Authors: Anthony Bidulka
whereabouts. And then, not long after, Anthony
had called about Jared. But it wasn’t until early the
Anthony Bidulka — 389
next morning when an anonymous caller gave the
police our approximate location that they had suf-
ficient cause and information to make a move.
We spent some time being interviewed by
Darren and his team of investigators, giving a
detailed description of how the kidnap occurred
and how we survived. They were working on try-
ing to identify the anonymous caller, a woman,
but had yet to have any luck. Eventually they
released us into the welcoming custody of our
loved ones.
As I moved into the embrace of my mother,
Kelly and Errall, I was struck by the thought that
only a short while ago, if I’d have gone missing,
no one would have been the wiser. At least not
right away. And by then it might have been too
late. Instead, I was amazed to find that what I had
been struggling with the last couple of weeks—an
increasingly crowded life, particularly the pres-
ence of my mother—had actually demonstrated in
a dramatic way exactly how it made my life bet-
ter—by saving it.
My mother knew of my tradition of hosting a
Christmas Day come’n’go and, even while I was
missing, insisted on keeping the stove busy in
preparation for my undoubted safe return and a
party to celebrate it. (In actuality, I think it was my
mother’s way of coping—some of us eat when
we’re stressed, my mother cooks.) So that evening,
after a quiet dinner together, she returned to the
kitchen to putz and I retired to my den with
390 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Barbra and Brutus to think through my case in
front of the fire. We stayed like that for a long time
and finally, the seemingly depthless cold that had
invaded me, body and soul, over the past twenty-
four hours began to seep away.
Christmas morning, instead of being a groggy,
draggy mess as I expected after the previous day’s
ordeal, I awoke with a clear mind. I lay in bed for
another twenty minutes listening to the comfort-
ing sound of canine snores and calmly considered
all that had happened over the past two weeks.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, my moth-
er was in full holiday gear: red dress and shoes,
green earrings, necklace and apron. Our guests
wouldn’t be arriving for several hours but she
informed me that with all there was to do to pre-
pare for the day she’d have no time later on to get
herself all “gussied up.”
While my mother fed the dogs, I searched
kitchen cupboards and drawers and finally came
up with an apron of my own. It was sleek, black,
made of raw silk, tailored to slim one’s hips and
emphasize one’s chest, and wholly inappropriate
for anything other than show. But I didn’t care. I
was gonna bake and cook with my mother on
Christmas morning. In that bliss we remained for
about an hour, laughing and chatting about noth-
ing while we toiled like Santa’s elves. And then
she said it. It was an innocent enough comment
but it was just the lubrication I needed to fit the
pieces of the puzzle slipping and sliding around in
Anthony Bidulka — 391
my brain into place…well, almost into place.
“What did you say?” I asked her to repeat it.
“I said I hafn’t made dese kind cookies seence
I vas girl in school. Dere so simple to make, but so
goot, ya? You like, uh-huh?”
“Oh yeah,” I said as my mind focused on three
seemingly disparate things: a bomb, a scarf and
high school chemistry class.
“Mom, are you under control here? Would it be
okay if I went out for a little while?”
“On Chreestmas?” She sounded like she was
not in favour of the idea, but I think deep down
she was happy to get me out from under foot.
I made one call and then headed out to solve
my case.
Chapter 21
I KNEW THERE WAS A RISK that a knock on the door on
Christmas morning might elicit nothing more than
dead silence, but as it turned out, luck was on my
side. The man who answered the door was fiftyish
with wavy, thinning hair turning grey at the tem-
ples and in flecks throughout. “Merry Christmas,”
he greeted with a toothy smile when he saw I was-
n’t his mother-in-law (that was just my guess).
“Mr. Soloway?” I asked, almost certain this
was the man from the photograph I’d seen in
Daniel Guest’s office a couple of weeks ago.
“Yes, that’s right. How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to be bothering you on Christmas
morning, but I’m an acquaintance of your wife’s
and I was wondering if I could have a brief
moment of her time.”
He was wearing one of those over-the-top
Christmas sweaters married men wear only once
a year at the urging of their spouse. He’d probably
worn it on Christmas day for the past five years
and would do so for the next five. It bore a psyche-
delic arrangement of bright colours made even
brighter against the skin of a man who normally
wore grey or navy business suits. “Well, we’re just
about to head out for the day,” he said, sounding
a bit protective, uncertain about my intentions.
“What is this about?”
“I interviewed your wife for a magazine arti-
cle,” I answered, trying to sound serious but not
Anthony Bidulka — 393
ominous. “And I really need to confirm some
quotes before we go to press this afternoon.”
I’m sure this seemed odd to him given the day
it was, but he was too polite to say so. (I often rely
on the politeness of strangers.) “I see, well, won’t
you come in?”
I stepped into a modest foyer with stairs at the
far end leading up to a second floor. Next to the
staircase was a hallway with a doorless entryway
on each side through which I could see a formal
sitting room to the left, dining room to the right.
“Anita!” Mick Soloway called out in the direc-
tion of the hallway. “There’s someone here to see
you.”
I watched the expression on Anita Soloway’s
pleasant, freckled face change in slow motion
from wonder to wariness as she came down the
hallway and recognized my face.
“Oh,” she said as she sidled up next to her
much taller husband, like a baby bird looking for
protection under its mother’s wing. “Hello,” she
cheeped. “Mr. Woodward?”
“Anita,” I said quickly, “how nice to see you
again and to meet your husband. I was just telling
him that I had something to discuss with you in
private. You know,” I said with a wink, “that little
matter we were talking about?” It wasn’t smooth,
but at least I was giving her the option to discuss
her recent activity in private if she so chose.
She was a little slow on the uptake. Still sur-
prised to see the reporter from
Today’s Entrepreneur
in her front foyer I guess. “Are you talking about
the article you’re writing about…” she began to
394 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
ask, her eyelids blinking madly as she began to
make certain connections in her head.
“…about how to make stink bombs,” I finished
for her, shooting an innocent grin at her husband
who was again beginning to look a little con-
cerned about what I wanted with his wife.
“Oh that!” she finally said with a follow up
lopsided smile in her husband’s direction. I’m
sure that smile couldn’t have come easy at that
particular moment in her life. “Yes…yes, that little
matter, yes, that…thing.”
She needed help. “Perhaps we could discuss it
in private?”
“Wellllllll…we were just about to go out and
it is Christmas morning…”
I gave her a look that told her she was pushing
the limits too far with my not-infinite patience.
“But of course, why don’t you come in here,”
she said with a flourish of her arm indicating the
sitting room. “Mick,” she said to her husband who
was now looking entirely confused, “would you
mind giving us a few minutes? It shouldn’t take
too long.”
He shook his head good-naturedly and said,
“Of course. I’ll just go up to my office.”
“That’s fine, that’s good, yes, we won’t be
long,” Anita Soloway said, her face now so pale
even her freckles were disappearing.
We wordlessly watched her husband mount the
stairs to the second storey and out of sight and
then entered the sitting room. We sat on matching
armchairs next to an unlit fireplace, facing each
other.
Anthony Bidulka — 395
“Now what’s this about?” she asked, going for
the bewildered innocent approach. I’d have prob-
ably done the same. She crossed her legs showing
off stylish going-out-for-Christmas-lunch shoes.
“I know about everything,” I said, trying to
look almost bored, “I just want to know why.”
Her hands played nervously with one another
on her lap. “What do you mean? What are you
talking about?” Her delivery was as bad as you’d
expect from first day in acting class.
I didn’t have time for games. I had Christmas
plans too. “You delivered a stink bomb to my
home, Mrs. Soloway. And not only did it smell
bad, but also it frightened my mother and her
friends. I want to know why and I want to know
how you’re involved in the blackmail of Daniel
Guest.”
She stared at me in a way I imagine Little Red
Ridinghood first looked at the Big, Bad Wolf.
I could understand how she’d be confused. As
far as she knew, I was a reporter doing a story on
the Guests, not the person whose house she had
delivered her stink bomb to. “Mrs. Soloway, my
real name is Russell Quant. I’m a private investi-
gator.” I pushed harder. “I know you’re involved
in the blackmail and possibly the kidnapping and
intended murder of my friend and me.”
By this time the woman had turned near scar-
let in colour. “No, that’s not true! None of it!” she
cried, but kept her voice low for fear of her hus-
band overhearing us.
I shook my head disbelievingly. “It was the stink
bomb, Mrs. Soloway, that put me onto you. A silly
396 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
move. How many people—adult people—know
how to make a stink bomb? But they might remem-
ber, I suppose, if they’re a chemistry teacher…which,
suspiciously enough, is what you are.”
“I…I…I…what are you talking about? Of
course I’m a chemistry teacher, but what does that
have to do with you or…or the rest of this non-
sense?”
“You delivered your stink bomb to my house?”
I said again.
Her face blanched as she sputtered out, “I did
not deliver the bomb…I just…I just made it for
her…” She stopped there, knowing she’d gone too
far and said too much…and that ultimately it was
too late. “But that’s all! I don’t know anything
about blackmail or kidnapping or murder! For
God’s sake, you’ve got to believe me!”
“If you didn’t deliver the bomb, then who
did?”
“I don’t know!”
“Mrs. Soloway, who did you make the bomb
for?”
She was silent, looking down at her lap for the
next few seconds.
“Mrs. Soloway? This isn’t going away. I’m not
going away. Some serious things have happened.
I know you’re involved, I’m just not sure to what
extent. Who was it? Who?”
Her voice was so quiet at first I didn’t hear her
answer. I asked her to repeat it.
“Cheryl.”
It was the answer I had expected. A bomb, a scarf
and high school chemistry class. Anita Soloway,
Anthony Bidulka — 397
Cheryl Guest and the driver of a three-ton truck. All
tied together by a brilliant burgundy scarf with a
bright orange J. Thames tag. I’d seen it around the
neck of the man driving the kidnap vehicle. A gift
from Cheryl Guest to her collaborator?
“Cheryl left the bomb at my house?” I ques-
tioned Anita further.
“I guess, I really don’t know. All I know is that
she asked me to make one for her.”
“Why? You must have asked. She’s your best
friend. I’m sure she didn’t just order up a stink
bomb without you wondering why.”
She hesitated. I was asking her to betray her
friend. Well, too bad.
“Why?” I urged once more.
“I told her…I was the one who told her about
Daniel.”
“Told her what?”