down to put on
some much needed coffee. He’d been coveting my
Starbucks, but I wasn’t in the sharing mood.
Daniel’s office was a corner suite with a metal-
and-glass desk parked in front of two large win-
dows that looked out into the parking lot, a barren
area beyond it and some indistinguishable ware-
house type buildings in the distance. Given the
dark outside there wasn’t much to see, but I
guessed the same could be said in full daylight.
The rest of the room was more glass and stainless
steel furniture that looked nice but not necessarily
comfortable, and pale walls sporting several mas-
sive Darrell Bell originals: stunning watercolours
of lazy rivers carelessly winding their way
beneath turquoise skies and through wooded hills
of ochre, vermilion and pumpkin umber. I could-
n’t help wonder if these impressive canvases were
placed here to make up for the rather drab view.
Although each piece was worthy of closer perusal I
didn’t have time to lollygag. I only had a few min-
utes for skullduggery.
76 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
I headed for Daniel’s desk. I picked up a pho-
tograph in a surprisingly heavy silver frame. It
was of four people, two men and two women.
One of the men was Daniel; the other was a distin-
guished-looking character probably ten or fifteen
years older than my client, with greying hair thin-
ning at the top and a slightly buck-toothed smile.
Next to him was a woman with short blond hair
who, although not as old as the man, was definite-
ly older than the other woman, whom I took to be
Daniel’s wife. She had dark, curly hair and a
roundish, pleasant face dusted with freckles.
“Russell?”
That was quick. I turned around to see Daniel
looking a little more like his usual put-together
self. I indicated the picture in my hand and said,
“Just admiring the photograph.” He eyed the
photo as he closed the office door and took a seat
behind his desk. “This must be your wife,” I said
about the brunette, “with all the freckles.”
“Actually no,” he said. “The woman next to
Mick is Cheryl.”
I took another look, trying to hide my surprise.
Pictures are sometimes deceiving, but Cheryl
Guest looked several years older than her hus-
band. Either that or she’d spent too much time in
the sun. She was attractive, but…well, there was
no other way to say it: she had a mess of wrinkles
on her face. “And Mick, the other gentleman, is a
partner here?” I asked, still trying to gloss over my
obvious snooping.
“Please,” Daniel said, playing the gracious
host, “take a seat. The coffee’s going to take a few
Anthony Bidulka — 77
minutes.”
I replaced the picture on the desktop and
plopped down in the stiff metal chair he indicated.
“The Soloways are our next-door neighbours,”
he told me. “Mick and his wife, Anita, are close
friends of ours.”
I nodded politely.
He sighed. “I’m sorry about…about earlier and
for insisting on meeting you here so early and,
well…”
I waved it off. “Don’t mention it.” I pulled a
sheaf of photocopied photographs out of the
leather folder I’d brought with me and placed
them on the desk in front of him.
“What are these?”
“Copies of photographs of young, blond actors
who’ve appeared in the last three Persephone
Theatre plays.”
He looked up at me and smiled. “You’re good.”
Yup. “Now it’s your turn. Is one of them Jo?”
He glanced at the closed office door as if some-
one with X-ray vision might be behind it, then,
satisfied no one was spying on us, began a careful
study of each picture. He stopped on the fourth
one.
“It’s him,” he said in a hush, gazing at the like-
ness.
I leaned closer and looked at the gap-toothed
actor, a pleasant-looking young man. “Are you
sure that’s him?”
“That’s him,” he said without hesitation.
I reached over and flipped the picture so we
could read the information on the