Flight of Aquavit (14 page)

heat up when you come home.”

Anthony Bidulka — 107

“Okay then.”

“Okay den.”

As I watched my mother dig keys out of her

purse, get out of the car and head in the direction

of the front door I did the mind-game mambo for

a while. I shouldn’t leave her. I had work to do. I

should go in and have some borscht at least. But

then I’d miss my surveillance opportunity. I forgot

to call Kelly. I didn’t get to the gym today. My

poor mother sat for hours beside a Salvation

Army drum. I forgot about Brutus. I’m a piss-poor

son. I’ve got work to do. I shouldn’t leave her. I’m

going to get fat.

I reached for the cellphone and dialled the

DGR&R office number and confirmed with the

receptionist that Daniel was still there. That made

up my mind. Something had to. I put pedal to the

metal and via the Senator Sid Buckwold Freeway

Bridge and thereafter a few shortcuts through

rush-hour traffic, I made it to Daniel’s office build-

ing in less than twenty minutes.

After making a pass by the DGR&R parking lot

to ensure Daniel’s black Beemer was still there, I

did a slow perimeter search of about a block’s

radius looking for a blue vehicle, make unknown

and, just for fun, a green Intrepid. Finding neither

I parked, as inconspicuously as I could, about

three-quarters of a block away from the front door

of the DGR&R building and began my wait. My

hope was that whoever it was who’d followed

Daniel last night would do so again tonight, and I

of course, would catch him.

At 6 p.m. there was a mass exodus. Nobody

108 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

was doing much overtime I guess. By 6:05 there

were only two cars left, one belonging to Daniel.

At 6:15 p.m. Daniel pulled out of the parking lot. I

kept my eyes peeled for the expected, hoped-for

second set of headlights to materialize behind his

disappearing car.

Nada.

I put the Mazda in gear and tailed my client.

Daniel didn’t know I was doing this. I hadn’t

wanted to tell him my plan. Sometimes people

who know they are being followed drive…well,

they drive like little old ladies and that might

make whoever was tailing Daniel suspicious. As it

was, Daniel was already probably a little on edge

thinking the blue car stalker might be behind him

again. He didn’t need the added pressure of

knowing I was too.

Daniel connected onto Idylwyld Drive heading

south towards downtown. We arrived in a few

minutes and he appeared to be searching for a

parking spot in the vicinity of 4th Avenue and 23rd

Street, an intersection shared by the main branches

of the post office, police station, public library and

City Hall. I wondered which was his destination?

He finally found a spot across from the library and

I slipped into another spot just around the corner,

across from the post office. It was a perfect place

from which to keep an eye on his car and anyone

paying too much attention to it while he was away.

Daniel hopped out of his vehicle, locked it and,

watching for traffic, jaywalked across the street

and into the front entrance of the library. Humph.

I hadn’t taken him to be a library kind of person.

Anthony Bidulka — 109

There seemed to be little interest from anyone

in Daniel’s car, never mind someone in a suspi-

cious blue car. I decided to risk it and leave my

post for a while to check out what was going on in

the library. I mimicked Daniel’s route and found

my answer from a poster scotch-taped to one of

the front doors. It read: Saskatoon City Schools

Sing! Come join us for a festive evening of

Christmas favourites. Thursday, December 11th,

6:30 to 8:30 p.m. Daniel was going to a children’s

Christmas concert. For two friggin’ hours!

As soon as I returned to my car I knew I could-

n’t last that long without food. I was dreaming

about Mom’s borscht. The next best thing was

nearby. Colourful Mary’s is a restaurant-slash-

bookstore owned by friends, Mary Quail and

Marushka Yabadochka. Within twenty minutes I

had walked there and back, with a piping hot

sausage and sauerkraut sandwich and large coffee

in hand and had picked up my mail to boot. I nes-

tled into my car’s comfy leather seat and as I

warmed my hands on the heat vent, I noted that

my haul from the post office included copies of

People
magazine and
Passport
, a glossy gay travel

publication. I began to think this might not be

such a bad night after all. It was dark and cold out,

but I had light and heat. A city worker had both-

ered to decorate some nearby ash trees and the

glow of the coloured lights dotted the interior of

my little car with a soft, psychedelic pattern. On

the radio Anne Murray was doing her mellow

best with a Christmas classic. I had food, drink

and entertainment. No mother, no dogs, nothing

110 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

but an evening of peace and quiet.

And maybe a crazed blackmailer.

I spent a rather enjoyable twenty-five minutes din-

ing on my sandwich and coffee (and a little piece of

tort Marushka had slipped unnoticed into my take-

out bag) whilst reading things about
People
I had no

right to know. There had been no action near or

around Daniel’s car. But really, how stupid was I?

Chances were astronomically high Loverboy was a

gay man. Of course he’d be home on a Thursday

night watching
Will & Grace
. But hey, it was only a

half-hour show, so I decided to stay.

Since not much was happening I decided to

use my after-dinner time wisely. First I tried call-

ing Kelly. No answer. Next I pulled out my folder

that contained the photocopied likeness and bio of

James Kraft, our potential Loverboy. I retrieved

James’ bio and found his phone number. I wanted

the opportunity to meet my suspect in person

without him knowing I was coming. So I yanked

my phone book onto my lap and went to the
K
’s. I

found a list of Krafts but none had the same num-

ber. I was out of luck address-wise. I flipped to the

reverse directory. Nothing. I’d have to cold-call

after all. I dialled the number on the resume. Out

of service. Damn, I’d have to do this the hard way.

I began with Abner Kraft and did not strike gold

until Kelvin Kraft.

“Is James home?” I asked for the thirteenth time.

“I’m sorry, he’s not,” responded a delicate fem-

inine voice. I think she hesitated a bit before she

Anthony Bidulka — 111

said, “May I pass a message?”

Although I wasn’t lightning-quick on the

uptake after twelve previous calls, I was prepared

for this. “Oh, well I’m a friend from drama class

and I have something of his I’ve been promising to

return for ages. Would it be okay if I stopped by

tonight?”

More hesitancy. I did some fast time-budgeting

and jumped right in. “Say about nine?”

“I suppose that would be all right.”

“See you then.” I hung up. I didn’t want to give

her time to change her mind. Or ask my name.

As I was jotting down the Kelvin Kraft address

from the phone book onto a handy scrap of paper,

my cellphone rang. Damn. Maybe she had call

display? Wouldn’t matter. Being the wise detec-

tive I am, I’d recently had that feature blocked on

my outgoing calls. I picked it up and answered

with a slight Pakistani accent—just in case.

“Russell.” The caller immediately identified

me. I’d have to practise that accent more often.

“How did you know?” It was Anthony.

“You barely sounded Irish at all.”

“I was going for Pakistani.”

“Tsk tsk tsk. Oh well, it’s a good thing you’re

pretty, puppy. Marc Driediger. A professor at the

University of Saskatchewan, College of

Education.”

“Who’s he?”

“Oh, just someone who might be able to tell

you a thing or two about James Kraft.” Anthony

gave me the professor’s number and rang off with

my thanks.

112 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

At twenty-five to nine Daniel Guest, in a restrained

flow of other concert attendees, exited the library.

At his side was Cheryl. Where had she come

from? They must have agreed to meet here after

work. I watched as they huddled and chatted with

another couple as only true prairie folk can, the

temperature, buried deep in the minus range, a

non-issue. They soon parted and headed for their

cars. Again I scanned the area for a blue vehicle.

Nothing. Daniel pulled into traffic and, with no

obvious shadow, I did too. Ten minutes later I was

on Poplar Crescent watching Daniel’s black BMW

pull into his garage.

The Krafts lived on Saskatchewan Crescent, an

upscale neighbourhood, in a lovely Victorian

across from a row of monstrous homes with foot-

ball-field-size backyards that sloped into the river.

The subdued lighting on the bricked walkway

from street to front door was pristine, as if a flake

of snow didn’t dare settle on it. Although the

house itself was not buried under layers of

Christmas lights as were many of its neighbours,

through the double-wide front picture window I

saw a very tall, very thick tree decorated in gold

and white. I rang the doorbell and listened to its

Christmas chime, “The First Noel” I think.

A blond woman opened the door. “Hello,” she

said as if she wasn’t expecting anyone. Perhaps

this wasn’t whom I had spoken with.

“Mrs. Kraft?” I said. “I called about an hour

ago?”

Anthony Bidulka — 113

“Yes, that’s right.” Her tone said that so much

had happened in her life since then that it was dif-

ficult to remember that far back. “Won’t you come

in?”

She stepped aside and I walked by her dis-

count haute-couture perfection into a huge

entranceway with vaulted ceilings.

“Won’t you join us in the drawing room?”

I had no idea anyone in Saskatoon actually had

a drawing room. For a brief moment I considered

the possibility that there would be other family

members in it actually drawing. Instead I found

myself in what I would call a rec room—book-

shelves, bar, TV, couches. She asked me to sit. I

did. As she went to the bar to pour me an offered

glass of water a man entered the room. Also very

blond and wearing a sporty outfit of well-pressed

khakis and matching shirt and sweater vest. Both

Krafts looked to be in their forties, and, although I

had yet to be told anything about the inhabitants

of the house, I guessed these were James’ parents.

The man walked over to me in a manly, confident

way and held out his big paw.

“I’m Kelvin Kraft,” he told me. Blond, gap-

toothed—had to be the father. “I’m James’ father.”

Aha, so the missus did remember enough of my

phone call to tell her husband that I was someone

who knew James.

“And I’m Meredith,” the woman said as she

handed me my water.

They perched themselves on a couch opposite

my own and looked at me. I could see that James

got his looks from his father. In fact they were

114 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

almost identical except that the elder Kraft had

short, well-tended hair, twenty extra years on his

face and twenty extra pounds on his frame.

“You went to the U of S with James?” he asked.

“Yes. Has James…”

“Drama major as well?”

The questions in his drill-sergeant voice were

coming at me with the quick, deadly precision of

rifle fire. I fumbled a bit while I tried to recall the

story I’d told the mother on the phone. “Yes, that’s

right.”

“Kinda old for it, aren’t you?”

Ass. “That’s one of the great things about the

career, age doesn’t much matter.”

“Finding any success in the field?”

I could tell by his voice that he already suspect-

ed what my answer would be. So I decided to sur-

prise him. “Yes. It’s been great.”

He didn’t look like he believed me. “It’s not

constant work, though, is it? It’s not as if you get a

job and keep it until you decide to quit or get a bet-

ter one? You get a job, it ends, you try to get anoth-

er one, it ends, you try to get another one, it ends,

on and on and on, always the beginnings and end-