Authors: Anthony Bidulka
had travelled up and down both sides of the car’s
previously pristine silver body, the block heater
cord had been sliced and the windshield had been
egged and now, after hours in sub-zero tempera-
tures, resembled a very sturdy meringue pie. For a
moment I stood in shock, not believing what was
before me. For a moment I felt like a helpless child.
For a moment I was empty, hurt, pained.
And then I got mad.
But that only helped so much.
I went back into PWC and called the cops and
the garage and later a cab.
Merry Christmas.
It was a little after 8 p.m. by the time I made it
home, tired, grouchy, hungry and liable to spit. As
I exited the cab and trudged towards my front
door, I saw that my house was obviously in a
much better mood than I. All the exterior lights,
Christmas and normal ones, were ablaze and
through the front window I could see the
Christmas tree we’d decorated shining with the
326 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
intensity of a thousand silver bells. It was, after all,
the twenty-second of December, I told myself, so
despite my bad luck and disposition, the house
had its right to be happy.
I had no idea who they were, but they were in
my living room, lined up on the couch like a col-
lection of life-size dolls. The one on the left, in her
early sixties and tiny as a bird, had eyeglasses the
size of small dinner plates and thicker than ice
cubes. Through them I could make out two unfo-
cused pupils. On the right was the oldest woman
I have ever seen (who was still upright). She kept
the few strands of hair she had left pulled into a
tight, white mini-bun at the top of her head. Both
ears were plugged with monstrous-looking appli-
ances that I took to be the first hearing aids ever
invented. They must not have worked too well
because I noticed that when the others spoke they
habitually raised their little old lady voices
beyond their natural ranges and directed their
words in her direction. The one in the middle was
as wide as she was tall with a wattled face like
Plasticine. Her eyelids and lips were thick like
freshly risen dough and her hair was a purplish
helmet. I found myself continually having to ask
her to repeat herself, claiming to have missed her
words when I really hadn’t. She spoke with a
heavy Eastern European accent and as if she’d
downed too many vodka shooters.
They were the “See No Evil,” “Hear No Evil,”
“Speak No Evil” monkeys.
And moving about in front of them like a busy
bee was my mother, serving tea and dainties to
Anthony Bidulka — 327
this threesome she called “the neighbour ladies,”
even though I’d never laid eyes on any of them
before.
“You must have some of your mother’s tea,”
screamed Hear No Evil. “It is absolutely delicious!
The best tea I’ve had all day!” And then she
laughed uproariously at her little—very little—
joke.
“Oh, well, that’s very kind, but I just…”
“Dyew leave herewidda dyermodda?” this
from Speak No Evil.
I looked desperately at my mother for help.
“Oh no,” my mother answered for me. “Dis is
Russell’s home. I’m just veesitor.”
I looked sideways at my mother then nodded
agreement at Speak No Evil.
I watched as she poured out some hot brown
liquid and realized I’d never known my mother to
drink tea, never mind offer it to guests. It all looked
like some bizarre little-girl tea party that had gone
on for
way
too long. If I didn’t know better I’d say
my mother was trying her hand at what she’d
consider “city” entertaining. Was this what she
thought these neighbour ladies expected from
her? In the country having the folks from the next
farm over in for a cup o’ java or whiskey shot was a
regular occurrence, but not here. At least, not in
my neighbourhood. And where had she come up
with the elaborate tea service? Each saucer was
embossed in gold with a subtle monogram: SOS.
SOS? Where on earth did my mother get these—off
the Titanic? It certainly wasn’t from my cupboards.
And even from a distance I could tell the delicate
328 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
pieces hadn’t come from Superstore where Mother
gets most of her fine china.
“You look just like your mother, dear,” See No
Evil said to me as she adjusted her vision-aid
apparatus for a better look. “Except you’re so tall
for a girl.”
Hear No Evil thought this was hilarious and
roared with laughter. “Oh Virginia, this one’s a
boy, not a girl!”
“I thought Russell was a peculiar name for a
girl.”
“Itzak ahand soaman fercrysakes! Why can
yewnot seethees?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Virginia com-
plained to her Pillsbury Dough friend with a
mightily mean-looking frown.
“Now, now,” my mother cooed, her accent
smoothed into some refined dialect unrecogniz-
able to me, “haf more tea.”
The doorbell rang.
What the heck was going on around here I
wondered, feeling more than a little dazed and
confused. Were there more cronies yet to arrive? I
decided it was none of my business and headed
for my den with the dogs while my mother
answered the door.
The discord was sudden, each shriek setting off
another until it was a choir of shrill pandemoni-
um. It started with my mother’s resounding “Oi,
bojeh!” This got Barbra and Brutus aroused. They
took off out of the den for the living room, barking
their response to what sounded like an alarmed
call for help. Then came the yowls and screeches
Anthony Bidulka — 329
of the monkey ladies. I too sped for the living
room, all the while thinking two things: what the
hell is going on today and what the damn hell is
that reeking smell!
As I ran into the living room, the four women
and two dogs were running out, escaping…what?
Danger? Another peeping Tom? Was it Jane Cross
again? No. They were fleeing the malodorous
molecules that now pervaded the room. Sitting on
the coffee table, next to the exquisite tea setting,
was a lovely package, wrapped in red paper. The
lid of the package, topped with a large green bow,
had been lifted off, no doubt by my mother. The
box had been rigged so that when someone did
that, voila, a most unpleasant scent, like aging
human waste, was released. Not harmful, except
to the senses.
A stink bomb.
It took an hour to clear out the smell; it took a signif-
icantly shorter time to clear out my mother’s guests.
Amongst them they couldn’t see, hear or speak, but
they could all most certainly smell, and this was one
odour they wanted nothing to do with.
My mother described over and over how when
she’d answered the doorbell, there was no one
there, only the package on the doorstep. It was not
addressed to anyone and although she would nor-
mally have assumed it was for me, Kelly had
promised to drop off some baking and somehow
she thought this was it, just in time to serve her
new friends. Wrong.
330 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
After the peeping-Tom incident and now this, I
was pleasantly surprised by just what a resilient
old bird my mother really is; not at all faint of
heart. I explained to her that both incidents were
no doubt related to my current case, that things
like this sometimes happen in my line of work, and
she seemed to accept that without much problem.
She didn’t like it, but she accepted it. I however did
have a problem. I was beginning to seriously
worry about her safety. I now knew that our peep-
ing Tom had been Jane Cross and although I still
didn’t know why she’d been sent to spy on me, I
was convinced she was harmless, a little rough
around the edges, but harmless. But now this.
Where did this come from? Who would have done
this? Was this just kids playing around?
Coincidence? Or had I royally pissed someone off?
I woke up on Tuesday morning with that uncom-
fortable feeling I get in the pit of my stomach
when I sense I’ve done something wrong or
missed some important thing or date but can’t
quite put my finger on it. Although I’d never
admit it out loud I was beginning to worry that I
was out of my league, that somehow this investi-
gation—if it still was one—had gone hurdling out
of my control and I wasn’t going to be able to stop
it. Had I made a mistake somewhere? What was
it? What was I missing? What clue wasn’t I listen-
ing too? Without opening my eyes I used my foot
to nudge Barbra. She weighed a ton this morning
and her bulk had me pinned under the blankets.
Anthony Bidulka — 331
“Sheesh,” I said, finally opening my eyes and
trying to sit up, “what has my mother been feeding
you!” I was about to shoosh her off the bed when I
realized the bulk against me wasn’t only Barbra.
With his head resting on her hindquarters and his
back tucked up against my right side was Brutus. I
looked at him. He looked at me. We both knew a
line had been crossed. He had never stayed the
entire night in the bedroom before, never mind on
the bed. I didn’t know what I felt about having
double the dog poundage in my bed every night,
but for now I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.
I was touched that he’d come to feel comfortable
enough in my home and with Barbra and myself to
spend the night with us. It was either that or…he
had given up on Errall and Kelly.
After what happened to my car and the stink
bomb I felt a need to protect my mother, but I had
a lot to do and didn’t have time to stay home to
babysit her. So, once I got myself together and
found her at her usual station in the kitchen, I
tried to convince her to at least spend the day at
Kelly and Errall’s house. But she was having none
of it. She reminded me how she had won a show-
down with a scraggly old coyote who once upon a
time deigned to steal hens from her chicken coop.
How can you argue with that? We finally agreed
she would stay in the house while I was out (using
her van), but with the doors locked and that she
wouldn’t answer the door or phone and would
call Sereena if she had any worries at all. It wasn’t
perfect, but it was the best I was going to get.
332 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
When I was shown into Daniel’s office later that
morning he was not alone. Sitting near the desk
was his partner, Herb Dufour. The faces worn by
the two men told me they had been discussing
serious issues.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “I can wait until
you’re done.”
“It’s okay, Russell,” Daniel said, indicating for
me to take the chair next to Herb’s.
I nodded a hello to the other man as I took a
seat. The eyes over his sharp nose were distressed
and his brows were knitted tightly together.
“We were discussing the latest development,”
Daniel said.
“You mean about what happened in New
York?” I asked.
“No,” Daniel answered. “About these.” He
gestured towards a bouquet of flowers, still in the
paper wrapping they’d arrived in, lying on
Daniel’s desk. “They came this morning. The
envelope attached was addressed to me. Thank
goodness our receptionist didn’t open it.”
He handed a small card across the desk for me
to read.
To Daniel Guest,
Love,
Your Boyfriend,
Loverboy
I cringed inside. There was no more doubt.
Loverboy was still out there.
Chapter 18
LOVERBOY WAS BACK.
The words left little up to the imagination. The
message and accompanying flowers from
Loverboy were a warning. It was a taste of what
was to come if Daniel continued to disobey and
withhold payment. It was also proof positive that
James Kraft was not Loverboy—or if he was,
someone else had taken over the role after his
death. I looked up at my client. I knew what was
going to come next. He was going to give in. He
was going to pay the money. We were now no
closer to finding out who Loverboy was than
when he first hired me. And he couldn’t afford to