Anthiny Bidulka

by Aloha, Candy Hearts (lit)

  Shuffling into the kitchen, I was heartened to see flashing lights on every appliance with a digital clock. Power had been restored. After letting the dogs out back to do their morning ablu­tions and resetting clocks, I trundled out the front to retrieve my Saturday morning paper.

  Not there.

  That was odd. The paper was always at my front gate by six a.m., rain, shine, or blizzard. I stepped into the quiet street and scoured the front lawns of my neighbours. Mine was the only one without a paper.

  "Hey Russell, g'morning!" a voice called.

  It was Graham, a fireman who lives two doors down. Friendly sort. Paper tucked under his arm, he was rolling his big, black garbage bin back to his garage. I waved a greeting as I headed over to collect my own. I let out a surprised grunt at the effort it took to move it. What the...?

  It hadn't been emptied.

  Leaving the trash container where it was, I fumed as I contem­plated the exact wording of my call to the city's sanitation depart­ment. Grumbling my way back to the house, I stopped short at my front door. There was some kind of letter posted to it. I hadn't noticed it on my way out. I pulled it off and opened it. It was from the City of Saskatoon Animal Services Program:

  This official Notice of Violation is issued for breach of Bylaw No. 7860 (The Animal Control Bylaw, 1999)

  Offence: Failure to immediately remove a dog or cat's excrement (defecation) from public or private property other than the property of the dog or cat's owner [Section 13]

  Penalty: $250

  Even though my mouth was open, wide, I couldn't seem to catch a breath.

  The power. My newspaper. My garbage. Now this. Sherry Fisher.

  This woman wasn't fooling around. And I had a feeling these were just warning shots. I stuck the ticket in my housecoat pocket. I didn't want Barbra or Brutus seeing it. They would be mortified to think anyone was accusing them of pooping where they weren't supposed to.

  I marched into the house in full huff. Sure, I could empathize with Sherry Fisher's having been unhinged by my visit yesterday. At the least, I'd brought up memories that were likely very dis­tressing to her. At the most, I was messing around in her garden of secrets and posed a threat to her carefully crafted public persona. If the mayor's wife was being blackmailed because of a decades-old teenage dalliance, I could manage some sympathy for her plight. But that didn't mean she had the right to wield the power of the mayor's office like a battering ram. If there's one thing I can­not abide, it's a bully. When I get pushed, I push back harder.

  I decided to salvage the morning with pancakes. Indulgent, and a little time-consuming, but I needed something pleasant to offset the rotten start to the day. Not to mention that beating eggs and whipping batter felt pretty good about then.

  When my feast was prepared, I stuck my nose outdoors and debated eating on the deck. The morning was surprisingly cool. (I hadn't noticed earlier because of my hot head.) Billowy clouds playing hide-and-seek with the sun were keeping the day from warming up. So instead, I took my food and coffee into my office and set up in front of the computer. It would be a working break­fast.

  A couple of hours later, Sereena and I were in the backyard of the new Ash House. We were supposed to be putting finishing touch­es on the arbour beneath which Anthony and Jared would be wed, but mostly I was complaining about the curse of Sherry Fisher. Sereena seethed in sympathy as she artfully attached gladiolas and palm leaves to the metal structure. She too was not fond of bullies. When we (well, mostly she) finished, Sereena crossed something off a list and tilted her head up to study the sky.

  "You look worried," I said, following her gaze.

  Indeed, the sky did not look great. Anthony and Jared were on the wrong side of fate. It had been hot and sunny and windless for over a week. On the Saskatchewan prairie, that meant one thing. The polar opposite was on its way.

  "I never worry," Sereena observed nonchalantly. "I simply adjust to what I can't change."

  I doubted there was much Sereena couldn't change if she put her considerable mind and resources to it. But even she couldn't do much about a rainstorm on the day of an outdoor wedding.

  I assessed the distressingly cool blue horizon, rumpled with threatening stratus clouds. "What do you think?"

  "I think two wonderful men will get married today," she pro­claimed.

  I smiled. "Come hell or high water!”

  “At this point, I'd prefer hell. Easier on the shoes.”

  “What's next?" I asked, trying to be peppy about wanting to help, at the same time itching to get away like a schoolboy want­ing to ditch homework for the park. The time had come in my investigation into Walter Angel's death to make like a gopher. I needed to dig holes wherever I could, to see what lay beneath the surface of dirt.

  "You need to get a trim."

  "What?" I just had a haircut before I left for Hawaii. I ran my hands through my longer-than-usual, sun-blonded hair. I wasn't ready to abandon it quite yet. "I like my hair the way it is."

  "A clean up couldn't hurt," Sereena suggested. "Perhaps you might try someplace new this time. I was thinking Cutz?"

  Carleen Fisher's place? What was she talking about? Was this another one of Sereena's moments of caprice? Every now and again my neighbour discovered a new favourite person, place, or thing. Like the artist whom she'd insisted was modern day Picasso. The restaurant whose chef she'd thought was the Prairie's answer to Emeril Lagasse. She said everyone needed to buy their art or eat their food, or risk missing out on something quite extraordinary. She was usually right.

  "You never know what you might find out," Sereena kept on, seemingly more interested in consulting her to-do list than in our conversation. "You know how these common hair salons and bar­bershops are such excellent breeding grounds for gossip."

  I frowned at that. Sereena disliked gossip almost as much as she disliked too-sweet wine and potato chips. Both, she said, were a waste of time and natural resources. Something was up here.

  "I've made an appointment for you." She consulted her watch. "If you hurry you can still make it."

  Cutz was the hair salon equivalent to one of Carleen Fisher's mother's fundraisers. Stylish, expensive, and poorly attended. The business was in a high-rent spot just down the street from Anthony's menswear store, gatt, on downtown's 2nd Avenue

  . When I stepped inside, a wholesome young woman wearing trendy clothing that revealed a taut midsection and eagle tattoo greeted me. She gamely took my name and, as a first-time cus­tomer, had me fill in a questionnaire that asked a lot of questions I didn't know the answers to. In the blank spot after the query about which hair care products I used, I wrote: "the bottle on the shelf."

  Carleen seemed genuinely happy to see me. But so would have been any of the client-less operators at the half-dozen empty sta­tions spread throughout the spacious room. An assistant washed my hair with something fantastic smelling, then set me up at Carleen's station, in front of a huge, oval mirror. She brought me a steaming mug of fresh latte that could only have been brewed by something that was big and silver with many knobs and a foreign-sounding brand name. Cream coloured walls were adorned with original oils by local artists who I knew sold their stuff for plenty. Mayor Fisher had spared no expense on his little girl's business.

  "So, what can we do for you today?" Carleen asked with admirable verve. "A little trim? Maybe you'd like to get rid of some of the grey?"

  I was about to yank away the lightweight cutting cape from around my neck and stomp out of there, but common sense pre­vailed. My hair was blond. Not grey. Maybe the lighting was hit­ting me wrong. At thirty-eight I supposed there might be a tint-challenged strand or two in there somewhere, so I decided to for­give her.

  Carleen continued to assess my hair like a gardener would a plot of unruly weeds. "There's a whole patch of it right here at the crown." This girl could not shut up to save her life. Unforgivable.

  "Just a trim," I muttered.

  "Oh, okay." She sounded disappoi
nted.

  Well, too bad. "No, not even a trim," I instructed. "Just give me a quick check for split ends. If you find one, chop it off, otherwise, just leave it as it is."

  Why had Sereena forced me to come here?

  I was thinking about that when one of the other stylists said something that sent Carleen into gales of laughter. Me, not so much. I wasn't in the mood.

  But then, my ears began to tingle. Carleen's laugh...there was something about it. It was low and throaty with a quivering cadence. It was peculiar. Unique.

  I'd heard it somewhere before.

  But not from Carleen.

  More laughter.

  Then I had it. Could it be? She laughed again, and I was cer­tain. I'd heard the exact same laugh two nights ago at Simon Durhuaghe's reading.

  As I sat there considering this curious bit of information, I sud­denly realized why Sereena had sent me here. She was too much of a lady to spread a rumour—even if it was to help me out—but she wasn't beyond putting me in the perfect position to come up with it myself. In this case, Carleen Fisher's salon chair.

  Again Carleen cut loose. The likeness of the laughs was eerie. Sereena must have met Simon Durhuaghe at some point, and noticed the uncanny similarity when she met Carleen at the lunch­eon.

  "Carleen," I began in a pleasant conversational tone. "Starting up a new business must be quite a challenge. Especially for some­one so young."

  "Oh, it's not that difficult really." Then, with yet another of her unusual laughs—the girl was really going to town—she added, "And I'm really not that young either. But thanks for saying so."

  "Really? How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one?" I know it's rude to ask a woman her age, but this was work.

  "Twenty-eight," she told me proudly.

  I quickly did the math in my head.

  Bingo.

  Sherry had ended her affair with Simon Durhuaghe when she was nineteen and newly married to Cantor Fisher. Her daughter, Carleen, was born when she was twenty. It could work. The mayor's daughter might have been fathered by another man. If that was true, the delicious question was: Who knew about it?

  Saturday continued to be a test of my multi-tasking prowess. I had a lot to do and little time to do it in. After finishing up at Cutz and picking up my tux from the rental store, I tracked down the address of Simon Durhuaghe's Saskatoon residence.

  When in town, the Durhuaghes lived in a charming, two-storey character house on Temperance Street

  with a wraparound porch and a beautiful front garden. Very nice. Very peaceful. Until I showed up, that is.

  A lovely looking woman in her late sixties answered the front door. Her greying hair was gently teased into a soft corona that folded neatly into a discreet bun at the back of her head. She wore a plain but elegant dress under a thick cardigan.

  "Hello," she greeted me with a genuine smile on her heart-shaped face.

  "Hello. My name is Russell Quant. I was wondering if Mr. Durhuaghe is home?"

  "Are you a friend of my husband's?" she asked, her words betraying a slight British accent.

  I hesitated.

  "Oh well," she said with twinkling eye, "never mind then. Do come in anyway."

  I gave her a confused look.

  Her laugh tinkled like a bell as she pulled back and motioned me in. "I'm Olivia Durhuaghe, Simon's wife. You see, my husband isn't the sort of man with many people in his life to call friend. Still, after all these years, I hold out hope that one of these days at least one will show up. Silly of me, I suppose."

  I could immediately tell there was nothing silly about this woman. "Perhaps tomorrow?" I suggested with a small smile.

  She gave me an appraising look, one that said she found my sense of humour acceptable, and replied, "Perhaps tomorrow. Now, Mr. Quant, what is it you're here to talk to my husband about?"

  No, not silly at all. "I'm a private investigator," I told her. "I'm working on a case I'd like to discuss with him, if I may." I watched her closely for any telltale reaction. Maybe she knew something too. But there was nothing, other than keen curiosity and intellect, and a desire to protect her spouse from the unsavoury.

  Her clever eyes surveyed me more closely. Then, decision made, she turned and beckoned me to follow. I was led down a narrow hallway lined with countless framed photographs. She walked slowly—intentionally?—giving me opportunity to study the images. Some were obviously professional publicity shots used for book jackets and in magazines, but the majority were simple family photos, many in black and white, some very old. There were pictures of Simon and Olivia in groups, but most were of just the two of them, always looking like they were having the time of their life. On a beach. In a rowboat. In front of the Eiffel Tower. With a Boston terrier. At a circus. They showed a full life lived away from the public eye.

  One photo in particular caught my attention. It was one of the smallest in the group, but pulled me in with its intensity. Standing side by side, in a playful pose, were Simon and Olivia, fifty years younger than they were today. Both were dressed in white for some social event, looking for all the world like a pair of screen idols. He, tall and strong and big boned, with a shock of black hair spilling over eyes so pale they were almost translucent. She, mag­nificent with dewy skin, rosebud mouth, and hair that seemed as if it would bounce if you just looked at it. The camera had caught them laughing, and gazing at one another with undisguised ado­ration. I was so taken by the image, I stopped following my host­ess and found myself staring at it. When I was done, I saw that Olivia was waiting patiently for me at the end of the hall. She gave me a smile, then, without saying anything, turned and walked on.

  We ended up in a back porch where a series of windows faced the backyard. Through them I could see Simon Durhuaghe pacing up and down a cement walkway, from the rear of the house to a small garden at the other end of the lot, then back again.

  "I send him out there to smoke his pipe," Olivia told me as we watched her husband. "Ten years ago, I would have never consid­ered asking him such a thing. Now, it would be foolish of me not too." She laid a pale hand on my arm. "Truth be told, I really don't mind the smell of truly fine pipe tobacco. Nevertheless, I send him out there whenever he decides to light up. Just because I can. Isn't it wonderful?"

  I grinned. Olivia Durhuaghe was a formidable woman.

  "Good luck with whatever it is you hope to learn from him, Mr. Quant."

  I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  "Simon is an impossible man," she told me. "Always has been. It's what makes him interesting to people. Although they'd hardly admit it."

  "Any advice?"

  "None," she said as she slowly walked away. "Do your best, young man."

  The door groaned with age as I pushed it open. Durhuaghe looked up. For a moment I could see a struggle on his face as he tried to remember who I was. I figure it came to him at about the same time as the frown.

  "What the hell do you want?" he growled, pushing aside a few strands of his thick, silver hair.

  He was standing about halfway down the path. It didn't seem likely he was going to come to me, so I went to him. As I approached, I saw something different in the man. Here in his home environment, banished to his backyard to indulge his vice, Durhuaghe appeared less virile than I remembered. The stoop of his shoulders was more pronounced, the wrinkles deeper, the eyes less fiery.

  Still, this was a man who did not suffer fools gladly, not one to waste time on idle chat. So I jumped right in. "Mr. Durhuaghe, I know you're hiding something about your involvement in Walter Angel's murder."

  "Hells bells!" his crusty voice rang out. "That again? What about it?"

  "I believe Walter Angel knew about your involvement with Sherry Klingskill."

  "So what? I already told you, Mr....?”

  “Quant. Russell Quant."

  He huffed and puffed. "I already told you, Quant, all that mess is long forgotten. Barely a memory as far as I'm concerned. I don't know why anybody else would care about it. I
surely don't."

  "Someone might care about it because Sherry Klingskill is now Sherry Fisher, the wife of the mayor of Saskatoon." I'd mentioned this before at the bookstore, but I wanted to be sure he knew that I knew.

  "I know that, for heaven's sake. What do you take me for? Some kind of imbecile? What about it? So I had a fling with some dolly who ended up marrying a politician? Who cares? Million years ago. Old news. Besides, this is the twenty-first century. This sort of thing happens every day to people much better known than me. Presidents, for crying out loud. Every second politician puts it where he shouldn't. Nobody cares. They still get elected." He was trying hard to be cavalier and offhand, but I wasn't buying it.

  "Sherry Klingskill was very young when you had your affair, Mr. Durhuaghe. And she was engaged to and then married anoth­er man."

  He exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke, along with a grunt. "Alleged affair."

  "And," I hesitated for dramatic effect (just because I like to do that once in a while). "Sherry Fisher gave birth to a daughter just shy of nine months after your alleged affair ended." Based on the details in the journal and letters, and the ages of Sherry and her daughter, I couldn't be exactly sure of this math, but I was betting my bluff wasn't too far off the truth.

  Durhuaghe seemed shaken for the first time. He bumbled a bit then spat out: "That's a load of hogwash, and you know it! All you're doing is spreading vicious lies, Mr. Quant. I was mostly a nobody at the time. That girl was after much bigger fish than me, let me tell you. Just because she was young, doesn't mean she was naive or innocent or stupid. She knew what she was doing when she got engaged to the richest boy in town. And when it was time for her to get pregnant, she broke it off to do just that. Any child she had was his, not mine. If she tells you any different, she's a goddamned liar!"

  Of course I couldn't prove a thing without a DNA test. A quick check of my pockets told me I was fresh out. But proof only counts in a court of law. My job was to get him there in the first place—if that's where he belonged.