Dos Equis (25 page)

I groaned. “Aw jeez, are you getting ready to belt out Helen Reddy or Mariah Carey?”

He laughed. “Nah, I’ll save that for another time.”

“So you’re a full-fledged detective now, are you? My competition?” “Yeah. Why not?”

“JP, I have to ask you something.”

Silence. Of all the times I’d thought life should come with a musical score—and there’ve been a few of them—this had to be

in the top ten. Perhaps something low and dark, like the dull, rumbling drum beat of an impending storm.

“Shoot,” he finally said.

“Where have you been?”

“Did you mean to end that sentence with: …all my life?”

“JP…before you showed up in Regina, before you started up at the shoe store…where were you?”

I was glad we were lying the way we were, that our eyes were protected by sunglasses, that we weren’t looking directly at

each other. It was making the difficult turn in the conversation a little easier to navigate.

“You’ve been checking up on me,” he said, no hint in his voice about what he thought about that.

“The cops were. You know they found your prints in Jane’s office.”

“What else do you know?”

“That you did some juvie time as a kid. After that, it’s like you disappeared. Until two years ago.”

“You sure you want to hear this?”

Oh boy. What did I get myself into this time? I’d already dated a murderer once before, a few years ago.* Certainly that

particular lightning wasn’t going to strike me twice, was it? “Yeah,” I whispered, not sure I was telling the truth. “I do.”

There was silence for a while. I hoped he was using the time to figure out how best to tell me the truth, rather than how to get the hell off this boat. Finally, he began.

“I was an unruly kid, that was for sure. My poor parents. They didn’t know what to do with me. I don’t know why I was the

way I was. I mean, it wasn’t anything horrible. I wasn’t running around knifing people or anything like that. But I had some issues. Mostly with drugs, and taking things that weren’t mine. It was petty stuff, but still not good. Eventually, it caught up with me. I did a stint at the correctional facility. You know, there are a lot of people who complain about our justice system. They say it doesn’t work. They say it ruins kids. They say it makes criminals, rather than rehabilitates them. But I don’t get that. For me, it totally worked. I got turned around in there.”

I held my breath. I could feel a big “but” coming up.

“It was more than getting clean and getting my life back together. I found something new.”

“Something new?”

“God. I found God, Russell.”

I’m ashamed to say that I felt myself stiffen at the words. A holy roller? This was most definitely a new one for me. Then

again, there was Father Len, a really cute priest I’d met on my first big case several years ago.** I liked religion. I liked religious people. Look at my mom, after all. Then again, she was a seventy-year-old Ukrainian lady. I think being religious was in her DNA. You kinda expect it with someone like her. But a guy like JP? No way. I tried keeping my breathing even, my mind open, my mouth shut.

“We used to go to church every Sunday when I was a kid,” he continued. “But I didn’t think anything of it. It was just

something we did. I wasn’t really paying attention. When I was locked up, I started having these regular sessions with a

spiritual counsellor. I realized I had these feelings. I didn’t know what they were at first. It’s hard to explain. It was like I was in love…with God. I wanted to be with him, to work with him, or for him, or something. I didn’t know what was going on. It

was so confusing for me.”

“How old were you?”

“Just barely in my twenties. In my head though, I think I was still a teenager. Painfully immature.”

“What happened to you then?”

“When I got out of Corrections, I went to stay at a halfway house in Vancouver. It was run by these monks. Around that time, my parents were killed in a car accident.”

“Oh God, JP. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks. It was terrible, for sure. It was a long time ago.”

I squeezed his hand.

“When all that was dealt with, I found myself suddenly thrust into the real world. But I didn’t belong there anymore. I had no real life. I went back to Vancouver. I couldn’t live at the halfway house anymore; it was against the rules, or I probably would have. But I did go back to visit the monks I’d made friends with there. We’d have these long talks. Sometimes for hours at a time. A year later, I joined their monastery, this very cool place, up north in rural BC.”

I sat up. Sunglasses off. “You’re a monk?”

JP sat up too. He slipped off his aviators and looked at me with those soft, kind, beneficent, monk-like eyes… Okay, maybe I was just seeing things.

“Yeah, I was.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years.”

OMG.

“But I struggled. The whole time I was there, I was struggling.” I bet.

“It wasn’t the devotional life. It wasn’t the periods of enforced silence. Or the bad food. I mean, come on, a little sauce isn’t gonna kill anyone!”

We laughed. Uncomfortably.

“So the struggle was about you being gay?”

“No,” he answered. “The struggle was about me wanting to act on it.”

I nodded. Big difference.

“I was on one of my furloughs from the monastery, when I finally realized it was a battle I wasn’t going to win. I was

twenty-eight when I finally made the decision to leave. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It was like…it was like getting a divorce from someone you still really, really love.

“For a long time I doubted myself. It would have been so much easier to stay. Imagine, coming back into the world at twenty-

eight. I had no friends. No support system. No resumé. My only work references were monks who’d taken a vow of silence!”

Another chuckle. This time we were more at ease.

“What did you do?”

“I roamed about aimlessly for a while. Two years ago I came back to Regina. To be with Marie-Genevieve. She was the

only family I had left in the outside world. The only…anything. She agreed to take me in. I’ll never be able to thank her enough for that. She helped save my life. Ever since then I’ve been trying to find my path, make a living…sell shoes…Then I met Jane.

As soon as I learned what she did, I knew this was what I was meant for. The day she agreed to give me a chance was the best day in my life. Until I met you, that is.”

I laid a big fat kiss on him.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I know it’s a little…unusual. But unusual is good, right?”

“In this case,” I said, giving him another peck on the cheek, “most definitely.”

We each fell back onto the deck, drinking in the sun. In my case, sighing with relief. Our hands curled into each other.

“You know,” JP started up after a minute of quiet contemplation, making a sharp left turn back into business, “I think one

more visit tonight to Chez Huber, and I’ll have it all.”

“There’s more?”

“There are a couple of boxes I haven’t gone through yet. I think there may be correspondence in there. Wouldn’t it be great if we could find a letter or some sort of communication from one of the people who hired her?”

“What you’ve got is terrific. Surely enough to get a major investigation started. If you found all that in just a few days, who knows what the police can dig up if they really get into it.”

JP let out a satisfied sigh.

“How she got away with it for so long is what baffles me,” I commented, taking a long drag from my water bottle. “And not

only the obvious; escaping suspicion of police and family and friends. She’s pulled in millions of dollars over the years. How does she get away with having all that cash and not attract some attention?”

“I know how.”

I sat up again, surprised. At this rate, I’d be able to skip my sit-up routine for a week. “You do?”

“I’ve got copies of her tax returns for the past five years. I know you want to believe she’s a master criminal, and therefore stupid. But Frances is not stupid, Russell. She’s really thought this through. She doesn’t get caught by CRA because she doesn’t hide anything from them. Well, not exactly. She claims all her income. Every cent of it.”

“What? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Does she fill out Form T666 as an evil, self-employed murderer?”

“Kind of. Except she calls herself a Self-Help counsellor. She reports all her revenue. And expenses: the travel, rental cars, meals, on and on. CRA loves her because she never claims a loss. She actually pays quite a bit in taxes every year. So they

leave her alone. No need to audit a golden goose, I guess.”

I was back on my back, head next to JP’s firm hip and thigh. We were silent for a long while. My mind wandered. I began to

think about those people you hear of, the ones who go away on tropical vacations and never come back. They leave well-

paying jobs, family, friends, and live in beachside hovels. They set up little businesses, teaching surf lessons or selling beaded necklaces to tourists. All so they can have oodles of spare time, to sit in the sun, and doze the day away. That was me—in a way—all of last year. Sure, it sounded good in theory. But for me, life needs to be about more than that. I was glad to be back.

“JP?”

A garbled sound was his response.

“There’s one more thing I don’t understand.”

“Whazzat?”

He sounded a little groggy. Good. “How the hell did you get into my house that day and tie me up without Barbra and Brutus

making a fuss?”

The only reply was light chuckle, before he fell back into a lazy day slumber.

I wouldn’t get my answer today. Even lulled by the sun, he was on his game. I felt myself slide toward sleep too, luxuriating in the company of a wonderful man, gentle waves lapping at our heels, the day’s setting sun painting us bronze. It was bliss. It was an afternoon I’d always remember.

Set high above Zihuatanejo Bay, Amuleto is a sumptuous enclave seemingly created from the very rocks and greenery of the

natural landscape that surrounds it. Like Toraidio Garza’s home not far away, the aerie has a spectacular view of the roaring ocean, calming itself as it kisses sister beaches La Ropa and Las Gatas. The boutique hotel offers only six suites, each

exquisitely decked out with furnishings and decorations of elemental stone, ceramic, and wood, and its own small infinity

plunge pool.

A thirty-seat restaurant, open to the public, is accessed from the side of a twisting, gravel corniche necessary to get to it.

When you first arrive, a bougainvillea-laden path leads you to a thick wooden door. Behind, a small taste of the remarkable

view greets you, as a hostess escorts you down a steep set of steps into the open air dining area.

It’s a cozy, unusual space. At one end, a miniscule cocktail lounge serves up first-rate martinis. Next to the lounge is an

open-style kitchen, under the control of one of a long list of famed guest chefs anxious for the opportunity. Glass trinkets hang low from tree branches and umbrella stands, meant to scare off birds.

It was here that Frances decided to take Jared for dinner. To Jared, and whoever else might care, the stated purpose of the

dinner was to commemorate Frances’s acquisition of
Korova
, the much sought after painting by the mysterious artist, K.

Frances, no doubt, was also celebrating her new job. Not only would it allow her to pay for the painting, but I was also pretty sure she intended to use some of the proceeds to buy a little love from her date.

It was an understandable coincidence—what with our shared appreciation for fine restaurants that my mother pretended she

couldn’t afford—that Errall, Mom, and I, should also be dining at Amuleto the same night.

“Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” Errall proclaimed, as we swept in, not five minutes behind Jared and Frances.

Jared, ever the gentleman, stood up to greet us with a gracious smile. Frances remained seated, with a plastered-on smile of her own.

“I’m not sure if you know my date, Jared Lowe?” she said with a wave of her hand. “You may have met at the art show the

other night. That’s where we met, isn’t it, sweetie?”

Jared was a born actor, sharing an intimate wink with Frances, before shaking hands with us. “No, I don’t think we did. A

pleasure to meet you.”

In Ukrainian, Mom suggested that it looked like rain. I scoffed and said
sotto voce
to Frances: “She wants me to ask you if this place is expensive.”

Frances chose to ignore this, and wished us a pleasant evening. That was our cue to move on to our own table. So we did.

I texted JP, telling him the coast was officially clear. Shortly after the ordering of food and wine was done, Jared excused himself to find the washroom. While he was away, I caught Frances slipping an envelope onto his side plate, where he couldn’t miss seeing it. Awwww. Young love. How sweet. She was planning to surprise him with something.

When Jared returned, he made a great to do about the card. He opened it and feigned immense surprise. I suspected he’d just

received a sizable cheque. Frances leaned over to say something. Although I’d tried for a seat as close to their table as

possible, I still had a hard time overhearing her. But it was something like: “And soon you’ll have your perfect face again. Are you happy, honey?”

Jared acted thrilled. There was much clinking of wine glasses.

From there, the evening progressed pleasantly enough. I was straining to hear everything I could from the exchange between

Jared and Frances. Much of it was painful-to-listen-to banter, loaded with sexual innuendo and goo-goo eyes. I don’t know

how Jared stood it. I was glad his husband, Anthony, wasn’t there to witness it. In defence of my own sanity and gag reflex, I myself began to tune them out, and focussed on enjoying my delicious grilled dorado.