Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (5 page)

“It's a disability, like losing a leg or having a harelip. He's been kept on at the Club despite it.” Peter laughed. “It's in the Club's constitution. He's a great-grandson of Thomas Morsely, and Morsely left a proviso, that any of his descendants who want to work here have the right to a job. Until they commit some act that proves their incompetence.”

“Special circumstances, like Jordan Beck?”

“You got it.”

“Nobody's tried to get rid of Trevor?”

“A few attempts. All failed. Many faculty members find him refreshing, especially after a long day of committee meetings.”

The beer was a dark amber with pleasing heft and lush aroma. Noel raised his glass to Peter and sipped. “Very nice.”

“Glad you think so.” He took a sip as well and set his mug down. “You were saying you had an idea?” He grabbed a small fistful of peanuts and popped it into his mouth.

“Yes. Can you set up a meeting, me with Beck?”

“Sure. What do I tell him?”

“That I'm an investigative journalist.” Noel took some peanuts. “Since Beck is in a dilemma about what sort of writing he should take up, you thought he might like to talk with me.” He took a long draught of beer.

“Sounds good. And I'll go even further. I'll say you're doing a presentation in a couple of months.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded invitingly. “You were passing by and dropped in to check things out.”

“That'd work, I guess.” Noel considered this idea. “Does one just pass by from somewhere and come to an island like San Juan?”

Peter sipped beer, then grinned. “You were on Orcas and popped over so we could talk.”

“That'd do.”

Peter leaned forward. He gave Noel a conspiratorial grin. The Club was filling, a noisier gathering now, people making their way to the dining room.

Noel stared at his beer. Good. But the stein nearly empty.

Peter sat back. “And you could actually do that, you know.”

“What?”

“Come back later in the fall.”

Why would Noel want to give a presentation at Morsely? He gave Peter a face of indecision. He'd thought Peter's eyes were olive green; now they seemed emerald. “Could do, maybe,” he said. “We can talk about it.”

They finished their beers. Peter looked at his watch and stood. “I've booked you into one of our visitors' cabins. Come on, I'll take you there.”

“Okay, great. Thanks.”

They walked to the door. Peter waved to several colleagues, three women and a few men, a couple of whom looked at Noel with curiosity. Peter pushed the door open and they left.

“I'm in a blue Honda in guest parking,” Noel said.

“I'm parked behind. Wait for a red Mazda.” Peter strode off and a few minutes later appeared, driving what looked like a very recent vintage Mazda convertible, the top down. Noel pulled onto the road behind him. They passed a number of buildings, each echoing some aspect of the Mansion. They drove between a stolid edifice, Bearton Hall, and another, square and broad, called Applied Sciences. The road curved into forested land where it narrowed, then ended by a two-storey house clad in brown-stained cedar.

Noel pulled in beside the Mazda and got out. Silence except for birds calling and a squirrel chittering. Peter climbed the three steps to a small veranda and unlocked the front door. They went in. Noel glanced about. A long hall to a kitchen, a dining room and living room, with a stone fireplace. New enough to have a built-in sprinkler in the ceiling, old enough for elegant swing-out windows all around. On the right, a bedroom and a bathroom. Upstairs, Peter said, were two more bedrooms, one with bunk beds, and another bath. From the dining room through a sliding door the view was cedars, firs and arbutus.

“Very spacious for one,” Noel said.

“Used for conventions or workshops, people stay up to a couple of weeks. They like to continue their discussions while they cook rather than go out.”

“Good idea.” For them. Right then he decided he didn't want the complexity of shopping and cooking; he'd get a restaurant recommendation.

At which moment Peter said, “Speaking of food, why don't you join me for dinner? There's a place here I like a lot.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” Yeah, good food and pleasant company. “I'll just bring in my things.” Three steps down and Noel opened his trunk, returning with his overnight bag and computer.

Peter, standing at the sliding glass door in the dining room, hands in pockets, turned when he heard Noel. “Want some relaxing time first? I could come back for you in, say, an hour?”

“That'd be good, actually.”

Peter strode to the door. “See you.”

So what Noel had figured would be an evening alone researching plagiarism had become social and promisingly pleasant. He walked through the house again, took in the view from each window and decided to take the front bedroom downstairs. Kyra could have her choice of the rest.

He drew out his cell phone, read her text message, called. It rang. “Hello, Noel.”

“Hi. How's Mr. Whiplash?”

“Nonexistent. I wrote my report and sent it in. The guy was a phony.”

“Good. So come on over here. They've put us in a comfortable house.”

“Want to know something good?”

“Always.”

“After I proved Wisely a fake, the head honcho phoned. I've saved them so much money, they're giving me a bonus.”

“That's great! You can buy me a first-rate meal. When're you arriving?”

“Tomorrow. There's no flight till the afternoon. Pisses me off. I get there at 2:30.”

“I'll pick you up and fill you in. See you then.”

He lay on the bed and read his book. Although a heavy tome, it was superbly engrossing. Mark Twain never skimped on words.

Exactly an hour after he'd left, Peter returned. Noel was waiting on the veranda. The engine idling, Peter called, “Come in my car. I'll bring you back.”

Noel climbed in. The new-car smell of leather and polish hit him. “This is a sporty treat. Just got it, I assume?”

“When I left my wife, I bought the car.” He backed, shifted into drive, and they wound their way out of the woods.

So Peter was the instigator of the split. Another woman? Or maybe she'd stepped out on him, a lover on another island . . . So many human stories. “A good trade-off?”

Peter laughed. “Maybe I just realized I shouldn't be married.”

Or possibly Peter had found someone new? Well, not Noel's business. “Yeah, that's a hard discovery to make.”

“True. For some. But luckily for me, or maybe bitterly, I'd known that for a while.” They passed the Mansion and headed down the long drive toward the road to Friday Harbor. Peter stepped harder on the gas and the Mazda spurted ahead.

The convertible seemed to be floating, tires a half inch above the cement. Very quiet engine, Noel thought. Their conversation? He felt uncomfortable about asking more, and curious at the same time. He was an investigator, after all. Know your client. To find a plagiarizer? Of course. But how complicated could the case be? It looked pretty simple. What more was hidden here? “Was there something specific that made the separation happen just at the time you decided?”

Peter laughed. “Not really. An accumulation. Maybe from even before I got married.”

“How so?”

Peter slowed a little, turned right onto Bailer Hill Road with tires screeching—so we can't be floating after all, thought Noel, as Peter gunned the engine. From his angle, Noel couldn't see the odometer.

No other cars on the road. Ah, island living, thought Noel. He tried to relax and enjoy the speed. But Peter wasn't answering his question. Noel waited.

Peter slowed as they reached a sharp right. “I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. I've barely met you.” The Mazda made the turn on what seemed like two wheels.

“And it's none of my business.”

“You're right.”

“That was pretty speedy back there. How fast were you going, coming down that straightaway?”

“Just a hundred. I like to open her up for that stretch.”

“Cops ever stop you?”

“Couple of times. I pay the fine. It's my price of admission.” He turned, far more slowly, onto a road named Little. Narrow, too.

Now the car proceeded more slowly. Peter turned left on Cattle Point Road. Little Road was more than narrow; it was short.

“A few weeks ago I took her to the mainland and ran her around the race track. She hit 180.” Peter caressed the dashboard, slowed at a stop sign at the T, and turned left.

Noel assumed miles per hour, not kilometers. He was grateful for seatbelts, airbags, whatever was needed. He couldn't imagine moving that fast—or wanting to. Peter was driving far more slowly now. They passed the airport. Weird how he calls the car
she
.

Peter said, “You know, I enjoy talking to you. You seem like a great listener.”

“You can say anything to me, or nothing. Or whatever you want in between.” Except, he kept reminding himself, he was an investigator, not a shrink. He also remembered Kyra having said more than once that sometimes it's hard to draw the line between the two.

Peter turned right on Spring. Downtown Friday Harbor lay ahead.

Kyra too went out for dinner. She and Margery were meeting at Sasha's Bistro, a retro Russian restaurant on the second floor of a building that had once been a grade school. Desks and kids all gone, walls between some classrooms torn down. In a corridor at the top of the stairs, she found Margery waiting, looking into a room. A dance floor? Kyra said, “Hiya, Marge.”

Margery, watching the dancers, transfixed, raised a finger: Just a minute. They both stared in.

Men in shirts and slacks, the women in blouses and skirts, ballroom dancing. Or rather, getting lessons. A one-two-three beat melody, relatively slow. Waltzing.

Margery whispered, “I'd say it looked like the 1890s if I knew what those nineties looked like. Come on, let's go eat. Hi, Kyra.”

They crossed the stair landing. On the other side, the restaurant entrance, a dozen people lined up. Margery had a reservation, so they bypassed the crowd and were seated immediately. They ordered drinks, Margery a Manhattan, Kyra a Stoli martini, which arrived in two minutes. Margery raised her glass. “Congrats. Smythe's real chuffed by those photos of Wisely practically dancing. Some whiplash.”

“No ‘practically' about it. It was the real thing.”

“Whatever. You got the guy. Bet you're feeling good.”

Kyra grinned. “Yeah. I hate cheaters. And I love the bonus.”

They talked about Margery's day; she always had stories. Margery, Kyra's supervisor at Puget Life Insurance, was also a good friend. They sipped their drinks. Margery said, “I sure wish all our cases were as clear-cut as Wisely.”

“Me too.”

Smythe was always unhappy when the company had to pay out on a large claim. Kyra said, “He doesn't get why people buy insurance in the first place. Most people, when they make a claim, they really have a problem.”

“Yeah, but after you've dealt with a Wisely, the next case tends to look skewed even if it's completely honest. It's like your eyesight's been muddied.” She shook her head, as if weary of the job. “All our investigators say that's how it is. You need to prove two or three clients are making honest claims, and then you see clearly again.”

“Right. And then you get another Wisely, and the cycle starts again.”

Kyra ordered Chicken Orloff, Margery pepper steak. More stories. The food came, chicken in cubes under a tomatoey sauce with cheese-mashed potatoes and pilaf rice, the rare steak surrounded by young fresh beans and tiny potatoes. Kyra said she'd be away for a few days, a case on San Juan.

“Can you talk about it?”

“Don't know much.” She forked a piece of chicken. Lots of tarragon in the sauce. “Delicious. Noel's there now. He'll fill me in tomorrow. Plagiarism at that university there, Morsely.”

“Well, at least we don't have to deal with plagiarism at the company.”

“Right,” said Kyra. “Just parallel crimes. Cheating is cheating, however you slice it. They really get to me, the frauds.”

“So,” said Margery watching Kyra's face, “you'll be spending time with Noel.”

“Yeah.” Kyra concentrated on her food.

Margery cut into her steak and took a bite. “Mmm. Good and spicy.” A piece of potato. With mouth half full, she asked, “How's your project going?”

Kyra took some of the cheesed potato on her fork and stared at it. “It's not.” Margery was the only person she'd mentioned it to.

“You've talked?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

Kyra wrinkled her brow. “Hard to. On the phone.” She finally put the forkful into her mouth.

“I guess.”

“After that case on Quadra we spent five days together. There was a true connection between us. Not sexual, but a real closeness. The best of friends. Friends who'd do anything for each other.” An ironic little laugh. “Nearly anything.” She shook her head. “He just said, No. And all the good stuff we'd had for the previous few days, it sort of shattered. I nearly cried.” She sighed. “I got into my bedroom and flopped onto the bed and didn't know if I was more angry at myself or just embarrassed. I felt like from now on he'd look at me and see a fake, a woman who kept on being his friend just to get his sperm. I finally apologized, we had a drink, we went out for dinner. We talked about old cases, we laughed a couple of times. Back at his condo, he put both his hands on my shoulders and looked me gently in the eyes like he was trying to see into me. And he said, ‘Kyra, I just can't.' I took a sleeping pill and woke up when he knocked on my door, time to get me to the seaplane. I don't want to hear him say ‘No' ever again.”