We both saw it at the same time.
A startled breath escaped Jared's lips as the flowers splattered on the ground.
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The sickly sweetness of fruit sitting too long in the sun assaulted our nostrils as we beheld the windshield of Jared's Jeep Cherokee, awash in the purple pulp of countless splattered saskatoon berries.
It took some doing to convince Jared to call the police and make a report about the vandalism. Sure, a bunch of squished saskatoon berries on a windshield is more of a messy inconvenience than real damage, but I wanted what happened on record, just in case this turned out to be related to the harassment being experienced by the other members of the Pink Gopher chorus. I stopped short when Jared suggested that I, as a recent occupant of the vehicle, might just as easily have been the target.
By late afternoon we were done with the authorities, had eaten a complimentary piece of saskatoon berry cheesecake offered by the apologetic and sympathetic management of the Berry Barn, had cleaned off Jared's truck at a U-Wash, and Jared had dropped me off at PWC. I stood outside the building and studied the cerulean sky growing dark at horizon's edge. The hot air from earlier in the day, which had wrung a melody of sweet scents from every flower in the city, had grown heavy and still. Something was afoot. A weighty humidity smelling of electricity hinted at the possibility of a dazzling summer storm, a sure remedy for keeping our prairie landscape from sizzling away into so many acres of dry husks of crop and desiccated chunks of earth.
Instead of zipping up to my office to check on e-mail and phone messages as I'd planned, I jumped into the Mazda and decided my time would be better spent checking out the final two Pink Gophers before the weather got rough. But my luck had run out. Neither Kim Pelluchi nor Richie Caplan was to be found. I snooped around their homes a bit, debated breaking in, resisted. Instead I tried a few neighbours' doors, to see if anyone could tell me where to find them. After a few information-dry conversations, and with a threatening sky painting itself above the city, I gave up for the day and made for home.
Barbra and Brutus were both fidgety when I opened the door, no doubt in reaction to the low grumbles of brown-black clouds beginning their pre-storm song and dance. I let them out to run off their jitters while I battened down the hatches (a radio newscast I listened to on the way home had confirmed my suspicions and warned that the city was in for a doozy). I toured the house checking all the windows and doors, then headed into the backyard to lower patio umbrellas and stack plastic chairs that might take flight should the winds come swooping in. In the time it took me to do this, the storm was almost upon us, announcing itself in grand fashion with whipping gusts that shook the trees in my yard as if demanding an early leaf fall. Craggy bolts of lightning stretched across the sunless sky like thorn bush branches on fire, followed by impressive bass booms of thunder.
I love a good storm, particularly if I'm safe and sound in my little nest looking out at it. There is something very cozy about witnessing the power of nature, knowing you and yours are in the protective embrace of home and not in peril, privileged enough to watch it as pure entertainment. And to that end, as I pulled a crazily swinging bird feeder off its pole, placing it for safekeeping on the ground, I called out for the dogs. I was surprised they weren't underfoot as they normally would be at a time like this, not-so-subtly trying to nose me in the direction of the house where they'd rather be-but not without me. Yet they were nowhere to be seen. I called out again, thinking they must be in some bush or other, rooting around for truffles or gold bullion or enjoying some other such hopelessly futile but nose-worthy activity. No response. Thinking they couldn't hear me over the growing howls of wind, I set out in search for them.
My yard is large, a warren of charming sitting areas and little out-of-the-way hiding spots, criss-crossed by bricked pathways that lead to and fro and ultimately dead-end at the edge of my property, which is encircled by a tall fence-a handy way to keep dogs in and other things out. Many dogs have an inbred fear of storms, and whereas Barbra had only just begun to demonstrate discomfort with them in the last couple of years, Brutus has been a bona fide chicken since day one. Brutus used to belong to Errall and her ex, Kelly, but while that relationship was ending, Brutus had come to live with us and never went back. I jokingly (sort of) blame Brutus' lack of courage during storms on the lack of male role models during his formative years. Errall then shoots back with how Brutus occasionally squats to pee ever since he's come 85 of 163
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to live with me. Which is a pretty good retort since it's true. Why
does
he do that?
I was running out of hiding spots when I noticed with considerable chagrin that the backyard gate was wide open, swinging wildly in the wind. Oh crap, I thought to myself, they've left the yard. I gave the sky an assessing look and felt the first fat plop of rain anoint my cheek. I debated going back inside for a jacket, but was betting the dogs hadn't gone far, and if I ran after them now I'd have a better chance of catching them before they got disoriented in the storm. I quickly checked the gate's latch. It seemed fine. I wondered how it had come undone since keeping it shut is something I am very careful about, but there was no time to think about it then. I pushed the gate aside and stepped into the back alley.
Outside my property to the right is a dead end, so I headed left. I barely made it two steps when the wind, speeding down the tunnel of the alley like a five o'clock train, almost bowled me over. Suddenly, like a wet blanket being tossed over me, I felt the cover of rein, thoroughly drenching me from head to toe in less than five seconds. Bugger. Where the hell are those damn dogs? If I was wet, they'd be wet, and that meant wet dog smell. I began to yell out for the schnauzers, not knowing if my voice was loud enough to cut through the noise of the storm. I made it to the cross street at the end of the alley. No dogs. Where could they have gone? It is very unlike them to go off without me. Unless they were chasing something.
Or someone?
I loped down the cross avenue to the street my house is on and started toward my front yard, noticing an eerie lack of activity on the street. Everyone was inside-as anyone in their right mind should be-waiting for the storm to blow over. I fell into an uneasy jog, tossing my head right to left, seeking any signs of the animals, calling their names, getting a little pissed off and worried about them at the same time. When I reached my front yard, I noticed that gate too was swinging open. What the heck is going on here? I knew the fingers of wind were strong, but I didn't think they were dexterous enough to unhook gate latches.
I nearly jumped out of my skin and, I must admit, let out a little yip, when from behind me I heard the warning honk of a horn. I swung around, fists clenched. A car. Where did that come from? The rain was now alternating between brief showers of droplets sharp as pinpricks and flashes of rushing water that ran over me like a carwash, and yet I knew the storm-master was only playing with us: we'd seen nothing yet.
I wiped the water from my brow and peered at the vehicle that had stopped a few metres away. The driver's side window slowly descended, but from the angle where I stood I still could not make out who was inside. I approached slowly, no doubt looking like the Creature from the Drowned Lagoon. As I came nearer a particularly sharp crack of lightning shot across the sky, throwing the car and its inhabitant into a million-watt glow. That was when I first caught sight of the driver, his face in scary-movie downlighting that made the most (or worst) of the heavy dark brow that dominated his forehead. It was Dr. Uno Dubrowski.
I was startled to see him, of all people, driving down my street in the middle of a summer howler, his jagged eyebrow riding low on his face, looking not entirely unlike a geeky Frankenstein.
"Are you alright?" he called out to me, no doubt wondering what I was doing taking a shower outdoors while fully dressed.
"I'm fine," I called back, collecting my wits enough to approach the car and lean down to speak to him.
"It's just my dogs. They've run off in the storm and I can't find them."
He nodded but said nothing.
"What are you doing here?" I bluntly asked.
He looked down and away then produced a plastic Sears shopping bag. "I brought you this."
Fortunately the wind and rain were taking a momentary breather, making it easier for me to continue with this...whatever it was. I accepted the bag and looked inside. Frowning, I pulled out a three-pack of 86 of 163
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Calvin Klein underwear. What in the name of Helen Keller was this about? Was Dr. D giving me a gift?
Was this some kind of sexual offering...game...perversion? Did he want me to model these for him? I decided to respond with a blank look (which wasn't difficult).
"Y-y-y-you left them," he explained, seeing my confusion. "In my w-w-w-waiting room? When you came to see me the other day? I thought...I thought you'd want...I didn't want to...well, here they are." I think he followed that up with a little gas, but with all the other competing wind it was hard to tell for sure.
"These aren't mine."
"Oh." His pale face grew a rosy shade of pink. "Oh d-d-dear, d-d-dear me, that is...I'm so sorry. I apologize. You were the only man who'd been in that day. What a dilemma; I assumed they were yours."
I shook my head and handed the package back through the window. Finding a three-pack of skivvies is a dilemma? I regarded Dr. D's odd-looking face, fogged up spectacles and curling lips and concluded that, maybe, for him, it was. This was a man who didn't live easily in the real world beyond his safe, warm office. Or was there something more to all this? Had he really come all this way in a thunder storm to deliver a pair of underwear?
"Was there something you needed to tell me, Dr. Dubrowski?"
His pupils lolled around in the pool of his eyeglasses and for a moment I thought he was about to say something, trying to form words but couldn't quite do it. Instead he just shrugged his shoulders and let out a wheeze.
I felt a fresh assault of rain droplets against my back and pulled myself away from the car. "I'm sorry you had to come all this way for nothing." Behind my back I could hear a high-pitched bark. An unhappy Barbra. "I really must go, Dr. Dubrowski."
"Of course. Thank y-y-you for everything." He burped.
Uh, okay. "Perhaps you'd like to come in?" I said, giving him one more chance should he have something salient to get off his chest: something about Tanya Culinare or Vicky Madison or Calvin Klein.
"No. That won't be necessary."
The car pulled away just as another flash of lightning darted across the heavens, quickly followed by a bang of thunder. I darted into my front yard. Barbra and Brutus were on their hind legs, up against the front door of the house, pawing at it furiously, demanding to be let in. Barbra was yipping her "I'm not happy, how can you leave me out here?" bark. Now I could imagine that something, perhaps a neighbourhood cat, might have lured them from the backyard and eventually they found their way to the street and recognized the front yard from our many walks, but when had they learned to work gate latches? When they saw me coming, they hightailed it over to me, their back ends wagging with such enthusiasm they might have fallen off if they weren't connected so well. En masse, we rushed for the front door in search of safety from the building storm. Locked, of course.
I led the pack down the side of the house, through a connecting gate (this one unopened) and into the backyard. We entered the house through the deck doors into our wonderfully warm and dry kitchen.
When we were all inside, I fell to my knees and we played nuzzle the snouts for a few seconds as I asked them where they'd been and why they'd taken off like that. After that, I instructed them to stay on the welcome mat while I found a towel to dry them off. Once that was done, I handed them each a bacon-flavoured, low-fat treat (if I was on a diet, they were on a diet), and together we retreated to the master bedroom and a comfy seat (the bed) from which to observe the storm.
Just as we were settled, the phone rang. I debated picking it up, trying to recall whether the danger of talking on the phone during an electrical storm was true or just an old wives' tale.
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"Hello?" I answered regardless.
"Mr. Quant?"
"Yes."
"It's Warren Culinare. From Seattle." Tanya's brother. "I hope you don't mind my calling you at home. I was just wondering if you'd made any progress on my sister's death?"
"Of course I don't mind, Mr. Culinare. Call me Russell."
"Warren."
"As I told you, you or your parents should feel free to call me any time. I know you must be anxious to hear any news about Tanya." I wasn't expecting the call and had yet to think through what I should or shouldn't tell Tanya's family. For instance, do I out her to them? They certainly hadn't told me she was a lesbian, which I knew didn't necessarily mean they didn't know. And what about her relationship with Moxie Banyon and Moxie's death? Her visits with a psychotherapist? The harassment she'd been suffering? The possible tie to her involvement with the Pink Gophers? Some of the people I'd talked to thought Tanya Culinare was unstable. Her doctor thought it likely that she had ended her own life. None of this was what her family wanted to hear. But who was I to decide what they should or shouldn't hear?
They were my clients; they'd asked me to dig up any information about their sister and daughter that might have contributed to her death, accidental, contemplated or otherwise. The problem was that all I had thus far were theories, nothing concrete. I didn't want to raise or dash their hopes either way.