Free Dos Equis by Anthony Bidulka Page B

Dandy Ruff, two of my
    favourite servers.
    The joint was hopping. Mary, who often acts as hostess, was too busy for a sit down visit, but came over for a quick hi and
    hug.
    “Is it true? Does this mean we can take down the ‘Missing Gay PI’ poster for good now?” she asked, standing close so I
    could hear her over the buzzing cacophony of the diners.
    “It does.”
    “Wonderful. You’ve just made my day. And that’s something, because it’s been a little more hectic than usual around here.”
    “I thought the restaurant business was supposed to slow down in February.”
    “I know. Tell it to these people. But I’m not complaining. Just a little weary on my feet. Been here since six this morning.”
    “You two work harder than anyone I know.”
    “Listen, your order is not quite ready. Marushka wanted to throw in an extra treat. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a table. They’re all full up at the moment. But there should be a free stool in the bookstore.”
    “Perfect. I’ll wait there. You go back to work. I’ll come by in a few days and we can catch up.”
    As I meandered through the convivial restaurant toward the bookstore, I was immediately sorry I was only there to pick up
    take out. But I had dogs at home, waiting to be mollified. I also had a refrigerator full of Mom’s cooking. She’d apportioned the bounty into single meal servings. However, to my mother’s way of thinking, “single meal” means enough food for you and five
    friends who haven’t eaten for a week. And, instead of Tupperware, Mom uses decades-old, plastic ice-cream and margarine
    containers, which she has dutifully recycled since World War II. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother’s cooking. But after
    the extravaganza of the previous night, I was looking for something a little more…uncreamy. To be fair to my mother, many of Marushka’s recipes include their own tonnage of cream and butter, but the place also serves the best homemade hamburgers
    this side of a Texas BBQ, and I had a hankering for one.
    Waving at a few acquaintances as I passed through the mishmash of bustling tables, I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks.
    Lingering above the many wonderful smells wafting from Marushka’s kitchen, was something else. Another scent.
    Tom Ford cologne.
    Now on high alert, I scouted the crowd more closely. A couple of people took notice and gave me strange looks.
    Understandably. I was standing in the middle of a crowded restaurant, sniffing at the air and scowling at the diners. I’m sure I looked like some crazy person who’d just been denied a seat and thought he could frown somebody into giving up theirs.
    “Russell, are you okay?” It was Dandy Ruff, passing by with a platter of calamari.
    “Do you know the smell of a Tom Ford cologne?”
    “Does Ivana Trump need a makeover? Of course I do. Why, hon?”
    “Is someone in here wearing it?”
    Dandy made a show of taking a good whiff of the crowd. “The guy at table ten is close, but it’s not Ford. I know my scents.
    He’s wearing Creed. Anything else I can do for you? Maybe a drink while you’re waiting for your order?”
    “Thanks, no.”
    Was my brain leading my nose astray? Fooling it into smelling the cologne because of my doubts about Jane’s death and who
    caused it? Or, was there still a killer out there, wearing Tom Ford…and looking for me?
    There is a part of me that could totally be one of those hermit guys. The kind who never leaves his house, surrounding himself with all the things he loves—pictures, books, music, movie collection, good food, bad-for-you food, sweet dogs. I created my home as a place conducive to hibernating. My home is my castle. And every now and again, I like to fill the moat, pull up the drawbridge, and settle in. Tonight I wanted just that.
    My mother had gone back to her home on the farm. I had a feast, compliments of Colourful Mary’s, a few special treats for
    my special Schnauzers, and a half bottle of Pinot Noir