Aloha, Candy Hearts (24 page)

“So how exactly does this work? Did he just drop a bunch of boxes off one day?”

“Oh no,” Cenyk responded, taken aback by the idea. He referred to his screen again. “In the case of Mr. Durhuaghe, this was a solicited donation. We obtained the material ten years ago.

If I recall correctly, Mr. Durhuaghe was happy to make the donation but, like many of our busier donors, didn’t want the responsibility of sorting through and organizing the material.”

“So he did just drop it off.”

The man’s face coloured slightly. “I suppose you might say that, yes. It would have been up to the archivist or archives technician, whoever happened to be assigned to the initial accessioning, to process the material.”

“Accessioning?”

“That’s the first step in processing a donation. A control number is assigned and some basic data is recorded. Then the material is arranged and described, assuming the donor hasn’t already created some sort of filing system. If they have, we try to maintain that order as much as possible. But, I must say, that is rarely the case.

“At this stage we do appraisal and weeding; separating material having long-term value from that which doesn’t. Once this is done, and we know what we are keeping, physical processing is undertaken. We store documents in acid-free file folders, boxes, or whatever other container is required given the type of material being handled. Finally, we create what we call a finding aid. The finding aid is a summary report of the full collection, along with a listing and brief description of each file or piece in the collection. If the donor requests a tax receipt, we also have an independent monetary appraisal carried out.”

“Was a monetary appraisal carried out for Mr. Durhuaghe?”

There was a pause while Reginald considered whether or not he should answer my question. “I believe so,” he finally said.

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“Was it significant?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

I had to try.

“You said Durhuaghe donated his papers ten years ago. So both you and Walter Angel were on staff at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Was one of you assigned to this accessioning process for the Durhuaghe donation?”

He began tapping at keys again while he spoke. “It’s quite possible. Oftentimes with a donation of this import and size, an archives technician might be responsible for the initial accessioning, but further processing would be undertaken by an archivist.”

More key tapping. Then he stopped. “From what I can tell here, most of the work on this file was done by neither Walter nor myself.”

“Oh? Can you tell me who did it?”

I smiled at the answer. It was a name I’d heard before.

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Ten years earlier, Helen Crawford had been the senior archivist at the University of Saskatchewan Archives. Helen was the name mentioned by Walter Angel when he first told me about the treasure map. Was she the map’s creator? Was she the one who started all this?

At the time Helen worked at the archives, Walter Angel was a fellow archivist, Reginald Cenyk an archives technician. The three were the only permanent staff. According to Reginald, five years ago Helen Crawford suddenly retired, leaving Walter the role of lead archivist, and Reginald a place as a full fledged archivist. With Walter ’s death, Reginald moved up the ladder once more, taking over as head archivist. As he described the events, I briefly toyed with the idea of Reginald Cenyk killing Walter Angel for his new job. But somehow it just didn’t fit.

“So what you’re telling me is that Helen Crawford had sole responsibility for the Durhuaghe archival material?”

Cenyk swivelled his computer screen so I could see the screen.

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His finger moved down a column in a spreadsheet. The name that appeared over and over again was Crawford. “She signed off on every aspect of the processing,” he confirmed. “Now, that’s not to say that one of us, or maybe another part-time staff member—we sometimes have summer students or grant employees—didn’t help her, but she did have primary responsibility. Which doesn’t surprise me.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“Helen was a stickler for detail. Rules and regulations were her best friends—as they should be for an archivist. There was no way she would have let just anyone touch the Durhuaghe papers. She’d have taken great pride in obtaining the rights to them for the U of S archives, and overseeing the processing herself. Not that she didn’t do a lot of processing herself anyway, but this would have been a special case. She was a bit quirky in some ways, but she was very good at what she did.”

“Reginald, you’ve already been a great help today.” My tone turned serious. “But I need to ask for your expertise on one more issue of concern. I hope I can count on your discretion.”

His pale blue eyes widened as he nodded.

“Reginald,” I began, even glancing to the side for would-be eavesdroppers, “would you know if something had been stolen from the archives?”

This time the slight man remained speechless for several seconds. After a dry gulp, he said: “I don’t know for sure. I hope I would. Do you think something has been taken from the archives?

Something from the Durhuaghe collection? Is that it?”

I nodded. “Could you find out, Reginald?”

He considered this. “It would depend on when it was taken. If it disappeared before the finding aid was created, I don’t know how we’d ever know. The only way would be for the donor to proclaim it missing. If the piece was stolen after the donation was processed, the chance of discovery would be much greater.

Depending on what it was, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if it was a specific file or book or document that was significant enough to be listed on the finding aid, or as part of the DD6AA2AB8

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Anthony Bidulka

monetary valuation, we could confirm if it was missing quite easily. Otherwise, we’d have to rely on the memory of the processing archivist or other practical methods, like checking missing entries in documents filed in chronological or date order.”

“You mean like letters or journals?”

“Exactly. If someone left us their diaries, for instance, we could check for gaps in date chronology. Or maybe certain material is footnoted in one file, but is missing when the referenced document is checked.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Quant, what exactly is it that you think is missing? And who do you think took it?”

I wasn’t prepared to take the archivist into my full confidence just yet. But I needed his help. What needed to be done sounded like a lot of paper shuffling for someone who didn’t know what they were doing—me—but less shuffling for someone who did.

“I’m not sure yet, Reginald. But I was wondering if you could help me find out.”

“Me? How?”

“I need you to look through the Durhuaghe archives. See if you can find evidence of anything missing. And more important, evidence of who might have taken it.”

Another gulp. “That could take a lot of time.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

I left with Reginald’s promise that he’d try to do some digging, but no guarantee he’d find anything. It was better than nothing.

Childhelp Saskatchewan was one of Sherry Fisher ’s favourite projects. The jury was out on whether the mayor ’s wife had started the children’s advocacy group to actually help kids, or to raise her own profile. Part of the problem was the group’s spokesperson: Sherry herself. When questioned by the media, she had difficulty exactly putting into words what it was Childhelp actually did. As far as I could tell, it had something to do with helping kids who needed help. Yup, it was that concise.

Despite a rather vague mandate, the charity’s fundraisers were DD6AA2AB8

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glittering affairs. They always took place in fancy hotel ballrooms with gourmet menus, pricey drinks, and not-too-shabby entertain-ment. They were also poorly attended, mostly by mayoral toadies who either had no choice or wanted to curry favour with the big guy. Still, according to press releases following each of these shindigs, the tally of donation dollars was always impressive.

Rumour on the street was that most of the funds came from the mayor himself, through various holding companies and whathaveyous, supporting his wife’s philanthropic hobby.

Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. After all, didn’t we all want to help all those help-needing kids who needed helping?

Today’s event was a luncheon at the Saskatoon hotel nicknamed “the castle on the river,” otherwise known as the Delta Bessborough. With its rich carpeting, reclaimed millwork, and detailed trimmings, the hotel’s elegant Adam Ballroom is one the city’s most sought-after banquet rooms for weddings and big bashes of every ilk. So of course, that was where the Childhelp luncheon was being held.

I’d seen the advertisement in that morning’s paper. It was the perfect way for me to get in front of Sherry Fisher and find out what she knew about Walter Angel. The only problem was that the same ad loudly proclaimed the event “sold out by popular demand.” I cattily wondered how far back that set the mayor this time. To solve my dilemma, I called on another woman I know, one inestimably more powerful than any mayor ’s wife.

Walking into a room with Sereena Orion Smith on your arm is unlike any other experience. The woman is the enigmatic embodi-ment of exotic yet damaged beauty combined with magnetic allure. People are drawn to her, yet fearful at the same time. She is a lovely but carnivorous flower that begs to be smelled. Many stare and try for a smile. Others simply frown. Few dare to approach unless they know her, then they do come up, and wait for her to bestow upon them the golden touch of her famed wit. When her light shines upon you, you feel like a star, and everybody wants to be a star.

“I’m not particularly interested,” Sereena half-whispered into my ear as we stepped through the ballroom’s foyer. “But for con-DD6AA2AB8

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versation’s sake, why is it again that you had me procure tickets for this insipid lunch?”

“I need to speak with the mayor ’s wife. She might be involved in the case I’m working on.”

“And you really think confronting the woman while she plays patron saint at her pet event is the best way to go?”

With a glint in my eye, I gave my shimmering companion a sidelong glance. “But when else would you have the opportunity to wear that outstanding outfit?”

Sereena had donned a rather short Vertigo scarf dress with long sleeves, graphically patterned in cobalt blue, sky blue, and white. Sky-high, black patent Dolce Vita shoes with a Bernardin day bag completed the get-up. Her legs looked as if they were on loan from Cyd Charisse. She wore her hair in an unusual-for-her simple pageboy. Her lipstick was stoplight red. A lady who lunch-es, Sereena-style.

“What? This little gardening smock?”

We stopped at the entry of the grand room. The Adam Ballroom can hold six hundred for a reception, four hundred for a banquet. Looking around, I estimated a crowd of less than a hundred. But Sherry had made the best of it. The room was done up beautifully in a summer garden theme, with racks of flowers and pretty wrought iron arbours and benches placed around splashing fountains. There was so much “stuff” in the room, there was barely enough space for the handful of tables needed to seat the paltry number of guests. She’d definitely made some kickass lemonade out of her lemons. In we went.

“Oh Sereena!” came a shrill greeting as we circulated amongst the flora.

Sereena rarely smiles, and she didn’t do it now as we were overcome by the fluttering chiffon belonging to Miss Mabel Maplethrump, the event’s coordinator and the mayor ’s personal secretary.

“I am so glad we were able to accommodate your late request for tickets for you and your escort. As you so well know, this event has been sold out for months, but I said to Mrs. Fisher—I called her personally, you know—I said we need to move heaven and earth DD6AA2AB8

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to make this happen, we need to find room for Sereena Smith, of all people.”

“All what people, Mabel?” Sereena asked, silky politeness over steel barbs.

“Oh you silly,” Mabel trilled, all giggly like and not really understanding the question, or its pointed intent. She turned her vivaciousness on me and grabbed one of my arms with her chub-by fingers. “And who is this? It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr…?”

“Quant,” I told her. “Russell Quant. I’m happy to be here, to support such a good cause.”

Mabel’s face and demeanor immediately morphed into more appropriate weighty gravity. “Oh yes, the children. We’re all here for the children, aren’t we?”

“Are any of them here?” Sereena asked.

Mabel glanced at her. “Who? Who is that, dear? Oh, you mean the children? Oh well no, they’re all, well, you know, busy.”

Sereena showed off a faint upturn of her lips. She didn’t really mean to bust this poor woman’s chops, only play with them a little.

“I’d like to say hello to Sherry,” Sereena said. “I don’t see her anywhere in this throng of people,” she added generously. “Do you happen to know where she is?”

“Of course, of course. She was supposed to be at the door greeting guests, but was called away to the telephone. The dear is so busy, so involved, in so many worthwhile, ah, things. But she’s always so good about making herself available for the children.”