Authors: Anthony Bidulka
once upon a time and had bundled her dark tress-
es into a spectacular maze of intricate patterns at
the top of her head. Her face and figure hid no
secrets. Anyone who looked at her would know
they were seeing one of the world’s great beau-
ties—less than perfectly preserved—but a beauty
nonetheless. We stepped into the ballroom and
saw a scene that would be duplicated in hotels
164 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
and restaurants and halls throughout the city that
night and every night from then until late
December: the office Christmas party. Women in
gowns of Rudolph-nose red, mistletoe green and
gaudy gold that would be worn eleven times over
two-and-a-half weeks of holiday events; men in
the same dark suits they wore to work but jazzed
up with festive ties and colourful shirts; portable
bars manned by bored university-aged bartenders
pouring eight dollar bottles of wine for five dol-
lars a glass; platters of uninspired appetizers get-
ting cold and turning up at the edges; a DJ arrang-
ing his collection of almost-hits from the ’80s and
’90s; a rakish-looking Christmas tree decked out
in a few lights and fewer decorations; and a collec-
tion of round tables draped in bright linens
topped with a centrepiece of pinecone and fake
holly. I saw several women and men give Sereena
the once-over. I was pretty sure one of the wait
staff was checking me out.
“Swill?” Sereena suggested after having her fill
of long-distance admiration.
We walked through the crowd of strangers, 150
or so of them, and eventually made our way to the
front of the bar line. I saw by his nametag that our
bartender’s name was Derek. I wondered if he
also worked at gatt. “What type of white wine do
you have?” I asked.
He held up a bottle of the singular selection
with a look on his face as if even he, a poor univer-
sity student with a part-time job as a banquet bar-
tender, was accustomed to far more desirable vin-
tages.
Anthony Bidulka — 165
I smiled pleasantly and told him to pour two
glasses.
“So who exactly are these people?” Sereena
asked once we’d found a spot to stand without
danger of having our wine jostled but not too far
from the bar, where we’d no doubt return.
“Most of them are staff of DGR&R and their
spouses or dates, a handful of clients…i.e.
myself…and their demure, close-mouthed com-
panions…i.e. you.”
“Was that humour?” she asked without appar-
ent recognition of it being so.
“I guess not.”
Her practised eye roved the room and she com-
mented, “Care to wager on whether we’ll be eat-
ing chicken tonight?”
“Here comes my client,” I whispered as Daniel
Guest in a black suit, crisp white shirt and bright
red tie approached.
“Did you get my message?” he asked conspir-
atorially as soon as he was within conspiratorial
range. He had to be the only man in the room who
could possibly be within perfume-smelling dis-
tance of Sereena Smith and not notice her. Gay as
a party hat.
“I did,” I replied. “And I’d like to introduce my
‘date’ Sereena Smith.”
Daniel shifted his attention and studied
Sereena with googly eyes. He expertly com-
menced laying on the charm. Sereena expertly
accepted it. I let them coo back and forth for a
minute then made them stop before I’d need
something stronger than wine.
166 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“I’d like to talk to your receptionist about the
woman who showed up at the office,” I told him.
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “That would
arouse too much suspicion.”
“Doesn’t the fact that a woman was nosing
around your office and asking questions about
you already raise suspicion?”
“Well yes,” he admitted, “but that’s different
than having a PI asking questions on my behalf. I
don’t want Colleen or anyone to know…” He
stopped there and looked at Sereena and then
back at me.
“Sereena had to be told certain things before
coming out with me tonight.” I told him. “In case
you hadn’t guessed—she isn’t a real date.”
He looked churlish and maybe a bit sheepish at
having fawned over her like a lovesick Lothario
when she’d already known he was fond of sleep-
ing with men. “Oh,” he said. “That’s fine.”
It better be fine, I thought to myself. It wasn’t
my idea to bring a date to this shindig.
Sereena did her part by smiling beguilingly at
my client, kind of a wink-wink nudge-nudge kind
of smile that I’m sure further withered his manly
ego.
Daniel moved even closer into our already
tight circle and spoke in a quiet voice. “I guess
what’s important is who is this woman and why is
she following me.”
“Agreed, but I have to be able to ask more
questions to find out.”
“Not now, not now,” he whispered harshly.
“Let’s talk about this later.”
Anthony Bidulka — 167
The reason Daniel suddenly put an end to our
conversation was not too subtly joining our group
by threading her hand through his crooked arm.
She was physically the same height as Daniel, but
several inches taller with heels on. Her short,
multi-toned blond hair had been curled and
teased into a busy do, her toothy smile and big
brown eyes were bracketed by a bevy of wrinkles,
like small fissures in her caramel-tanned skin.
“I’d like you to meet my wife, Cheryl,” Daniel
said. “Sweetheart, this is Russell Quant and his
girlfriend, Sereena Smith.”
Girlfriend? Sereena and I quickly exchanged
amused looks and politely shook the proffered
hand. Unlike many women who, through varied
means, manage twenty-eight-year-old-looking
faces well into their forties but couldn’t hide their
age when you looked at their hands, Cheryl Guest
was the opposite. Her face looked ten years older
than her chronological age, but her hands were
lovely and smooth, with nails professionally
French-manicured. They were hands meant for
teacups or Palmolive commercials.
“So you’re girlfriend and boyfriend?” Cheryl
purred with the friendliness of a cougar about to
leap on prey. She was speaking to Sereena but her
eyes continually darted back to me, assessing me
like a side of beef she wasn’t sure would fit in her
deep freeze. “How lovely. How long have you been
together?”
“Why do you ask?” Sereena smoothly shot
back, unabashedly surveying the gold lamé dress
barely held up by two spaghetti straps on the
168 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
other woman’s figure.
Cheryl was momentarily thrown off-balance
by the unexpected answer, as intended, giving
Daniel the opportunity to jump in.
“Russell is considering using DGR&R,” Daniel
told his wife.
Likely relieved to be pulled from the maw of
an unwinnable battle of wits with Sereena (and if
not, she should have been), Cheryl turned her full
attention on me. “What’s to consider? DGR&R is
the best.”
We all laughed lightly, except Sereena who is
oblivious to the need for laughter unless some-
thing is actually funny. And even then a laugh is
seldom a guarantee.
“What business are you in, Mr. Quant?” Cheryl
asked.
“I’m a private investigator.” I could see out of
the corner of my eye Daniel beginning to squirm.
We hadn’t discussed the answer to this question—
I’m sure he was hoping for some kind of white
lie—but I’d decided I’d lied enough for him for
one evening.
She lowered her wineglass, forgoing a planned
sip. “Really? I’ve never met a private investigator
before. How interesting. Do you do most of your
work here in Saskatoon?”
I nodded. “Mostly. It all depends on the case.
It’s a small business, but growing. So I’ll need a
good accountant soon.”
Another man drifted into our group and
looked expectantly at Daniel to provide introduc-
tions. He was well over six feet and heavy-looking
Anthony Bidulka — 169
without being overweight, probably an impres-
sive athlete in his younger years. With a head cov-
ered in curly greying hair I guessed him to be in
his late forties, although his unlined face looked as
if I might be off by several years. He had a sharp
nose and strong chin. All in all a pleasant combi-
nation of features.
“Russell Quant, Sereena Smith, I’d like you to
meet Herb Dufour, one of the partners at
DGR&R.”
I was glad he dropped the girlfriend thing. We
all shook hands and he complimented the appear-
ance of the two women in the group without
seeming slimy or insincere.
“Well, it shows how naive I am,” Cheryl Guest
continued, not ready to leave the subject of my
profession. “I wasn’t even aware there were detec-
tives in Saskatchewan. Herb, did you know that
Mr. Quant is a private detective? I’ve always
assumed the police took care of everything.”
“They usually do,” I told her. “There aren’t too
many of us around.”
“Now tell me what sort of cases you work on.
Is it murder and mayhem? Anything I’d have
heard of? What type of people are your clients?”
She seemed genuinely interested and I was
about to share some juicy details that were almost
true when Daniel interrupted.
“Darling, I’m sure those sorts of details are
confidential. And besides, it’s about time we
found our seats.” He began to look around the
room as if he’d just heard a dinner gong.
“Is that correct, Mr. Quant?” Mrs. Guest
170 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
squeezed in one more question.
“Yes,” I assured her as I would a client. “I keep
a lot of secrets.”
“That must be difficult,” I heard her say as she
was led away, smiling at me and Herb, complete-
ly ignoring Sereena.
“Mr. Quant,” I heard a new voice say behind
my right ear. “How interesting to see you here.”
I turned to find Lois Vermont standing there in
a suit that looked remarkably like the one I’d seen
her in when I last met her at the SBA offices
except that this one was dark green. The scarf
draped around her neck was the exact same shade
of green with a small red berry design along its
edge. Her hair hadn’t moved an inch but I was
surprised to see she’d bothered with a dash of lip-
stick and perhaps even a little blush. Instead of
making her prettier or more feminine which I
imagined was the intent, the makeup simply
made her appear fake, doll-like.
“Likewise,” I answered with a prim smile iden-
tical to her own.
Lois nodded curtly at Sereena, gave me an “I
knew it!” look—obviously in reference to her
guess about Daniel Guest being my client—and
headed off into the milling crowd.
Daniel had started a trend. Most of the people
in the room were heading towards tables and
selecting dining companions.
“Would the two of you like to join our table?”
Herb Dufour had reappeared at my elbow with
the gracious invitation.
This was a lucky break. I was here to meet
Anthony Bidulka — 171
some of the other important players in Daniel’s
world and Herb Dufour was certainly one of
them. As far as I knew, he was the only other per-
son Daniel had admitted his gay experiences to.
“We’d love to, thank you,” I said.
Herb held out his arm for Sereena, which she
expertly made use of, and led us to two seats at
one of the tables near the front of the room. As we
sat down I noticed Daniel and Cheryl at the next
table, Daniel appearing noticeably uncomfortable
with the seating arrangements. Did he expect us
to eat in the kitchen? I smiled and gave him a lit-
tle wave.
Also at our table was Herb’s date for the
evening, an attractive woman named Marilee
Yuen. And, in a conspicuous attempt at mixing
management with non-management, our other
dining companions were an entry-level account-
ant and her husband and the file room clerk and
his girlfriend. Herb introduced me as a potential
client of the firm. Since that wasn’t how Daniel
had introduced me to Herb, it was evident the two