"I didn't mean to scare you," the man said as he lowered his umbrella and stepped into a dull circle of light. "I know I'm a few minutes late, but I really wanted to pick up my painting before the weekend." He had the sense to look a trifle sheepish when he saw the look of horror pasted on our pale faces. "Gosh, I'm sorry. I tried the front, but when it was locked I came back here hoping someone was still around. I'm really sorry."
For a second I’d've just as soon popped him one than accept his paltry apology, but propriety won out. It took our heart rates a full thirty seconds to return to something approximating normal.
"I have to deal with this," Duncan said to me, obviously recognizing the customer and doing his best to pull himself together.
"Can we meet later?" I asked. "I'd like to ask you some questions."
Duncan looked at the man, then me, then back at the man and back at me. "Uhhhh...not tonight. I got something going. Uhhh... tomorrow?"
I nodded. "Sure. Absolutely. Where? When? I'll be there." Mr. Flexible.
"Fountainhead," he named a restaurant a few blocks away. "Noon?" And with that he galumphed into the front with umbrella man who was no doubt anxious to get his painting and get the heck outta there.
I took another look at the three ruined paintings with the letters B-O-O written across them, then followed. "Noon at The Fountainhead," I confirmed with Duncan as I passed by him and the man on the way to the front exit.
He looked up from where he was hoisting a plastic-wrapped, framed canvas from a pile of similarly wrapped paintings leaning against the wall behind the counter and nodded. I left.
It was Friday, July twenty-fourth-my birthday. When I'd first left Black Canvass the night before, my noon-next-day meeting with Duncan Sikorsky seemed oh so far away. The shoppers had retreated from Davie Street to Robson Street, the tourists to Gastown, the hawkers and stalkers to Granville, leaving the youngsters and hipsters, yuppies and guppies, gaybes and wannabes, all fresh on the street from crumpled-sheeted beds, rowdy loft parties, martini-infused happy hours and early movies. It was time to party in Vancouver, and since I was still in my early thirties-I would not admit defeat to thirty-five until the next day-I was damn well gonna join in.
After a pit stop at my hotel room for a shower, spritz of Bulgari and a new outfit: an El Barrio T over red and gray patterned Etro pants with a two-button close and Le Coq Sportif shoes, all topped off with a navy skullcap, I was ready to go. My first stop was the long, elevated bar at Glowbal Grill and Satay on Mainland Street in Yaletown, a mere hop, skip and jump from Opus, where I filled up on marinated seafood on skewers and dirty martinis and watched the pumped-up and primped-up crowd who were there to be seen (or to talk animatedly on near invisible cellphones rather than to each other). When I was done with that, I made my slightly inebriated way (by this point I actually was hopping, skipping and jumping) to Odyssey nightclub on Howe where I danced and flirted until 3 a.m. Even later I found myself in a hotel room that wasn't my own.
Dumbass.
I woke up on Friday feeling every second of every day of all of my thirty-five years.
Double dumbass.
But I'm nothing if not professional-even if I had been busy sublimating the fact that I didn't want to be thirty-five. Regardless, by the time I swung open the door to The Fountainhead Pub, I was perky, fully caffeinated and ready to detect.
I waited for an hour, becoming much less perky as time passed by at the speed of a Celine Dion lullaby, hoping that perhaps I'd heard noon when actually he'd said 1:00. But that wasn't it and I knew it. Duncan Sikorsky had stood me up.
Giving up, I dashed out of the restaurant and galloped the several blocks down Davie Street to Black Canvass. I threw open the door and startled a Pippi-Longstocking-fallen-on-hard-times type character. I asked where Duncan was and she told me that his shift didn't start until 3:30. I ran out of there, back the way I came, up to Nicola Street, all the way to Duncan's building. I was certainly working off (and paying for) the dregs of my night of debauchery. I clumped up the steps to his second floor apartment and banged on the door with my fist. I waited an unrespectable amount of time before pulling out my set of lock picks from the back pocket of my jeans and made short work of Duncan's knob.
And of course, he was gone. As were most of his clothing and personal effects.
Whatever other things Duncan Sikorsky was hiding from, I was now one of them.
It was a dejected Russell Quant who walked those ten-kilometre-long blocks back to Opus that day. Had I screwed up? Should I have waited Duncan out, refusing to leave the gallery last night until he told me all he knew? Should I have approached him differently in the first place? He knew something important about all of this, about why Tanya and Moxie were so scared...possibly about why they died the way they did. I should have done whatever it took to get it out of him when I had him. Now he was gone, who knew where.
All three of them, Tanya, Moxie and Duncan had received the same eerie message: Boo. And now two of them were dead. I couldn't blame Duncan for being petrified. But who was doing this to them? My best hope of finding the answer had just taken a powder. I'd never find him in this city-if he was even in Vancouver any longer. He might have caught a ferry to Seattle or a flight to Zimbabwe for all I knew. There was nothing else for me to do but go home and hope to catch a fresh lead there.
After I showered to wash off all the running-around sweat, and confirmed my flight with Air Canada-another connector through Calgary-I packed my bags and headed for the lobby to check out. To my surprise, with my bill came a package. The hotel clerk told me it had been delivered for me, by a man, at noon. I paid and rolled my suitcase to a relatively quiet corner of the lobby. The package was a large brown envelope with my name handwritten on the front. No note accompanied the package but I knew it was from Duncan. He'd delivered it himself when he knew I'd be away from the hotel, waiting for him at the restaurant.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet, an 8 x 10 glossy photograph. It was a picture of about a dozen people, arranged like a class photo or some other such related group. The background was an off-white wall with oak wainscotting, unremarkable and unidentifiable (at least by me). I searched the faces. I recognized three: Duncan, Tanya, Moxie.
And then one more.
It never fails to impress me, the seeming ease with which one can make the transition from mountain and oceans to prairie flatland and countless lakes in under two hours. The Air Canada jet touched down just as the yellow ball that was the sun plopped itself into a blanket of neon pink, blazing orange and raspberry-jam crimson almost too extraordinary to believe. After collecting my luggage, I retrieved the Mazda from long-term parking and headed for home, restless and worried. And thirty-five years old.
Anthony had told me about my surprise birthday party, but although today was my actual birth date, the soiree was planned for tomorrow night, Saturday, and I was glad for it. I was definitely not in a party mood and wanted nothing more than to hit the mattress of my own bed for as many uninterrupted hours of sleep as I could string together.
So I wasn't thrilled to find my house being watched.
Most of my neighbours have garages and, even in the summer months, we tend to park indoors rather than on the street. So as I drove past my street heading for the back alley that led to my garage, the unfamiliar white car stuck out like a drag queen at a monster truck rally. Not because there weren't any other vehicles unfamiliar to me parked on the street-I'm no Gladys Kravitz- but this one had a man sitting behind the steering wheel. I suppose the fella could have been waiting for a friend or lost and consulting a map, but as a detective, I'm naturally suspicious. Besides, I had a pretty good idea who he was.
Instead of making for my garage, I spun a noisy U-ball, sped down my usually peaceful nighttime suburban street and pulled up about half a centimetre behind the white vehicle with a threatening screech. I stepped out, pulled my wardrobe bag from the passenger seat, tossed it over my shoulder and began a slow sasha
y toward my front yard gate as if nothing unusual was going on. About half way there I stopped, turned and stared at the man in the car, whose face-although it was dark so I couldn't tell for sure-must have been registering surprise.
I nonchalantly walked back toward the car as if I'd just noticed it by happenstance and rapped my knuckles against the driver's window. I heard a little motor whir as the window came down, revealing...wowee, quite the face; Anthony had outdone himself.
"You're Doug, I presume?" Doing my best Rhett-Butler-Frankly-Scarlett-I-Don't-Give-A-Damn routine.
"Yes," a bass voice confirmed after an understandable hesitation.
That Anthony. The bugger couldn't wait for tomorrow but had to have my "gift" delivered on my actual birthday. I stared at the man. He certainly didn't look desperate for a date. Yet here he was, sitting outside my house, waiting for me, like a puppy with a red ribbon tied around its neck. Well, maybe not a puppy...more like a black lab /husky mix, un-spayed and fully mature.
Although I was fatigued, hot and vexed with my friend for putting me in this awkward situation, the eyes and hands had me. Doug Poitras had striking eyes, the colour of freshly roasted cocoa beans, surrounded by thick fringes of brunette lashes, crowned by gently curving brows, giving him a slightly mischievous yet intelligent look. One of his hands was resting on the steering wheel, the other in his lap. I don't know why I like hands so much...whether it's the thought of what they can do, how they can touch, feel or make me feel, or perhaps it's the knowledge of how effortlessly these daily-used instruments can move from swinging a hammer, signing a business document or maneuvering a jet, to caressing a lover's body, driving him to brinks of indescribable joy. It's the shape, the strength, the texture: it was Doug Poitras' hands that got me. Touch Me! God, I was tired. But not that tired. I invited him in.
The house was deadly quiet without Barbra and Brutus bounding about, and I was sorry they weren't there to give me their first impressions of this man. I knew he was tall, six-three at least, dark and handsome, but do dogs like him? Always an important question to get an answer to.
Despite the lateness of the hour, it was still tinderbox hot outside so I directed Doug to the backyard deck, asked him to light a few citronella candles in case any mosquitoes were still awake and excused myself to get out of my airplane clothes-not my idea of first date attire. I hustled to the bedroom, stripped and debated a quick shower but knew that was just silly. Instead I threw some cold water over my face and chest, threw on a pair of knee-length cotton walking shorts and a tight T-I'm not beyond showing off once in a while-some scent, and I was back in the kitchen in a jiffy. I stuck my head out the back door and asked, "Beer or wine?"
He was sitting rather rigidly in a deck chair next to the patio table. He looked up, hesitated and answered, "Er...a beer would be great, thanks."
I noticed he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants that were obviously the bottom half of a conservative suit. Weird thing to wear on a blind date in the middle of summer, especially since he'd no doubt had Anthony's famously intrusive wardrobe guidance. If he could resist that, well, then he couldn't be all bad. I stifled a grin, thinking he looked like a Jehovah's Witness gone bad.
I found two Blues in the bar fridge in the living room and joined my very own Bachelor contestant on the deck, taking the chair across from his so I could look directly at him. He looked even better in the candlelight, his skin a burnished gold, the strong features of his face falling in and out of flickering shadow.
"Do you want to get more comfortable?" I asked.
He looked startled.
I laughed. "No, I mean the shirt. You must be hot."
He smirked, put down his beer and unbuttoned his cuffs and several front buttons to the centre of his torso. Ripped.
"So how did he make you do this?" I asked after a couple seconds of silence-uncomfortable for him; me, I was having fun.
The face hardened and he shifted his head to one side. "Excuse me?"
"Anthony," I said. "How did he get you to do this: sitting outside my house in wait, delivering yourself as my birthday present. He must have something really good on you. Or maybe he promised you a new wardrobe from gatt?"
The man tilted his impressive dimpled chin in an "I'll never tell" fashion and gave me a smile.
"Oh, come on. This can't be any fun for you."
"Maybe it is," he responded, his wonderful deep voice rolling over me like molten molasses over ice cream.
"Okay," I relented. "So you're a man who keeps his secrets. Tell me about yourself. Why might we be right for one another?" It wasn't a question I'd normally ask a date-although, not a bad idea-but this wasn't a normal date and my brain was still a little googly from my trip. I didn't have the energy or inclination to play demure.
His lips twitched with internal mirth; he was looking much more at ease with the situation now. "I think we'd look great together on one of those greeting cards we'd send all our friends and family at Christmastime to wish them a happy holiday but really to show off how perfect our relationship is," he answered, an enigmatic sparkle in his eye.
Swoon.
"So, Mr. Poitras, exactly who are you?"
I thought I saw him stiffen, but then he shrugged and looked out into the darkness of the backyard. He murmured, "Not a very interesting story."
"Oh, I doubt that. Anthony doesn't know uninteresting people. I know by your clothes that you're probably a businessman. Lawyer? Accountant? Am I right?"
He shook his head, letting a strand of dark hair fall attractively over one eye. "No, nothing like that."
I gave him a look telling him I wasn't about to let him off the hook that easy.
"I ah...I'm in security."
"Oh." Most of my experience with security guards was of the eighty-eight-year-old variety who stroll the university campus or man airport parking lot booths. "What do you secure?"
"Valuables."
"You're a bodyguard then?" That would explain the rocking bod.
"In a way."
Not very talkative. I sat silent, a trick I've learned over the years to demand more information without actually seeming demanding.
He fell for it. "My firm arranges security for people who need it for...well, for a variety of reasons."
"You mean like famous people?"
"Like that. And what about you?"
Was I done with him? Apparently so. "I'm sure Anthony has filled you in."
"You're a detective."
I nodded.
"Are you working on anything interesting right now?"
"Yes, actually. There's this guy I'm investigating. I'm interested in finding out more about him, but he doesn't say much and I don't even have his phone number."
"I should go," Doug said, abruptly rising from his chair, his bulk throwing a dark shadow over me. "It's late."
I got up too, bringing us nose to nose. "Thanks for stopping by," I said, my voice a register lower than normal. I was surprised at my brashness, it wasn't like me-as far as dating-type situations-but there was something about this guy. I was surprised to realize-I wanted him to stay.
"Thanks for the beer."
I looked down and saw he hadn't touched a drop. "You're welcome."
"I'll see you soon." And with that he stepped out of the personal space I usually reserve for myself and special others.
I wordlessly led him back into the house, through to the front foyer and out the front door. On the front landing we stopped and looked at one another. It had been an odd encounter. Neither of us seemed prepared for it. Was this still a silly birthday prank or had something more happened here? This had gone far beyond flamingos on the lawn or a stripper in a cake. But what was it? I didn't know. And by the look on Doug's face, neither did he.
Doug held out his beautiful hand. "It was nice to meet you, M...Russell."
I grasped it and nodded a "likewise."
I watched him make long, purposeful strides down my front walk and out the gat
e to the street. I still didn't have his phone number.
Chapter 8
For my thirty-fifth birthday party, Errall was supplying the backyard, but the arrangements were all Anthony and Jared. It was supposed to be a wiener roast in homage to my beloved childhood memories. But a wiener roast Anthony-style. This meant there'd be an open firepit in the centre of Errall's backyard around which the guests would gather, but that was about the end of any resemblance to the smoky, bug-infested, burnt marshmallow, ash tree switch, hickory-flavoured, Kool-Aid-soused events I remember from my childhood.
Anthony Bidulka Page 12