Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (11 page)

Beside the carport, a kayak. In the carport, that had to be a TR6. On thick grass to the left a green table, a closed sun umbrella listing in its hole, and matching plastic chairs.

Noel had telephoned. Now a woman opened the front door as he walked up her flagstone path. “Step on the stones!” A brisk contralto. “That's grass seed between them!”

Noel, usually a reserved man, found his legs bopping along the flagstones as if his feet were playing hopscotch. And—where'd that come from?!—a pirouette, Noel a giraffe in ballet shoes. In order, he realized as he reached the stoop, to make Lucille Maple laugh. Why? Because her article was so ridiculous?

She laughed. “That was silly.” She pulled her face into a line of composure. “Just what kind of detective are you?”

Missing no beats, Noel said, “An effective detective.”

She tried to keep her face straight but another laugh escaped. “Oh stop.”

“Actually, I'm just a researcher. For example, why grass seed in September? Isn't it too late for seeds to germinate? And once the rain comes, won't it rot?”

“I'm ever hopeful,” Ms. Maple said. “Gardens grow years after they were planted and stuff that was composted sprouts.”

They grinned, each recognizing the other: failures in elementary gardening.

Noel followed her into a cool, bright, long hall. Shoes off? She had shoes on. She led him to a neat Edwardian sitting room on the left. Through glass doors Noel noted a desk, a computer, a chaos of paper.

“Sit down. We will not talk about gardens.”

“Good.” Noel sat on a suede ottoman.

“You would like some tea.”

“Of course,” Noel agreed.

She headed down the hall.

He looked about the room. One wall held a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with books. A quick scan showed Lucille Maple's range, at least as represented here: from sixteenth-century poetry to sci-fi power-women, from European and Latin American travel to biography, mostly about or by women. And a separate section, books about islands; shelved, Noel noted, alphabetically by name of island. A high cupboard with china cups below, china dolls above. Against the side wall, Maple's music center—a CD player, tape deck, turntable and pre-amp.

Maple returned with a tray holding a pot of steaming water, milk in a plastic container, sugar in a silver bowl, and two tea bags on a plate. She took cups and saucers from the cabinet, set them down, dropped in the tea bags. “A godsend, microwaves, know what I'm saying? Sugar?”

“No thanks.” Tea bags were bad enough but a microwave to heat the water?

She handed him a cup, tea bag soaking. “Now then, Noel Franklin, ask me your questions. But since I usually ask the questions, I know all the tricks.”

He pressed a spoon against the bag, put it on the saucer and sipped. Bitter, already cooling. Then he sat back and put on a facade that suggested deep thought. He evaluated Lucille Maple. Early sixties, he guessed. Tall and fine boned, alert eyes, short curly grey hair, good muscle tone on her arms She wore a red-print blouse, denim skirt, ankle socks and running shoes. Tanned calves, he noted, also firm and trim. “I'm investigating Roy Dempster's death.”

“Silly twit. Do you know that since white settlement in the 1880s we've only had three murders on the island? Till this one.”

“So you're sure he was murdered?”

“Killed, anyway.”

“I read your article. You seemed sympathetic to him—”

“When you were at the
Vancouver Sun
, you wrote what you thought, yes?”

“How'd you know I was at the
Sun
?”

“Answer my question, I'll answer yours.”

“Okay. I wrote what I thought.”

Maple nodded. “Helps explain why you never became an editor.”

“I was an editor. Well, acting. How'd you know, anyway?”

“Young man, I've been raking muck for fifty years. I have my sources.”

Fifty? “Tracked me down between my phone call and now?”

“Of course.”

“Fast work.” He sipped the tea. “And your sources for the story about Dempster?”

“Dempster was an ass. But when I write for the
Gabriola Gab
it's not my role to take down Roy. Especially now he's dead.”

“Why lay his death at Marchand's door?”

“I didn't. The killer tossed the body there, not me. I ask: Why?”

“To throw the cops off-track? To lay the guilt on someone at Eaglenest?”

“Maybe. That'd be a little progress.” She squinted at him. “But again I ask, why?”

He laughed. She was questioning him. “You're very good.” Progress?

“Lots of experience.” She lowered her eyelids demurely.

Noel sipped more execrable tea. “Okay, could anyone there be guilty?”

“Oh, all of them, know what I'm saying? Guilty of something. Murder? I don't know.”

“Marchand himself?”

“Artemus Marchand is a gentleman.”

“Then why'd you light into him in your column?”

“Can't let prejudices show in a newspaper, know what I mean?”

No, he didn't.

“Listen, he discovers new young artists. Many aren't very good, but lots of artists from previous centuries weren't much good either. And the Marchand Foundation funds small projects in developing countries and stays out of the clutches of the IMF and the World Bank. That's enough in itself, but he also contributes to our charities. Without him, the Walk-In Breakfast Program would have died last year. He's put thousands into the Wildlife Conservancy. And anti-drug programs in Nanaimo. I can't imagine him hurting another person. My money'd be on his wife. A cool one, needs to hear regular glorious things about herself. Works with flowers. Some big surprise at the Thanksgiving show, I have to cover it. What can you say about a flower show.”

“What's the story with her? The wheelchair, I mean.”

Maple sipped. “I interviewed her when her gardening aids for the disabled were patented. Pretty and talented is Rosie Gill. You know Gill Timberlands Inc.?”

“Vaguely.”

“Her grandfather was Sihan Gill. Gills have been in the Cowichan Valley since the early nineteen hundreds, one of the first Indo-Canadian families on the island. Business goes to the eldest son, Nirmal, then to Nirmal Jr., Rose's older brother. But the others have to make their way with talent. 1978 Commonwealth Games, Edmonton, gold in the butterfly, silver in the relay. Montreal Olympics in '76, two golds. Glory. Her two greatest competitions and she never got to leave the country. She retired when she graduated from UBC, straight A grades in her majors, botany and chemistry. Didn't go on, though. Married Artemus, oh he was a dish, they met at a party a year after he finished at Princeton. Oldish whitish BC money marries oldish brownish BC money. By old I mean fifty to a hundred years in BC And what a wedding, Noel, what a wedding. Enough multiculturalism there to satisfy a decade of liberals.”

“You covered the wedding?”

“Yep. A ten-minute interview turned into a ten-second clip. Editors! Just as bad in TV as in newspapers, right?”

Noel didn't bite. “What did she say?”

“I interviewed her earlier. Told me how she became a sportswoman around town. Triathlon was her thing, she fought to make it an Olympic sport. Tennis of course, and charity golf. Then she takes up diving. Looked gorgeous on the high board, flips and double twists. She got a lot of TV time, being who she was. And her body was stunning. She'd organize performances for the cancer society. As if they need more money. For kids with cystic fibrosis. And one day, practicing, she springs, and comes down so her back catches the tip of the board. When they pull her out of the water they don't think she'll live. She was thirty-six. Paraplegic ever since. She your client?”

“Maybe my client's the brother. Tam Gill.”

“Tamar Gill. Artist. Nirmal's other pride. Art and sports, the lifeblood of the nation. But Tam never made it beyond Nanaimo. Not even into his brother-in-law's gallery. Good craftsman. But an artist has to grow, know what I'm saying? Not Tam Gill. A gallery in Nanaimo hangs him every other year and every show he's on a new tack. Three years back it was all abstract flowers in greys and browns. Before that, soft pinks and oranges for triptychs of nudes—men, women, kids. Last year he did super-realistic mechanical objects—inside of a stove, gearshifts, teeth of a water wheel. I have to review these things because he's a Gabriolan. How much can you say about a naked orange baby?” She finished her tea, not bothered by execrable.

Noel nodded his sympathy.

“‘Naked orange woman cute, naked pink man with large parts hairy.' Can't say too hairy, even if you know it. Not in a family newspaper.”

“Ms. Maple, how long have you lived here?”

“Forever. First time I came over was 1963, to visit a friend, and in half an hour I knew the island was made for me. One of those rare perfect matches. Before I retired I came here every time I could. And make that Lucille.”

Noel nodded. “And you came here. To write for the
Gabriola Gab
?”

“Not intentionally. I'm an old lady, Noel. Haven't you noticed?” She sounded, after angry, almost wistful. “Nobody wants a seventy-four-year-old muckraking old-lady TV journalist. Hell, no one wants a fifty-four-year-old female on TV, even if she looks thirty-four. Dumb pricks.”

Noel laughed and placed his cup and saucer on the tray.

“Sorry. That snuck out. No, life's fine here. But it's hard to get the hang of this writing stuff again when you're used to just talking. And my editor keeps sticking comments in my articles! Damn editors.” She snorted. “I love islands and this is a great one. I like it out on the water too—I kayak around the islands, camp sometimes. Old Maple fits right in, know what I'm saying?”

Noel figured he did. “Yep.” He stood. “Thanks for seeing me.” He shook her hand, a sincere shake. From both. “It's been a pleasure.”

She saw him to the door. “I'm a good interviewer,” she said, “and I know when I've met another. Watch those stones.”

“Won't take my eyes off 'em.” He wrote out his name and phone number, and handed the paper to her. “You learn or figure anything interesting, let me know.”

“About Roy Dempster?”

“Or whatever.” He stepped down to the walkway. At each flagstone he bent low.

“Hey! What're you doing?”

He turned back. “Watching the flagstones. Don't worry, they'll be okay.”

KYRA PARKED THE Tracker in one of the guest spaces at Cameron Island and ran. The ferry was already unloading. She paid her fare and hurried down to the crowd of foot passengers. After the last car drove off, she walked onto the ferry and strolled to the front. Really the front, not the bow; bow and stern were interchangeable, depending on the ferry's direction. A shuttle ferry, she thought, back and forth, back and forth. What would it be like to work on? What—Nonsense questions. Why? Nonsense questions were like juggling. Admit it, Tam Gill turned you on.

No way for a woman of thirty-six, married three times, given up on sex, to feel. Such a woman controls her hormones, right? But how do I know how I'll react to strangers? Like why did Marchand get to me, with his Pitti Palace throwaway? And Tam? And Tam.

She headed to the back of the ferry. Halfway there she noted a familiar white van. A white-on-blue handicapped logo hung from the rear-view mirror. Eaglenest Gallery. The greenhouse. Rose Gill Marchand. Another stranger I didn't take to. Kyra glanced toward Gabriola. Lots of water before we get there. She walked around to the driver's window. “Hello.”

Rose Marchand looked up from her book. “Oh. Hello.”

Kyra introduced herself again and looked into the van. The driver's seat had been removed to accommodate a wheelchair, clamped down left and right. “What a fascinating adaptation,” she enthused. “How do you manage the gas pedal? And braking?”

With a small why-does-everyone-ask smile, Rose said, “This is the gas. This is the brake.” She indicated levers on either side of the steering wheel.

“How do you get the wheelchair in?”

“With my pneumatic lift. Here.” She indicated her door with her head.

“So you can be completely independent?”

“Independence is important.”

“Indeed it is,” Kyra agreed. “I must say I admired your garden yesterday. I tried gardening once but I have a real black thumb.” A glimmer of interest from Rose? Or vexation? “The only plants I didn't kill were dandelions. Shouldn't gardening in Bellingham be just like here? I mean, no real difference in climate or anything?”

Rose closed her book and set it on the passenger seat. “Depends. Rainfall, sun, exposure. Something in your soil. Have you had it tested?”

“No.”

“It could be too alkaline.” Rose's expression turned less pedagogic. “Or acidic.”

“Maybe the previous owners did something.” Gardening, one of Kyra's weaker topics. “Do you grow all your flowers in the greenhouse?”

“I start the seeds there.”

“And Roy helped you with your flowers.”

She hesitated before saying, “Yes.”

“I suppose he'll be hard to replace.”

“He had a good eye. But Gabriola has lots of good gardeners.”

“Though not nearly as good as you. I drove around the island.”

Rose bowed her head slightly but did not demur. “One must strive for mastery.”

“Like your diving?”

Rose squinted at her. “Of course,” she said, dismissing both question and Kyra.

Kyra considered leaning her elbow on the window frame, but decided against it. Blundering should not be overdone. “The accident must have been terrible.”

Rose shrugged.

Kyra flinched in sympathy. “Your husband said some flower species are named for you?”