Aloha, Candy Hearts (23 page)

“What was all that fuss about?” she asked between puffs of her Player ’s Light. She had the pinched lips and smoke-deterring winced eyes of a longtime smoker.

“Excuse me?”

“In there.” Her head did a little backward bob, indicating the DD6AA2AB8

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bookstore behind her. “You were talking to Mr. Durhuaghe in there. It didn’t look like fun and games to me. He left kinda upset.”

“He told you that? He told you he was upset?”

“No,” she said with a sarcastic drawl. “I got eyes, don’t I? I could tell. Usually he stops to talk if you look like you want to.

This time he didn’t. You upset him with whatever you were talking to him about.”

“I’m sorry, who are you exactly? Are you his manager or something?”

She wagged her head back and forth. “I’m just like everybody else that was here tonight. I love Mr. Durhuaghe’s books. I have a personally signed first edition of every one. Well, except for Phoenix Rising, that’s a second printing, but that’s on account of I was in the hospital when the book first came out. I couldn’t make it to the book launch. But the next time he was in town I still got him to sign the book I did buy. He said he noticed I wasn’t there, at the launch.” She let out a raspy little laugh at that. “I’m not sure if that’s true or not, there’re so many people at these things. But that’s what he said, anyway.”

I was quite confused about why I was having a conversation with this woman. Maybe it was an all-us-rabid-fans-should-be-best-friends-for-life thing. “Okay, well, good night then.”

“Hey!” she barked. “You never answered my question. What was all that about in there? Why were you upsetting Mr.

Durhuaghe? After all he does for us, and all he gave of himself tonight, don’t you think he deserves a little more respect than that?”

I’d had it. I was tired too. “What I talked to Durhuaghe about is none of your business. I’m going home now.”

“I just made it my business.” She tossed her cigarette on the ground, grinding it out with a hefty boot, and immediately lit another.

Then it struck me. I wondered if she drove a white Ford truck.

“What’s your name by the way?”

“Stella. And just so you know, if you bother Mr. Durhuaghe again, you’ll have to answer to Stella. Got it?” She pointed at me to make her point. Her fingers were short and thick with nails that DD6AA2AB8

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were badly chewed.

I looked at her as if I thought she might be crazy. Which I did.

She blew some air out of her nose—bull-like—then stomped away. I watched her get into a blue half-ton. I memorized the licence plate number. I hadn’t gotten too far with Durhuaghe tonight, but the evening hadn’t been a complete waste. I had a brand new suspect to add to my list: Stella (deranged fan?).

It was too nice a morning to eat inside. I loaded a tray with cereal, a carafe of coffee, coffee cup, and the newspaper and hauled everything to the deck. As I ratcheted up the umbrella over the table, several moths, disturbed from their evening resting spot, fluttered away. Barbra and Brutus, having already had their breakfast, dogged off to patrol the yard, no doubt checking to see whether anything interesting had taken up residence during the night.

The sun was shining, but there was just enough of the previous night’s dampening coolness tincturing the air to require long sleeves. I brought the coffee cup to my lips and savoured the hot liquid as it passed over my tongue like a fluid wake-up call. There is nothing quite as tasty as that first sip of hot, aromatic coffee on a beautiful day. For a few minutes I sat back and, well, smelled the roses. From my cushioned chair, I undertook an inventory of my flowerbeds, potted plants, bird baths, and Zeus, the four-foot cement fountain in the shape of a male nymph that was a focal point of the yard. The sound of splashing water never fails to relax me. It reminds me of pleasant days spent on sandy beaches in tropical locales, sipping drinks with fruit juices and lots of rum, the smell of sunblock, and the catch-of-the-day grilling over an open pit.

I’m a big believer in doing whatever you can to make home a holiday paradise. Why should we indulge in all that good stuff only when we’re away? So, in the summertime, I treat my backyard like a vacation destination. As I sat there, I knew that in a few months I’d be shovelling a path through drifts of snow to get from back door to garage, my nose and ear tips growing redder by the minute, and I’d recall the sound of Zeus and the feel of this morn-DD6AA2AB8

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ing’s sun on my skin, and feel a little brighter.

It would have been a good day to stay exactly where I was.

After all, this wasn’t a real case I was on. No one was paying me to find Walter Angel’s murderer. Tomorrow was Anthony and Jared’s wedding. Certainly I could focus more on that than a case that wasn’t one. But no, I couldn’t leave this half done. Not that Darren Kirsch and the Saskatoon police force weren’t capable of figuring this out on their own. But I was on to something. I could smell it, as sure as the petunias in my backyard. I wanted to be the one to open that final door and see who was behind it. That is truly one of the most exhilarating parts of my job: revealing the bad guy.

Walter Angel deserved that.

Upon returning from overseeing her realm, satisfied all was safe and secure from intruders (i.e. pesky cats), Barbra settled near my feet. I’d obviously been forgiven for abandoning her. Brutus was still at it, however, standing stock-still at the back of the yard, quizzically staring at the butterflies and dragonflies dancing for his pleasure. Spoon in hand, I started in on my Fibre 1 and the paper. It wasn’t until I reached Section D, the classifieds, that I came upon something of interest: the obituaries. My eyes devoured the first one:

Angel – Walter Dustin, was tragical y taken from us on Saturday, August 10 at the age of 64. Walter was born and raised in Rosetown, Saskatchewan. Shortly after graduating high school he moved to Saskatoon where he attended the University of Saskatchewan. As a young man, Walter travelled extensively during his tenure as a cruise ship entertainer, singing and dancing his way around the world. Eventual y, Walter returned to Saskatoon where he pursued a career as an archivist.

He spent the last twenty years at the University of Saskatchewan Archives, most recently as head archivist. Walter was predeceased by his parents, Liv and Herman Angel, brother Lewis, and sister Angela. He is survived by his husband, Sven Henckel , and their beloved Pomeranians: Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt, Brigitta, Marta, and Gretl. As per Walter’s wishes, there wil be no funeral service. His ashes wil be returned to the sea, which he loved so dearly in his youth.

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I was disappointed to find there would be no funeral. It sounds flippant and a bit disrespectful, I know, but funerals are never-to-be-missed bonanzas in a detective’s bag of tricks. Not only do you get most of the players in the game in one place at one time, but also you can tell a lot about people by how they react in the situation. As a bonus, it might surprise you to know how often a murderer shows up at his or her victim’s final service. This goes hand in hand with the familiar statistic that most killings are committed by someone known to the deceased.

There were two things of great interest to me in Walter Angel’s obituary. The first was the identification of his spouse. The second was the fact that Angel was an archivist. That set the bells in my head to clanging. Irritating, but I was grateful, for this was the sound of fresh new leads. I downed the rest of my breakfast with zeal, made a few phone calls, told the pooches to guard the house, and then I was off. I had a lot to do today.

Reginald Cenyk was one of those baby-faced guys who would always look at least ten years younger than he really was. Flaming red hair, fair, smooth skin, and lots of freckles helped. Or hurt, depending on how you looked at it. I’m sure as a younger man, Reginald had cursed his youthful complexion and features, wanting to be handsome instead of pleasant-looking, rugged instead of delicate. Now, appearing a fresh-faced forty, but probably closer to fifty, the new University of Saskatchewan head archivist seemed as comfortable in his own pasty white skin as he was ever bound to.

A tight smile had greeted me when I, directed by an archives technician, entered Reginald Cenyk’s on-campus office. He sat behind a desk and, after introductions, invited me to sit across from him. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showed off skinny freckled arms.

In my opening gambit, telling the man who I was and why I was there, I lied and embellished as little as I could. It felt good. If he assumed that I was more formally related to the police investigation than I really was, it was none of my fault. For the most part.

“I appreciate your willingness to talk to me today,” I began. It’s DD6AA2AB8

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always a good idea to grease the wheel with a nice spritz of sycophancy. “I understand you’ve taken over the role of head archivist since Mr. Angel’s death, so I’m sure you must be extremely busy.”

“Er, well, yes. I have, however, been employed here for over a dozen years.” His voice was quiet, and squeaked a bit at the beginning and end of each sentence. “During that time, Walter and I shared many of the archives’s duties and responsibilities. Much of what I do today is the same as before.”

“Which is exactly what I’m fascinated by. I have to admit, I’ve never met an archivist before. I know so little about what you do.”

I could detect the thin man’s chest puff up just a tad. “Well, I like to tell people to think of us as the university’s memory. We keep track of and manage all information having to do with the history of the university, and really the province as a whole.”

“So you keep records of who taught at the university, campus clubs and activities over the years, that sort of thing?”

“Oh, it’s a great deal more than that, Mr. Quant. Our records cover every college, department, unit, and campus organization that make up the University of Saskatchewan. I know many consider the university to be something greater than the sum of its parts. I believe it is the parts that make it great. Here at the archives is where those parts live on.” Cenyk leaned in a little closer as he warmed to his topic. “We have the private papers of many of our past, and even some present, faculty members, and those of alumni. We’ve had many very interesting people pass through the halls of these greystone buildings over the years, Mr. Quant.

“We also work on special projects here at the archives. For example, quite recently we began collecting the histories and memorabilia of alumnus who served during wartime. Fascinating material. We also maintain a great number of virtual exhibits and digital collections. It’s all very exciting. There is a listing on our website if you’re interested in taking a look.”

“So for instance, as an alumni of the University of Saskatchewan, I could donate my papers to you?” Not that I really wanted to, but I was leading him to where I wanted to end up.

Cenyk hesitated briefly, giving the suggestion sincere thought, before responding. “By all means. As a Saskatchewan detective, DD6AA2AB8

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people might be very interested to learn about your life and the cases you’ve been on. There aren’t too many of you around, I wouldn’t think. Obviously there would be some sensitive and privileged information included in your records, but we could deal with that in our donor agreement by way of specified access restrictions.”

I was surprised, and, I have to say, a little flattered. Now who was spritzing the sycophancy? “Well, that certainly would clear up some storage space in the ol’ garage.”

He didn’t laugh.

I moved on. “So the university archives hold the records of anyone famous who’s lived in Saskatchewan?”

The man shook his head, a dismayed look on his face.

“Unfortunately not. The decision of if, when, and where to donate one’s papers is, of course, completely up to the individual. As an institution we do solicit certain people and organizations, in the hope they would consider using us as the safekeeping repository for their information. With certain high profile collections, a competitive environment can arise in the pursuit of obtaining physical ownership and other rights. Obviously, the more famous the individual, the more competition.

“In an effort to appease different organizations and meet loyal-ty obligations, there have been cases where a set of records is divided up amongst several archives, locally, provincially, and even nationally. As I’m sure you can appreciate, as archivists, most of us prefer that a collection remain intact at one location.”

“What about someone like, say, Simon Durhuaghe? Are his papers here?”

Again the archivist hesitated. I guess my transition wasn’t as seamless as I’d hoped.

He began typing on the computer keyboard in front of him, his eyes fastened to the screen. “Well, let me double-check, but I’m quite certain…yes, there it is. We do hold an extensive and, I believe, complete set of Simon Durhuaghe’s papers. According to the finding aid, we have draft manuscripts and galleys for most of his early novels, including first editions of those published at the time of the donation. We have short story compilations, including DD6AA2AB8

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drafts and final edited copies. We hold various research materials and notes, travel and book tour itineraries, as well as personal and professional correspondence and journals. It looks to be quite a comprehensive collection, a lot of material. We’re lucky to have it.”