Dos Equis (5 page)

“I can see how you’d remember a Tom Ford scent. They’re very distinctive,” Jared said. He was serving us moderate

helpings of hot rotini pasta mixed with shrimp, slivers of brandied salmon, caramelized onion, broccoli florets, baby tomatoes, and just enough basil-cream dressing.

Anthony tasted the wine and asked, “But aren’t there at least a couple of dozen Tom Ford colognes—he really went to town

at the scent factory. How can you be sure the one you smelled in your hotel room was the same one worn by the fellow at

Jane’s office?”

“I guess I can’t be one hundred percent certain,” I admitted. “Or I suppose it could have been some sort of olfactory dream I was having.”

“No such thing as coincidence,” Jared decided, taking his seat. Living with it every day, he was oblivious to the stunning

view of the South Saskatchewan River valley many stories below and behind him, a winter wonderland landscape of whites,

greys, silvers, and muted browns. “And you say nothing was missing from your room?”

“No. But the door was unlocked. And I’m positive I locked it as soon as I stepped inside. I always do. It’s a habit. But

maybe I forgot to re-lock it after room service left.”

Jared let out a low whistle. “So he broke into your room while you’re sleeping and you don’t hear a thing. This guy—

whoever he is—he’s good, right?”

I had to agree.

“Let’s assume you’re right,” Anthony said, tasting the pasta. “Oh sweetheart, this is delicious.”

Jared winked and tipped his wine glass toward his husband. “Bon appétit.”

We repeated the toast to each other, and Anthony continued. “If you’re right, it means the killer didn’t run away after you

beat him off from Jane’s office…”

“Well,” I acknowledged, “I didn’t so much beat him off as we simply wore each other out. It was a stalemate. He got in a

good shot, and by the time I recovered, he was gone.”

“So he runs out of Jane’s office,” Anthony said, not giving up on his line of thinking. “Then waits for hours outside, in the freezing cold, until the police are done with you. He follows you to the hotel. Waits for you to fall asleep. Then he breaks into your room, and…what? Takes nothing? You are a lovely looking man, Puppy, but do you really think he went through all that

just to watch you sleep?”

“I know, I know. It makes no sense.”

“If he thought you saw his face and could identify him as Jane’s murderer, you’d think he’d have finished you off when he

had the chance,” Jared added.

Suddenly, the pasta wasn’t tasting quite so good. But the guys had a point. Why would the killer break into my hotel room

and do nothing? He took quite a chance for no apparent payoff.

“Unless…” I began, a new idea buzzing around my head. “…unless he was after something he thought I had…but didn’t.”

“You mean like some kind of evidence that tied him to the murder?”

“Or to whatever it was Jane was doing that brought him there in the first place. Maybe he ripped the lining of the couch but didn’t find what he was looking for.”

“So he killed Jane for nothing?”

I shrugged. Stupider things have happened.

“So maybe this thing he was looking for had something to do with the case Jane was on.”

I nodded. “I’m quite sure the death of Hilda Kraus was the case Jane was working on when she called asking for my help.”

“So of course you’re planning to look into the case yourself?” Anthony pointed out, waiting for the expected answer before

taking another sip of wine.

I sucked in my cheeks and nodded.

“Of course.”

“Russell,” Jared began, sounding tentative. “You’re not doing this out of some false sense of responsibility, are you…

because Jane called for your help, and you weren’t here to give it?”

“Not until now I wasn’t.”

Jared’s face froze.

I laughed. “Just kidding.”

Jared was speechless. Anthony, as usual, was not.

“Puppy, you’ve just put poor Jared off his food for a week. Shame on you.”

I reached over and gave Jared a quick friendly forgive-me hug. “I know what you mean, Jared. And maybe a year ago I

would have felt exactly that. But I know there was nothing I could do from Zihuatanejo. I rushed back here—even though no

one asked me to—as soon as I could. The way I look at it, if I hadn’t come home when I did, who knows how long it would

have been before someone found Jane? And, if I hadn’t been in her office when I was, I wouldn’t have seen the killer. That’s got to count for something.

“To tell the truth, partly I am looking into this because Jane asked for my help. She wanted me to do something for her. I

don’t know yet what that was, but I’d like to do it for her if I can. I’m also doing this because she was a colleague, someone in my life, and Errall’s life. It doesn’t feel right just to let this go and see what the police dig up. Like it or not, I’m involved. She was a bit of a pain, that Jane. But underneath all the bravura and snarky name-calling, she was okay. I liked her. She deserves some extra effort from me.”

“Not to mention poor Hilda Kraus,” Jared added.

“Ah, yes, poor Mrs. Kraus, dead of botulism,” Anthony commented dryly as he forked in another helping of lunch. “I do hope

you cooked the shrimp long enough, darling.”

When I called Millie Zacharias after lunch, she told me to come right over. This was a little easier said than done. Millie lived on a farm just outside a village with the rather unusual name of Muenster. It was an hour and a half drive directly east of

Saskatoon.

Although February in Saskatchewan can be nasty, with the possibility of surprise storms, the day was sunny and bright with

nothing sinister on the horizon. I checked my watch, and saw that I’d have just enough time to get there and back in time for Mom’s supper. So I gassed up Annabelle and away we went. I left the city via Highway 5, past the Sundown, Saskatoon’s only

remaining operating drive-in theatre, and headed due east.

With plenty of time to kill, I used my Bluetooth to make a phone call. It was time to check in with my Saskatoon Police

Service contact, the über macho and mustachioed, Darren Kirsch.

“So why are you telling me all this, Quant?” Kirsch asked after I gave him a brief rundown of all that had transpired over the past twenty-four hours. “As much as I appreciate your storytelling prowess, I don’t really have time for it until beddy-bye.”

“Prowess? My, someone has been reading his dictionary again. Finally at the ‘P’s, huh?”

“How
pernicious
of you to say so.”

“Oh, wait, I feel a
paroxysm
of laughter coming on.”

“Quant, you’re such a putz.”

“Perhaps.”

That bit of wordplay dispensed with, Kirsch got right to business. “So what’s the real story here? I know you can’t be stupid enough to ask me to stick my nose into a case being handled by Regina ?”

I hesitated, then: “I can’t?”

The cop made a kind of steam-blowing-out-of-ears sound.

“Listen, I just want to know what’s going on. Or if they’ve made any progress. Besides, they know I’m involved. They had

me in their clutches for most of last night.”

“Did you at least get any phone numbers?”

“That’s a homophobic comment. I could file a complaint with the Saskatoon Police Advisory Committee on Diversity.”

“Quant, I’m asking you one more time: What is really going on? What are you up to?”

I try never to ask Kirsch for a favour. There is nothing worse than being beholden to a guy like him. He takes advantage of it, making my life miserable. Even worse, he always expects something in return. What a jerk. But he’s my jerk. And like it or not, I needed a someone in the Saskatoon Police Service. Fate gave me Constable Darren Kirsch. I’ve often wondered what

horrible thing I did to deserve him.

“Okay. I’ll tell you. But you have to promise to keep it between you and me for now. Deal?”

“No deal.”

There was dead silence on the phone. He had me by the short hairs.

“It’s nothing illegal. It’s nothing that would impede their case…very much.”

“Quant, I’m counting to three. If you haven’t said something worthwhile by then, I’m hanging up.”

I wisely decided it was not the best time to share my long-held opinion that I did not believe Darren Kirsch could count that high. Instead, I spilled a few of my beans. “Jane was a colleague. I have a vested interest in seeing that her murderer is brought to justice. You have to understand that, Darren. It’s the same with cops.” I knew I had him with this. If a cop went down—

anywhere—every cop in the country stood up en masse in an awe-inspiring show of solidarity to take responsibility, provide

support, and most of all, seek justice. “I know she was working on a case when she was killed. It would really help if I could find out if it had anything to do with what happened to her.” I’d chosen my words carefully, only divulging what I wanted to, and making little noise about getting involved in the case. But words are just words, right? I did feel a little bad about not revealing the phone message from Jane that led me down this path in the first place. But a private detective isn’t called private for nothing.

I could hear Kirsch breathing as he considered what I’d said. “I’ve got a few buddies down there.” I smiled to myself. Got

ya. “I’ll ask how things are going. But that’s it, Quant. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

And he hung up.

That went very well.

Millie gave good directions. They took me right to the long, fir-lined driveway, which led to a large, brown, one-storey, ranch-style house. The snow had recently been cleared, including a shovelled path from the pad in front of the garage, where I

parked. When I knocked on the side door, a chorus of barks greeted me. After a full minute, a woman and three dogs of

questionable parentage appeared.

“Don’t you worry about them,” the woman squawked as she threw open the door and motioned me to come in. “They’re all

bark and no bite, usually.”

Usually?

“You must be that Russell Quant fellow who called a couple hours ago then, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said. I slipped off my boots and followed the woman and her mutts up three steps into a cavernous

kitchen.

“Why don’t you sit yourself down right there,” she said, nodding at a kitchen table already set with placemats, coffee cups, cream and sugar, and napkins. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

I did as I was told, allowing two of the three dogs to have their way with my crotch. The third plopped down near an unlit

wood fireplace, probably too old or too jaded to care. You’ve smelled one crotch, you’ve smelled them all. I know a couple of guys who see life in pretty much the same way.

“And you must be Millie?”

The woman was in her seventies. She was tall and thin, with wiry, silver-white hair, chopped short to frame a sharp, angular face. When she smiled, her features softened somewhat, revealing perfectly white dentures made a touch too big for her mouth.

“Oh yeah, that I am. All my life.” She laughed at that.

Right about then, the dogs abandoned me like day-old road-kill. They trotted off to greet a newcomer, coming in through the

back door at the far end of the room. It was another woman. Ignoring the dogs, she dropped an armload of freshly chopped

wood by the fireplace. I was hoping she’d use it to set a fire. Even with my winter jacket still on, there was a persistent chill in the room, nipping at my nose and fingertips.

“This is that Russell fellow who called,” Millie told her.

“Oh yeah,” was her thrilled response.

She turned and took off her outer cloths, then joined me at the table. “I’ll have one of those coffees too,” she said, giving me a studied once over.

I’d describe the second woman exactly the same as Millie,

with the exception of her hair, which was much darker. And she was probably about seven to ten years younger.

“I’m Russell Quant,” I said by way of introduction.

“Yeah, I heard. I’m Barb.”

“We’ve been friends for over forty years,” Millie explained as she deposited three cups of weak-looking coffee in front of

us. She took a seat opposite mine. “Lived here ever since my parents died when I was just a young gal.”

“Rent’s cheap,” Barb added. The two women laughed at what must have been a well-worn joke between the two of them. It

was the only bit of softness I’d see between the two “friends.”

“I’m surprised you came all the way out here,” Millie said. “The other guy sure didn’t want to.”

“Other guy?”

“The Regina cop who called this morning.”

So they’d read the file too. Good for them. Sort of. Obviously no one wanted to make the three-hour trip all the way from

Regina. Not unless they were sure it would be important to their case. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was the one barking up

the wrong tree. We’d just have to see.

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No. I used to be. In Saskatoon. But now I’m a private investigator. Like Jane.”

Millie sighed. “I still can’t get over it. Her being killed and all. It seems so unreal, you know?”

I nodded. “I’m curious,” I began. “I know you hired Jane to look into the death of one of your neighbours. But why did you

hire a detective all the way from Regina instead of someone closer.” Not that Saskatchewan is crazy with people in the PI

business, but er, uhm, what about me?

“She was a friend of ours, that’s why. We’ve known Jane since…when was it, Barb?”

Barb made an noncommittal movement with her shoulders and remained mute, as she’d done for the entire conversation thus

far.

“Anyways, we met at the Spring Valley Guest Ranch in Cypress Hills. Gosh, gotta be a dozen years ago now. We don’t see

her all that much, with us living way out here and her in 44

Regina. But we keep in touch on the phone and email. So when all this business with Hilda came up, we decided to ring her