Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (12 page)

Rose tightened her mouth. “
Chrysanthemum articum roseum
and
Gladiolus callianthus gillis
.”

Kyra shifted to wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Will other new flowers be named after you too?”

“Probably.”

“Are your flowers available?”

“I suppose so. But that's not the point.”

“Oh? What is?”

“To create one perfect plant.” Rose half-lidded her eyes. “When you've done that, there's nothing left to prove.”

“Oh. Well. Your husband must be so proud of you.”

Silent, Rose stared out the windshield.

“And you're so careful, you worry about germs getting on your plants.” Kyra looked forward. The wall of trees behind the Descanso Bay ferry dock loomed.

“One must be careful. More and more diseases are air- and waterborne.”

Kyra stood instructed. “I hadn't noticed.” She stared at the gas lever, the brake lever. “You studied botany?”

“Yes.” The silence grew thick.

“Where'd you go to university?”

“Excuse me. I have to prepare to unload.”

“Oh.” Too direct. Slow down—no, let it go. For now. “Well, good luck.” Kyra stepped back. Rose inclined her head in dismissal. Kyra joined the foot passengers at the front. Tam clearly owned the Gill family's allotment of charm.

• • •

Kyra found Noel at the pub by the ferry, sitting in a large chair at a table. She plopped into another chair. “Golly gee.”

“What do you know?” Noel asked, his tone bright.

“I've just had an unsatisfactory conversation. ‘One must strive for mastery.'”

“I agree with that.”

“You wouldn't if you'd just heard it from Rose Marchand.”

“Yeah?”

Kyra reprised her conversation with Rose. “And I had my meeting with her brother.”

The server arrived, a tall woman. They ordered beers and hamburger platters.

“Tam Gill,” said Noel.

“They have people in Europe locating these schools-of paintings. Gill checks out each one.”

“So now you can tell your dad how he finds them.”

“Okay,” said Kyra, “your turn. Tell me what you know.”

Noel filled her in: Dempster's body dumped, his truck at the community hall. Bird book yes, but not the binoculars Sue had mentioned. “Maple's sure he was murdered.”

Kyra said, “Then it wasn't Marchand. He wouldn't dump Roy's body on his own front lawn.”

“Unless he's extremely devious.”

“Don't see him as devious. Now as to Rose—”

“Why would she want to kill him?”

“They're having an affair, Roy calls it quits, she kills him. If she can't have him no one can.”

“Oh sure, she wheeled up on him in her sporty wheelchair, he knelt down, put his face in her lap and she bashed the back of his head in with her trusty trowel.”

The server set down their mugs of beer, and they drank.

“How about blackmail,” said Kyra. “Roy discovered Rose's deep dark secret—”

“Which is?”

“Everybody has one.”

“Oh yeah? What's yours?”

“If you don't know,” she smiled sweetly, “I won't tell.”

“What's Rose's?”

“Murder, maybe? Roy and Artemus are having the affair, Rose gets jealous, she kills Roy to save her marriage.”

Noel shook his head. “Not the homophobe Roy whom born-again Sue knew.”

“Still, we can't rule out blackmail. Even if we don't know who was being blackmailed.” She saw Noel's grimace. “Okay, we weren't hired for that. Just to clear the Gallery.”

Noel considered this. “The body was dumped there. That clears the Gallery.”

“Except Marchand didn't need us to get that information. The Mounties already knew that.”

“But they never told Marchand. We have to.”

“And we also have to talk to Roy's sister, and the friends.”

Noel took a mighty glug. “And Albert at six. Maybe he'll dot each
i
and cross each
t
for us.”

“Great.” Kyra glugged too. “Tell me about Maple.”

“She's quite the gal. Seventy-four, has a kayak and a vintage TR6. We talked journalism. Nose like a ferret. Anything she may know she kept to herself. So I decided just to chat her up. Maybe tomorrow she'll open up some more. My sense is, she figures if she keeps digging she'll beat the Geese to the perp.”

“Jeez, Noel, who writes your lines?”

“I'm learning to talk the talk, don't you think?” He consulted his notes. “She insists there's no way Artemus had anything to do with Dempster's death.”

“But that column practically tried and sentenced him.”

“She said she was being objective. Oh—she's written an article about Rose Gill's inventions. Remind me to look it up.”

The food arrived, hamburgers with lettuce, tomato, mushrooms, onions, jalapeños, mayonnaise, relish, and mustard. The fries were crisp and hot. He told Kyra about the two Thanksgiving shows weekend after next, art and flowers. She told Noel about Tam's enactment of the fight here in this pub. “Tam's more of a charmer than his sister. But, like her, he insisted Marchand didn't need to hire us.”

“We all agree, then.” Noel chewed and swallowed. “Still, why get so het up about it?”

They finished their hamburgers. They munched their fries. Noel reached for the bill and stood. “Roy's sister, the friend, and Albert. Then we turn in our report.” He paid, they left. Working with Kyra made him feel like her contemporary. When he'd been her age he'd felt he could do anything, all options available. A long time ago, so few years back. They reached his Honda Civic. He glanced at the tires. Fine. He'd be sorry when she went home to Bellingham.

• • •

Roy Dempster's sister Charlotte Plotnikoff lived on Malaspina Drive. Noel turned at a sign pointing to Malaspina Galleries.

“More galleries? Schmidt, another artist? Doesn't anybody here work for a living?”

“You don't think art is work?”

“Not what I meant.”

“Anyway, it's not an art gallery,” Noel said, recalling his research. “Naturally scooped rock formations. Apparently pretty dramatic.” Two minutes later he stopped. “Here's the house.”

Charlotte Plotnikoff's home had to be on the waterfront, but from the driveway the house blocked any sense of beach. Half the door was glass. Noel knocked on the wood frame. Through the glass they saw a staircase.

A minute passed. Kyra noted a rope dangling from a cowbell and pulled. It clanged. Below it an oyster shell overflowed with butts. She wanted a cigarette—No, she told herself, no you don't.

A glaring woman in an ankle-length batik dress and no shoes pelted down the stairs. She opened the door. “Yes?”

“Ms. Plotnikoff?” The woman nodded. Noel introduced himself and Kyra. “We've been hired to investigate your brother's death.”

“Oh god, Roy,” the woman's face crumpled, she blinked fast and opened the door. “Let me put the lids on my tubes.” She dashed back up the stairs, calling, “Come in!”

Noel glanced down the hall, a high-sheen oak floor, to a living room wall-to-walled with thick white carpeting. “Shoe removal,” he said, kicking his off.

Now that she'd lived in the US all these years, Kyra found shoe removal a drag. In snow or mud it made sense. But September on Gabriola? With an eye-roll at Noel, she slipped off her shoes.

The woman came rushing back down the stairs. She led them into the living room. Noel's socked feet sank into the carpet. Beyond a wall of sliding glass doors, the view was a panorama of the Strait of Georgia from the hills behind Nanaimo to the Sechelt Peninsula. Texada and Lasqueti Islands were framed by two smaller islands. A short flight of stairs led to a sandstone beach and some tidal pools. A large bleached log nursed salal and a couple of cedar seedlings.

“Beautiful spot,” Noel exclaimed.

“We're very lucky.” Her tone indicated this to be her automatic response.

“Our condolences about your brother, Ms. Plotnikoff,” Kyra started.

“Charlotte, please. Oh god it's dreadful, dreadful.” The rims of her eyes reddened and she blinked rapidly.

Noel took control. “May I?” He dropped into a rose velour-covered armchair. Kyra chose a matching sofa.

Charlotte folded her arms and paced. She was a plump woman in her early fifties with short grey-blonde hair. The red-purple dress, hanging from her shoulders, suited her in an aging hippie manner. “I've been over it and over it. I just don't know who could have done this.”

Had she been in young Roy's druggie crowd? Noel wondered. “Roy have any enemies?”

“He was Mr. Kindness. My husband is phobic about heights so Roy cleaned our chimney. And the gutters.” She sighed. “I just wish he hadn't gone to work at the Gallery!”

“Why?” Noel asked.

“Marchand's such an arrogant, patronizing bastard. Like he's God's Gift to Gabriola.”

“God's gift.”

“Yeah, he wants to be a citizen of the world. And if the world comes to Gabriola because of him, then Gabriola becomes the world. You know he's got this foundation that gives away millions? Not to any of us, heaven forfend. Give it to us and nobody'd hear about it. Give it to somebody in India or Timbuktu and you're a great man. That's Artemus.”

Jealousy? “You say he ignores Gabriola artists?” Kyra wriggled the bait, a slow retrieve.

Charlotte bit and ran. “Damn right!” She dropped into a wood-armed chair. “He only shows from off-island. For me it's okay now, I've got four galleries that take my work. But it sure would've been easier if I'd had Marchand's support.”

“He outright refused to hang your work or just paid no attention?”

Charlotte turned to Noel. Her eyes narrowed. “I took him some pictures. He said he was booked up for the next two years.”

“You know he wasn't?”

“Look, I live here so I can't be any good. Heck, even his brother-in-law's in my boat. But I'm okay, I've got lots of support, other artists, my husband.” She considered this, and nodded. “Walt's very supportive.”

“Is he an artist too?”

“He has a denture clinic in Nanaimo. Making false teeth is a lot like sculpting, he says.”

“But,” Kyra observed, “Roy did decide to work at the Gallery—”

“Too damn right!” Charlotte spat the words. “Roy didn't understand. ‘Just get over your feelings,' he'd say. ‘Get over your feelings and let your heart lead the way.' Bull.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him, anyone at all?”

“Nobody'd want to hurt Roy, ever.”

Noel stood, then Kyra. “We won't take any more of your time,” Noel said, “but if anything comes to you, please give us a call.”

“Of course.”

He gave her his number. His notebook was thinning. Should he get cards made up? She followed them down the hall. Crouching to tie his shoelaces, he asked. “Did Roy work anywhere else?”

“He was caretaking someone's garden while they're away. The United Arab Emirates, he said. But I don't recall their name.”

In the car, Kyra announced, “Dentures as art.”

“
False Teeth In Water Glass
.” Noel laughed.

Kyra pulled out the map. “This Steve Bailey lives on Harrison.” She showed him.

Noel backed out the driveway. “She sure has the venoms for Marchand.”

“She's the first person who's been down on him. Except for the Lucille article.”

“Lucille would know who from the island has gone to the UAE. I could ask her.”

“Good.”

“No investigation untried, right?”

They drove in silence for a couple of kilometres. Kyra said, “Listen, try this. Charlotte gets angry at Roy, they fight, she kills him—accidentally, on purpose, I don't know. She dumps his body at the Gallery to blame it on Marchand.”

Noel scowled.

“At least it's a hypothesis.”

A deer darted out of the bush and froze halfway across the road. Noel slammed on the brakes. “See? Like I said yesterday. Deer.”

The deer stared at the car, trotted to the shoulder, turned and stared some more. “Point taken,” Kyra said.

Noel drove on. Okay, start thinking hypothetically. He slowed and stopped behind three unmoving cars.

Kyra said, “Remind me who this Steve is.”

He looked in his notes. “Another buddy, Patty said. Non-F.B. friend.”

“Oh yeah.” They were stuck at a stop sign while cars, trucks and a school bus roared up the hill from the disgorging ferry. “What a drag,” she said.

Noel made a note about Roy's other job. “With luck we'll have time to check out Jerry Bannister too, the guy Bourassa mentioned.”

“If not today, tomorrow.” Kyra popped the glove compartment button. “What've you got for music?”

“Not much.”

She rummaged, and pulled out a computer floppy. “What's this?”

A wry grin from Noel. “Backup of the Chung book.” She didn't respond. “In case the condo burns down. Just leave it there.”

She rummaged some more, came up with a caseless tape. “Holy schmidt, this Grateful Dead's thirty years old!”

The ferry unload ended and they turned left. Past the museum, right at the cop shop, left and a final right. Noel cruised slowly. Kyra peered at addresses.

Bailey's turned out to be a mobile home, double-wide, with attached workshop and woodshed. Four tall cedars shaded the trailer. Summer-brown grass on all sides; no mower had visited it this year. On the far side stood a limp apple tree.

Noel's knock was answered by a man in shorts and a faded T-shirt. “Steve Bailey?” The man nodded. “We'd like to ask you some questions. About Roy Dempster.”

“We're making some inquiries.” Kyra held out her hand and introduced herself and Noel.