Authors: Anthony Bidulka
Chances were good that she had her sharp nose deep in some legal case she would no doubt win quite handily. But given recent events, I wondered if maybe she was avoiding going home, avoiding Yvonne, or both.
I rapped lightly on the door and let myself in despite no invitation to do so.
As expected, Errall was hard at work in a circle of light, the rest of the room left in shadow, as if unwanted, unneeded. Over a nearby chair she had thrown a professionally tailored, scorching orange blazer, leaving her wearing a camisole-style top that seemed flimsy over her bird-width chest. She looked up at me with a familiar irritation that long ago stopped daunting me.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
She pulled off a pair of glasses she’d only just recently taken to wearing when reading, and dropped them to the desktop as if she hated them. “I want a cigarette. I own this fucking building. I think I should be the one making the rules. If I want to smoke indoors, I think I should be able to.”
So there.
“It smells, Errall. Not only in here, but the whole building. We have clients to think of.”
“Oh yeah, like your clients are so delicate and refined they can’t stand a bit of tobacco in the air.”
Yup, she was irritable all right.
“So I take it things are going okay then?” I asked sweetly.
“Just peachy.” She rose and began closing books and files as if preparing to call it a night, which I thought was a good idea.
“Seeing Yvonne tonight?”
“We broke up.”
Now this was a true sign that we’d made progress in our relationship. In the past, she would have prefaced that sentence with: It’s none of your business, but if you really must know…
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I wanted to be supportive. “I really liked her.”
“You never met her.”
Oh. “Still.”
She gave me a curdling look that I didn’t think I wholly deserved.
“Help me out with these,” she said as she shouldered herself into the blazer, which I now saw had a matching skirt worn with a pair of flirty-looking heels. Errall is nothing if not a snappy dresser.
I hadn’t made it up to my office yet, but I didn’t think it wise to turn her down, so I hoisted a few of the books she’d referred to and waited while she collected her coat and purse and some files. We wordlessly made our way through the foyer area to the kitchen. We had only just opened the back door when we 63 of 170
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heard the thrashing of tires against gravel.
Someone was taking a powder out of our parking lot. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.
“That’s the car!” Errall screeched. “Go after him!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, even as I was scrambling in the direction of my car, fumbling with keys in my pocket.
“Hurry up!” She screeched as she waited impatiently for me to unlock the driver’s side door, toss in the books I was carrying, get in, and reach across to unlock the passenger door. I had no doubt she had every intention of coming with me.
As soon as Errall was seated and still struggling with her seat belt, purse, briefcase and loose files, I fishtailed out of the parking lot and turned left onto Spadina Crescent, on the tail of a dark colour, late-model Nissan.
“Who is this?” I demanded to know as I trailed the car onto the underpass that curves beneath the University Bridge and alongside the South Saskatchewan River.
“If I knew that, we wouldn’t have to follow him, now would we?” she shot back.
Errall was being a little more uppity and churlish than usual, and I tried to catch her eye while keeping one of my own on the road and the vehicle we were following. Thankfully Mr. Nissan wasn’t into undue velocity. “You said, ‘That’s the car,’ Errall. So you’ve obviously seen this same car before, right?”
“I’ve been noticing it in my neighbourhood over the last couple of days. At first I thought one of my neighbours must have gotten a new car, but it has a rental sticker. I’ve been nervous about it for some reason. Probably because of the peeping Tom incident the other night. But now I know I’m right, I’m not paranoid; whoever is in that car is watching me.”
I couldn’t argue with that (unless one of Errall’s neighbours was
really
into showing off).
And so, we continued at a rather gentlemanly pace (for a car chase), past the Mendel Art Gallery toward the CP Bridge, also known as the Weir Bridge.
Originally built in 1939, the CP Bridge is one in a series of bridges that span the South Saskatchewan River within city limits. The parking lot beneath the bridge overlooks a rushing torrent of water that spills over an invisible dam-the weir-in an otherwise docile Saskatchewan River. And, taking Errall and me by surprise, it was into this parking lot that the Nissan led us.
Being as it was a rather bone-chilling night out, the parking lot was empty. The Nissan pulled into a spot, fastidiously parking between the marked lines. Good stalker. I slowed the Mazda down to a baby’s crawl, and Errall and I regarded each other and the car with questioning looks. Whoever was in that vehicle had lost interest in getting away, and more so, now seemed intent on a face-to-face meeting.
“Now what, Mr. Private Eye?” Errall asked, tension obvious in her voice.
“I’m kinda tired,” I responded. “I think we should head home.”
“I’m howling with laughter inside,” she said in a way that hinted to me that she was lying.
I turned the wheel and inserted my car into the spot next to the Nissan. In unison we leaned forward and peered into our neighbour’s window. It was impossible for us to make out the inhabitant of the vehicle. One of us would have to get out. Being the brave one was part of my job.
If
someone was paying me. I glanced at Errall. She screwed up her face as if to say: I’d go, but I left my gloves at home, and it’s cold outside. Big surprise.
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My hand reached for the door handle and I was about to make my move when something happened.
The interior light of the Nissan flicked on.
A flabbergasted breath caught in my throat. It couldn’t be.
I heard a sound coming from Errall’s throat, like the mewl of a newborn kitten, and all she said was a very quiet, “No.”
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The sensation of a plane hurtling downwards, only seven hours into a fifteen-hour flight, is not a good one. The rocking of the aircraft as it descended through layers of turbulent air jostled me out of a sound sleep. I checked my watch, recalculated time changes, and verified with my startled memory banks exactly where the heck in the world I was supposed to be. We’d departed Atlanta at 10:40 a.m. Thursday morning. We were scheduled to arrive in Johannesburg at 10:30 a.m. Friday morning, including a seven-hour time change from Atlanta (eight from home). Problem was, according to my watch, it was only nine-thirty p.m. Thursday night. And we were going down.
I jerked up in my aisle seat, the sudden motion waking the passenger next to me.
“You okay?” she asked. She mustn’t have been asleep because she sounded perfectly awake and lucid and looked like a million bucks. Either that or she was one of those horrid creatures who could get up from bed a fully functioning human being. “You look a little worried,” she commented. “It’s only a little turbulence.”
I glanced over at the woman, sort of a young Kathleen Turner type, very attractive and feminine but outdoorsy too, with shiny tresses of wavy, auburn hair that flowed attractively down both shoulders. “Uh, yeah, but isn’t it a little soon to be going down?” I replied, trying to sound as cavalier as I could manage, at the same time wiping sleep from my eyes.
She laughed. “We’re just stopping for fuel on Sal and picking up a few passengers. Not many, I wouldn’t expect.”
I blinked at her.
“Sal Island,” she explained. “One of the Cape Verde Islands,
Cabo Verde
in Portuguese,” she said in a knowledgeable way. “It’s a group of about ten or so islands that form an archipelago off the northwest coast of Africa, near Senegal and Mauritania. You really should return here for a visit sometime-I mean for longer than an hour stopover to pick up fuel-Sal Island is beautiful: large sandy beaches, turquoise water, great windsurfing, the Cape Verdeans are lovely…what’s left of them.”
I gave my drowsy head a shake. What was this woman talking about? I looked around and saw that most of the other passengers around us were still dead to the world after a couple of movies and wine with dinner. It was very quiet except for the gyrating sounds of the plane doing its bit to land us on some spit of sand somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. The cabin had that otherworldly feel planes sometimes get during lengthy, overnight flights; eerily lit by an occasional view screen or overhead reading light left on, filled with the barely perceptible buzz of music and movies played through earphones, the passengers tucked motionless into seats like moths in cocoons, all of us caught in the no man’s land between the world we know on the ground and the nether world of thirty-five thousand feet in the air where we’re only temporary visitors.
“They have their share of problems. Prolonged droughts,” the woman stated. “The harmattan wind produces these gawdawful, choking dust storms. I was nearly caught in one once. And then there’s all the volcanic and seismic activity, problems with deforestation, desertification, illegal beach sand extraction, over-fishing.”
The plane gave another hump that woke a few more of our fellow voyagers.
“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked the woman. “Are you from Africa?”
“No. If only. Atlanta. You?”
“Canada.” I’m rarely more specific than that on first go-round.
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“What part?”
“Saskatchewan; the prairies.”
“Oh my. So you’ve already been flying a long way. When did you start out?”
“I left Saskatoon-that’s the city I live in-yesterday, overnighted in Atlanta.”
“How long is that flight, from your home to Atlanta?” I noticed she didn’t even attempt to pronounce Saskatoon or Saskatchewan, wisely going for the easier “your home.” Who could blame her?
“About three hours to Toronto, then a couple more to Atlanta.”
“I love Toronto. A mini New York. What’s the weather like on the prairies this time of year?” A standard Canada question.
“Actually it’s been warm for March. When I left, the snow was beginning to melt.” I countered with my unexpected discovery: “It sure was cold in Atlanta though.”
She nodded. “Yes, unseasonably so. It could have snowed.” She smiled, displaying a row of healthy white teeth, and held out a hand. “I’m Cassandra Wellness.”
I shook the proffered hand, strong, tanned. “Russell Quant.”
A voice came over the PA system to tell us we were going to be landing in several minutes and that we should do the usual stuff to prepare.
“What do you do in Canada?” Cassandra Wellness asked as she shoved a sack-like purse under the seat in front of her and fastened her seat belt.
I smiled a rather mischievous smile. Who needs playing cards or travel-size backgammon? One of my favourite airplane games is creating bogus life stories to try out on people I’ll never see again. I don’t suggest this activity for others; it can get tricky, and a believable story that isn’t your own is much harder to produce than you’d expect, but I use it for purely professional reasons as rehearsal for when I go undercover. “I’m the mayor of Saskatoon,” I told her offhandedly, as if it wasn’t a big deal and that maybe I was a little reticent about admitting to my lofty position.
She sat back a bit and did an admirable job of hiding her surprise as she examined my face. “My, you don’t look like a mayor. And you’re so young. How fascinating.” She was quiet for a moment then, “Is that er…full-time work?”
I had to stifle a smile. “Keeps me busy. And what about you?
How do you know all that stuff about Sal Island if you’re not from Africa?”
“I spend a great deal of time in Africa. I’m a photojournalist. Freelance,” she added quickly. “But I do most of my work for one Atlanta magazine; it’s called
Well-Spotted
. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
I shook my head and guessed that it was about leopards. I was impressed. I’d never met a photojournalist before and wondered if one of the African pictures I’d admired on the internet was taken by Cassandra Wellness.
“It’s a nature and safari magazine. Have you ever been on safari, Russell?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Is that why you’re going to Africa then, to go on safari?”
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I nodded and added vaguely. “I hope to.” She was beginning to ask too many questions, and not about what it was like to be a mayor, as I’d expected.
We sat quiet for a little longer, but Cassandra wasn’t a sit quiet kind of gal.
“Where are you staying in Joburg?” she asked.
“Johannesburg is just a layover for me. I’m continuing on to Cape Town.”
She jumped on that with an excited smile. “Really! So am I! I adore Cape Town! Which hotel?”
This was Roy Hearn’s first coup. Clara Ridge’s travel agent had set me up in what I’m sure was a decent enough hotel, but Roy, upon hearing about it, quickly pooh-poohed it and used his considerable contacts to get me a hard-to-believe deal at supposedly one of the best places to stay in Cape Town. He called it his “welcome to South Africa” present for Sereena’s friend.
I answered, “The Table Bay.”
“You’re joking! So am I!” she repeated with a husky squeal, taking the opportunity to squeeze my right hand in delight.
It was a good thing I was taking a shine to Ms. Wellness, because it looked as if we were going to be in each other’s company for a good while longer; Johannesburg was still eight-and-a-half hours away and Cape Town another two hours after that.
We chatted companionably for the duration of the landing and well into the hour turnaround time on the ground at Sal Island. Cassandra Wellness had led a fascinating, adventurer’s life and she loved to tell a good tale, many of which I thought were, if not Indiana Jones worthy, at least
Romancing the Stone
-like.