enough or smart enough. It's because this is the way she wants things to be. And as much as I hate it too-we all do-we have to respect that. We have to accept it and move on. You have to accept it."
"Have you?" I asked him.
He waited for a moment before answering, then, "I have. But only because I really feel she'll be back."
His ran his fingers gently over the bumps of my knuckles. "She'll be back, Russell. Some day."
I wasn't so sure.
I woke up late Sunday morning, with some whisker burn (obtained long after Jared went home to Anthony) and a nice big smile on my face. I spent the afternoon in my yard, cutting grass, pulling weeds, trimming dead branches off mock orange bushes that hadn't wintered well for some unknown reason. I deadheaded flowers, played with the dogs and downed gallons of diet iced tea. Around 4 p.m. I had a quick shower, prepared tapas and a pitcher of margaritas and fell onto a sun lounger in a gloriously exhausted state and napped and sipped and ate and napped and slurped and ate and read Ellen Hart's latest until the sun set, sometime around 10 p.m. A proper day off.
Monday morning appeared mere hours later and I was up unusually early (despite the margaritas). By 9:30 I was heading for the office in my Mazda, top down, freshly washed hair drying in the wind, whistling a happy tune. The cure for summer blahs? Get laid. It puts a definite bounce in one's step. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear Anthony's voice: "I'm not talking about random crushes followed by randy sex."
I strode into PWC, by all appearances the successful private investigator, even having set aside my wrinkled cotton shorts and flip flops in favour of a pair of sharply pressed black dress shorts, a fitted, white, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of closed-toe (but open-heel) black sandals; a summer-y yet put together look, I thought. Anthony would be proud; I was learning a thing or two. There were several people on Errall's side of the room, and a couple others on the other; obviously clients of Beverly's because they were much too conservative looking for Alberta. I threw Lilly a smile and wink and headed for the stairs. She smiled back and waved me over.
Lilly is a blond Snow White-several years post-fairy-tale-wedding-whose Prince Charming-hockey-playing-beer-drinking-husband finally agreed to her working outside the home. Perhaps he'd come to 20 of 163
3/15/2011 10:56 PM
D: BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...
understand that she was more than just a pretty face, and singing with birds and picking daisies in the forest were not nearly challenging enough for her.
"Good weekend?" I asked as I approached her desk.
"Oh, terrific. You too?"
"Uh-huh. Hey, your cheeks look a little rosy." Rosier than normal I should have said. "You were out in the sun, eh?"
Lilly's big blues, the type you see on day-old babies, made a swing over to the waiting room and back.
"Those people are here to see you."
Ahhhhhhh...what? I glanced over my shoulder and saw a near middle-aged man with two elderly people, another man and a woman. They were staring at me with expectant looks on their faces. I turned back to Lilly and whispered, "Who are they?"
"The younger man is Mr. Warren Culinare. He's here with his parents."
Culinare? Could they be relatives of Tanya Culinare, the woman who'd committed suicide?
I thanked Lilly and went to greet my unexpected visitors. We shook hands, introduced ourselves (the parents were Anne and Mike Culinare), they all turned down coffee, and I led them upstairs to my office, which I hoped I hadn't left too messy.
"How can I help you?" I asked once we were settled around my desk.
Anne and Mike, a stout, grey, wrinkle-faced couple nearing their seventies remained silent and looked at their son as if only he could explain.
"We were sent here-or rather it was suggested that we come here-by Officer Kirsch of the Saskatoon police," Warren Culinare said. He was forty and
"Have you?" I asked him.
He waited for a moment before answering, then, "I have. But only because I really feel she'll be back."
His ran his fingers gently over the bumps of my knuckles. "She'll be back, Russell. Some day."
I wasn't so sure.
I woke up late Sunday morning, with some whisker burn (obtained long after Jared went home to Anthony) and a nice big smile on my face. I spent the afternoon in my yard, cutting grass, pulling weeds, trimming dead branches off mock orange bushes that hadn't wintered well for some unknown reason. I deadheaded flowers, played with the dogs and downed gallons of diet iced tea. Around 4 p.m. I had a quick shower, prepared tapas and a pitcher of margaritas and fell onto a sun lounger in a gloriously exhausted state and napped and sipped and ate and napped and slurped and ate and read Ellen Hart's latest until the sun set, sometime around 10 p.m. A proper day off.
Monday morning appeared mere hours later and I was up unusually early (despite the margaritas). By 9:30 I was heading for the office in my Mazda, top down, freshly washed hair drying in the wind, whistling a happy tune. The cure for summer blahs? Get laid. It puts a definite bounce in one's step. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear Anthony's voice: "I'm not talking about random crushes followed by randy sex."
I strode into PWC, by all appearances the successful private investigator, even having set aside my wrinkled cotton shorts and flip flops in favour of a pair of sharply pressed black dress shorts, a fitted, white, short-sleeved shirt and a pair of closed-toe (but open-heel) black sandals; a summer-y yet put together look, I thought. Anthony would be proud; I was learning a thing or two. There were several people on Errall's side of the room, and a couple others on the other; obviously clients of Beverly's because they were much too conservative looking for Alberta. I threw Lilly a smile and wink and headed for the stairs. She smiled back and waved me over.
Lilly is a blond Snow White-several years post-fairy-tale-wedding-whose Prince Charming-hockey-playing-beer-drinking-husband finally agreed to her working outside the home. Perhaps he'd come to 20 of 163
3/15/2011 10:56 PM
D: BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...
understand that she was more than just a pretty face, and singing with birds and picking daisies in the forest were not nearly challenging enough for her.
"Good weekend?" I asked as I approached her desk.
"Oh, terrific. You too?"
"Uh-huh. Hey, your cheeks look a little rosy." Rosier than normal I should have said. "You were out in the sun, eh?"
Lilly's big blues, the type you see on day-old babies, made a swing over to the waiting room and back.
"Those people are here to see you."
Ahhhhhhh...what? I glanced over my shoulder and saw a near middle-aged man with two elderly people, another man and a woman. They were staring at me with expectant looks on their faces. I turned back to Lilly and whispered, "Who are they?"
"The younger man is Mr. Warren Culinare. He's here with his parents."
Culinare? Could they be relatives of Tanya Culinare, the woman who'd committed suicide?
I thanked Lilly and went to greet my unexpected visitors. We shook hands, introduced ourselves (the parents were Anne and Mike Culinare), they all turned down coffee, and I led them upstairs to my office, which I hoped I hadn't left too messy.
"How can I help you?" I asked once we were settled around my desk.
Anne and Mike, a stout, grey, wrinkle-faced couple nearing their seventies remained silent and looked at their son as if only he could explain.
"We were sent here-or rather it was suggested that we come here-by Officer Kirsch of the Saskatoon police," Warren Culinare said. He was forty and
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