Across the room was Kelly Doell. I was still somewhat shell-shocked to see her, standing in my bedroom, back in our lives, as if she’d never been gone. She was enjoying a giggling gossip session with Errall and Jared on the couch beneath the picture window. Kelly’d turned up in Saskatoon just before I went to Africa, and according to my own sources of gossip, she had spent the last few days at Errall’s house (the one they had once shared as a couple) with very few dealings involving the outside world. With all that was going on, I’d yet to hear exactly why she was back, and for how long. By the looks of her and Errall together, I’d say one of the things she’d come back for was Errall. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Anthony was keeping my other PWC officemates, Alberta Lougheed and Beverly Chaney, enthralled with selections from his never-ending collection of colourful tales. Anthony and Jared seemed okay. For now. But who really knows what goes on beneath the public surface of any relationship? I’d been invited in, briefly, but only as a visitor, not a participant—just the way it should be.
Actually everyone seemed okay, happy. Today was about welcoming Alex home after his ordeal. My friends and family knew that, and with typical generosity of heart and spirit, they were doing a bang-up job putting aside whatever dramas were affecting their own lives to celebrate the fact that Alex still had one, after being shot three times by Robin Haywood. They were here for Alex. For me. I looked around again at this collection of people, and the phrase I’d first heard in that South African township—“I am what I am because of who we all are”—repeated in my head. And I knew it to be truer than ever, even here in this little house on the prairies. Saskatchewan ubuntu.
I needed it to be true.
I gave Alex a quick kiss on the forehead and left his side to speak with Darren Kirsch.
“Thanks for coming over,” I said to the big cop. “I know Alex appreciates your being here for his coming out—of hospital—party.”
Kirsch gave me one of his signature looks, the one where his nose and the left side of his mouth crumple together with only his cheesy moustache keeping them apart. Kind of cute in a Troll doll kind of way. “Quant, I know what you’re really thinking. You’re wondering: Why the hell is he here? I don’t remember inviting him.”
I cleared my throat and gave him a contrite nod. “Actually, yes, that’s about right.” There is precious little social politeness between Kirsch and me, which I find really rather refreshing.
“Well, you’re right. I wasn’t invited. And that hurts me in a way I can’t tell you, Quant.”
I swallowed hard. Had I somehow misjudged this guy? “Darren, I’m sorry, I guess I—”
The mocking laughter stopped my blubbering idiocy.
“Kidding, Quant, I’m kidding. Ooooo boy, you are outta practice. You’re more gullible than my two- year-old. Whassamatter with you? C’mon!” he chided me with great, hateful mirth, and then he came clean. “I showed up at the door, and your mother dragged me in here. Figures someone like you would have a party in his bedroom. When does everyone change into their jammies, Sandra Dee?”
“That’s a door right behind you.”
He ignored my suggestion and handed me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“It’s why I came over. It’s the lab results on Barbra and Brutus. Just what we thought: he fed them steak laced with sedative. Looks like Brutus ate all of his and some of Barbra’s, either that or Haywood simply put more of the stuff in his steak. That’s why Brutus took so much longer to come out of it.”
“And the blood I saw in the snow around Barbra’s mouth was from her eating the raw meat?”
He nodded. “Or she may have tried to regurgitate the poisoned material if it didn’t sit well in her stomach. Dogs are good about stuff like that. That might be another reason why she was able to wake up and attack Robin Haywood before he shot Matthew Ridge. I hope you’ve rewarded her appropriately.”
“Believe me,” I told him, “Barbra is being treated like a queen around here. When Mom arrived the other day, she brought more food for her than for me. Have you ever heard of doggie perogies? Instead of mashed potato or cabbage, she fills them with Purina.”
“Anyway,” he said, “I knew you were waiting on the results, so….” He began to move away.
I laid a hand on his beefy forearm. “Hey, wait. You came all the way over here just to give me this?” He could have mailed them. He could have told me to pick them up at the police station. He could have phoned it in.
“This is Saskatoon, Quant, not Detroit,” he countered a little too quickly. “It’s not like I had to spend two hours in traffic to get over here to your little pajama party.”
“There’s beer in the fridge if you want one,” I offered in a conciliatory way (which I thought was big of me, given the pajama party remarks).
“Gotta go,” he told me, keeping his eyes anywhere but on me. “Treena and the kids are waiting for me to take them to Red Lobster.”
“Okay.” I held out a hand. We never shake. “Thanks, eh?”
“Yup.” He took my hand and gave it a quick pump. He waved at Alex as he passed by the bed and left the room.
I sidled back to my place next to Alex.
“Hey,” he said, pulling me in close. “Thank you for the party. I’ve never had anybody do anything like this for me before.”
“You are very welcome. It’s the least I could do for the guy who tried to save my dogs and ended up getting shot—three times—all because of me.”
His face moved even closer to mine, and he whispered, “It’s the least I could do for the guy I love.”
Love.
Oooo.
We shared a gentle kiss, and I laid my head on his chest, letting myself be lulled by its gentle up-and- down motion. I buried my eyes deep into the burgeoning spring outside the bedroom window.
How had this happened? I wondered.
For indeed I too…perhaps for the first time…had fallen madly, deeply…unaccountably…in love.
With someone else.
Excerpt from
Aloha Candy Hearts
the sixth novel in the Russell Quant mystery series
Chapter 1
“Russell Quant, will you marry me?”
I gulped.
The old, vine-fortified banyuls I’d been blissfully sipping, along with our shared Grand Marnier and lilikoi soufflé, suddenly turned sticky in my throat. I wished for a draft to cool my rapidly crimsoning cheeks. Although only seconds passed before I responded to the unexpected question, it seemed as if the world around me had slowed to half speed. Visions of my life passed before my eyes. Or at least the last seventy-two hours of it.
The telephone call had been unexpected. There are no sweeter six words than: come to Hawaii for the weekend. With the possible exception of: Your ticket is paid for, Russell. That’s when the cyclone first hit. After that, it was such a whirlwind, I hadn’t even been aware that I was being swept off my feet—until those final six words: Russell Quant, will you marry me?
We were staying on Waikiki beach in Oahu, at the plush Halekulani Hotel. Halekulani means “House Befitting Heaven.” And from what I’d seen so far, I was so becoming an angel. Our days began with boogie boarding or kayaking in the mornings. Afterwards we’d grab a bite at House Without a Key, the hotel’s outdoor gathering place immortalized by the Charlie Chan novel of the same name. Then it was time for lazing on the beach or around the pool with its stunning orchid mosaic. In the early evening, after cleaning up, we’d return to House Without a Key, wearing our tropical whites and shirts that billowed in the perfect breeze, and find a spot under the kiawe shade tree. From that glorious place, we’d sip on surprisingly strong Mai Tais (regular ice, not crushed), watch the sunset, and enjoy the hula of a former Miss Hawaii. This wasn’t the hip-rattle-roll stuff you get at the tourist luaus either. This was graceful hula, accompanied by ukulele, steel guitar, slack key, and the lilting falsetto vocals unique to traditional Hawaiian mus
ic. Later we’d have dinner at popular eating spots such as Keo’s or Alan Wong’s. But tonight the eating experience had been ratcheted up a notch or two.
We were dining at La Mer, on the second floor of the hotel. The menu featured “neo-classic French” cuisine. I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked it all the same. I liked it a lot. It might have been the champagne they served us before our butts were even in our chairs. Or the unimpeded view of Waikiki beach, the Pacific Ocean, and Diamond Head. Or the fact that they brought a little stool just to set my camera on. Or maybe it was the fillet of opakapaka baked in rosemary salt crust. And still, despite it all, I was completely oblivious to the portentousness of all this luxury and excess. I thought he was just really happy to see me.
Then came THE QUESTION.
Even though I never took my green eyes off his cocoa brown ones, I was acutely aware of our waiter, Raymond, standing not far off. He’d obviously been in on the whole thing. I could feel his ear-to-ear grin even though I couldn’t see it. And I was pretty sure a few neighbouring diners were also monitoring the drama at our table. How could they resist? Two well-dressed men seated at the best table in the house, a tropical paradise as our backdrop, the sultry haziness of too much too-expensive wine that begs close acquaintance from perfect strangers, romantic island music, one of us with a ring in his hand and hopeful look on his face, the other with a wide open mouth and shock on his (that would be me).
For a second I looked away. At Raymond. He gave me an encouraging nod. My eyes fell back on Alex Canyon. I gave him my answer.
“Yes.”
During the nearly six-hour flight from Honolulu to Vancouver, and the layover until I could board my plane for Saskatoon, I did more reading and eating than sleeping. So by the time I was winging my way home, I was ready for a nap. I snuggled into the CRJ’s seat with about seventy other passengers and prepared for some shut-eye. But fate had another plan. It began with a series of sighs from the seat next to me.
I admit to being as curious as the proverbial cat. How can I not be, given my chosen career? So, although I was a little vexed by the noisy exhaling, it wasn’t surprising that I found myself abandoning the promise of pleasant dreams for a peek at my neighbour.
The man sitting next to me was a little odd in appearance to say the least. If there were a human version of Mr. Magoo, he would be it. Through the slit of one eye, I could make out a hugely bulbous nose, sticky-outy chin, wobbly jowls, sunken mouth, and a completely hairless, perfectly round head. His eyes, nearly hidden behind pouches of skin, sat below eyebrows shaped like inverted “V”s. Although it was summer, and the forecast for our evening arrival was balmy, he wore some kind of trench coat with a uniquely patterned scarf of orange and blue wound about his neck. If I had to guess, I’d say he was nearing seventy.
Just as I was about to lose myself back to sleep, the man sighed again. This time it was accompanied by a gentle but definite “harrumph.” I saw that he was intently studying a piece of paper. His scrunched-up mouth was travelling from one side of his face to the other, as if worrying over a particularly recalcitrant piece of gum.
I saw a crew member making his way down the aisle with water. Deciding that wouldn’t be a bad idea, I sat up and waited to be offered some. I exchanged a polite glance with Magoo.
“Good evening,” he said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No,” I lied. “I never sleep long on planes.”
He nodded absentmindedly as he returned his attention to the paper on his lap.
Dropping my seat table, I accepted water from the steward.
After one more sigh, the man carefully folded the paper and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. He looked over at me with a lopsided, lipless smile. “Going home?”
He even sounded like Mr. Magoo. Or was it Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island? “Yes,” I told him. “It’s nice to get away but always nice to come back home too.”
“That’s refreshing to hear from a young person,” he said. “I suppose with the local economy booming the way it is, more and more youngsters like you are staying in Saskatchewan.”
I was enjoying being called a youngster. Especially since I’d just turned thirty-eight. A few years back, my ultra-stylish friend Anthony had cajoled me into using a line of Clinique skin products for men. I guess they were worth the ultra-stylish cost. Although I steadfastly refuse to wear a moisturizing mask to bed. “Yes, I hear that’s true.”
“What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a private detective.”
That answer is always good for a reaction. And Mr. Magoo did not disappoint. He shifted in his seat to get a better look at me. Although the flaps covering his eyes were nearly impenetrable, I spied a flash of blue, brilliant as a newborn’s.
“No!” he said, truly astonished.
I’d run into this before. I dug a business card (you never know when you might meet a potential client) from a pocket of my cargo shorts and handed it to him. He studied it carefully before burying it in his jacket pocket.
“So you investigate murders and that sort of mayhem?”
I nodded. It was the truth. I had been involved in at least a few murder cases—granted, sometimes peripherally—since leaving the Saskatoon Police Service several years earlier. There was Tom Osborn found afloat in Pike Lake. James Kraft shot in a New York City hotel room. The drag queen who looked like Phyllis Lindstrom from The Mary Tyler Moore Show pushed off the side of an ocean liner. And Tanya Culinare, who jumped from the eighth-floor balcony of her Broadway Avenue apartment. Oh yeah, I investigated murders all the time.
“I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much call for that sort of thing in a city the size of Saskatoon,” the old man commented.
At about a quarter of a million people, Saskatoon is not a big city. And indeed, in between my higher- profile cases, most of my time as a prairie detective is spent chasing down errant husbands, runaway kids, lost pets, and, in one instance, discovering whether a local restaurant had indeed used Mrs. Galabruch’s perogy recipe and passed it off as their own. But no one needed to know about that. I nodded again and said, “A hot economy has benefits for my line of work too. More people, more action, more crime.” Gosh, I love prosperity.
His mouth made a chewing motion as he considered what I’d said. Then he asked, “You wouldn’t be interested in something a little less dramatic, then?”
I was very interested. Not only do I like being able to pay my bills (that damn Clinique stuff is expensive), as compelling as my infrequent murder cases are, they aren’t necessarily my favourite kind of work. Murder means death. Death means grief. Usually for many people. Death is gruesome. Death is just not a nice thing to spend all your time around. So, although I might outwardly whine about being asked to find out if Sophie Underwill’s beagle from down the street is responsible for the daily deposits of doody in Mr. Kindrachski’s bed of prize-winning lilies, inwardly I rather enjoy the work.
Then again, sometimes there’s nothing better than a good murder.
“I might be,” I told Mr. Magoo.
“What about treasure maps?” he asked. “Are you any good with treasure maps?”
Now it was my turn to look astonished. Treasure maps? I suddenly had memories of being eight. I loved movies and books about adventurous pirates in exotic locations in search of treasure. I daydreamed of chests filled with gold and jewels and countless coins. But the man sitting next to me did not at all resemble a pirate: no eye patch, no bandana around unruly black hair, no peg leg or missing teeth. I was going to be disappointed. I was sure of it.
Magoo rifled around in his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper I’d spied him studying earlier in the flight. He pulled down his seat table and flattened the paper on top of it. Although I hate being snoopy—okay, that’s a lie—I couldn’t help taking a peek. It was a rather crude drawing, a few squiggles and symbols, interspersed with lots of words. The thing looked more like a poem than a treasure ma
p. Treasure maps were supposed to have a compass rose and a trail of arrows over sketched terrain, which usually included mountains and valleys and swamps. And there should be a castle and a few warnings about quicksand or dragons or something good like that. So yup, I was disappointed.
“I don’t know what she was thinking when she did this,” Magoo muttered. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. Helen always was a quirky one.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What exactly is this?”
“Helen, my…friend…left this for me,” he said, his fingers busily fumbling over the surface of the paper. “It’s a map of Saskatoon.”
I leaned in and peered closer. “It is?”
“Sure it is,” he said, pointing at a blob that I suppose could have been a castle. “See, that’s the Bessborough Hotel.” His finger moved from blob to blob. “And there’s the river. And the university campus. Downtown.”
I thought he was giving the artist greater credit than deserved, but geographically speaking, if I squinted and turned my head just right, I could see a general resemblance to the city where we were about to land.
“And what’s all the writing over top of the map?”
“Those are the clues,” he whispered in a way that urged me to do the same. “You see, I have to figure these out in order to find it.”
“Find what?” I asked, my curiosity gene on full alert.
The man stared at me. For a moment he seemed uncertain, as if suddenly realizing that maybe he’d said—and shown me—too much. Finally his cartoonish face broke into a conspiratorial smile. “A treasure,” he enthused quietly. “If I decipher the clues correctly, I find the treasure. Simple as that. It’s like a game.”
“I see.” The man didn’t need to hire a detective. He needed a playmate.
Sundowner Ubuntu Page 29
