Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (17 page)

Again in front of the icon, Kyra asked, “Do you know where the other two panels are?”

“The right side is still in Siena. No one knows where the middle is.” The Curator turned from the painting to Kyra and stuck out her hand. “I'm Ann Blair, by the way.”

Kyra introduced herself. “That poor Madonna looks like she's going to slide off her seat.”

“It's another century before artists get a sense of perspective.” Ann Blair studied the icon. “We're lucky to have it. Only a few public institutions can afford paintings like that, some large museums and wealthy universities. Like Emory, with all its Coca Cola money.”

“I'm told newly discovered paintings came out of Eastern Europe, after it opened up.”

Ann nodded. “They get bought up quietly. Recently too by resort hotels. And casinos. Atlantic City, Las Vegas. And they get loans, too. There's a casino hotel in Vegas that has a gallery with combined shows from the Guggenheim and the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. A colleague who went to a trade fair there told me about it.”

“Really?”

“If that's not enough, there's even a place in Vegas that actually calls itself The Hermitage. It capitalizes on old art. Absolute debasement.” Tiny spots of red appeared on the curator's cheeks.

Kyra shook her head in sympathy. “How did the donors acquire your Siena school painting?” They were strolling toward the front gallery.

“I understand Dr. Williams picked it up in the last days of the Second World War.” Ann tsked. “A lot of art ‘changed hands' in that war.”

“I should learn more art history.”

“I'm giving a survey course next semester.”

“I just might take it. Thank you.” Waving in the direction of the kid, Kyra left. Where have I heard of a place called The Hermitage in the last few days? Something I read? Halfway home, she had it. Rose Gill's T-shirt. Picture Yourself At The Hermitage.

THE PHONE RANG. Noel waited a moment, then picked up. “Hello?”

“Hiya, buddy, how's it going?”

Buddy. Noel paused, then identified the voice. “Lyle?”

“Just calling to see how you're doing.”

“Oh okay. How about you?” Lyle had called three or four times since the funeral, just to check, he'd said, that Noel was okay. Right now Noel didn't want to talk to Lyle.

“Pretty good.” Lyle's tone was shiny-bright. “Want to get together?”

Why wasn't Lyle off being absorbed by his painting? Or by his teaching? Noel advanced with caution, “I'm finishing some research, don't know when I'll be free.”

“I know about your research.” Lyle laughed.

“Oh?”

“Artemus Marchand phoned me, worried out of his gourd. I recommended you.”

“Oh.” One mystery solved. “Why me?”

“Figured you'd be good.”

“Well, thanks.” I guess, Noel thought.

“So how about dinner. I'm buying.”

“Look, Lyle, I'm not really ready to eat out yet.”

“What's the big deal?”

“Eating out should be enjoyable, you know? I'm not up to that kind of joy yet.”

“Oh. Okay. Well how about a drink. You could come over here but the place is a mess—I'm in the middle of a real creative period.”

Then Noel heard Kyra chiding him: Go part way. “You could come over here. A drink.”

“Great. I'll bring munchies.”

Go on, Noel, Kyra was demanding. “I guess I could cook us a light meal.”

“First rate. When?”

Noel checked his calendar. Damn. Nothing on this week, of course. Get it over with. “How's tomorrow?” Anyway, he'd already dined out. With Albert. Without thinking.

“Terrific.”

“I warn you,” Noel warned hard, “Brendan was our cook.”

“I'll stand it,” said Lyle. “What time?”

“Uh, six-thirty okay?”

“Perfect. See ya.”

Noel broke the connection. Now why had he done that? If a drink felt like too much, why had he promised supper? For the moment he preferred it alone. Lyle was someone Brendan used to see. Had the two ever been lovers? Impossible to know. One of Noel's and Brendan's agreements, they'd never discuss past loves. Discuss, you begin to compare, which never brings you closer. Noel hadn't ever been drawn to Lyle, but he did admire the man for changing his life. Up to about three years ago Lyle had been, like Brendan, a stockbroker. And a promising painter. He'd always be promising, he told Brendan and Noel soon after he arrived in Nanaimo, unless he gave up his day job. So he took a half-time job teaching a couple of business courses and gave himself over to his painting. He'd chosen Nanaimo to be closer to his agent, Artemus Marchand. Who had hired Noel, and Kyra.

• • •

Puget Sound Life Insurance hadn't believed Treatman Taylor's spine gave him only two hours a day on his feet after he'd slipped on seaweed and cracked five ribs. The insurance company was right. Kyra contextualized the fourteen photos she'd taken of Treat happily swinging golf clubs at three separate courses, printed up the report, put it together with photos and invoice in an envelope and drove the finished project downtown to the Puget Sound Life head office. Margery said they'd get back when they needed her for more work, likely soon.

Back home she e-mailed Lucas, telling him what she'd learned from Ann Blair, adding, Found something kind of weird. Did you know casinos and hotels are buying these paintings too? She wrote Noel about the chat with her father, added Rose Marchand's The Hermitage T-shirt and The Hermitage casino coincidence, and described her meeting with Blair.

Too late for lunch, too early for supper. Maybe that new pizza place around the corner from the post office? Their mushroom and anchovy should be researched.

• • •

Artemus checked his e-mail. Ahh, the report from Franklin, long and detailed, many interviews. Known that Roy Dempster was killed elsewhere, dumped at the Gallery. Eaglenest was in the clear. A hard copy of the report would follow.

Good. And Lucille would be on about something new this week. A bill for two days, $2,000, which included expenses minus the $1,000 on account. Steep. Worth it.

Marchand sent back an immediate reply:
Thank you. There'll be a check in the mail.

• • •

Good topping, though the crust was too thick. But you can't learn about an
arriviste
pizza joint without trying it. Kyra filed it in her mind under
E
for Emergency, subdirectory Pizza—they stayed open till 3:00
AM
. She left her calls unanswered, decided her new-home search could wait, and watched a detective drama on TV. Too exciting. Unrealistic. Before going to sleep she checked her e-mail. One, from Sam, give a call when she got back. She glanced at her watch. After eleven. Too late to call? Sam stayed up late. No, just send him an e-mail. But he asked you to call, Kyra. She picked up the phone, pressed in his number. Four rings. Answering machine. “Hi. It's Kyra. You asked me to call. I'm calling. Call when you can.”

She located her leather case in the coat closet, brought it to the living room, took out three of the red balls. They lay comfortably in her right palm. She lobbed the first one up a couple of feet, as it approached its arc the second rose, the third as the first came down to her left palm. Higher. Three feet. Her fingers articulated, the ball spun and rose into the air as the second landed. Three balls going, easy. Six inches higher, a break in rhythm between third and first, her right hand dipped for the fourth ball, up it went. Up and around, down and over, up and around. She caught the balls a pair in a hand, picked out a fifth, began again: one-two-three; four; five. Her mind drained. A flow of motion to arms, hands, balls. She stopped, flushed. Best destressing she knew of. She went to bed.

In the morning she bought a newspaper and read the classifieds for new abodes. Rent or buy? She checked her e-mail. A quick note of thanks from Noel for the schools-of and The Hermitage information, nothing further re pot in the clearcut, a copy of the Marchand report and Marchand's response. While she was on-line an e-mail came in from [email protected]:
Thanks, Little One, for your note. The consortium agrees, we'd like you and Noel to learn more of how Marchand finds paintings. A few days. We are but poor antique dealers. Love, Dad.

• • •

The telephone rang. Noel picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hi. I just had an e-mail from Lucas,” said Kyra. “He and his antiques friends want us to find out how Marchand finds so many schools-of.”

A moment of silence. “Is that legit?”

“What?”

“Investigating an ex-client.”

A pause from Kyra. “We serve only one master at a time.”

“True.”

Kyra cleared her throat. “Let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“Interested in combining our research skills into an ongoing partnership?”

“Some sort of investigating agency?”

“Let me put it this way. I'd rather freelance with you than work for Puget Sound.”

This was moving too quickly. One thing at a time. “We better think about that.”

“And about Lucas' request?”

Now Noel felt a trickle of excitement. Okay, one thing, “Why not.”

“Uh—we couldn't charge them as much as Marchand.”

“You're the boss.”

Kyra gave that comment an instant of thought. “Tomorrow afternoon. I'll e-mail you my ETA.”

“Good. See you then.” Noel walked onto his balcony, shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Strange how Kyra was able to make him feel like a kid. Younger than forty-four, anyway.

• • •

Rose rolled in at five. Artemus kissed her and showed her Franklin's report.

“Not much use, were they?”

He'd known she'd say that. “Things calmed down,” he soothed.

“You shouldn't get so worked up about appearances.”

“Art is all about appearances, dear.”

An abnormal acerbity. Rose drew back. Artemus reached an edge rarely; most often she was allowed to blow for both of them. In a jocular tone she suggested, “A celebratory drink?”

“Good idea. Tequila?” He marched briskly to the wet bar and busied himself.

Rose watched him. Artemus brisked when getting control. Did he have that much face invested in his detectives? “Now everyone knows the gallery is irrelevant to Roy's death.”

“Right.” He turned and handed her a double tequila. “And now you and Tam can please get off my case. Cheers.” He smiled, his eyes holding hers. It felt great to be back on good terms with Rosie.

“Right.” She sipped, smiled back, and stroked the top of his hand. And you get off your case too.

• • •

A fine morning. Kyra felt back in the saddle. Though she hated the idea of another drive, that border, those ferries— Could she fly? She googled airline companies, found a site she'd never seen before, Raven Air, seaplanes daily, Tacoma-Everett-Bellingham-Nanaimo-Comox. She called. No problem, Bellingham to Nanaimo in forty minutes, flight leaves at 2:40 pm. First rate.

She'd have to see Tam Gill again. The final arbiter in buying specific paintings. She stared out the window, then picked up the phone and called information, a number for T. Gill on Gabriola Island. She pushed lightly on the 1, and the ten digits. “This is Tam Gill. I know I'll love the sound of your voice. Please talk to me.” How can such mellow tones come through a phone line. The click. “Hello, Mr. Gill. This is Kyra Rachel. You may remember me. I talked to you about the death of Roy Dempster.” There. That was easy. “I'll be in Nanaimo tomorrow and I'd like to meet with you. Please call me back.” She left her number. The back of her neck prickled. Ridiculous. She was done with all that. She was serving their client, the consortium. She was an intelligent self-controlled person.

• • •

Tam Gill studied the painting. That blue needed a deeper tone, maybe more purple. Nice thing about oils, they didn't dry too fast. He stepped out of his orange coveralls made more colorful with yellow, blue and green paint dabs, automatically felt for the key in the pocket, and scrubbed his hands at the sink. In his main room—living, dining, kitchen space—a light flashed on the answering machine: Hello. This is Kyra Rachel— He scribbled down the number.

What now? BSR said A. said the detectives had turned in their report. What the hell did she want? To get laid? He laughed aloud.

He took out the bread and searched the fridge for a sandwich middle. Or had A. ordered the snoops to keep on going? He might have; all summer he'd had these fits of indecisiveness. Shit. Tam closed the fridge and stormed out. He banged on the greenhouse door.

A long wait, then Rose pulled it open. “I've told you and told you to phone first.”

“The detective's coming back. She just left me a message.”

“What?” Rose wheeled out, closing the door. Her eyes and mouth tightened. Her brother. Her husband. They yanked at her loyalties. “Are you saying Artemus called them back?”

“Or she's after my bod.”

Could Artemus have changed his mind again? Why? Today at lunch he'd been fretting about three important critics who hadn't yet confirmed their presence for the Thanksgiving show. “When did she phone?”

“I don't know. What time is it now?”

“Ten to three.”

No wonder he was hungry. “Between nine-thirty and now.”

From nowhere Rose felt a pang of fear. “Artemus couldn't have.” Or, yes he could.

“Where is he?” Tam's stance had returned to focus, legs apart, body centered.

“Probably in his office.” She touched Tam's forearm. “We should all talk.”

Tam nodded. “I'll find him.” He left.

She wheeled in through her suite and along the hall. She watched Tam follow Artemus downstairs. As they approached she launched in. “Artemus dear. Did you rehire the detectives?”