back
at her desk by 1:00, but she had little useful infor-
mation about the event in question unless I was
interested in the configuration of the tables or the
number of bottles of red wine imbibed by the
guests. She suggested I contact someone from the
SBA. Although a little miffed at having made the
trip for nothing, I had to admit Natalie’s idea was
a good one.
Back in my car I retrieved the phone book I keep
behind the driver’s seat and looked up the address
for the SBA offices. I could have called but since I
had nothing else to do for a while I decided to take
my chances and show up in person. Besides, I find
in my line of work that doing business face-to-face
is always preferable. People have a harder time
lying to me or ignoring me if I’m right in front of
them. Not that some don’t try.
I found my way to the Ontario Avenue build-
ing and, luckily, was immediately escorted into
52 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
the office of SBA president, Lois Vermont. She was
a no-nonsense kind of woman with dark hair cut
short—no doubt to avoid the finicky attention
required by more feminine styles—and a plain-
cut, suit-and-silk-blouse set that would mix and
match with all the other plain-cut suits and silk
blouses I was sure were in her closet. The only
outward hint of personal flare she allowed herself
was a brightly coloured, oversized scarf tied about
her neck. Very spiffy.
After I was seated in her orderly office, coffee
in hand, she sat looking at me with her hands
prayer fashion on the top of her too-organized
desk, her unlipsticked mouth in a bit of a pinched
position, waiting for me to speak. I debated intro-
ducing myself as Gino Vanelli but sensed that
with Ms. Vermont I wasn’t about to get away with
anything too far removed from the absolute truth.
“What a lovely scarf.” Okay, I did veer a little
away from absolute truth.
Although I swore I saw the corners of her eyes
crinkle with what may have been mirth, the only
sparkle in an otherwise flat and bland face, she
remained impassive. “How can I help you today,
Mr. Quant?”
“I’m a private investigator.” Her eyebrows
moved a millimetre higher on her broad forehead.
The private investigator thing usually gets some
sort of response. There aren’t many of us running
around Saskatoon and everyone, at one time or
another, has wanted to be part of an Agatha
Christie or Nancy Drew mystery. “I’m investigat-
ing a blackmail scheme.”
Anthony Bidulka — 53
“Involving the SBA?”
“Not directly, but the plot involves a past SBA
award recipient and originated at an SBA award
ceremony.”
“Interesting. How can I help?”
I liked Lois Vermont. No pretense. No gob-
bledygook about how the SBA couldn’t possibly
be involved in anything as sordid as blackmail. “I
would like to ask you some questions about
your award ceremony procedures.”
“Are you referring to the ceremony this past
Saturday? Or, if you tell me which year the black-
mail relates to, I can pull out the appropriate files.
I keep detailed records of each year’s event.”
I winced. “Actually that won’t be possible.”
She nodded, not in the least offended. “You’re
concerned that by telling me the year of the event
in question I might deduce the identity of your
client—even though there are several award win-
ners every year in varying categories.”
“That’s correct. I know this may make things
more difficult, but…”
“This is not a problem, Mr. Quant. I under-
stand and I will do the best I can to help you.
What is it you need to know?” She quirked her
head to one side, at the ready.
“The blackmail was perpetrated by way of a
note sent to the victim within the envelope pre-
sented to him when he won an SBA award.”
“I already know your client is a male and won
the SBA Business Builders Businessperson of the
Year Award within the last six years.” She said
this without