Authors: Anthony Bidulka
heat up when you come home.”
Anthony Bidulka — 107
“Okay then.”
“Okay den.”
As I watched my mother dig keys out of her
purse, get out of the car and head in the direction
of the front door I did the mind-game mambo for
a while. I shouldn’t leave her. I had work to do. I
should go in and have some borscht at least. But
then I’d miss my surveillance opportunity. I forgot
to call Kelly. I didn’t get to the gym today. My
poor mother sat for hours beside a Salvation
Army drum. I forgot about Brutus. I’m a piss-poor
son. I’ve got work to do. I shouldn’t leave her. I’m
going to get fat.
I reached for the cellphone and dialled the
DGR&R office number and confirmed with the
receptionist that Daniel was still there. That made
up my mind. Something had to. I put pedal to the
metal and via the Senator Sid Buckwold Freeway
Bridge and thereafter a few shortcuts through
rush-hour traffic, I made it to Daniel’s office build-
ing in less than twenty minutes.
After making a pass by the DGR&R parking lot
to ensure Daniel’s black Beemer was still there, I
did a slow perimeter search of about a block’s
radius looking for a blue vehicle, make unknown
and, just for fun, a green Intrepid. Finding neither
I parked, as inconspicuously as I could, about
three-quarters of a block away from the front door
of the DGR&R building and began my wait. My
hope was that whoever it was who’d followed
Daniel last night would do so again tonight, and I
of course, would catch him.
At 6 p.m. there was a mass exodus. Nobody
108 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
was doing much overtime I guess. By 6:05 there
were only two cars left, one belonging to Daniel.
At 6:15 p.m. Daniel pulled out of the parking lot. I
kept my eyes peeled for the expected, hoped-for
second set of headlights to materialize behind his
disappearing car.
Nada.
I put the Mazda in gear and tailed my client.
Daniel didn’t know I was doing this. I hadn’t
wanted to tell him my plan. Sometimes people
who know they are being followed drive…well,
they drive like little old ladies and that might
make whoever was tailing Daniel suspicious. As it
was, Daniel was already probably a little on edge
thinking the blue car stalker might be behind him
again. He didn’t need the added pressure of
knowing I was too.
Daniel connected onto Idylwyld Drive heading
south towards downtown. We arrived in a few
minutes and he appeared to be searching for a
parking spot in the vicinity of 4th Avenue and 23rd
Street, an intersection shared by the main branches
of the post office, police station, public library and
City Hall. I wondered which was his destination?
He finally found a spot across from the library and
I slipped into another spot just around the corner,
across from the post office. It was a perfect place
from which to keep an eye on his car and anyone
paying too much attention to it while he was away.
Daniel hopped out of his vehicle, locked it and,
watching for traffic, jaywalked across the street
and into the front entrance of the library. Humph.
I hadn’t taken him to be a library kind of person.
Anthony Bidulka — 109
There seemed to be little interest from anyone
in Daniel’s car, never mind someone in a suspi-
cious blue car. I decided to risk it and leave my
post for a while to check out what was going on in
the library. I mimicked Daniel’s route and found
my answer from a poster scotch-taped to one of
the front doors. It read: Saskatoon City Schools
Sing! Come join us for a festive evening of
Christmas favourites. Thursday, December 11th,
6:30 to 8:30 p.m. Daniel was going to a children’s
Christmas concert. For two friggin’ hours!
As soon as I returned to my car I knew I could-
n’t last that long without food. I was dreaming
about Mom’s borscht. The next best thing was
nearby. Colourful Mary’s is a restaurant-slash-
bookstore owned by friends, Mary Quail and
Marushka Yabadochka. Within twenty minutes I
had walked there and back, with a piping hot
sausage and sauerkraut sandwich and large coffee
in hand and had picked up my mail to boot. I nes-
tled into my car’s comfy leather seat and as I
warmed my hands on the heat vent, I noted that
my haul from the post office included copies of
People
magazine and
Passport
, a glossy gay travel
publication. I began to think this might not be
such a bad night after all. It was dark and cold out,
but I had light and heat. A city worker had both-
ered to decorate some nearby ash trees and the
glow of the coloured lights dotted the interior of
my little car with a soft, psychedelic pattern. On
the radio Anne Murray was doing her mellow
best with a Christmas classic. I had food, drink
and entertainment. No mother, no dogs, nothing
110 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
but an evening of peace and quiet.
And maybe a crazed blackmailer.
I spent a rather enjoyable twenty-five minutes din-
ing on my sandwich and coffee (and a little piece of
tort Marushka had slipped unnoticed into my take-
out bag) whilst reading things about
People
I had no
right to know. There had been no action near or
around Daniel’s car. But really, how stupid was I?
Chances were astronomically high Loverboy was a
gay man. Of course he’d be home on a Thursday
night watching
Will & Grace
. But hey, it was only a
half-hour show, so I decided to stay.
Since not much was happening I decided to
use my after-dinner time wisely. First I tried call-
ing Kelly. No answer. Next I pulled out my folder
that contained the photocopied likeness and bio of
James Kraft, our potential Loverboy. I retrieved
James’ bio and found his phone number. I wanted
the opportunity to meet my suspect in person
without him knowing I was coming. So I yanked
my phone book onto my lap and went to the
K
’s. I
found a list of Krafts but none had the same num-
ber. I was out of luck address-wise. I flipped to the
reverse directory. Nothing. I’d have to cold-call
after all. I dialled the number on the resume. Out
of service. Damn, I’d have to do this the hard way.
I began with Abner Kraft and did not strike gold
until Kelvin Kraft.
“Is James home?” I asked for the thirteenth time.
“I’m sorry, he’s not,” responded a delicate fem-
inine voice. I think she hesitated a bit before she
Anthony Bidulka — 111
said, “May I pass a message?”
Although I wasn’t lightning-quick on the
uptake after twelve previous calls, I was prepared
for this. “Oh, well I’m a friend from drama class
and I have something of his I’ve been promising to
return for ages. Would it be okay if I stopped by
tonight?”
More hesitancy. I did some fast time-budgeting
and jumped right in. “Say about nine?”
“I suppose that would be all right.”
“See you then.” I hung up. I didn’t want to give
her time to change her mind. Or ask my name.
As I was jotting down the Kelvin Kraft address
from the phone book onto a handy scrap of paper,
my cellphone rang. Damn. Maybe she had call
display? Wouldn’t matter. Being the wise detec-
tive I am, I’d recently had that feature blocked on
my outgoing calls. I picked it up and answered
with a slight Pakistani accent—just in case.
“Russell.” The caller immediately identified
me. I’d have to practise that accent more often.
“How did you know?” It was Anthony.
“You barely sounded Irish at all.”
“I was going for Pakistani.”
“Tsk tsk tsk. Oh well, it’s a good thing you’re
pretty, puppy. Marc Driediger. A professor at the
University of Saskatchewan, College of
Education.”
“Who’s he?”
“Oh, just someone who might be able to tell
you a thing or two about James Kraft.” Anthony
gave me the professor’s number and rang off with
my thanks.
112 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
At twenty-five to nine Daniel Guest, in a restrained
flow of other concert attendees, exited the library.
At his side was Cheryl. Where had she come
from? They must have agreed to meet here after
work. I watched as they huddled and chatted with
another couple as only true prairie folk can, the
temperature, buried deep in the minus range, a
non-issue. They soon parted and headed for their
cars. Again I scanned the area for a blue vehicle.
Nothing. Daniel pulled into traffic and, with no
obvious shadow, I did too. Ten minutes later I was
on Poplar Crescent watching Daniel’s black BMW
pull into his garage.
The Krafts lived on Saskatchewan Crescent, an
upscale neighbourhood, in a lovely Victorian
across from a row of monstrous homes with foot-
ball-field-size backyards that sloped into the river.
The subdued lighting on the bricked walkway
from street to front door was pristine, as if a flake
of snow didn’t dare settle on it. Although the
house itself was not buried under layers of
Christmas lights as were many of its neighbours,
through the double-wide front picture window I
saw a very tall, very thick tree decorated in gold
and white. I rang the doorbell and listened to its
Christmas chime, “The First Noel” I think.
A blond woman opened the door. “Hello,” she
said as if she wasn’t expecting anyone. Perhaps
this wasn’t whom I had spoken with.
“Mrs. Kraft?” I said. “I called about an hour
ago?”
Anthony Bidulka — 113
“Yes, that’s right.” Her tone said that so much
had happened in her life since then that it was dif-
ficult to remember that far back. “Won’t you come
in?”
She stepped aside and I walked by her dis-
count haute-couture perfection into a huge
entranceway with vaulted ceilings.
“Won’t you join us in the drawing room?”
I had no idea anyone in Saskatoon actually had
a drawing room. For a brief moment I considered
the possibility that there would be other family
members in it actually drawing. Instead I found
myself in what I would call a rec room—book-
shelves, bar, TV, couches. She asked me to sit. I
did. As she went to the bar to pour me an offered
glass of water a man entered the room. Also very
blond and wearing a sporty outfit of well-pressed
khakis and matching shirt and sweater vest. Both
Krafts looked to be in their forties, and, although I
had yet to be told anything about the inhabitants
of the house, I guessed these were James’ parents.
The man walked over to me in a manly, confident
way and held out his big paw.
“I’m Kelvin Kraft,” he told me. Blond, gap-
toothed—had to be the father. “I’m James’ father.”
Aha, so the missus did remember enough of my
phone call to tell her husband that I was someone
who knew James.
“And I’m Meredith,” the woman said as she
handed me my water.
They perched themselves on a couch opposite
my own and looked at me. I could see that James
got his looks from his father. In fact they were
114 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
almost identical except that the elder Kraft had
short, well-tended hair, twenty extra years on his
face and twenty extra pounds on his frame.
“You went to the U of S with James?” he asked.
“Yes. Has James…”
“Drama major as well?”
The questions in his drill-sergeant voice were
coming at me with the quick, deadly precision of
rifle fire. I fumbled a bit while I tried to recall the
story I’d told the mother on the phone. “Yes, that’s
right.”
“Kinda old for it, aren’t you?”
Ass. “That’s one of the great things about the
career, age doesn’t much matter.”
“Finding any success in the field?”
I could tell by his voice that he already suspect-
ed what my answer would be. So I decided to sur-
prise him. “Yes. It’s been great.”
He didn’t look like he believed me. “It’s not
constant work, though, is it? It’s not as if you get a
job and keep it until you decide to quit or get a bet-
ter one? You get a job, it ends, you try to get anoth-
er one, it ends, you try to get another one, it ends,
on and on and on, always the beginnings and end-