Anthiny Bidulka

by Aloha, Candy Hearts (lit)

  "Walter Angel was blackmailing you, wasn't he?" I didn't know this for a fact either. But I was working a hunch that Angel knew what was in the journal and letters, even though he didn't have physical possession of them. "He worked for the University of Saskatchewan Archives. You donated your papers there ten years ago. He read the journal where you wrote about your affair with Sherry Klingskill. He either figured out who she was, or who her fiance was, or that she had a child with you, or maybe all three, and decided to use the information against you. Isn't that right?

  "You paid him off to keep it from the public. Especially in the year of an important book release. Publishers and agents don't appreciate controversy like that, do they? I know they say any publicity is good publicity, but a reputation as an old lecher who seduces young girls, and with a lovechild you've never supported, probably doesn't count at all, does it?"

  "Stop it. Stop right there. I don't have to stand here and listen to this crap from you!"

  "We could sit down."

  He didn't seem to appreciate my sense of humour as much as his wife did.

  "I had never heard of this Angel character until I saw his name in the papers when he was killed. Yes, I was stupid and sent my papers to the University without bothering to cull them myself. But as I told you, I'd forgotten about the whole mess years ago. I don't even remember writing about it. Out of sight, out of mind.

  "I may very well have met this Angel chap back then. But in truth, I don't recall who I dealt with at the Archives. The whole deal was a bloody nuisance to me. They wanted my stuff. I gave it to them. End of story.

  "And Sherry, well, Sherry and I...well, it well may be true that we had a certain type of relationship when she was rather young." I detected a tremor in his voice. "I knew she was too damn young for me. But I was a world class cocksman in those days, Mr. Quant. I don't deny it. My wife doesn't either. So I've nothing to hide from her, if that's what you're thinking. That woman has stuck by me through thick and thin. She is a saint, and the love of my life. Always was. Always will be. I never deserved a woman like her, but she's put up with the worst of me."

  If that was true—and I was inclined to believe it was—it was­n't his wife he was trying to keep his past from. But there was still the public, the daughter he had never met, maybe even the mayor of Saskatoon.

  "Mr. Durhuaghe, this whole thing has gone too far. Your secrets are no longer safe. Someone has committed murder because of them. I think it could be you. And if I think so, so will the police."

  "No! I would never do such thing! Never! But..." He checked himself there and busied himself puffing his pipe. "What?" I pushed. "What is it?"

  He exhaled deeply. My eyes fell to the pipe in his right hand. It was shaking.

  "Blackmail." His voice was so low I could barely hear the word as it passed through his lips.

  So there it was. "Walter Angel had been blackmailing you?" I said to confirm my suspicions.

  He looked up then, his forceful grey eyes on mine. "I don't see how that would be possible, Mr. Quant."

  Huh? "What do you mean?"

  "I am being blackmailed," he admitted. "But it didn't begin until after Mr. Angel's death."

  The details of the blackmail being perpetrated on Simon Durhuaghe were sparse. Either that or he just wasn't in the mood for sharing. Or he was hiding something. Fifteen minutes of verbal sparring didn't get me much. But I did manage to squeeze out of him that the threat came in the form of a letter with no postmark— so it had been hand-delivered to the mailbox on their porch—and cliched letters cut from a magazine pasted on the page. When I asked to see it, Durhuaghe claimed he had tossed the thing. I pushed him, and he told me the letter simply said, "I know. You pay. I'll be in contact about how much and when." He said it had­n't worried him much.

  That was it. It was time to leave.

  I didn't want to bother Mrs. Durhuaghe again, and Durhuaghe himself wasn't the kind of host to see me out, so I skedaddled down the path that ran alongside the house. I was halfway down the front walk when I heard the voice. "Did you get what you came for?"

  I turned and walked slowly back toward the front porch, where Olivia Durhuaghe sat, knitting needles working on some­thing that looked like a sweater.

  "Excuse me?" I said from the first step up.

  "Were you successful, Mr. Quant? Did Simon tell you anything worthwhile?"

  I didn't know how to react to this. I went with a grin and said, "We talked."

  "About that woman? About his dalliance with the mayor's wife?"

  I stood stock-still, an uncomfortable look pasted on my face.

  "Oh don't worry about all that, Mr. Quant," she said, eyes focussed on her handiwork. "My husband broke my heart a long time ago with that one." She looked up. "I've a different heart now. The part that broke, you see, I no longer need."

  "Oh."

  "Are you he?"

  "Excuse me?" I seemed to be saying that a lot.

  "Are you the blackmailer? Is that what this visit was about? Have you come for money? Or something else?"

  "Oh, Mrs. Durhuaghe," I said, my voice quivering at the idea that she thought I was the bad guy. "No."

  "It's all right if you are," she said, quite calmly. "I'd actually prefer it if you were. One likes to put a face to an enemy. It's some­how easier that way."

  "No, Mrs. Durhuaghe. I am not the blackmailer."

  "All right then, just thought I'd ask." She hesitated for a sec­ond, and then added. "I believe you, by the way."

  "I'm glad."

  "Me too. I rather like you," she declared, looking up at me. "I'd hate to have to think of you as the enemy. Because then, of course, there'd be all the messy business when I put an end to you and your shenanigans."

  Suddenly Mrs. Durhuaghe's eyes appeared ten times more res­olute and steely than those of her husband. It was obvious to me then. Although it was he who people both feared and worshipped, it was she who wielded the power and had the strength in this relationship.

  We stared at one another for a moment. I knew one more thing. Olivia Durhuaghe had lied to me. She did not believe me when I said I wasn't the blackmailer. She only said so in her quest to pro­tect her husband. Keep your friends close, keep your enemies clos­er. That was a saying meant for Olivia Durhuaghe.

  I'd surmised that if Simon Durhuaghe was somehow involved in the murder of Walter Angel, he'd be a redoubtable foe to con­quer. In that war, I'd yet to figure out on which side his wife would battle.

  Chapter 14

  I'd promised to contribute some sort of salad for the midday meal for the cast of thousands scurrying about Ash House preparing the property for the sunset wedding. I stopped by Colourful Mary's hoping to score something tasty and looking like I might have made it at home, but Marushka is a stickler for preparing every­thing from scratch. Apparently this means there isn't five pounds of potato salad sitting around in the cooler.

  As I dashed off to Safeway, I had a sense of time being eaten up at rapid pace by one of those round heads from Pac-Man. The streets were packed with Saturday shoppers, and by the time I was on the short highway ride back out to Ash House, I was running late. I hate being late.

  Screeching to a halt in front of the house, I retrieved the plastic bucket of Safeway potato salad from the trunk and dashed into the house to feed the starving masses. As it turned out, my salad was hardly missed, for my mother had arrived. And with my mother comes more food than most small towns can eat in one sitting.

  The place was a hurricane. The forecast (not surprisingly) had failed to predict the surly clouds with spitting rain that showed up to stay by early afternoon. So, to accommodate the possibility of a cloudburst during the eight o'clock sunset ceremony, a massive white tent had been rented and was being hastily erected in the backyard. In case of wind, anything that wasn't already battened down was being secured or removed from the grounds. Garlands of flowers were being strung from posts to mark the pathway from the parking lot to the reception area.
Inside a few carpenters, elec­tricians, and painters were putting finishing touches (or rather, this-will-have-to-do-for-now touches) on various rooms. Several Molly Maids were doing their best to work around the throngs of workers and gathering family and friends.

  In the kitchen, Mom was lording it over a buffet that had, in her presence, transformed from a submarine sandwich, chips, and my potato salad quickie lunch into a hot meal with sour cream slathered perogies, thick knots of Ukrainian sausage, mashed pota­toes with gravy, farm fresh carrots and peas, and rice pudding and chocolate-zucchini loaf for dessert. How would anyone be able to go back to work after that? I surreptitiously slid my container of sad looking, store-bought potato salad into the refrigerator and helped myself.

  Anthony and Jared were off somewhere getting massaged and facialled and in all other ways appropriately pampered. Ethan was doing his affable best to control the madhouse and its residents, dealing with each of the million-per-minute problems arising in the mayhem. Damien was nowhere to be seen. Sereena and Errall never moved from behind the desk in Ethan's office, taking and making calls, typing madly into a computer, printing things, and generally looking like two women in full control of running the world.

  With no specific duties after lunch, I took my leave, telling myself I'd only be underfoot anyway. Besides, I had another visit to make. One I wasn't looking forward to.

  I knew I was at the right place as soon as I knocked on the door of the Grosvenor Park house. Barking-a-plenty. I'd found the home of the Sound of Music dogs. And Walter Angel's widower, Sven Henckell.

  It took a while for Sven to answer the door. When he did, I saw why. The short, shrivelled man had to be at least eighty-five. And not a particularly well-preserved eighty-five at that. He was thin, with flagging skin pale as a nun's belly. What was left of his hair was wispy and white. He wore thick glasses, two hearing aids, and walked with a cane. His brown slacks and faded blue, striped shirt looked about six sizes too big for him. The only thing that fit him were the corduroy slippers on his feet, around which scampered and yipped and hopped and tripped seven fluffy, fox-faced Pomeranians in a cornucopia of colours: red, orange, white, cream, brown, black, and even a near blue hue.

  The old man stared at me for a few seconds, either trying to focus his eyes or deciding if he was supposed to know me or not. "Can I help you?" he finally asked, with no sign of the accent I'd expected with a name like Sven.

  "Mr. Henckell, my name is Russell Quant. I met your husband, Walter. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear of his death."

  "Yes," he said, his profound grief evident in the uttering of the single word.

  "I know this must be a difficult time for you, but I was won­dering if I could come in and speak with you for a few minutes?"

  His eyes fell to the floor. "Well, girls and boys, what do you think? Should we ask the young man in?"

  I gave the dogs a sweet and innocent smile that said, "you can trust me." Some of them moved forward to sniff at me, hopefully catching the friendly scent of Barbra and Brutus. One particularly snippy looking creature backed up and bared her fangs. Fortunately she made no noise as she did so, so it escaped Sven's clouded vision.

  "Seems it's okay with them," Sven said, slooooooowly turning around and leading me and the pack inside.

  The living room we entered was more unkempt then dirty.

  There weren't stacks of magazines filling corners, uneaten food on crusty plates, or coffee stains on the carpet. But a fine layer of dust had settled over anything that hadn't recently been touched, pic­tures on the wall were askew, and one window blind was badly mangled. The room needed some attention, which the old man was obviously too unwell to provide. Or too short-sighted to notice.

  Sven settled into a well-worn armchair that faced a TV. I chose the couch, as did five of the seven dogs. I gave my surroundings a closer once-over. Despite the general disarray, the room was pleas­ant enough. The furniture was middle of the road stock, nothing too old or too new, nothing too old-fashioned or too fancy. If Walter had been involved in a blackmail scheme, he certainly had­n't been using the proceeds on home redecoration. There were plenty of plants, several of which looked desperate for water. Around a corner I could make out one half of a dining table. On it were a box of cereal and two placemats.

  "You wouldn't happen to have a lozenge, would you?" the man asked. "I seem to have gotten a bit of a sore throat over the last couple days, and I think we're all out."

  I was immediately concerned. How old was this guy? How mobile was he? Could he get to a store on his own? Was anyone looking after him since he lost his husband?

  I uselessly patted my empty pockets. "I'm sorry, I don't."

  He shook his head and made a tsking sound with his tongue. "Wally did all the shopping. As you might have noticed, there is a small age difference between the two of us. Wally was only sixty-four. Still a youngster. He was going to retire next year, you know. I'm seventy-seven."

  My eyes widened. Angel's husband was several years younger than I'd guessed. It was becoming apparent to me that there was something more at play in his physical deterioration than advanc­ing age. Either Sven was not a well man or grief had taken a resounding toll in a very short time.

  "That's thirteen years difference," he said. "Oh, the stories I could tell you. What a scandal our relationship caused amongst people when we first got together. He was only nineteen. I was thirty-two." He thought about this for a second, then said, "It seemed like a lot of years back then. And it does now too, I sup­pose. But not so much for everything in between. We had a good life together, me and Wally. For forty-five years. Not many people can say that, you know."

  "No, they certainly can't." These two men had committed themselves to one another for over four decades in a time when it wasn't easy to be a gay couple, never mind a devoted gay couple. So what the hell was my problem? But now wasn't the time to think about that. I said, "I'm sure you must really miss Walter."

  "Horribly, son," he admitted. "Just horribly. And so do the kids. Especially Brigitta and Gretl. They're the youngest. All they've done these last few days is sit and wait by the door. They've been expecting him to come home and laugh that honking laugh of his, which he used to do every day. They'd run and jump all over him, and lick him so much their tongues sometimes ended up his nose. It tickled him. And oh, he laughed, he loved that. They loved doing it too. They don't understand why he's not coming home."

  "It sounds like you had a wonderful life together."

  "He was not supposed to go first. I always thought of it as my one reward for being so much older, you know. I'd never have to see him go. This...this wasn't how it was meant to be."

  I swallowed hard.

  "It's so quiet now. Even with the girls and boys. So quiet.”

  “Mr. Henckell..."

  "Call me Sven, if you can. It makes me feel young."

  I smiled, but I wasn't sure he could see it. "Sven, I first met Walter a week ago. We were on the same flight, coming home from Vancouver."

  "Actually he was in Victoria. That's where Helen was. He must have made a connection through Vancouver, I suppose. I didn't really pay much attention to his itinerary. Other than the date he was supposed to come home. I was sitting up waiting for him that night. For hours. I didn't know what had happened. I thought maybe I'd gotten the wrong day. I don't know how many times I checked the calendar to make sure I had the right one. Then they called..." He took such a deep breath, I could see his thin chest struggle with it. I debated leaving. Maybe it was too soon to have this talk with him. But then he said, "Oh, but you don't want to hear about all that, now do you? Anyhow, as I said, he was in Victoria, where Helen was."

  Helen again. I'd bet my last bottle of Kanonkop Pinotage it was the same Helen who used to be the head archivist at the U of S. I suspected it was she who created the treasure map. Had she given it to Walter? Or had he taken it?

  "Was it Helen Crawford he was visiting?" I asked in a way that
might have suggested I'd know Helen all my life.

  I saw his near naked noggin move up and down just a nudge. "That's the Helen of course, but it wasn't any kind of visit he went for."

  "Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “She died. That's why."

  I could hear a few pieces clicking into place. "So Walter went to Victoria to attend Helen's funeral?"

  "Oh no. They weren't really close enough for that. They worked together for many years, but they weren't ever best friends. And after Helen retired a few years ago, they'd pretty much lost touch. Up until the call from the lawyer."

  "An estate lawyer?"

  "I suppose, I'm not sure what kind of lawyer he called himself. But he told Wally that Helen had left something important for him and did he want it mailed or couriered."

  The treasure map. "But instead he flew all the way to Victoria to get it? Why would he do that?"

  The old man made a noise that sounded like, "hehmphf", and I took it to mean my question stumped him. "I can't really remem­ber why he said it was so important to go all that way. But Wally tells me my memory is failing...or he used to. I guess maybe it's true."

  This was not a private investigator's favourite admission.

  "Anyhow, I suppose he thought whatever it was she'd left him was too important to trust to Canada Post. Maybe it was some­thing fragile? Like a vase or something? Maybe fruit. They have nice fruit out there, you know."

  "M.. .Sven, did your husband ever talk to you about a treasure or a treasure map or anything like that?"

  He shook his fragile head. "Can't say he did."

  I hated mentioning this to the old fellow, but I had to give it a try. "What about blackmail?"

  This seemed to get his attention. The eyes behind his thick glasses noticeably widened as he leaned forward to get a better look at me. "Blackmail? Did you say blackmail? Was someone blackmailing Wally?"

  "Uh, no. I was thinking the other way around."

  "What's that?" he turned up the volume on one of his hearing aids.