life I'd always lusted after. I wanted to become a fine gentleman. I wanted people to believe the people in these portraits could have been my relatives." He closed the album and stared at its cover. "I just...I just wanted you to know that."
I reached for his hand and shook it warmly. Looking deep into his eyes, I said, "I suspect you've always been a fine gentleman, Mr. Kaufmann."
He smiled and held my hand a bit longer.
"Hello, my name is Warren Culinare. My sister was Tanya Culinare," I said to the woman I'd been directed to, having changed my persona on the elevator ride down from the peculiarity of Newton Furberry's apartment to the Gatorade-PowerBar-infused Fitness Corner gym.
"Oh my god," Donna Littlechild said with a surprised look on her face. "I'm so sorry. About Tanya I mean. It was terrible what happened to her. I can't believe it. I'm so glad someone else..." She stopped there. I guessed she was about to say she was glad someone else found Tanya. After all, she had landed near the front doors of this facility and as the gym's manager, Donna Littlechild could very well have been the one to discover her if it hadn't been for an early morning jogger who beat her to it.
"Did you know Tanya very well?" I asked.
She shook her head setting her dark ponytail swinging back and forth at the nape of her neck. "You know, I'm sorry, I really didn't. I knew she lived in the building, and she did have a membership here, but she pretty much came in, worked out and kept to herself. She was in good shape, knew what she was doing. She didn't need my help or the help of any of our instructors."
"I see. I was wondering if you could let me into her locker, to get her things."
"Oh, gosh, yeah, I didn't even think about that. I wouldn't have noticed until her locker rent came due. Do you have the key? Otherwise we'll have to break in."
I presented Donna with Tanya's key ring. "I'm not sure. Do any of these look right to you?"
She didn't take the ring, instead she turned on her heel and marched back to the front desk, consulted a binder-probably a listing of lockers and who was renting them-then led me deeper into the long, narrow facility. The place was empty except for an impressively fit fellow in his late sixties who, judging by his unfortunate wardrobe, really liked the Olivia-Newton-John-"Let's-Get-Physical"-headband look. "We'll have to see. Let me check if there's anyone in the woman's locker room and if not, you can come in with me. Y'know, I think she had one of those cheap locks with a key, not a combination lock. I remember because the one time I did have something to do with Tanya was when her locker was broken into. I told her to get a better lock."
Boing! "Her locker was broken into? Is that common around here?"
"Actually no," she said as I followed her around a corner. "I know you'd expect me to say that, but it's true. Until Tanya's break-in, some time in the spring I think it was, we hadn't had a locker broken into for over a year. It was unusual. That's why I remember it."
We'd gotten to the door of the women's locker room and Donna excused herself to check it out. She was back in a flash with an apologetic look on her face. "Sorry. There is someone in there. We could wait a bit, or I could see if I can open it myself."
She looked trustworthy enough. I gave her the key ring and slumped against a wall to wait, watch Oliver Fig-Newton John and think about when I'd get a chance to go to the gym myself that day. I was determined to get back into my wonderpants without wincing.
Donna emerged with her hands full. "Yup, got it right off. It was this tiny key here. I see she didn't take my advice after the break-in about using a stronger lock." She handed me a small pile of Tanya's effects, mostly toiletries and a fresh towel. Nothing of much use to me.
"Do you remember what was taken when Tanya's locker was broken into?"
Donna nodded slowly. "That was the other weird thing. She said nothing was missing. She seemed pretty shaken up by it though. Maybe she noticed something later and I didn't hear about it."
"Were the police called in to investigate?"
Anthony Bidulka Page 5
