Authors: Anthony Bidulka
today.”
Herb snorted through his nose and looked
away. After a moment he said, “I’m sorry for my
outburst. I’m just worried about Daniel and this
mess he’s gotten himself into.”
“And worried about what the effect would be
on DGR&R if the blackmailer makes good on his
threat?” I wasn’t being paid to be Mr. Nice Guy.
We stared at one another.
Dufour relented. “That…is not…wholly unim-
portant, it’s true, but my concern, first and fore-
most, is Daniel’s well-being. You can choose to
believe that or not, it doesn’t matter to me.”
And with that we shook hands like gentlemen
and I left.
I spent the next couple of days checking up on
DGR&R employees and spending oodles of time
pulling surveillance duty outside the post office
watching P.O. Box 8420. With payment due on the
fifteenth, certainly Loverboy would be anxious to
collect. But all I managed to accomplish was an
over-familiarity with the upholstery of my car.
More and more I was becoming convinced that
Daniel’s idea of going to New York to find James
Kraft was the most worthwhile course of action
we had. I managed to book a seat sale flight to
New York and Sereena, who’d been to the Big
Anthony Bidulka — 245
Apple many times before, decided to tag along to
do some Christmas shopping, visit friends and
maybe show me a thing or two in one of her
favourite cities in the world. I even played around
with the idea of dipping into savings and bringing
my mother along with us. Sereena was a sport
about it, promising to research the best “colourless
dress stores” for my mother’s shopping pleasure.
But in the end, my mother convinced me she
would be much happier staying home for the cou-
ple of days I’d be gone, taking care of the dogs and
catching up (?) on Christmas baking. And, smarty-
pants that I am, I used the situation to get Kelly
out of the house by making her promise me to
physically check in on my mother (not just phone
calls) at least once a day.
It was the Wednesday afternoon before my trip to
New York City when I gave up on the post office
for the day and returned, bug-eyed and dejected
to the office. As usual at this time of year, PWC
was empty even though it was not yet 5:30 p.m. I
was about to head upstairs when I first heard the
noise. I was wrong. PWC wasn’t empty.
There was someone else in the building. And
that someone was in my office.
Chapter 13
THERE IT WAS AGAIN. The sound of shuffling from
upstairs. Someone was definitely in my office.
I racked my brain to think of who it could be,
what they were doing here and how they’d gotten
into the locked PWC building. Was the intruder
the Herbal Essences peeping Tom? I was not in the
mood to be hairsprayed in the eyes again. Could it
be the unknown stalker in the blue car?
Step by careful step, I skulkingly topped the
staircase and gazed about for something to use as
a weapon. My gun, as usual, was nowhere handy,
but that was probably a good thing. I don’t like
playing with guns—unless my playmate has one
too. There was nothing, no baseball bat, no heavy
brick, not even an umbrella. What I did have was
a three-foot tall, plastic candy cane Lilly had hung
from the stair banister. A three-foot candy cane
and the element of surprise.
Brandishing the faux candy treat like an axe, I
slipped soundlessly across the small second floor
landing to my office door. I could see a light com-
ing from beneath it. Pretty bold move on the bad
guy’s behalf to be using lights. I shifted the yule-
tide weapon into my left hand and grasped the
doorknob with my right. In one motion meant to
startle, I turned, pushed, burst into the room,
brandished the red and white armament in front
of me and yelled out, “Hold it right there!” (a term
left over from my days as a policeman…and
Anthony Bidulka — 247
watching too many episodes of Angie Dickinson
in
Police Woman
).
And there, jumping up from a chair in alarm,
was someone I knew—and the last person I
expected to see.
Cheryl Guest stared at me with wide eyes. The
air was heavy with her gardenia scented perfume.
I decided she looked better than she had at the
DGR&R Christmas party—without her hair
stretched and pulled into a shape it didn’t want to
be in, no excess makeup attempting to hide her col-
lection of deep wrinkles or over-the-top designer
clothes on her non-designer body. She wore a light
beige pantsuit, no doubt compliments of J.
Thames, which nicely camouflaged her ample
hips and small chest and complemented her café-
au-lait tan. Her hair was combed back from her
face and except for a few stray strands around her
forehead, held there by a pair of tasteful diamond
pins. It was a simple hairdo; almost refreshingly
honest in how it revealed her face in all its age-
and sun-damaged entirety.
I laid the candy cane to rest against a bookshelf
and approached her. Even though she’d surprised
me as much as I’d surprised her, I couldn’t help
feeling sorry for her; the startled look on her face
somewhere between tears and terror. “I’m sorry,
Mrs. Guest, I thought you were an intruder. The
front door was locked, the lights were off, I…I…I
just thought…well, how did you get in here?”
She placed a delicate hand over her beating
chest and attempted a smile. “Oh my.”
Uh-huh. Not quite the answer I was looking for.
248 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
She fell back into her chair, so I went to mine,
directly across from her behind my desk. I offered
her coffee or water, which she declined. I stared at
her tight smile.
“I apologize, Mr. Quant. In some ways I’m a
compulsive person and when I make up my mind
to do something I just go out and do it whether it
makes sense to or not. And, particularly
this…I…well, I wanted to do it…to be
here…before I changed my mind. When I got here
it seemed everyone had left for the day except
for…Alberta? Is that her name? Anyway, I am
grateful to her for allowing me to wait in your
office. I think if I’d been in the waiting room…so
close to the door…I would have been long gone
by now.”
I glanced over at my phone message machine
and saw a blinking light. No doubt Alberta telling
me she’d deposited a client in my office and then
up and left her alone in the building. For anyone
else, a bit unusual, for Alberta, not so much. “I
see.” At moments like this I find it best to say as
little as possible and allow the other party to bab-
ble on and fill the silence.
Mrs. Guest pulled a Kleenex from her purse
(which matched her outfit nicely—the purse, not
the Kleenex) and dabbed both corners of her lips.
She was acting and sounding like she was nerv-
ous, but there was something else about her per-
formance I couldn’t put my finger on. Her eyes
were on me like honey on toast, assessing me. “I
was glad to meet you at the party the other night,
Mr. Quant. As I think I mentioned then, I’ve never
Anthony Bidulka — 249
met a real private detective before. I’ve only seen
them on TV or movies or read about them.
Saskatoon seems so…safe to have a need. But I
guess I’m naive about that sort of thing.
Sometimes when I read the newspaper in the
morning I’m amazed at the goings on in certain
parts of the city and realize how far removed I am
from it all. You know…like the…the west end or
down 20th Street. But it’s mostly bad kids and
the…well, the Native population, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t about to answer her and give cre-
dence to her obvious prejudices, racial, geograph-
ic, and otherwise.
When she noticed my silence she simply nod-
ded as if agreeing with herself and continued on.
“Anyway, meeting you had an impact on me. It
has pushed me to make an important decision
about something I’ve been thinking about for a
long time.”
Now this was getting interesting.
“A decision that involves you, Mr. Quant. I’d
like to hire you.”
“Oh?” Still sticking with the “don’t say much”
bit.
Although her well-tended hands moved con-
stantly from purse to lap to hair to the lapel of her
suit, her cocoa eyes remained steadfast on my
face, anxiously searching out some kind of infor-
mation she’d come here to find. “I’m afraid I
don’t know how this works now, Mr. Quant.
You’ll have to help me. I don’t know what comes
next. Do I make an appointment to see you again
about this…this matter? Do you require a down
250 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
payment or something? It’s…it’s…well, it’s
Daniel. I believe he’s having an affair and I want
you to find out if it’s true and who she is. I have
to know the truth. It’s all so obvious. He’s been
distant for some time. But you know how it is,
you probably see it all the time, the wife is the
last to know…or at least the last to accept the
truth. This past weekend for example. At his own
office Christmas party—it was after you’d
already gone, I think—he disappeared for over
an hour and barely even managed a half-baked
explanation as to where he was. And then the very
next night he tells me he has to work late—on a
Saturday—and comes home in the middle of the
night. He’d gargled with Listerine but I could tell
he had alcohol on his breath. And I think there
was a trace of lipstick on his face!”
I almost choked on that one. Little did she
know the lipstick on her husband’s face was like-
ly his own—or rather Clarissa’s.
“So as you can see, I need help, Mr. Quant. I
need your help. And quickly. I want to save my
marriage.”
Throughout her speech my mind was racing
like a rabbit from a fox. I wasn’t expecting her visit
and I certainly wasn’t expecting what she had to
say. Part of my mind was feverishly composing a
response to her request to hire me and the other
was assessing the implication of her suspicions on
my client and my case.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mrs. Guest.”
She looked surprised, almost baffled. “D…did
I do something wrong?”
Anthony Bidulka — 251
“No, of course not. However, given that I know
your husband and am considering using DGR&R
as my accountants, I just don’t feel it would be
ethical at this point for me to accept the job. I’m
sorry.”
Her eyes narrowed and lips tightened. “Are
you covering for him? Do you know about the
affair? Do you know who she is?”
I felt sorry for Cheryl Guest. She was desper-
ate. She was angry. She was trying whatever she
could to find answers. And I was in a difficult
position. I hate outright lying (well…sometimes),
but in this case my first loyalty was to my client.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Guest, I have no information for
you. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
She seemed to accept that. She rose, keeping
her back stiff and straight and I followed suit.
“Then I guess I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry
about all this. I’m sorry to have taken up your
time,” she said as she headed for the door.
I followed her and opened the door to let her
out. “Not at all.” I wanted to say something like
“It was nice to see you again” but by then it
seemed trite.
She was almost over the threshold when she
turned and faced me one more time. “Will you
tell Daniel about this?” It was an interesting choice
of words. She wasn’t asking me not to, only if I
was planning to.
“Of course not.” Ouch. That hurt, because I
knew I was lying again. In my job a lie here and
there is part of the territory. That doesn’t make it
any easier to do.
252 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Why do you do it?”
My heart stopped. Her gaze cut into me.
“What?” I asked weakly.
“Men. Why do you cheat? I’ve watched Daniel
turn into a mess. He’s not sleeping much, he does-
n’t eat, he pretends he’s okay, but I know he isn’t.
Never mind what it’s doing to me. Is it worth it,