"My sister knew she was dying, Mr. Quant. She'd have known it was time to pass on her role as safekeeper to someone she trusted."
The time had come to ask Susan Crawford the same question that had upset Sven Henckell. But that's what Pis have to do sometimes: ask the tough questions others are afraid to.
"Ms. Crawford," I began, pulling the sodden bow tie from around my neck. "Did your sister use the material in the journal and letters to blackmail Simon Durhuaghe?"
"No," was her quick and unequivocal response. "She admired Simon Durhuaghe and his work. Certainly, she was gravely disappointed to find out what she did about his personal life, but she'd never have used it against him. To Helen, Simon Durhuaghe the great writer was very separate from Simon Durhuaghe the man. She did what she did to protect the one despite the actions of the other. What she did ten years ago, Mr. Quant, was to keep anyone from doing exactly what you're accusing her of."
"Can you be sure, Ms. Crawford? I know how close you were to your sister, but sometimes..."
"No, Mr. Quant, I have no doubt."
One more try. "It isn't inexpensive to retire early to Victoria.”
“It is when you share a house with a sister and a friend who've also retired. The three of us lived simply, Mr. Quant. We just wanted to live out our years in a place we loved. We didn't travel. We didn't buy expensive things. We planned to live in this beautiful place, keeping each other company, reading good books, enjoying nature. She deserved more time to do all those things. People may tell you Helen was a bit odd, and she was. But she was a wonderful, thoughtful woman, Mr. Quant. I hope you believe me about that."
I sat in the gazebo for a while after I hung up. It was time to think outside the box I'd built around this case. I was so certain that whoever killed Walter Angel did so to keep him from using the Durhuaghe journal and letters to blackmail someone... Durhuaghe himself, or Sherry Fisher, or maybe someone else entirely? Yet, if I was to believe what I'd heard that day, the two likeliest blackmailers, Walter himself and Helen Crawford, weren't using the material that way at all. Instead, rather than using it to extort money, they were doing whatever they could to keep it hidden. If that were true, Durhuaghe, or Sherry, or whoever, had nothing to fear from Walter. Yet he'd been killed. And, Durhuaghe admitted that someone was blackmailing him.
My brain crept out of the box and came upon a realization: maybe the murderer wasn't someone who wanted to prevent blackmail. Maybe the murderer was someone who wanted to perpetrate it.
"Quant, how about getting off your ass and giving us a hand," came Darren Kirsch's delightful voice.
I looked up, startled. I was so deep in thought, I'd forgotten where I was for a moment.
"The chairs. We have to move chairs and tables into the house for dinner."
"They're going to feed a hundred and fifty people inside a house that isn't even finished?"
"No choice. Rain and no roof don't mix well. The caterers and servers are scrambling to adjust. It'll have to work somehow. And your sitting here having a little daydream isn't helping any."
An idea popped into my head. "Kirsch, did your detectives check the phone calls made in and out of Walter Angel's hotel room while he was in Victoria?"
The policeman's face and manner made a quick change. He was on alert. "What's going on, Quant? You on to something I should know about?"
"I don't know." I was so used to lying to the guy, I did it without thinking.
"Not much there," Kirsch said. "Just what you might expect, some calls home and to work. That's it." That was enough.
Errall Strane has never been one to drink too much. I think it has something to do with the loss of control, or perception of it. And if there is one thing Errall loves, its control. But she is not without vices. Plenty of them. Her favourite is smoking. So when it was time for speeches and cutting the cake and she was missing in action, I had some good ideas of where to look for her.
I first tried the front porch, but she—and her curlicues of smoke—were nowhere to be found. Back deck. Gazebo. By the pool. Nothing. As a last resort I stepped through the doorway into the roofless tent. The place looked like a circus gone bad. Once lovely bouquets of flowers sat dejectedly in pools of rain water and mud. Chairs and tables that hadn't made it into the house were sitting at odd angles, some overturned, as if there'd been a race to get away from some kind of natural disaster (which wasn't too far from the truth). Kernels of popped corn, tossed over the heads of the newly married couple as they walked down the aisle, littered the ground like balls of hail that refused to melt. And amidst the chaos was Errall. She was leaning against an abandoned portable bar, lit cigarette and empty champagne glass in hand. She looked a little blue.
"You okay?" I asked, with the care of a crocodile hunter. "This might have been our day, Kelly's and mine. This was our dream, you know."
I bobbed my head in understanding. "Yeah, I too have always dreamt of having a freak storm rip the roof off my wedding chapel and soak my guests to the bone. I mean, who hasn't?"
Her eyes flashed. I was taking a chance. This croc was very capable of snapping my face off. Instead, I saw the corner of her lips turn up.
"They seem to be having fun all the same." This came from Anthony, who came up behind me with a fresh bottle of champagne in one arm and Sereena on the other.
"Aren't you supposed to be cutting the cake right about now?" I asked, accepting a glass of bubbly even though I knew I'd only have a sip. Or two. I still had work to do tonight.
"Anthony may be the one getting married," Sereena let us know, "but I'm the one organizing this affair. Nothing else has gone quite according to plan tonight. So I think we can afford to veer a little off timetable. Besides, your mother just brought out a roaster full of something called nahlessnehkeh?"
"I don't know what they are," Anthony said, "but people are wolfing them down like dogs on chow. Quite disturbing really." He poured Errall a top-up. "You okay?"
"Why do people keep asking me that?"
No one said a thing.
She regarded each of us in turn. "I'm fine. Really. I think finer then I've been in a long while.
"You know, Anthony, you and Jared taught me something tonight. You two had every right to throw a fit, stamp your feet, rage at God, whatever, because of what happened at your wedding. No one would have blamed you. Instead, you laughed. You laughed, kissed, and went on with things. And now you're married, with a houseful of wet, drunk, but basically happy family and friends, and a great life to look forward to. Nothing important changed, did it? No plough wind or rain storm or change of venue was going to stop you from getting what you always wanted. I know I can't have that with Kelly..."
"Oh, Errall..."
She held up a hand, traffic cop style. "No. Stop. No pity. That isn't what this is about. It's about the opposite of pity. I'm actually happy. Very happy. I finally figured out some stuff tonight. Bad crap can happen, but none of it has to stop you from getting what you want, from being happy. Maybe you don't get there quite the way you expected to, but you can still get there. I can get there."
"And this womenswear store is what will make you happy?" Anthony asked.
Errall scoffed. "Gawd no. I don't know what I was thinking. I love the law. I love fighting people in court. It's a good outlet for my aggression. It's hard work and long hours. I love that too." She turned to me. "And I love PWC just the way it is. I want you to stay, Russell. And Beverly and Alberta. I've had enough change in my life. I don't need any more right now."
"Are you sure?" I asked. "This is your big chance to get rid of me. If I stay, who knows when you'll get another opportunity?"
"Only if you promise me one thing."
Here it comes.
Errall's intense eyes fell upon me with the weight of blue steel. "Don't fuck this up, Russell," she said. I stuttered something unintelligible.
"Russell," Anthony murmured, "you need to make a decision."
I backed
away. How had this suddenly turned into being about me? I looked at the faces around me and they all said the same thing. I couldn't play stupid any longer. "I have to decide between Alex and Ethan."
"No," Sereena told me, using her low, coarse voice that scared me. "You don't have that luxury. You don't have Ethan. And, I'm afraid, you're about to lose Alex."
The harsh news was glaringly true, and awful to hear.
"You have to decide whether you're a man in love," she said, "or not."
"Maybe I'm not meant to be in love." There. I'd said it. It was a suspicion I'd been harbouring for years, even throughout all my time with Alex. And now, I feared I was going to be shown up for what I truly was: a man who could not love. "Maybe I'm just not wired that way anymore. There's got to be a reason why I'm running away from one terrific guy who wants me, to chase after another who doesn't. That's just sick, right?"
"Oh, puppy," Anthony said, making a tsking sound and laying a warm arm across my shoulders. "You're not sick. You're afraid." I was. I was afraid.
Why couldn't my fairytale romance be as simple as it seemed to be for everyone else? Boy meets boy, boy falls in love with boy, boy marries boy, and they live happily ever after. Instead, my story was: boy meets boy 1, boy falls in love with boy 1 and meets boy 2, boy falls in love with boy 2 too. Boy 1 wants to get married and boy 2 doesn't know boy is alive, so boy buries head in sand.
I'd been living terrified of lifting my head out of that sand. But as I stood there that night, in that wedding tent disaster area, surrounded by my friends, I began to believe that maybe it wouldn't be so impossible to do. And moreover, I wanted to do it. I had a life story to get to. All I had to do was turn the page.
My fairytale story wasn't perfect. But that didn't make it any less a fairytale. Besides, what is perfect nowadays, anyway? It was time to figure out how to navigate my way to the happily ever after part. And to decide what, for me, that was.
What did I truly want my future to look like? Did I want someone to have adventures with? Someone to grow old with? Share experiences with? Did I want it to be stolen moments of idyllic romance on Hawaiian beaches with Alex Canyon? Or did I want it to be part of everyday life with someone like Ethan Ash?
This wasn't a simple question of quality over quantity, either. Both Alex and Ethan were quality men. And sure, the circumstances of any future relationship I might have with one of these men would be different, but that couldn't be the most important factor in deciding my romantic future, could it? Or should it be? Would Alex give up his international career to settle in Saskatoon? Would I give up my home and family and friends to be with him? Was Ethan emotionally available to fall in love with someone beyond his child? Was I willing to share that love? Did I even want a child in my life? Does love expect—require—sacrifice?
I needed to delve deeper.
What did I need? What did I want? What did Alex need? Had I ever asked him? What about Ethan?
Oh yeah, this was going to be real simple.
I was scrambling through the darkened parking lot adjacent to Ash House, trying to remember where I'd left the Mazda, when I heard the voices. It was odd, because as far as I could tell, the party was going so well, none of the wedding guests seemed even close to leaving. I was only going because I had a prior appointment to meet with my informant, Reginald Cenyk. I slid up against a handy Hummer and cocked my ear to get a better listen. There was only one person talking. And I knew the voice. Damien.
What was Ethan's boyfriend doing out here in the parking lot? In the dark? With someone who I knew wasn't Ethan. I knew that because I'd said a hasty so long to him before I left the house, with promises to make it back before the party was over.
An evil grin covered my face. The oh-so-perfect Damien was having an illicit rendezvous. And I was about to catch him with his pants down.
Pasting an I-just-happened-by look on my face, I swung around the end of the SUV and prepared to confront the lovers.
There was Damien. And next to him...Errall.
They were talking. Or, as I saw it, Damien was talking, Errall was consorting with the enemy.
"Russell, hi," Errall said the second she saw me. I don't think it was so much a greeting, as it was a warning message to Damien to shut up.
The boy turned and said hello.
I said hello back.
Silence for an uncomfortable beat.
"So what are you doing out here?" I asked. "The party's over there." Corny line, but I was doing the best I could.
"Damien's giving me a ride home," Errall explained.
I consulted my watch with great obviousness. "So early?"
Damien seemed to recover his sweet good nature. "I'm on shift early tomorrow morning. Those darn hospitals never close."
I'd overheard that he was a nurse or radiologist or some other such do-gooder.
I looked at Errall.
"And I'm just done." She never felt a need to give an explanation if she didn't feel like it.
"What about you?" Damien asked. "You're on your way pretty early too."
"I'm coming back," I told him. "I just have some work to do. A private investigator's case never closes either." Take that!
He nodded, then looked over at Errall. "Well, should we make tracks?"
We said our good nights and I watched as they got into Damien's Hyundai and motored off. I arched an eyebrow, pursed my lips, and squinted my eyes in a look that would send many a soap opera star back to acting class. My mind began to reel, wondering about what those two had been talking about. But there was no time for this now. I had work to do.
Another voice.
Jeepers, was the whole damn wedding party lurking in the parking lot?
"Sonsyou."
"Mom, what are you doing out here?" I asked when she appeared out of the shadows like a Russian barge through smog.
"I vant to see you before you go," she said.
"I just said goodbye to you in the house. And you and Joanne are coming into the city for brunch tomorrow, remember?"
"No, Joanne go home tomorrow."
"But that's not what sh..." And there I stopped myself, on the verge of bristling at the sudden, unexplained change in my sister's plans. Why was I pretending it was unexpected? It was exactly the type of thing Joanne excelled at. I needed to accept and embrace that about her. Or else let her go.
"Where exactly is she going?" I was concerned. Did she actually have a home to go to these days?
"Home. To Osoyoos."
"Osoyoos? She's living in Osoyoos? I don't even know what that is. Where is it?"
"BC somevhere, I tink, I don't know for sure, Sonsyou. Dat's okay dat she goes now. Eet's time for her."
I checked my watch, this time really needing to know the time. There was only barely enough time to get to my downtown appointment, but I couldn't leave my mother in the lurch. "Mom, Joanne's been drinking and probably shouldn't drive. But I can't take you back to the farm tonight, so maybe the two of you could spend the night at my place. I can drop you off at the house right now or I can come back for you."
"No, no, don't vorry. Joanne stop dreenking now. She dreenks too much, I know, but she knows vhen to stop. Eeten says he only geeve her vater now."
"You're sure?"
"Sonsyou, I vant to tell you someting. I vant to tell you dat your daddy loved you and he vas a goot daddy. As deed best he could. He vas a goot daddy. A goot man. Mebbe not such a goot husband at first. But I vas so young vhen ve get married. He deedn't know about being a goot husband, and mebbe I deedn't know about being goot vife, either, I don't know. I deedn't ask."
I wanted to stick my fingers in my ear, sing "la-la-la" at the top of my lungs, and claim not to hear a thing. Maturity prevailed.
"And I'm to tell you, you are not like heem. Mebbe like your Uncle Lawrence, tank, sure. But like Daddy, no. Joanne ees like Daddy, very much. She knows dees."
She'd heard.
Mom had heard Joanne and me talking—no�
��arguing, that night at her house. She'd heard Joanne telling me that our father was a cheater who couldn't commit, and that I was following right in his footsteps. And I almost believed her.
From the dark: "Mom? Is that you?"
It was now official. Party in the parking lot.
Joanne emerged from the shadows. I studied her and decided Ethan had been doing a good job; she looked almost sober.
"I lost you," she said. "Someone said they saw you coming out here. I didn't know Russ was with you." She looked at us back and forth. "So what am I interrupting?"
"I'm just saying gootbye," Mom claimed, reaching out to lay an arm around her daughter's narrow waist.
"I have to go back into the city for a while, for work. But in case you're not here when I get..."
"About brunch tomorrow, Russ..."
I waved it off. "Yeah, I know. Mom told me. You have to head home."
She lit a cigarillo. "I'd stay, but I just heard about this gig; have to get some stuff put together for that. And I think the cats are probably missing me by now."
I caught my breath and stared at my sister. She has pets, I thought to myself. This gave me pause. You don't have pets unless you have a home. You don't have pets unless you wanted to—and were capable of giving—love.
She chortled her trash can laugh. "All they do is ignore me when I'm there, but I set foot in that door after being away and it's like I'm the friggin' second coming."
"Donya, don't say such tings!" Mom scolded.
Joanne laughed and hugged Mom closer. They understood each other better than I ever would.
"I really have to run."
And then I did something I don't remember doing before. I pulled my sister into a hug. I whispered into her ear, "Love ya."
When I let her go, although I didn't feel her arms around me, I knew she'd wanted to hug me back. Fair enough, I'd taken her by surprise.
I tittered nervously. "But I have to find my car first.”
“I saw it over there, next to the pink caddy," Joanne said, pointing, just as happy as I was to move on.
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