lose track of him, just in case. The man reached into his pocket again and produced a business card. I studied it. Indeed, Mr.
Smouldering Eyes Painchaud was in the messenger business. 1 pocketed the card.
"Would you perhaps ]ike to share a drink with me?" This from him. A sexy smile. He looked like one of those guys who probably wasn't even gay but thought, "Hey, I'm cute, you're cute, let's give it a go."
I smiled back. Also sexily. Maybe my battered ego would escape somewhat intact from this evening. "Thank you, but no. I should 118
Anthony Bidulka
return to my hotel and pass this message on to Mr. Chavell as soon as possible."
He reached out and ran his hand down my arm and let it rest near my wrist. I shivered.
"And then?" he questioned/ his eyes asking more. Okay, maybe he was gay.
"And then it will be very late. But thank you."
With a wink he pulled away, turned and was gone from my life forever!
Melodrama—it's just one of those things you need to pull out of your purse once in a while.
By the time I dragged my lust-sick ass back to my hotel room it was about 2:00 a.m., making it 6:00 p.m. Monday evening in Saskatoon. I dialled Chavell's number. He'd just gotten home from work. I read the scribbled note to him and couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy.
1 could tell he was taking it hard and having a difficult time believing it to be true. I found myself desperately searching for a way to give him hope.
"I think I'll pay Mr. Painchaud a visit tomorrow. Maybe I can find some way to trace Tom's call. Once I get a handle on these new friends of his, I should be able to pick up his trail again. I just have to start talking to people. A Canadian 119
Amuse Bouche
tourist, especially this time of year, is pretty easy to spot." I was making it up as 1 talked, making promises I wasn't sure I could keep.
"It's over, Russell." His voice was so low I could barely hear him. Chavell was fresh out of hope and nothing I could say was going to give him any.
"It doesn't have to be, Harold."
"I know, I know. I don't doubt you could find Tom again. But to what end? How much clearer does he have to make it? He left me at the altar.
He runs away to Europe. He hides from you.
And then he leaves this message. What more does he have to do or say for me to get it through my thick skull that it's over?"
I didn't say anything. What he was saying did make some sense. Tom was not being subtle.
"It's done, Russell. You can come home now.
I've found out what I needed to know."
I wasn't certain if I agreed with him. As clear as Tom was about his future intentions, he still remained mute about the real reasons for his actions in the first place. His message said something about problems Chavell wasn't aware of. What were they? If he were my lover I would need to know more. But hey, I'm the curious type. That's why I became a detective.
In the end though, the client is always right.
"I'm sorry, Harold." I was.
120
Anthony Bidulka
I heard a dry swallow, then, "You'll send me a bill when you get back?"
"I'll call you as soon as I get home. I should be able to find some flights tomorrow."
And that was it. Tom Osborn was still gone.
Harold Chavell was still the confused, jilted lover. And I was out of a job. But I knew I was the lucky one.
Although I was now on my way back to Saskatoon, I couldn't help but give in to a pang of homesickness and a need to check on my dog. Wimp. I dialled the phone.
"Hello," came the terse greeting. Errall.
"Hey Errall, it's Russell. Just getting home from work?"
"I just walked in the door and I'm late for a dinner meeting thing and your fucking dog just puked all over the living room carpet."
"Told you not to feed her people food. Her stomach can't take it."
"Nothing but dry kibble every day is verging on abuse, Russell. Where the hell are you, anyway? Can you come over and clean this up?"
"Sorry—still in France. Where's Kells?" My nickname for Kelly, along with anything that rhymed
Smouldering Eyes Painchaud was in the messenger business. 1 pocketed the card.
"Would you perhaps ]ike to share a drink with me?" This from him. A sexy smile. He looked like one of those guys who probably wasn't even gay but thought, "Hey, I'm cute, you're cute, let's give it a go."
I smiled back. Also sexily. Maybe my battered ego would escape somewhat intact from this evening. "Thank you, but no. I should 118
Anthony Bidulka
return to my hotel and pass this message on to Mr. Chavell as soon as possible."
He reached out and ran his hand down my arm and let it rest near my wrist. I shivered.
"And then?" he questioned/ his eyes asking more. Okay, maybe he was gay.
"And then it will be very late. But thank you."
With a wink he pulled away, turned and was gone from my life forever!
Melodrama—it's just one of those things you need to pull out of your purse once in a while.
By the time I dragged my lust-sick ass back to my hotel room it was about 2:00 a.m., making it 6:00 p.m. Monday evening in Saskatoon. I dialled Chavell's number. He'd just gotten home from work. I read the scribbled note to him and couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy.
1 could tell he was taking it hard and having a difficult time believing it to be true. I found myself desperately searching for a way to give him hope.
"I think I'll pay Mr. Painchaud a visit tomorrow. Maybe I can find some way to trace Tom's call. Once I get a handle on these new friends of his, I should be able to pick up his trail again. I just have to start talking to people. A Canadian 119
Amuse Bouche
tourist, especially this time of year, is pretty easy to spot." I was making it up as 1 talked, making promises I wasn't sure I could keep.
"It's over, Russell." His voice was so low I could barely hear him. Chavell was fresh out of hope and nothing I could say was going to give him any.
"It doesn't have to be, Harold."
"I know, I know. I don't doubt you could find Tom again. But to what end? How much clearer does he have to make it? He left me at the altar.
He runs away to Europe. He hides from you.
And then he leaves this message. What more does he have to do or say for me to get it through my thick skull that it's over?"
I didn't say anything. What he was saying did make some sense. Tom was not being subtle.
"It's done, Russell. You can come home now.
I've found out what I needed to know."
I wasn't certain if I agreed with him. As clear as Tom was about his future intentions, he still remained mute about the real reasons for his actions in the first place. His message said something about problems Chavell wasn't aware of. What were they? If he were my lover I would need to know more. But hey, I'm the curious type. That's why I became a detective.
In the end though, the client is always right.
"I'm sorry, Harold." I was.
120
Anthony Bidulka
I heard a dry swallow, then, "You'll send me a bill when you get back?"
"I'll call you as soon as I get home. I should be able to find some flights tomorrow."
And that was it. Tom Osborn was still gone.
Harold Chavell was still the confused, jilted lover. And I was out of a job. But I knew I was the lucky one.
Although I was now on my way back to Saskatoon, I couldn't help but give in to a pang of homesickness and a need to check on my dog. Wimp. I dialled the phone.
"Hello," came the terse greeting. Errall.
"Hey Errall, it's Russell. Just getting home from work?"
"I just walked in the door and I'm late for a dinner meeting thing and your fucking dog just puked all over the living room carpet."
"Told you not to feed her people food. Her stomach can't take it."
"Nothing but dry kibble every day is verging on abuse, Russell. Where the hell are you, anyway? Can you come over and clean this up?"
"Sorry—still in France. Where's Kells?" My nickname for Kelly, along with anything that rhymed
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