Dos Equis (8 page)

“Well, good luck with that,” the guy said with a bit of a snort. “If you find her, let me know.”

“She didn’t come into work today?”

“Hasn’t been in all week. Don’t know where she is. Didn’t call or nothing.”

I could have found this out over the phone. But I always find it preferable, when talking to a suspect for the first time, to do it face to face. Especially when they’re not expecting you. This plan, however, was not working out too well for me today.

“Did you call her? Maybe she’s sick at home or something?”

He shrugged. “I guess the boss’ll call her when he really needs her...or to fire her. Either way, can’t help you, buddy.” His dead eyes lit up. Something quite wonderful must have happened in FarmVille.

Fortunately I didn’t need this bozo to tell me where Lynette Kraus lived. Her address was in the phone book.

Catching light traffic on Circle Drive, I was parked outside of Lynette’s modest Confederation Park bungalow in under

fifteen minutes. The street was quiet. It was the middle of the day and most residents were likely at work or school. I ran

through my mind the best approach to take with the woman. Honesty or clever lie? Clever lies are much more fun.

I adjusted my earmuffs against the coming cold. Little did I know I was about to have more to worry about than the

temperature. I didn’t see it coming.

As I stepped from my vehicle into the street, I was hit from behind by a force so brutal, I was plowed to the ground.

I never stood a chance.

Chapter 5

I’d never imagined what being run over by a vehicle would be like. Now I didn’t have to imagine. That’s what it felt like as I lay there, face smashed against pavement, blood running down my cheek, a heavy weight pushing down on me, a nauseating

feeling bloating my stomach.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The words were spoken so close to my ear, I could feel them rumble around in

my ear drum like bingo balls.

Wait. I recognized that voice.

I hadn’t been the victim of a hit-and-run after all. I’d been taken down by yet another big hunk of steel—Constable Darren

Kirsch. I realized two more things. First, the blood wasn’t coming from some near fatal contusion. Rather, the cat scratch on my cheek, which had reopened when I hit the ground, was simply expressing its distress.

Second, the heavy weight pushing down on me was Kirsch, who’d fallen on top of me. Now, I must admit, this was not a

scene (sans the blood part) I hadn’t fantasized about once or twice over the years. Although he’s a big lug who may have been raised in a barn, Kirsch is still a bit of a hot number—if you’re into the Burt Reynolds from
Smokey and the Bandit
type. But there’s a time and place for everything. This was neither.

Cursing under his breath, Darren hoisted himself up, and with his ham hock hand helped me up too. I was expecting more

swearing. Instead he threw an arm around me and dragged me away from the scene, like a freed hostage at a bank robbery.

When we finally came to a stop around the nearest corner of the block, I spun away from his grasp and asked as politely as I could: “What the hell is going on here?”

In an uncharacteristically gentle move, the first thing the human dumbbell did was raise a hand to touch my cheek. I nearly

recoiled, thinking the guy was gonna bitch slap me or something.

“I’m sorry about this,” he whispered, inspecting the cuts on my face. “You should have that looked at. I’ll call someone.”

Call someone?

My eyes moved away from the cop. I slowly took in my surroundings. The street had been cordoned off at both ends. Within

the perimeter were at least three police cars, an ambulance, a fire truck, and several other vehicles. There were cops milling about everywhere. What…?

I turned back to Darren. I debated not telling him that the blood was actually from a cat scratch, and not from his unprovoked attack on an unsuspecting citizen of the city he’d taken an oath to protect. But that didn’t seem very nice, so I told him the truth.

“Have somebody look at it anyway. You may have gotten some dirt in the wound. You don’t want it getting infected. It might

ruin your online dating prospects.”

And evil Darren was back.

“But for now, let me repeat,” his eyes grew smoldering. “What the fuck are you doing here?” When an answer wasn’t

immediately forthcoming, he blabbed on: “Here we are, not quite finished cordoning off the streets, when who do we see

driving into the restricted area, but our happy-go-lucky local private dick, Russell Quant. Now tell me what’s wrong with that picture? Quant, why are you here?”

“Why are
you
here?” Not great, but it was the best retort I could come up with.

He’d had enough. “I am two seconds away from slapping cuffs on you for obstruction of justice.”

“Ohhhhhh, how
Law & Order
of you.” I wasn’t too happy about things either.

We glared at each other.

Although it smarted a little, I gave in first. “Obviously, we’re here for the same reason. Lynette Kraus lives here. We both think she had something to do with Jane Cross’s murder.”

“Have you been asked to look into her death? By who?”

“Yeah,” I shouted back. “By Jane! Right before she died.”

He glared some more.

“Your turn,” I said in a quieter voice.

“After we talked on the phone, things happened pretty quickly.” “Yeah, thanks for keeping me in the loop on that.” I knew he had no responsibility to do so. It was probably even a little against the rules. But it would have been nice if for once he gave me something I needed without my having to sell a kidney to get it. Yes. I was grouchy. And my cat scratch really burned.

He began to talk. “The investigation moved from Regina to Saskatoon once we got wind of Lynette Kraus, and Jane’s

involvement with her. We talked to people who said Lynette often joked about needing her mother to kick the bucket so she

could inherit the land, sell it, and go see the world. Lucky for us, but unlucky for her, Kraus’s fingerprints were in the system.

She’d been arrested for shoplifting in her early twenties. She left them all over Jane’s office. And, it gets better. Lynette Kraus was one of the few people in Canada who registered their gun, then shot someone with it. So here we are, Quant. Ready to

make an arrest. That enough information for you?”

I surmised this wasn’t the best time to bring it up, but I couldn’t help wonder if Kirsch and his police buddies were making a big mistake. There was a major piece of this puzzle that did not fit. How could Lynette Kraus be the killer when the killer I’d rumbled with in Jane’s office was most definitely a man?

I kept my mouth shut, backed off, and tried to blend into the background. By making myself inconspicuous, my hope was that

they’d forget about me, and I’d get a front row seat to the arrest of Jane’s possible killer.

It was a tense environment. A real live murder suspect on a Saskatoon suburban street was a big deal. I had to give kudos to the law enforcement agencies involved. Other than allowing a rogue PI to slip through the cracks, they seemed well prepared, with plenty of backup firepower should they need it. I suppose it might have seemed like overkill to the casual bystander. This was, after all, a heretofore law-abiding woman in her thirties we were talking about. But I knew, as did the cops, of far less perilous situations that had gone horribly wrong.

What followed was a lot of waiting and many whispered consultations (none of which included me). Finally the move was

made. A team of three plainclothes, one being Darren Kirsch, was sent to the front door. I had my great view, albeit from a

great distance.

They knocked.

The door opened.

A woman whom I guessed to be Lynette Kraus stood there. She had a short chat with the officers. Everything seemed very

polite. Had she been expecting this? Or had they not yet revealed their true intent? Or did she know the jig was up, and decided to peacefully give herself up? She must have invited them in, for we watched as the three men went inside. The door closed

after them.

And then all hell broke loose.

We heard one loud pop. That was it. After two microseconds of profound silence, the yelling and screaming and running and

drawing of weaponry commenced. It seemed like every cop in Saskatchewan was rushing through Lynette Kraus’s door.

Whoever had done the shooting didn’t stand a chance. My only hope was that the victim did.

My late workout at the gym was punishing. I needed it. For many reasons, not the least of which was to help me exorcise the

sound of the senseless death of Lynette Kraus. One “pop” and it was all over for her. The cops didn’t even have a chance to

talk to her. She must have known they would come for her. She’d invited them in. The moment the door was closed, she looked

Darren in the eye, placed a gun to her head, and fired.

I hung around and kept my eyes and ears open. It sounded as if the evidence they’d collected against her, even in the short

time they’d had, was damning enough to convict her for Jane’s murder. They suspected the gun she used to kill herself would

end up being the same one she used to kill Jane. Motive? Jane must have discovered that Lynette killed her own mother. A

mother killer. No one on the street that day was sad that Lynette Kraus was dead too.

It all should have felt right. Millie suspected Hilda’s death was murder. She’d hired Jane to look into her prime suspect,

Lynette Kraus. Jane did what she was asked. She found out the truth. She was killed for it. The murderer met with the ultimate justice: her own death. Case closed.

But Jane hadn’t closed the case. Instead, she’d called me, asking for help. That wasn’t the action of an investigator who’d

wrapped things up. And there was the little matter of my Tom Ford man. I knew the cops were beginning to think that either I was wrong, or by some bizarre coincidence, I just happened to interrupt a break-in in progress which had nothing to do with

the dead body lying on the floor. Possible? Of course. Probable? Oh come on!

So I pounded away at the elliptical and pressed hateful iron until the sweat soaked through my clothing and began to obscure my vision.

It was over. So why didn’t it feel over?

Saskatoon has more than three hundred restaurants. This is quite a few for a city with a population under a quarter million.

Despite the riches of restaurants, Sereena maintains that the only time to try different restaurants is when you’re out of town.

When at home, you should stick to three or four that you really like. Visit them often. Get to know the staff and management. Tip outrageously. This practice ensures you great service, great food, and a great experience every time. Plus, every now and then, you got a free aperitif or dessert thrown in. I have found her advice to be sound.

Colourful Mary’s was one of my “three or four” places. At first, I supported it because it was the only eating establishment in town owned and operated by an openly gay couple. I did this despite my experience that—surprisingly—“gay-owned” does

not necessarily equate with three-star, Michelin Guide quality. Either the food isn’t very good, the prices are too high, or the ambiance is too raunchy, too trendy, or both. Not to say there’s anything wrong with raunchy or trendy, but you’ve gotta have the culinary goods to back it up. Colourful Mary’s blends the cultural gastronomy of the Ukrainian/First Nations backgrounds of the two owners, Marushka and Mary. It has turned out to be an unlikely but unbeatable combination.

Adding to the unique mixture of restaurant and bookstore, and the varied and distinctive menu, Colourful Mary’s is also

famed for the owners’ predilection for redecoration and reinvention. Every change in season or Mary’s mood, brings a decor

rebirth to the restaurant. Over the years, the place has been a rustic Alpine chateau, an African sanctuary, a medieval castle, and Aunty Em’s kitchen from
Wizard of Oz
. Yet, no matter what the place looks like, stepping inside is like visiting the home of your favourite (eccentric) aunt: you feel welcome and wanted, and you know you won’t leave until you’ve been well fed.

This time, I walked into the perfect antidote for the chilly weather. Wandering through the front door was as if I was entering a tent belonging to a Maharajah. The colours were dark and rich, with plenty of gold and silver highlights. The floor was

littered with cushions and metal urns. There were fantastic armoured pieces, and fanciful
chauris
(whisks),
ankushas
(sticks used to goad elephants), and swords. The walls were draped with thick fabrics that seemed to embrace you with promised

warmth as soon as you entered into this foreign land. It was the splendour of a princely Indian court. As always, the staff was dressed to fit the theme. The most splendid costumes were the vintage saris worn by Collie Flower and Dandy Ruff, two of my

favourite servers.

The joint was hopping. Mary, who often acts as hostess, was too busy for a sit down visit, but came over for a quick hi and

hug.

“Is it true? Does this mean we can take down the ‘Missing Gay PI’ poster for good now?” she asked, standing close so I

could hear her over the buzzing cacophony of the diners.

“It does.”

“Wonderful. You’ve just made my day. And that’s something, because it’s been a little more hectic than usual around here.”

“I thought the restaurant business was supposed to slow down in February.”

“I know. Tell it to these people. But I’m not complaining. Just a little weary on my feet. Been here since six this morning.”

“You two work harder than anyone I know.”

“Listen, your order is not quite ready. Marushka wanted to throw in an extra treat. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a table. They’re all full up at the moment. But there should be a free stool in the bookstore.”