"Why do ya keep calling me?" Darren asked with a crumbly edge to his deep voice. "Don't ya know there are other police officers who could take your call?"
"I've grown accustomed to the sound of your voice," I drooled flirtatiously, just the way he hates it. I could almost hear his cheeks grow red over the phone line. "And I like to check in to see how you're doing from time to time."
"Well, I don't have time for girlfriend chatter, Quant, so you better have a crime to report-or better yet, a change of address, let's say to Timbuktu. If not, I'm hanging up."
I chuckled. I love Darren's wan attempts at keeping up with me in terms of caustic humour and sarcastic wit. The rigid, stick-up-the ass gene he got saddled with at birth, however, ensures he must always fail. But I like that he keeps trying.
"Do you have any buddies in the Moose Jaw Police?" I asked, ready for business. "I'm wondering about a Moose Jaw woman, formerly a resident of Saskatoon, who drowned in the local pool."
"Sad story, but why do I care?" Darren shot back, playing the tough-nosed cop that I suspected he really wasn't. I could hear him rustling papers. Ah, the never-ending paperwork of a cop. I missed it not.
"I'm wondering if maybe it wasn't an accident."
That stopped him. He took a deep breath and asked carefully, "Why do you wonder that?"
"The victim had just moved back home to live with her sister because she'd been having some harassment problems in Saskatoon. And her ex-lover just committed suicide. Her ex-lover. .." I slowed the pace of my voice here; I knew this would get him, after all, he was the one who got me involved in this case in the first place, "...was Tanya Culinare."
"The jumper from last week."
"Yuh-huh. The same."
He was silent, thinking. "I don't get it, Quant," he finally said. "Other than the two of them being friends once..."
I interrupted. "Lovers, Kirsch. These two women were a couple."
"Yeah, okay, I get it, lovers. But, why do you think the drowning wasn't an accident? Do you think the jum...Tanya killed her ex, then felt all guilty and offed herself?"
I wagged my head from side to side considering the theory. Not bad, but it somehow didn't sound right. Something, something... "You know, Darren, I'm not sure. It just seems suspicious is all. Call it intuition. These were two healthy, young women. They were connected. They were both experiencing some level of harassment." I didn't think the time was right to bring up the whole boogeyman thing. I did want his help after all, not to be laughed out of town. "And now they're both dead under abnormal circumstances. That just doesn't happen every day in Saskatchewan. I think it's worth some questions. I think it'd be a good thing if you talked to some of the blues in Moose Jaw and see what they can tell you about the investigation into Moxie's death, if there even was one. She'd just broken up with her lover, she'd moved back to Moose Jaw to escape harassment; she was fully dressed and all alone when she drowned; if I were a cop on the case, I'd have a million questions. Any scrap of informa..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill, Quant. I'm a detective too."
"So you'll do it?" I didn't want to play the "you got me into this" card quite yet.
"We'll see. Anything else?" he snapped.
"Did you want any gift suggestions for my upcoming surprise twenty-ninth birthday party?" My nose grew.
He hung up before I could give him my list.
Taking the chance that Alberta might actually be in her office, although she seldom is during regular working hours, I made the short trip from mine to hers with little hope of finding her there and a not-quite-formulated question on my mind. I was in dubious luck. Alberta, a plucky, plump, personality-plus brunette with a thousand faces, was in and open for business.
"Russell, sit down," she called out even before I'd reached the doorway of her one-room office. Her space is only slightly larger than mine but looks considerably smaller, what with all the crates and steamer trunks and decades-old hat boxes and upright wardrobe containers that fill every nook and cranny of the place like actors waiting to go onstage. I had no idea what was in them, and I had the feeling I wouldn't want to know. The room was dim, relying on the flickering artificial light from several antique floor lamps and one glowing crystal ball, which commanded a place of honour at the centre of a heavy, dark oak table that took up much of the free floor space. The air was thick and smelled of incense and ginseng tea. Incongruously, Alberta was made up as a modern-day Carmen Miranda, replete with a fruit-adorned turban and a brightly coloured, spangle-trimmed getup that was just a bit too tight for her curvy figure. Why? Why? Why? I want to ask that of Alberta whenever I see her bizarre never-the-same-thing-twice attire, but instead I content myself with enjoying the always-entertaining view.
I did as I was told, choosing a chair meant for clients near the table, which was draped with a colourful collection of silky throws and across from where our resident psychic was seated, intently contemplating the shimmering crystal ball. I wondered if she had it wired for satellite TV.
"You want to know about something?" she asked, her breathy, deep, feminine voice sounding surprisingly normal in the paranormal atmosphere of her office.
"Well, yes, I...I'm not sure what I'm really looking for with this, but it's something that's come up a few times in a case I'm working on and I thought you might know something about it."
"Of course," she replied, showing no impatience with my go-nowhere prattle. "Go on."
"Have you ever...have you..." I rearranged my butt in the chair. "Do you know anything about...well...about...the boogeyman?"
Alberta's round cheeks flattened against her face and one eyebrow, plucked into a sharp arch, moved up her forehead near a bunch of Concord grapes dangling there. "Of course. Doesn't everyone?"
She stared into the depths of the crystal ball for a few seconds while it sat there mutely, glowing its otherwordly (or, more likely, Eveready-powered) glow. This is exactly the kind of psychic stuff she does that makes me squirm; I just don't know enough about her world and so it makes me uncomfortable, but I always try to be-well almost always-ready to listen with an open mind.
"It's...it's just something that's crossed my path a few times lately..."
"He's like that," she said.
Oh gawd, there actually is a boogeyman and Alberta knows him.
"When he's skulking around, preparing for his attack, readying himself to frighten you, to drive you insane, that's usually the first thing he does," she told me matter-of-factly. "He enters your mind like a burrowing worm: at first it seems like it's a dream or a nightmare, but actually it's more of a warning." Her black eyes pinned me down. "And when he's done with that, with all the teasing, well, then you better watch out."
I gulped, like a ten-year-old around a campfire. Pass the s'mores, please. "Watch out? Why? For what?"
She heaved her shoulders as if to say: if things have gotten to that point, it's already too late. "Once he has you," she told me, "he doesn't let go easily."
"You said he'll attack, scare you, but will he...kill you?"
"If you let him."
Okay. End of story time. "You're speaking in abstractions, right Alberta?"
"Albert Fish," she replied.
I shook my head to indicate I had no idea who or what she was talking about.
"He was an American serial killer and cannibal who boasted about eating children in the 1930s. He was often referred to as the Boogeyman, but the name itself is much older and universal. A boogeyman can be a woman, but it's usually a guy if it's human," she said with a snort. "Or a boogeyman can be an animal, like a werewolf or monster under the bed. Or a thing, like anthrax or al Qaeda."
"So what you're saying," I said, desperately trying to apply logic to illogic, "is that the boogeyman can be any idea or figment of imagination that conjures up feelings of fear."
"Sure." Ah. Good. "Sometimes." Oh crap. "People like to put a face on what they fear, but the more they fear it, the closer it comes, ready to get them, hiding in
the closet or under the bed or on the other side of the door."
"But it's not real. It's imagination," I insisted.
She shrugged. "Albert Fish wasn't imaginary. It's true, Russell, some boogeymen are abstractions, but others, I'm afraid, most definitely are not."
This is what I was afraid of. I never believed in the boogeyman as a child, and now I was having trouble believing that some boogeyman character was responsible for what happened to Tanya Culinare and Moxie Banyon. Bad luck, coincidence, sure, but the boogeyman? Nah. Yet if Alberta was right, there really could have been a boogeyman after Tanya and Moxie.
I asked the question I most wanted answered. "Why does the boogeyman come after someone in the first place?" If I knew why, I could find out who.
"Lots of reasons. Fear. Anger. Retribution. And sometimes," she said with a glint in her eye, "just for the fun of it."
There was nothing fun about what had happened to Tanya and Moxie. Not for them, anyway.
"Anyone is susceptible to the boogeyman, Russell," Alberta added, petting the side of the crystal ball with a plump finger, the back of her ring making a languid sound as it slid over the glass surface.
I frowned at her. "What are you talking about?"
"You should be worried about more than your clients."
The air in the space around us seemed to disappear as Alberta's glittering eyes moved toward the crystal ball.
"What are you saying?"
"He's here, Russell. The boogeyman is in this room."
I felt my cheeks grow suddenly hot. "What's he doing in your office?" I asked, keeping my voice-and hopefully the mood- light.
"He came in with you."
Chapter 6
To shake the image of the boogeyman out of my head, I decided to walk the several blocks to Colourful Mary's, Saskatoon's only openly gay-owned and run restaurant-slash-bookstore. It's owned by my friends, Mary Quail and Marushka Yabadochka. Mary is half First Nations Cree, half Irish and Marushka is Ukrainian-a combination which makes for unique choices in terms of reading material and menu selection. I wanted two things from my visit: lunch and information.
Now that I knew Tanya and Moxie had been lovers, I had a new direction for my investigation. My clients wanted to know why Tanya died. Suicide or not, I had to wonder if it had something to do with her relationship with Moxie Banyon or, more likely, the systematic harassment the two women had in common.
I was greeted at the front entrance by Mary, whose beautiful oval face lit up the entire eatery. It was busy, as usual, with no room left on the desirable outside deck, so Mary took my hand and led me inside to a small wooden table painted bright purple and situated on the invisible barrier that separates restaurant from bookstore. I took a seat on the sunflower-yellow chair she pulled out for me and accepted her recommendation of a garden tomato salad with strips of hot, spiced bison and a glass of iced tea. While she placed my order I surveyed the room; Colourful Mary's is always a people-watcher's delight. There were the little old ladies with portable oxygen tanks and walkers who'd made the short trek from a nearby senior's high rise; the downtown business-suit types grateful for an hour in a place where it was safe to loosen their ties and pantyhose; and of course the foodies who were drawn in by the aromas wafting out to the street from Marushka's kitchen. At any given time there is always an assortment of patrons from both the Aboriginal and LGBT communities, which are a mainstay of the customer base, and, of late, there was an inexplicable influx of politicians and city officials. If Mary and Marushka weren't careful, they'd soon have to expand their popular eatery, but that always seems to be the kiss of death for this type of restaurant, the kind that relies on ambiance, homemade food and unassuming charm to lure repeat customers.
When Mary returned with my meal, she plopped herself down in the berry-blue chair across from me and let out a breath. "Phew. What a day. What a summer. It's been like a zoo in here every day since May. What's going on in this city? Somebody finally put us on the map or what?" she said with a smile. "How you doing, sweetheart?"
"I know you're busy, but do you have time for a question or two?"
"Oh sure, for you, anytime is a good time. Besides, the girls and boys have the floor covered. My job is to seat people and make nice. But since you got the last table, I think I got a minute or two. What's up? Wondering what to have for dessert? Marushka made up a batch of her mom's nalehsnikeh-they're rolled up crepes with peach or strawberry or prune inside, served hot and sprinkled with cinnamon."
"Watching the waistline," I said sadly. Damn, I hated having to say that. It sounded old. I speared a piece of tomato and chewed on it dejectedly. "Actually, it's about a case I'm on. Since you two are in the know in the lesbian community, I was wondering if you or Marushka know anything about two women: Tanya Culinare and Moxie Banyon. They were a couple a while back, like until March or so. Late twenties, early thirties. Tanya worked shipping and receiving for V. Madison Steel, Moxie hung out with a guy named Duncan Sikorsky until she moved back to Moose Jaw in late March, early April."
Mary was nodding with her beautiful dark-clay eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah, yeah, I think I know who you're talking about. Not so much the Tanya girl, but Moxie and Duncan, I'm sure they used to hang out here a bit. Haven't seen them in a long time though, but I think that's because they used to come in when Butterfly worked here. Butterfly and Duncan had a thing going for a while."
Perfect. "Butterfly's not here anymore?"
"No. He went back to school and needed night shifts, which I couldn't give him at the time. I think he picked up some hours at the Victorian though."
Butterfly Missaskquahtoomina-according to the Saskatoon phone book-lived in the basement suite of a house on Lansdowne Avenue
. Unless Butterfly was taking summer session classes, university was out until fall and since he was a nighttime waiter, I was hoping I'd catch him at home.
"Yeah," a bleary-eyed twenty-something mumbled from the space he'd created when he opened the apartment door in response to my knock. He was bare chested and wearing baggy blue boxers that rode very low on slim hips. His shoulder-length hair was luxuriously black and needed a comb-through.
I resisted the urge to look at my wristwatch, which I knew would tell me it was after 1:00. I wasn't being judgmental, just jealous, desirous of a sleep-till-noon-day and non-existent hips for myself. "Are you Butterfly?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"I'm looking for a friend of yours, Duncan Sikorsky. Is he here by any chance?"
"Duncan? Noooo, he's not here. He's in Vancouver, man." He was rubbing his eyes making the skin around them turn a fiery crimson. "What you want him for? Hey, who are you dude?"
"I'm a friend of a friend. We're just kinda looking for him." How's that for a detailed response? "Can you give me his phone number or something?" I was trying for the laid-back approach.
Butterfly was suddenly very still. He was now fully awake, his soulful, dark eyes alert, and with something other than cobwebs filling his head. He looked at me strangely. "Hey, I don't think that's a good idea. I don't know you. And Duncan wanted to get away from his shit here. I gotta go, man." He began to pull back and close the door.
Why were all these people so spooked?
"Hey, hey, hey," I said hurriedly, shoving a foot against the door to keep it from slamming into my face. "This friend of ours, she died," I said in a serious tone. "That's why I want to get in touch with Duncan. To tell him." A lie, but at least it stopped him from shutting me out.
"Oh shit, man," he said, distress pouring over the comely blunt edges of his young face like syrup over ice cream. More eye rubbing. "That's brutal. Who is it? I can maybe call and tell him."
Oh no you don't. "The family would rather I do it in person. You know how it is."
He looked confused. "Uh, yeah, I guess. I suppose I could give you his number...but, like, don't give it to anyone else. Really, man, you have to promise. Duncan had some shit going on down here and he needs his privacy, y'know
?"
I was desperate to ask what kind of shit he was talking about but I thought the question might be answered with a door splinter in my nose. "Sure, of course. Thanks Butterfly."
"Hold on."
As Butterfly stepped away from the door I saw why I wasn't getting an invitation inside. On a couch, barely covered by a sleeping bag, was an obviously naked man. And stumbling down the hall, like a barely conscious, newly born colt, probably off to the bathroom, was another. I smiled at Butterfly when he returned with a paper on which he'd written Duncan's phone number, and wished him a very good day. Ah, to be a university student again.
Anthony Bidulka Page 9
