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Authors: Anthony Bidulka

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BOOK: Dos Equis
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inevitably find their way onto the bed. I wake up the next morning with a furry tail or ear in my mouth. I like to complain about it, but really I love it.

But tonight our routine was out the window.

I must admit, the fact that Barbra had chosen to follow Mom into her room, to watch Doris bewilder Rock yet again, stung a

little. Throughout the evening, I had made a special point of giving her a lot of attention and hugs and ear scratches to remind her of how much I loved her. She’d accepted the affection with good grace. But she was obviously intent on sending me a

message, loud and clear.

Message received. I was repentant. She, not yet mollified. So, tonight, it would be just me and stalwart Brutus.

I ran a bath with essences of mint and eucalyptus thrown in. As the flavoured steam spread its pleasant scent throughout the room, I decided to check my phone messages. I’d been pretty good about keeping up with them while I’d been away. But I

hadn’t checked since hearing from Jane and deciding to come home. First, I collected my bath necessities—a book (this time it was Gail Bowen’s latest mystery), reading glasses (no comment), and a glass of wine (a 2006 Acacia Lone Tree Vineyard,

Napa Valley Carneros Pinot Noir). Then I stripped down, and pushed the button on the machine just before lowering myself

into the tub.

The first two messages were from friends checking in to see if I was still alive, and ever intending to return home. The third was a solicitor, the fourth and fifth were hang-ups, and then came the climactic final two calls. It was as if the first messages were intentionally orchestrated to lull me into a false sense of ease, then BAM! right between the eyes.

The callers were Alex Cross and Ethan Ash.

My very own Dos Equis…Two Exes.

Two men with whom I’d recently had serious relationships.

Calling me on the same night.

WTF?

Alex: “Russell, it’s Alex. I…I was thinking about you.” Hesitation. “I know we haven’t talked since…anyway, I was

thinking of you, and thought I’d call to see how you are. I’m doing great. I’m in Bahrain right now.” Alex was a personal

security specialist. And a very nice guy. “Hot as hell.”
So are you
, I thought.

Ethan: “Russell, hi. Jared tells me you’ve finally come home. Must be nice to sleep in your own bed again.” He sounded

nervous. “Ah, Simon is doing terrific.” His daughter. “She misses seeing you. So, if you’re, ah, you know, ever in the

neighbourhood, I hope you feel you can still drop by and say hello or something. I just…well, I just wanted to say hi and

welcome home. Soooooo welcome home! I hope you’re okay.” Sweet guy. Also hot.

The real kicker was, they both ended their calls with the exact same words: “No need to call back. Goodbye, Russell.”

No need to call back?

Probably not a bad idea.

Despite how it might sound, the past year hadn’t just been about sun, sand, and sangria. There was a fair bit of another “s”

word going on:
soul-searching
. I’d done a lot of thinking. About these two men. About me. About love. About me and men and love all at once. Now, I can’t pretend I reached some great eureka, some great zenith of personal wisdom. But I can say, most definitely, that I know a lot more about myself, my ways of doing (or not doing) things, than I ever did before. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m looking for in life. But I do know that if and when I find it, I will be prepared to recognize it, fight for it until it is mine, then nurture it until I am a grey-haired old geezer, chasing down bad guys on replacement hips. I am Quant.

Hear me roar.

With a warm smile at the memories of Ethan and Alex, I sipped my wine and slid deeper into the fragrant suds.

PWC is the converted character house where Russell Quant, Private Investigator, lives. Errall Strane is the wicked

stepmother… er, landlady. I share the top floor with psychic Alberta Lougheed, while Errall and psychiatrist Beverly Chaney

split the main floor.

PWC looked cold and forlorn that wintry February day when I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot at its rear. Inside was not much better. Now it wasn’t that I was expecting streamers and balloons and a
Welcome Back
sign. But was a celebratory cake too much to ask for? Instead, the place had the same empty, echoing feeling that a house has for the first few days after taking down the Christmas decorations. I’d been to my office a handful of times over the past year—checking my mail, making

sure that someone was watering the cacti in my office, that sort of thing— so I wasn’t completely out of touch with my building mates, but it had been a while since my last visit.

I marched up to the reception desk that dominates the large central foyer. The space doubles as a waiting room for our

various clients, guests, patients, and people in need of psychic stuff. Instead of our bubbly, bright-as-a-newborn chick,

receptionist Lilly, I found grey-complexioned, dour-as-a-Sour-Patch-kid, Rebecca.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Uh, what? Where was I? I twirled around and took in the emptiness. Not another soul in sight. The doors to Errall’s and

Beverly’s offices were closed up tight.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Her naturally crabby face frowned a little more. “Who are
you
, sir?”

“I’m Russell Quant.”

“Do you have an appointment with someone?”

“Where’s Lilly?”

“Lilly? I don’t know any…ohhhhhhhh, you mean the regular girl.”

“Uh huh, yup.”

“Lilly is on maternity leave. She had her baby last month.”

I knew that.

I think I knew that.

I should have known that.

No, of course I did. I’d just forgotten, with everything else that was going on. I had chipped in for the gift.

“I’m Rebecca. How can I help you, sir?”

“I work here. My office is right up those stairs.”

The girl looked a little taken aback. “Really?”

Understandable. I suppose. My name should have tweaked a little something. “Mmm hmm. I’ve been away for most of the

past year. That’s why you haven’t seen me around much.”

“Well, no one told me about this. Are you sure you’re expected back? I was told all I had to do was answer phones and take

messages. And they said I could go at three. And that I should just lock up at lunch and that the only…”

“Wait, wait, wait a sec. Where exactly is everyone?” I knew Errall was still in Zihua for a couple more days. But what

about everyone else?

“As I told you, Lilly is on maternity. And they said all the other offices would be empty.”

Empty! “Empty? Who told you that?” What was going on here?

“The temp agency.”

“Who exactly hired you, Rebecca?”

“The temp agency.” Her voice was getting pouty. As if she was beginning to doubt she’d be employed much longer.

“And who hired the temp agency?”

She shrugged. “I just get told where to go and what to do.”

She gave me the information about which temp agency she worked for, then I left her to her myriad of very important duties. I wandered into the kitchen, looking for coffee. Nothing. Only a cold, empty pot. Lilly always kept a fresh pot brewing. Beverly brought in samples of her extraordinary baking on a daily basis. Alberta kept bowls of the candy she was addicted to in here, because she knew if they were in her office she’d finish every last piece in very short order. Today—nothing.

I stomped upstairs and unlocked my office door. The first thing I did after booting up the long-asleep computer, was to start a pot of coffee. I had everything I needed to brew my own, but somehow the stuff that Lilly made downstairs always tasted

immeasurably better. For now, this would have to do. I knew I should have stopped at Starbucks. But I was feeling cheap these days.

I plopped my butt into my office chair and wondered what I had missed. I’d just spent the better part of a couple of weeks

with Errall. She’d said nothing about anyone closing up their offices. Then again, sharing important information with me was not Errall’s forte. She’d been known to take pleasure from surprising people unfairly by springing previously undisclosed

information on them. She was, after all, a lawyer.

I grabbed the phone and dialled Beverly’s home number. No answer. Then Alberta. Same thing. Had the world gone crazy?

Step away from your life for a few months and see what happens. Anarchy.

The phone rang and I hurriedly picked up.

“Welcome back, Mr. Quant!” a singsong voice warbled out of the receiver. Lilly! And that is why she is the best receptionist in the world.

“Lilly! Thank you. How are you? How’s the new kid?”

“He’s growing like a snowball rolling down a hill. He looks just like Brad.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Her sweet laugh tinkled over the phone line. “So are you back for good now? We really missed you!”

“And I’m really missing you, Lilly. It was a rude surprise to show up today and find you weren’t here.”

“It worked out perfect though, don’t you think? You were gone, Errall and Beverly are both on vacation, and Alberta’s car

won’t start.” She tittered. “She decided it was a sign; the spirits telling her to work from her home until the weather warms up.”

In only a couple of sentences, Lilly had made my world right again. Did I mention that she is the best receptionist in the

world? “More like the spirit of the guy at the garage telling her to buy a car worth more than sixty bucks.”

“Oh, Mr. Quant. Well, I just wanted to call and say welcome back. Is there anything I can do for you from home?”

“Just hurry up and raise that baby fast, so you can come back to us very soon.”

“That’s sweet. It won’t be too long, I promise.”

“Thanks, Lilly. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Phew.

I stared at the phone. Then the blank computer screen. The barren inbox on my desk. The Day-Timer opened on my desk to

some long-forgotten week from the previous year. The dusty filing cabinet across the room. Ta Da! I was open for business.

Day one.

Nothing happened.

I drummed my fingers on the desktop.

Still nothing.

I needed work. Over the past year, I’d been careful with funds, not to mention the grateful beneficiary of the generosity of friends. As such, my long-term retirement savings were safe and sound. The same could not be said for short-term cash. Soon

though, I knew, upon attempting withdrawal from my chequing account, I’d hear the telltale sound of scraping at the bottom of the barrel.

I hadn’t had a rainy day. I’d had a monsoon.

I needed to be patient. In a way, I was starting over. Now that my shingle was officially hung once again, business would

surely begin to trickle in. It always had before. There’d been lean times, there’d been feast times. This was just an extra-lean time. I would survive. In the meantime, I knew I should keep busy. So I put my fingers to work and began doing what detectives do best: snooping.

By lunchtime, I had a pretty decent picture of the life lived by Hilda Kraus’s daughter. Lynette Kraus was thirty-eight years old, never married, no children. She left home at eighteen and, jiving with what Millie Zacharias had told me, moved into a

nice apartment in the trendy Broadway area. After that, she seemed to spend her time flunking out of Secretarial College,

Hairdressing school, and several University level classes taken one at a time. It didn’t appear she did much of anything else.

She was twenty-seven when her father—aka the golden goose—died, leaving her at the financial mercy of her mother.

Suddenly, Lynette began to add actual work experience to her paltry resume. Eventually she went back to school to earn a

diploma in bookkeeping. She landed a job doing the books for a small local company that specialized in made-to-order

cardboard boxes.

I couldn’t find anything to indicate that Lynette was involved in any community volunteering, sports groups, or social

organizations. The only group I could find which listed her as a member was called The Arm Chair Travellers. They met once

a month, and seemed to spend entire evenings ooohing and ahh-hing over pictures of other people’s trips. Oh dear.

There had to be more to Lynette than this.

Throwing on my jacket, I locked up and jogged down the stairs to the main floor. I tossed Rebecca a
see-ya-later
as I passed by.

“Wait! Mr. Grant! I have to go to lunch!” Her face was the colour of storm clouds.

She didn’t really expect me to man her desk, did she?

“Try Colourful Mary’s. Have the Blob soup, it’s delicious,” I threw back, quickening my steps.

“So I’ll just lock up then? I’m leaving at three! They said I could leave at three!”

I was out the door.

Boxes Made to Order—catchy name—was located in the Hudson Bay Industrial area, just off Miners Avenue. The building

was tired. The signage was tired. The man who stood behind the counter, looking dispiritedly at a computer screen, looked

really tired.

“Hi,” I said when the noise of the glass entrance door slamming shut behind me didn’t seem to attract his attention.

“Yeah, hold on. I’m just in the middle of something here. Be right with you.”

I sidled up to the counter. In the reflection of a glass cupboard behind the man, I could see his screen: he was busy spending time in FarmVille, a real-time simulation game on Facebook.

After a minute, without even bothering to look up, the fellow said: “There’s a brochure on the counter. You can pick out

what kinda box you need outta there. When you’re ready, I’ll take your order down.”

“I’m ready now,” I informed him. I resisted the temptation to tell the Boxes Made to Order employee that I’d like some bags

made to order. Just to screw with him.

He looked up, but didn’t move away from the computer.

“I’m looking for Lynette Kraus. I was a friend of her mother’s. I wanted to drop by and tell her how sorry I am for her loss.”

BOOK: Dos Equis
7.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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