Anthiny Bidulka

by Aloha, Candy Hearts (lit)

  Errall had chartered the passenger craft for our special trip. Normally it could hold up to thirty-five. Today it would be just the two of us. While I found a good spot to sit with my steaming Starbucks latte, she gave last minute—probably unnecessary— instructions to our captain (she was still Errall after all, fresh-faced or not). All he did was nod politely. He'd dealt with Erralls before.

  "This'll take about an hour. That okay for you?" she asked as she took a seat next to mine. Her eyes were focussed on the water, not really paying attention to what my answer might be. So I did­n't give her one. She knew it anyway.

  The morning had that delightful nip that sometimes sneaks up as August matures. I was glad for the white cable-knit sweater I'd thrown over my shoulders at the last minute before I'd left the Ash House that morning. The forecast was for another scorcher of a day. But that would come later. After we'd said our goodbyes to Kelly. For now, the bracing cool felt just right.

  "Why so early?" I asked as the boat pulled away from shore and headed for the first of four bridges we'd pass under.

  "It was her favourite time of day," Errall explained, still look­ing away. "She loved nothing better than to get up early, especial­ly in the summer when it's light out before five. Every morning, first thing she'd do is step outside, wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and panties, and take in a big gulp of fresh air. I think she pre­ferred it to coffee." She chuckled at a memory. "You know, the whole time we had him, I don't think I took Brutus for a morning walk even once. They were such pals, you know. She'd put the har­ness on him and they'd go out for a run before I even woke up. She'd come back all rosy cheeked. Brutus would be excited and ready to eat. I'd give her a hug to warm her up. She'd feel all chilly and taut and strong." Errall pulled in a draft of air. "And she'd smell so...so wonderful. I loved the smell of her in the morning."

  We were quiet for a while.

  "How did you finally decide to do this here on the river?"

  "That was the problem," she said, turning to face me. "I could­n't decide. No one place seemed right. But then I thought about the river. The Meewasin trail next to it was her favourite place to run. I thought about how the river flows through the city, through the province, and beyond. If I leave her here, it'll take her with it. On and on and on.

  "We once rented canoes and did the trip from Cranberry Flats back into the city. She was like a kid, she absolutely loved it. Now, in a way, she'll always be on a canoe trip. Every so often, if I'm feel­ing bad or missing her, I can look at the river and pretend she's passing by, waving and laughing that crazy laugh of hers."

  I nodded. "Why now?"

  "You're just full of questions this morning." But by the way she said it, I knew she wasn't irritated, as she often is with me. She needed to talk about this. "It's the wedding. Anthony and Jared getting married this week is such a joyous thing, so positive and life-affirming and happy. I just...I wanted to remember Kelly in that same way. I don't want this to be a sad thing. I've been sad enough. We all have. Spreading Kelly's ashes so close to the wed­ding was the best way I could think of to make this a good thing. She loved those guys so much. She would have loved being part of all the wedding hoopla. And now, in a way, she is. I would have done this the morning of the wedding if I could have, but I thought today might be better."

  "I get it." And I did.

  "But you're wondering why I didn't gather a big gang of friends and family." I was.

  "Our families, our friends," she began, "that's who the funeral was for. Today.. .well, today is something different. I wanted today to be about her and me, and you too. You were her best friend."

  "After you, that is," I said.

  She gave me a grateful nod. "After me," she whispered.

  I gazed out at our beautiful, peaceful surroundings and felt the cool, fresh air kiss my skin. "I like it," I said. "I think it's perfect."

  Errall shot me a glance and I detected a mischievous glint. "Now, of course, when it's time for me to spread your ashes, I'll arrange for a parade, with bubble machines and dancing majorettes."

  I grinned. "I'd appreciate that."

  She smiled. "I'm grateful you're here, Russell. I don't know that I could have done this all alone.”

  “Of course you could have."

  "Mmmm, yes, I suppose so. But, well, this feels better." The shadow of a second bridge fell across us, and we both sat back to enjoy the view.

  It was still early when we finished on the river. Errall went to PWC. I, still hiding out from my white truck shadow, did not. Instead, I made a pit stop at the Y to work off the knot of tension that seemed to be building up on my shoulders like a barnacle. Afterwards, I decided to head back to Ash House for lunch and to consider my next move.

  Driving into the yard, I was surprised to see the place a beehive of activity. Outside the newly constructed house, landscapers and paving stone installers plied their trades, while inside, through the series of large windowpanes, I could see painters and finishers working on final touches. Delivery trucks ferried furniture and mattresses and box springs and all matters of goods needed to begin a new household. The driver of a rusty half-ton truck was busily unloading a cord of wood in one corner of the multi-car garage, and another was dumping topsoil on the driveway. I stepped out of my vehicle and spied Ethan on a second floor bal­cony, assembling a patio set. What had happened to my private oasis?

  In the kitchen I helped myself to a diet Pepsi from an industri­al-sized refrigerator, and filled a bowl with Fibre 1 cereal (the honey nut cluster type, not the hamster food type). Thinking I'd dine alfresco, I opened the kitchen door to the backyard and near­ly took a nosedive off the precipice that greeted me. I noted the pile of lumber sitting where the deck should have been, and reminded myself that I'd promised to help with its construction on Wednesday. Alternatively, I had two days to come down with the flu.

  I used the plank that was in use in lieu of steps, and made my way to ground level. I found a relatively quiet spot next to the still empty, kidney-shaped swimming pool, and settled in for some good eats and hopefully some good thinking.

  As I chomped away on my dry cereal, I studied my new best friend: the treasure map. I was stuck. I'd found the lily engraved behind the "door too high" at the Trounce house. But now what?

  The last line of the verse was: Now to fame's portrait in a frame. I needed to find something famous in a frame. After the Saskatoon Princess returned to dock that morning, I'd snuck into the Mendel Art Gallery to see if, by some extraordinary stroke of luck, they had a picture of a famous lily somewhere in their collection. They didn't. There was a rather dashing poppy, and some good-looking daisies, but no lily.

  I'd only been working on this thing for a day, but I couldn't help feeling anxious. I was halfway through the poem, but I felt like I was in a race to get to the end before White Truck Guy found me. How long could I successfully elude him? This was a small city after all. And I wasn't keen on staying away from home, my office, and my pooches for much longer. I'd already been gone long enough in Hawaii. Then again, my luggage was still on vaca­tion, so why shouldn't I be?

  I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing. Maybe I should leave this up to the police. It would be easy to wash my hands of the whole thing, enjoy the rest of the week and the cele­bratory atmosphere of the upcoming wedding of my two good friends. I'd handed over the treasure map and the clues I'd figured out so far. Maybe the treasure had nothing to do with the murder at all. Maybe the white truck was just a coincidence. Maybe my house was broken into by some random neighbourhood hood­lums.

  I gave my head a good shake. Even I didn't believe myself. Walter Angel had slipped that treasure map into my pocket for a reason. He must have guessed he was in danger when he landed in Saskatoon. The poor man must have known there was a chance something would happen to him, or the map. So he trusted me with its safekeeping. And then, something did happen to him. The worst thing. He lost his life. And now I was left with his treasured possessi
on. What did he expect me to do with it? Did he give it to me for safekeeping? Or did he want me to use it to find the treas­ure—whatever it was—before someone else did? That had to be the answer. I was sure of it. And I was also sure that once I did find the treasure, this game would change. There'd be no turning back then.

  ...fame's portrait in a frame.

  What was so famous about a lily on an old wooden door? "Russell!" a singsong voice called out.

  I turned and saw a blur of little girl rushing headlong in my direction.

  Simon Ash. Ethan's daughter.

  Simon collided into me for a bear hug, and we nearly ended up on the ground. But the chair held, and Simon giggled over the near calamity. The kid and I get along like gangbusters. Not having had many kids in my life, I treat her like I treat everyone else. Within reason, of course. She might as well be a very short thirty-year-old as far as I'm concerned, and she responds well to that. At twelve, Simon was approaching that delicate and sometimes complicated age between little girl and young woman. She didn't quite know whether she should be playing dress-up or going dress-shopping at the mall.

  Simon was the biological daughter of Ethan's sister, Sarah. Sarah was a single mother at eighteen and was tragically killed in a car accident before Simon was a year old. The grandparents became guardians, but it was soon obvious that the real parent was Ethan. By time Simon was three, Ethan was her legally adopted dad.

  Fortunately for Simon, many caregivers in addition to Ethan had eased the sad loss of her mother a little. She had lived most of her young life in Ash House, where residents regularly claimed her as their own honorary grandchild. From what I could tell, although the little girl could never replace her mother, the experi­ence of growing up in that kind of environment did wondrous things for her. She'd lost a parent, but gained an entire fleet of pro­tectors who loved and cared for her. And Ethan, well, he was just over the moon about her. She was always his topmost priority.

  "Would you like to see my room? It's the first one all done. I'm ready to move in. I can hardly wait."

  Ethan was now outside, shirtless, playing around with a sprin­kler head. I watched as the device spritzed him with water. He gambolled away like a frisky calf, grinning from ear to ear, and then circled back around, as if it were mighty prey he could sneak up on. I could watch that all day. It was time for me to leave. "I would love to," I told Simon, taking her offered hand. She led me into the house through the garage. We climbed a back set of stairs to the third floor, the private residence for Simon and her dad. Traipsing down a generous hallway that led off a spa­cious living area, I was enthralled by the stunning prairie view through a series of large picture windows along the way.

  Simon opened a door and with great pride introduced me to her room. It was, I'd think, a twelve-year-old girly girl's paradise. Lots of pretty things, and frilly things, and pillows, and soft places to sit, all in mellow pinks and beige. I was betting the room would have to be redone in a couple of years. But for now, it was perfect.

  As the tour progressed, I noticed an open laptop on her work desk—pink, of course.

  "Simon, I like your computer," I said, fingering one edge. "Thank you. Daddy lets me use it for homework and stuff. I'm not usually allowed to keep it in my room. He likes to keep an eye on things. He wanted me to bring it along while we're out here working on the house, just in case one of us needs to use it. His is back at the old Ash House."

  "You have a wireless connection working out here already?”

  “Of course. Would you like to use it?" she kindly offered. "Could I?" I felt like a kid asking to borrow a friend's new skateboard. Not being to able to get to my computer at home or the office was like having an arm chopped off.

  "Sure. As long as you promise not to go on any porno sites," she said sweetly. "I think Daddy has those blocked anyway."

  I stared at her while attempting to dislodge my tongue from my throat. There was that not-a-girl-not-quite-a-young-woman thing that was so...disarming. "Uh, sure, I promise."

  "Okay. I'm going to go check on how they're doing with the doghouse."

  "You're getting a dog?"

  "Two, I think. I haven't decided yet. Daddy says that studies show that elderly people respond well to having pets around. I will too, I think. I'm going to get the kind that live inside the house, but they should have someplace to go when they're outside too, don't you think? How are your dogs?"

  "They're pretty good. I'll tell them you asked about them."

  She giggled. "Don't be silly. Do you like my hair today?"

  Simon had Ethan's—and her mother's?—silky brown locks. She'd obviously taken some care to put them into a French braid. Or had Ethan done it for her?

  "It's killer."

  "Thanks." And with that the little girl was gone to play doggie house contractor.

  I sat down at Simon's desk. The pink surroundings and not-quite-adult size desk and chair made me feel a little like a bear in a twink bar. But I got over it. I tapped a few keys and connected to the Internet. I had work to do, and I had some ideas I wanted to follow up on.

  With the cursor in the browser, I typed "famous lily." I reviewed the first ten websites that came up and found nothing that struck me as helpful. Then I tried "portrait of a lily." This too got me nowhere. A few "lily" permutations later, brilliance struck. Of course! I typed in "Saskatchewan flower." The first site listed confirmed what I'd thought. The official flower of Saskatchewan is the western red lily. That's a pretty good claim to fame for a lily. This had to be it. I tried several more search parameters, including "western red lily portrait," "western red lily picture," and "famous western red lily."

  For the next several minutes I did plenty of reading and view­ing of pretty pictures. Nothing slapped me in the face as a clue to where to go to find "fame's portrait in a frame." Things were going nowhere fast.

  I began to wonder if "Saskatchewan" and "western red" were too broad for my needs. This was a local treasure hunt after all. My hopes not particularly high, I typed in "Saskatoon lily."

  In a flash, a slew of new sites were put on offer to me.

  And that was how I met the Saskatoon Lily.

  From various hits I was able to piece together a quick biogra­phy of a woman I'd never heard of before. Now I have to admit, I'm not as up on my 1920s, female, track and field Olympians as I could be. But the news of one from Saskatoon was rather astonish­ing.

  It turned out that Ethel Mary Catherwood was not actually from Saskatoon (or even born in Canada for that matter, she later revealed). But she most definitely lived here as a youngster. Her time in Saskatoon marked the beginning of a meteoric rise to fame as a celebrated athlete. Apparently, as a young girl, Ethel excelled at baseball, basketball, and track and field, but it was her ability to jump that catapulted her (pun intended) to unexpected heights of glory.

  Ethel Catherwood was one of a group of seven Canadian women who competed at the 1928 Summer Olympics in Amsterdam (the first Olympics to allow female competitors in ath­letics). Blessed not only with athletic aptitude but great beauty too, there was considerable focus on her physical attributes during the Games, earning her the nickname "Saskatoon Lily." A New York Times correspondent dubbed her the "prettiest girl athlete" at the Olympics. Backing up enormous promise with performance, Ethel took home the world's first ever gold medal awarded to a female high jumper.

  I did a bit more checking and found out that our hometown heroine still held the title as the only Canadian female athlete to have won an individual gold medal in an Olympic track and field event. In one snarky article I came across, the reporter even went so far as to call it the "Catherwood Curse." At least as of the date of the 2004 article, every time a Canadian hopeful tried to end the decades of women's track and field Olympic drought, she failed miserably.

  After Ethel's triumphant return from the Olympics, she was so widely admired for her athletic prowess and great beauty, she was offered a movie contract. And that's when things beg
an to turn sour for the pretty young woman.

  Scandal reigned. Ethel declined the movie offer. The media unveiled a secret marriage. The Olympian ran off and filed for a quickie divorce in Reno. She hurriedly married again. Pregnancy rumours swirled. It was all too much for a prudish public. In the nineteen twenties and thirties, people demanded a more virginal type than their Olympic darling was turning out to be. Canada res­olutely shunned Ethel Catherwood.

  Fleeing to the U. S., Ethel unsuccessfully tried to compete once more in the 1932 Olympics, this time as an American. The press hounded her every move, treating her like a Britney Spears who could jump and throw a ball, focusing on her missteps more than her skill. Viper-like, Ethel struck back with a vengeance. She scorned everything and everyone that had brought her fame and glory in the first place. She was unabashedly contemptuous of Canada. She claimed to hate sports of any kind. She rebuffed all interviews, often in the most colourful, unladylike language. She claimed to have sold all her medals and trophies. Ethel was pissed.

  What a pip, I thought to myself.

  After digging a bit further, I discovered Ethel Catherwood had died in 1987, alone and unknown, in Grass Valley, California, of bone cancer. She was 79.

  Growing weary from the computer screen, I stood up, stretched, and walked over to the bay window. My eyes did a sweep of the developing property. Freshly laid squares of sod were being sprinkled. New flowerbeds, carved into the slightly scooped out backyard, were awaiting mulch. A workman was attaching the diving board to the swimming pool. The place was taking shape at a speedy clip. It had to: in five days, it would be the scene of a wed­ding.

  Far off to one side of the yard, I spotted a bunch of lilies. How apropos. Their vivid orange faces were pointed up, drinking in the sun. Ethan or one of the landscapers must have planted them in full bloom.

  I pulled the treasure map from my pocket and read the last line of the third stanza: Now to fame's portrait in a frame.