Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (16 page)

Eight car lengths farther. Ahead, the Peace Arch:
Children of a Common Mother
. The usual question waiting: Citizenship? Born in Brooklyn, a year old when she moved to Vancouver. Became a Canadian citizen at eighteen, just before going back to the States, Oregon, Reed College. A legal citizen of each country. Some border officials don't like you to have dual citizenship. So when she entered Canada she said Canadian, and the other way around. Six car lengths.

Five cars from the booth. Finally her turn. “Hello.”

Two officials, a crewcut male and a hang-jowl woman, who said, “Nationality?”

“American.”

“How long have you been in Canada?”

“Three days.”

“Purpose of your trip?”

The familiar guilt, border guards and police aroused it, clearly she'd done something wrong. “Family business.”

“Anything to declare?”

“No.”

“Please get out of your car and open up in back.” She did. Crewcut left the booth—taller than he'd seemed. “Would you open the suitcase, please?”

“Sure.” She did.

Crewcut wore gloves. He shuffled around in the case, looked under a couple of layers of clothes, closed the suitcase, slid it to the right, on the left he lifted the carpeting. Ran his hand along the metal, took a small baton from his belt and tapped first the side then the floor. A hollow sound. He dropped the carpeting and smoothed it flat. “Please open that case on the back seat.”

Kyra reached in, and passed him the open case.

He took out a ball. He squeezed it. “What's this?” He took out another.

“Standard juggling balls.” He looked at her suspiciously as he felt the rest. Then he tilted his head at the unsmiling woman. They stepped aside and conferred.

Kyra's guilt increased even as she told herself it was irrational. Did people really smuggle stuff in juggling balls?

The man and woman returned. He put the balls away, closed the lid and handed the case to Kyra. “You may go. Have a good day.”

“Thanks.” For letting me into one of my own countries? After an hour and a half in line? Gee whiz.

• • •

On the ferry Noel consulted the map of Gabriola and, once off, drove along South Road to Brickyard Beach and up Ferne Road—he hadn't been this way before—to the Taggart property. A long winding driveway passed through fir, cedar and broadleaf maples, then a lawn and garden in front of a low house, technically a rancher, one storey, sprawling, imposing.

Before leaving, he'd checked his tires. They were fine. Now he stopped the car and climbed out. And felt foolish for having come. But he hadn't been prepared to write the Marchand report. Or think about the new phone call. And the Chung manuscript had closed his brain down.

He stepped up to the front door and knocked; the family could have returned. Without Roy, who would be looking after the property? He knocked again. He sensed the silence of a long-empty dwelling. The drapes were drawn over the three windows he could see.

Off the deck, along a brick path to the side, more closed drapes. It's true, houses don't like being empty. The yard contained a tree with a tire swing and a garden area, unplanted. What had Roy been caretaking? Around to the back of the house. A nip of autumn held the air, but the sun still shone bright. Here at the edge of a brick patio sat a covered hot tub surrounded by built-in benches and planters. Beside the tub, a brick barbeque. He could live like this, cook a steak, lie in the tub, stare at the stars.

More mown lawn and weeded perennial garden back here. Roy's work? Woodshed, garage on the other side. Beyond the lawn, the property dropped gently to trees maybe thirty metres away. Noel walked down the lot.

A thin path wound through the trees, the duff between them free of windfalls. Then the vegetation changed to scrawny alder, small arbutus, and fir seedlings. Of course, Noel realized—these lots abut the clearcut. Roy would have done his caretaking, then gone bird-watching back here.

The trail, still visible but with more low growth, continued on. A deer trail? Birds rustled and a little stream seeped. In the spring would the ground be covered with those sweet small strawberries? About fifty metres along he was suddenly confronted by an impassable thicket of Himalayan blackberry vines, still a few drying berries, highest growth around. The path, even fainter, headed around the berry patch to the left. An extensive patch. When blackberries find conditions they like, they spread.

Then suddenly the trail ended in a trample of mud facing the tangled vines. The Taggarts' private blackberry patch: wine, jam, pies. Recently trampled, he noted, and the Taggarts had been gone since April. Gingerly grasping a vine between its thorns, he pulled it aside. It caught other vines, separating them from the rest like a door in the thicket wall.

Behind the vines, planted in soldierly rows, thick green cannabis. The center of the blackberry patch was hollowed out. Not a few plants for personal use, but dozens, maybe more than a hundred. It looked high quality and close to harvest-ready. Like the pot Lyle had brought for Brendan. But Roy the Faith Bearer, growing pot? Albert would be most interested.

• • •

I like Bellingham, Kyra thought, as the I-5 bisected the city's northern reaches. Slightly smaller than Nanaimo, about the same age, its history too was coal, logs, pulp and fish. Only 150 miles between the cities, both seaports, both with islands in view, both hilly, both with sprawling malls off a highway. What, she wondered, made Bellingham so not-Nanaimo? She'd thought for years, if she could figure this out she'd have figured out the confusing difference between Americans and Canadians.

It's in the architecture, she used to think. Houses in Bellingham are more, well, American. Verandahs, gingerbread. So she'd studied certain Vancouver neighborhoods, Strathcona, Mount Pleasant, parts of Kitsilano: verandahs, gingerbread. Like Nanaimo. Then she'd got picky; Canadian verandahs are higher, require more steps; perhaps American houses don't have basements.

The flags. Yes, a major difference. Especially now. But even before September 11th there'd been way more Stars and Stripes in American neighborhoods than Maple Leafs in their Canadian equivalent. A lot of Canadians thought it the height of ostentation to fly a flag when you know perfectly well what country you're in. Flags belong at borders and embassies. What do these flags mean? This is the house of a patriot? Death to all terrorists? I grieve for those who died in Iraq? And what does it mean not to fly a flag? Surely not the opposite.

She'd come to Vancouver in 1973 when her parents were hired to teach at the new state-of-the-art Simon Fraser University, a few years after the Maple Leaf was proclaimed the new Canadian flag. Some people missed the old Red Ensign and had refused to fly the new banner. Thirty-something years wasn't long for a flag. Over two hundred for the Stars and Stripes.

The Fairhaven exit, thank heaven. This bit of I-5 was concrete slab, not asphalt, and she always wondered how her castanets of teeth fared as the car bumped along. At least her speedometer matched the m.p.h. signs. Stop at Albertson's for food or check the fridge first? Fridge, she decided, it's only been three days.

The utilitarian side-by-side duplex she'd rented after she and Sam had split was a green box with two doors, four windows, two straight cement walks flanked by two driveways. She parked the Tracker in hers.

In the living room, a nondescript nubbly beige sofa, an armchair clothed in fading spotted blue, and a wood chair awaited her. She was fond of that one, a Hepplewhite from her father. But it wasn't the sort of chair that commanded, Sit in me. The dining room held her computer on a door blank propped on two filing cabinets. The kitchen sported the fridge, a stove, sink, table and two folding chairs.

At least Noel's got a real home. Despite Brendan's death Noel's place is warm and welcoming. I've got a place that sulks, that whispers, I know you don't want to be here.

You're right. But it's not your fault, house. Kyra vowed right then to move.

She opened the fridge and sniffed the milk. Off. She flashed to Jerry Bannister's kitchen yesterday. She poured the milk in the sink and ran the water. Okay, go to Dos Padres for a margarita and chimichanga. Phone Sarah, her friend from the juggling group, also recently separated? Walk the three blocks, she needed the exercise. She checked her phone messages. Mike, her ex-burglar friend and teacher; a drink some evening? Sam, just calling to say hello. Amy, an old friend from Reed. Not many calls for three days away. Quickly she read her e-mails: no, she didn't need her penis enlarged; a petition about the plight of women in Afghanistan that she'd seen word for word years ago. Noel: pot plants in a berry patch in the clearcut beyond the Taggart property—huh?—and he'd been trying to reach Albert. She wrote him back immediately: What the schmidt are you doing?

• • •

“Albert, it's Noel again. Hi . . . I went to see where Dempster was caretaking. Did Yardley say anything about pot production inside a berry patch? . . . Yeah, lots of it. Footprints in the mud, since the rain . . . Right. He should follow the little path . . . Sure. My lips are sealed.”

• • •

Kyra felt her father's comments tugging at her. Her curiosity itched. And scratching brought back Tam Gill telling her about the Sienese school-of across the cappuccino table— Hmm. She set out for Western Washington University's Art Gallery.

The air felt cooler, wafts of autumn rising from brown alder leaves crunchy underfoot. She liked this campus with its view of Bellingham Bay and the San Juan Islands. A permanent sculpture display studded the rectangle between the Science buildings. She threaded her way through to the Gallery.

• • •

Noel backed up his report to Marchand on three floppies and a memory stick. He hadn't mentioned the pot plants behind the Taggart property. Wait for Kyra's reaction, consult with her? No, pot in the clearcut has nothing to do with the Gallery's reputation. He clicked the Send icon. He felt a pang of regret. Kyra opened a door, crossed a foyer, descended five steps to a room with white walls and pictures. A man at a desk looked up from his book. “May I help you?”

“I understand you have an example of the fifteenth-century Sienese School.”

“Right. The far room of our permanent collection.” He was young, ponytailed, nose ring. Clearly a Fine Arts student. Or MBA in training. “Like the pamphlet for our new exhibit? Hiromi Takabuki, we were lucky to get him.”

“That's nice,” said Kyra. “Local artist?”

“Well, Portland.” The kid smiled. “Close enough to be local.”

She took the pamphlet. “Thanks.” In the designated room, she spotted what she assumed to be The Example between a still life of flowers, a dead rabbit and two pheasants, and a pastoral scene of river with boat and surrounding cows. The Example was a Seated Madonna with Child. What else. The Madonna looked tired, the Child a tiny old man in the Madonna's arms. Something wrong with the Madonna's chair—it tilted forward. Kyra studied it. The Madonna looked as if she were about to slip off. Five centuries of slipping. Poor dear, thought Kyra. Tilted back would give the correct perspective. The Madonna had olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. A lot of gold in the background, and small angels. The image hung behind a Plexiglas screen. Kyra read the information plaque:

A fine example of the Sienese School, unattributable to any one artist. The Sienese School is the name given to the many artists who produced frescoes, triptychs and icons in Siena from the late 13th or early 14th century until the mid 15th century. Duccio (1260–1318), Simone Martini (1284–1344), Pietro Lorenzetti (1305–1348), and his brother, Ambrosio (1319–1348) were among the notables.
Madonna and Child
, the left side of a triptych, the part seen here, exemplifies the Byzantine influence that hung on longer in Siena than Florence, where Giotto (1267–1337) was changing the representation of the human form to a more natural look. Donated by Dr. and Mrs. Irving Williams, 1971.

• • •

Kyra studied the painting again. A more natural look would help. Okay, I can go. She glanced quickly at the other images in the permanent collection. Twentieth century, names she didn't know. An unrecognizable bronze lump on a stand. Definitely she liked a more natural look.

Kyra passed through the Takabuki exhibit and glanced at the paintings. Naturalistic images swam through abstract swatches of color on heavy canvas. After a few pictures, she got it. A gas pump and a missile amongst trees. A blurb of red that could be a polluted lake, or just rage. Another of birds pecking at piano keys, splotches around the piano legs maybe dead birds. At first each picture seemed painted in a different style, but quickly their unifying intention began to impose itself. Clever, Kyra thought. A special talent. I should give artists more time. Like that Madonna. Was it painted on wood? At the desk, Kyra asked, “What do you know about the Sienese school-of?”

The kid looked up with a sweet smile. “Just what's on the wall. If you come back in December I'll know a lot more, that's a course I'm taking.” He stood up. “The Curator's in from lunch. I'll get her and she can tell you about it.”

“Oh, that's okay—”

“No trouble.” He stepped back to a half-open door behind the desk and knocked.

Kyra stared at a rainy streetscape. A line of giant ants marched down the sidewalk.

“Hello. May I help you?”

Kyra turned. A woman, blonde hair, about Kyra's age, tall and slim, smiled expectantly.

“These are very funny paintings,” Kyra said.

“Yes they are,” the Curator's smile stretched to a grin. “Takabuki's a great humorist.”

“I was wondering about your Sienese school picture. Is it painted on wood?” They walked toward the permanent collection.

“Yes. Until the early Renaissance, it was usually wood. Or painted directly on the wall. It's varnished egg tempera with gold leaf.”