“I’ve been going over the clues,” he said, thick fingers pointing at the first stanza of the treasure map poem. “I think I’ve got some of them figured out. But the rest, well, I just can’t seem to. I need help. I guess maybe I’m getting a little too old for this sort of thing. The brain isn’t working at top form anymore.”
“Maybe you’re just tired,” I suggested helpfully.
He nodded. “Travelling does take the stuffing out of me these days. Perhaps I’ll be more clear-headed in the morning.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will,” I assured him. “Why don’t you give it another go when you’re feeling better? If you still need help after that, you can give me a call. You have my card.”
“Do I? Oh, my, yes I do. You just gave it to me! See what I mean? Dotty as a drunken donkey.”
I chuckled. “I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Feel free to use it, my boy.”
And with a ping of the seat belt sign, we began our descent into Saskatoon. It was good to be home.
I felt the arm thread through my own just as we entered the second floor arrivals lounge that overlooks the main concourse—okay, the only concourse—of the John G. Diefenbaker International Airport. I looked down at the little person who’d attached himself to my left side. It was Magoo.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, staring up at me with a sweet smile. “I feel like a doddering old auntie, but my gout is acting up, you see. Would you mind escorting me to where the bags come out?”
There was something odd about the smile on his cartoonish face. It didn’t quite go with the look in his eyes. Was he ogling me? I couldn’t be sure. But how could I turn him down? “Of course not,” I said.
Together we traversed the short distance down the escalators to the luggage carousels. Within a few minutes the track began moving, and my unexpected companion clapped his hands with glee when his one small, argyle-patterned bag was among the first to arrive. I pulled it off the carousel and handed it to him with a goodbye at the ready.
“What about you?” he asked, seeming a bit discombobulated by the sudden farewell.
“I’m afraid my bags haven’t come off yet. Do you need help getting to a taxi?” I offered. “I can come back for my bags after we get you set.”
“Oh,” he said, looking a bit vague. “No. I have my own car in the lot.”
I wondered how he was going to drive if his gout was bothering him as bad as he’d claimed. My mother suffered intermittently with gout, so I knew about the pain associated with it. “Are you sure you can drive? Maybe you should take a cab home tonight. You could come back for your car tomorrow.”
“Of course I can drive. Why not?”
“Your gout?”
“Oh. Oh that. Well, I’m suddenly feeling much better.”
“That’s good news.”
He stood there, unmoving, a perplexed look on his face.
“Would you like me to walk you to your car?”
“I wouldn’t want you to go to the trouble. Are your bags here yet?”
I searched the conveyor for my luggage. Even though most of the other passengers had already retrieved their bags and begun migrating toward the exits, mine were nowhere to be seen. This was not a good sign, and neither was the approaching Air Canada representative.
“I’m afraid that is all the luggage from this flight,” he announced to the half-dozen of us left. “If you could follow me to the booth right over there, I can take your information.”
What followed was a chorus of discontent that I knew from past experience was utterly useless. I looked at Magoo and grimaced. “My bad luck, I guess.”
He nodded, looking even more disgruntled than I was. His eyes made a quick sweep of the concourse as if looking for something or someone, then he shrugged and said, “Well, m’boy, I guess I’ll be off then. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope we get a chance to talk again soon.” And with that, he toddled off.
I joined the unhappy throng at the lost luggage counter.
Twenty minutes later, with Air Canada promising to home deliver my two suitcases as soon as they returned from their own getaway vacation to who knew where, I was in the airport long-term parking lot, trying to recall where I’d left my silver Mazda RX-7. I usually park near a walkway, to make spotting the small vehicle a little easier. On the bright side, at least I didn’t have to bother with hauling a couple of heavy pieces of luggage after me.
It was getting dark out, and I’d just spotted the car, when I noticed a flurry of activity not far off. People were gathered in a dim corner of the lot, but something told me this was definitely more than just an impromptu tailgate party. There was unmistakable tension in the air. Voices were raised, and I thought I could hear crying. Something was wrong. I trotted over to take a look.
Squeezing through the circle of gawkers, I finally saw what the fuss was about. Someone had collapsed next to a car. He didn’t seem to be moving. A couple of parking lot security guards were attending to him, but the situation didn’t look good. Heart attack maybe? I could hear one of the guards talking to a 9-1-1 operator, asking for both an ambulance and police.
Although by virtue of my chosen career I am a professional snoop, I try to hold it to a minimum in times of private misfortune. I was about to step away from this bad-luck story when something familiar caught my eye.
An orange and blue scarf.
I drew in a sharp breath.
It was Mr. Magoo lying lifeless on the ground.
Then I noticed one more thing. Alarm bells started ringing in my head.
I charged forward and yelled: “Seal off the parking lot!”
Sundowner Ubuntu Page 30