Stain of the Berry (17 page)

"You're thinking about Sereena." It was Jared, looking ridiculously perfect in gauzy white.

He'd caught me staring into space as I was waiting at the tiki bar for my margarita from a bartender dressed as a hula dancer. Maybe this was the guy who delivered the pig from the islands. We shared a look. I missed her. What can I say?

"Ohhhhhhh, Keeeeeee-rist!" This from someone who'd just bellied up to the bar.

I looked over, expecting-as had been the custom for the night-some new attack on my age, virility or ability to navigate without a motorized scooter. Instead I saw surprise number two-and it was none too pleasant.

"What the hell are you doin' here, bub?" Jane Cross asked with an exaggerated snarl on her cute-but-gnomelike face.

My head swivelled to and fro, looking in vain for the hidden
Candid Camera.
Or maybe this was for a new show entitled,
World's Cruellest Home Videos.
I couldn't believe it. If my life were set in medieval times or lived as an intergalactic space fantasy, Jane Cross might be referred to as my arch-enemy or nemesis, but I simply like to think of her as pain in the butt number one. Well, not really. She's not that bad I suppose. She just gets under my skin-like a case of the Itch after a swim in Pike Lake.

Jane Cross lives in Regina, almost three hours away for Pete's sake-so why did I keep on finding her in my life-and she is a colleague, another of that rare breed: the Saskatchewan sleuth. In our short history together she's attacked me in a hotel room, sprayed me in the face with Herbal Essence hairspray and scared my mother out of her wits. Who would ever think to invite
her
to
my
birthday party?

"Whassamatter?" she snorted, accepting a beer from the bartender. "No disco parties to shake your booty at tonight?"

No fair. I accepted her homosexual slurs before as pure ignorance... that is until I'd recently found out she is the type of woman who is overly fond of plaid shirts, big dogs, tool belts as accessories and other women, and should therefore damn well know better. "Is there a Birkenstock warehouse sale in town this weekend?" I shot back.

Jane's button nose expanded and steam came out; she couldn't help but look down at her feet. Yup, Birkenstocks with wool socks. It was thirty-two degrees in the shade, for crumb sakes.

"It's a big party," she grumbled at me. "You find your comer and I'll find mine."

Errall sidled up next to Jared, threading a thin arm through his thick one, and looked back and forth between me and Little Bo Bleep, "I see you've met," she said with an air of relief.

"You know this guy?" Jane said to Errall.

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BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...

"This 'guy' is the birthday boy," Errall responded with a forced smile, sensing all was not right.

"You know this gal?" I mimicked.

Errall shot me a warning look before saying, "Jane is my date, Russell. Remember, I was telling you?"

Bomb.

I plastered on my own fake smile and, with a hand on Jared's elbow, said, "You'll excuse us, right? I have something to discuss with Jared."

Jane scowled, Errall looked blank. As we walked away, I heard my mother approach the two women. I debated waiting to overhear the conversation: given the players, it would be a goodie. But I truly did have something to talk to Jared about and I didn't want to spend any more time with Jane Cross than I absolutely had to. The last thing I heard was my Ukrainian mother saying to Errall-r's in full roll-"Hello, Carol. Tank you for inviting me for party. Very nice den, uhuh."

"I take it you don't like Errall's new squeeze?" Jared got out once I'd manoeuvred him into a relatively quiet corner of the yard next to a crabapple tree heavy with fruit and released his elbow.

"When the hell did that happen? How did those two even meet?" I was incredulous.

Jared shrugged. "I just met her tonight too, so I'm guessing it's pretty new."

I could think of a million jabs and barbs, but what was the point? "Listen Jared, I hate to do this right now, but I have something important to talk to you about. I wouldn't do it tonight, but it might be urgent."

"Sure, of course," he said, immediately concerned. His emerald eyes searched mine, and were filled with the desire to help in whatever way he could. He is just that kind of guy.

I pulled out a folded-over copy I'd made of the photograph Duncan Sikorsky had left me and handed it to Jared. I knew he'd recognize it. He was one of the twelve people in it.

Jared looked at the photo and registered surprise. "Wow. Where did you get this?"

"From Duncan Sikorsky."

"Duncan, yeah, okay, I know him, but...why? Why do you have this? Why did he give it to you?"

I ignored the questions for now. "What can you tell me about the picture? Who are these people?"

"Well, that's easy," he said brushing a stray golden lock off his forehead and sipping his drink. "It's the Pink Gophers."

I searched the bowl of my own drink for any sign of hallucinogens. My face told the rest.

'The Pink Gophers," Jared explained patiently, "is a Saskatoon-based LGBT-friendly chorus. I'm a member. We're on hiatus until the fall."

"You can give me the names of all these people?"

"I can do better than that. I can give you our contact list with names, phone numbers and e-mails if you want."

Jackpot. "I do want."

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"Russell, what's this all about?"

"It's a case I'm working on. I can't tell you much." No need to tell him I really didn't know what this was all about. Yet.

"Of course. I understand. But...well, is someone in trouble?"

"Tanya Culinare and Moxie Banyon."

"Yeah?"

He hadn't heard. I suppose he wouldn't have unless they were good friends who'd kept in touch during hiatus. Moxie died in Moose Jaw and Tanya's death was recent and coverage in the Saskatoon paper had been sparse.

"They're dead," I told him, laying a comforting hand on his arm.

His eyes grew humongous and his jaw slackened. "Oh no, Russell, what happened? When?"

I gave him a brief overview. He listened attentively, every so often letting out a moan of sympathy.

"I
wish I'd known," he said when I was done. "We didn't know each other outside the chorus, but I'd have certainly gone to the funerals to offer my condolences to their families."

"Jared, I visited Duncan in Vancouver. He's a man scared out of his wits. Tanya and Moxie were scared too. I think all of this might be related. Can you think of anything, other than being friends, these three might have in common, why they'd be getting threats?"

"Getting threats? They were scared? Of what?" Jared was trying to keep up with an admittedly complex story.

I humped my shoulders. "I don't know. The boogeyman?"

Jared stayed silent for a moment, as if mulling something over. "Ah, Russell..."

"Yeah?"

"You know, I haven't really given it too much thought, but I had something weird happen to me about a week ago. I only mention it because you brought up the boogeyman. And that's exactly what I thought of when it happened."

My back stiffened and my
Barnaby Jones-Buddy Ebsen
(I was thirty-five, after all) sense went on full alert. "Tell me."

"Anthony was away in Boston on a buying trip, so I was home alone. I'd gone to bed early with a stack of trash magazines and a bowl of popcorn-a guilty pleasure when he's away-and fallen asleep. I remember waking up hearing a low, almost rhythmic thumping, like drums in the distance. I finally realized it was coming from the front door of the apartment, but when I looked through the peephole there was no one there. Half hour later, same thing. That time I opened the door but the hallway was empty."

Jared and Anthony live in a downtown penthouse suite where panhandlers, random acts by mischief makers or even kids selling chocolate covered almonds so their class can visit the Legislature buildings in Regina aren't regular occurrences.

"It happened once more," he told me, "and then the phone started ringing with hang-ups."

"Call display show anything?"

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"Unknown number, so probably a cellphone or pay phone."

"Has this ever happened before, Jared?"

"Never. And maybe it's all just a weird one-time thing, some mistake or something, but it spooked me.

You know how the mind can work overtime in situations like that: home by yourself, your loved one away, dark, lonely night; you start hearing squeaks and creaks that are probably always there but you've just never paid attention before."

I was alarmed and my voice showed it. "Jared, this is more than just a few squeaks and creaks.

Someone had to be there, at your door, on the other end of the phone line."

"Yeah," he said, not quite sharing my concern. "But it could have been a wrong address, wrong number type thing. Hasn't happened since."

I wasn't so sure. "I'd like to get that contact list as soon as possible. And if you can think of any reasons those three and you might be the target of scare tactics..."

"Sure, of course, I'll let you know."

"Okay you two!" I could hear Anthony's cultured British voice booming over the music and party chatter as he approached us with a trio of shooter glasses in one hand and lime wedges and a salt shaker in the other. "Enough canoodling. The boyfriend is back."

Anthony distributed the lime and glasses of gold tequila with a wolfish smile. "And speaking of which...."

I was in trouble.

"My gift to you has just arrived," Anthony announced, raising his glass in salute and leading us in the traditional preparatory lick between thumb and forefinger and salting of our skin.

I was surprised to feel a jolt of electricity surge from my nether regions at the mention of Doug Poitras.

Normally I abhor anyone's undoubtedly good intentions at fixing me up. I'm single. I like it. Deal with it.

But Doug had spiked my interest, heated my blood to a slow boil, set the tiny hairs at my neck on fire. I was delighted with the thought of seeing him again.

"Happy birthday, Russell," Anthony and Jared saluted. We licked the salt, threw back our shots, and bit down on the sour lime. Yum.

"Bring him on," I called out with a tequila-fuelled knavery that felt good.

After a round of salty lip kisses, Anthony moved aside and pulled close a man who'd been standing a few feet away, his back to us. "Russell, I'd like you to meet Doug Poitras."

My heart plummeted and all playful puckishness was quickly forgotten as I stared at a man who was a complete stranger to me.

If this was the real Doug Poitras, then who was the man I'd invited into my home last night?

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I had thought the days of having my mother drive me home from a party because I'd had a bit too much to drink were long past me. But who could blame me for imbibing like an eighteen-year-old on his first visit to a cocktail bar? What with turning thirty-five, learning Errall was dating again, finding out her date of choice was the pugnacious Jane Cross, worrying Jared might somehow be tied up in my current case and in danger, and having a potential Mr. Right turn into Mr. Who?

The man Anthony introduced to me as Doug Poitras was pleasant enough, both in looks and demeanour, but after the sizzle and sparkle of
my
Doug Poitras, he barely registered. And he quickly vanished from the scene when my indifference became wholly apparent. Or maybe it was because the first thing I asked him was to get me a double rye and Coke.

So who was my Doug Poitras? Anthony denied any knowledge of arranging for a man-any man-to await my return from Vancouver the previous evening. My detailed description drew blank stares and, I believe, some doubt as to my probity, which of course infuriated me further and drove me deeper into a bottomless bottle of Canadian Club.

My mother had planned to stay in the city at my house for the balance of the weekend and therefore was going my way at night's end anyway, so it all worked out. As she ferried me home, I quickly recalled how there is nothing quite as discomfiting as the silence of a mother driving home her inebriated son. Not that I had made a fool of myself, or was slobbering on my bib and tucker, but, I have to admit, my world was a wee bit out of focus. As I slouched in the passenger seat with my ma behind the wheel, I couldn't help but think that a strongly worded lecture would have almost been preferable, for in the quiet I could most clearly hear what that stout, bespectacled, Ukrainian woman was surely thinking: "But you ver vonce a policeman, for shame."

She was over it the next day. I can't say as much for me. It was Sunday, a day of rest, but not with Kay Quant (nee Wistonchuk) around. She had me and the pooches up and out of bed by 8 a.m., at which time she fed me hole'in'one eggs (she takes a piece of mushy white bread and pinches a hole in the centre, lathers butter on both sides, slides it into a pan of bubbling hot butter, and as it toasts, she cracks a farm fresh, yellow-bellied egg into the hole and does what she loves best-fries it) as well as a heap of bacon, instant coffee and a deep-fried
pyroshki
filled with prunes for dessert. Barbra and Brutus had to make do with small, round, brown kibble. But only because I insisted. Nevertheless, I think I saw some prune around Barbra's mouth; even my mother is capable of rebellion against what she thinks is just plain wrong, like not feeding people food to animals. After that we showered and dressed and headed out to church.

Just my luck: the service that morning was led by Father Len Oburkevich, a former client's dead partner's twin brother (long story) on whom I'd once had a wee crush. It wasn't until after a lunch of borscht and breaded beef cutlets and cucumbers in a mayonnaise and white onion sauce that Mom allowed me to beg off for a nap-and only if I promised to play cards with her later.