Amuse Bouche Read Online Free PDF Page A

picked up the phone and heard the telling beeps indicating Tom had messages, but without his SaskTel password I wouldn't be able to access them. I hit the "redial" button to check the last phone call made from Tom's phone and reached the answering machine for someplace called TechWorld. I made a mental note. 1
    punched *69 which gave me the last number that had called Tom's phone. It was Chavell's home number. No surprise there.
    I pretty much concluded Tom didn't really live here. At least not often. This apartment was likely a ruse to make it appear that Tom and Amuse Bouche
    Chavell did not live together as a couple. But I was certain they did live together and I'd bet it was at Chavell's castle rather than in this modest apartment. An expensive ruse, but one that I'm sure worked well. Perhaps it was family or co-workers who had made creating and maintaining this falsehood a necessity in their lives.
    And if this was a fake home, 1 had to question how much authentic information I was bound to collect here. Even so, I could not leave without performing the worst job. I always saved it for last. The kitchen garbage.
    Unappetizing as it sounds, it's a must-do in any thorough search. Often I ended up with nothing but smelly hands, but now and again, amongst the apple peels and eggshells was a gem of knowledge. And knowledge is power.
    The key to this part of an investigation is to have some idea of what you hope to find or what could be important. Otherwise garbage and clues can look surprisingly alike. In this case, the best I could hope for, would be anything that might tell me how Tom spent his time between the Friday night rehearsal party and his Sunday morning flight to Paris. There were two slightly soiled dishes in the kitchen sink so I expected I might have to rifle through leftovers. I also hoped to find a card that might have accompanied the silver chain. Lady Luck 40
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    wasn't on my side. I didn't find either. Tom must have recently taken out the trash. The refuse barrel was empty except for a scrunched-up, brown paper bag, I retrieved it and flattened it out on the kitchen counter. Embossed on the front was the name of a vegetarian restaurant near Broadway Avenue called The Blue Carrot Cafe. I got the carrot part, but why blue?
    Inexplicable use of colour bothers me—first the answering machine light and now this. I tossed the bag back into the garbage.
    Before leaving premises I have not been formally invited into, I generally find it a wise practice to sneak a peek out the windows. Just to see what 1 can see. Not that I expect a squadron of police cars with lights flashing and cops with guns drawn awaiting my exit, but you never know. I pushed my fingers through two slats of Venetian blind and peered through the space I'd created. The window I'd chosen looked over the parking lot behind the building.
    In the light of a street lamp I could see a dense-ly populated bicycle rack and roughly twenty vehicles. Over half were of the ubiquitous sports utility vehicle variety—Blazers, Jirnmys, Jeep Cherokees. Didn't anyone drive a car anymore? I wondered if one of them belonged to Tom. Chavell hadn't mentioned whether Tom owned a vehicle or whether or not it too was 41
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    missing. Did he use it to get to the airport? Did he call a taxi? Or did someone pick him up?
    More for the list of things I did not know.
    As I was about to switch off the hallway light on my way out, my eyes fell on the glass bowl filled with change sitting on the alcove shelf. I had almost missed it, but among the metallic money was a small gold key I picked it up and examined it closely. It was on a thin silver ring with a tiny fob in the shape of an elephant's head. Based on its shape and size I immediately ruled out its being for a vehicle or a standard door. Just to be sure I slipped it into the lock on the apartment's front door, but, as I'd guessed, it was much too small. In my mind I mentally retraced my steps