Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (21 page)

“Okay,” Noel said.

“You got to get out more. There's this party coming up, whole community's going, dress as your fave movie star. I've got a great Dietrich schtick.” His arm dropped to Noel's shoulder.

Noel turned to face Lyle. “Marlene with a mustache?” He shook his head. “Thanks, but I'm not ready for a party yet.” Noel jiggled his glass and sipped. “Kind of you to ask, though.” Lyle's arm felt warm, but out of place. Noel inched his leg away, picked up Lyle's glass and stood. “Another? I'll check on dinner.” He headed for the kitchen. He realized he was flattered.

“I can make it.” Lyle followed Noel. He found the mixings and poured himself four ounces of vodka. “Freshen up yours?”

Noel added a glug of his cooking wine to the sauce. “Fine for now.” He poked at the potatoes steaming happily. He felt the pressure of hands on his shoulders and froze.

“It's true,” Lyle whispered into his ear, “you are fine.” He kneaded Noel's shoulders in gentle massage.

Noel dropped his head. This was ridiculous. But it felt good. But but but. He turned to face Lyle, forcing Lyle's right hand to pull away. He set his own hand over Lyle's left, applied a moment of pressure, then lifted Lyle's fingers. “Thank you, Lyle. We can eat in ten minutes.”

Lyle replaced his hands on Noel's shoulders, now facing him. “I want you to know that I've admired and liked you from the day we met. I want you to believe that.”

Noel wanted to pull his eyes away from Lyle's. He couldn't. He nodded. “Good of you to say that.” He nodded again, harder. “And I like you too. But—” And suddenly Lyle's lips were against his own. Only a little pressure. Enough to spark sensations absent many months. He didn't kiss back. He closed his eyes and waited.

Lyle pulled away. “I know. You aren't ready yet.” He grinned. “But you're coming along.”

The CD player moved to Cole Porter. Noel said, “I hope so.”

Lyle raised his hand to Noel's cheek and stroked it with his fingers. “I can feel it.” His amused tone washed into Ella singing, “I Get a Kick Out of You.”

Noel reached for his drink. “I do like you. You're witty and intelligent. Even handsome.” He took a sip. “But for now, can we just be friends?”

“Rejected before dinner. Mostly that happens after.”

Noel smiled sympathetically. He wished he weren't feeling a bit aglow. He hoped Lyle hadn't noticed. The glow felt good. But also scary. As if his face were too close to a flame.

Lyle reached for his drink, raised it to his lips and looked at Noel flirtatiously over his glass. “Doesn't mean I won't keep on trying, you know.”

Noel nodded. “Would you mind opening that lovely Mercurey?”

• • •

Kyra arrived at Noel's door, still shaken.
May I kiss you?
The words had reverberated all the way down the hill:
kiss you
the electric surge was there, she knew they both felt it. She leaned her forehead against the door frame. She'd said,
No
. This way to Born-Again-Virgin country.

Surely, if one decides to be celibate, one's head rules? She tapped it on the wood. So why the heck had her body responded so intensely? Her skin still tingled. She breathed deeply. She longed for a cigarette. A couple walked swiftly down the hall. Maybe she could bum a cigarette. She got out her keys and fingered them.

Her friend Mike, whose day job was painting houses, had developed a successful career in burglary until a small slip-up landed him three years inside. When Sam said to Kyra, Get a job, and that job turned out to be investigating claims for Puget Sound Life, she mentioned her work to Mike. Just out on parole, he said he'd be delighted to advise her on locks and picks and tumblers. She told him she didn't think she needed that. He'd said one never could tell when an interesting door might turn out to be locked. She'd said, Okay, why not? Mike had found teaching Kyra so satisfying that he'd printed up cards advertising his “School” and soon found a comfortable number of lock-picking students—would-be private eyes mostly, an academic criminologist wanting hands-on training for a research paper. And one or two unskilled burglars? Did he burgle off and on to keep from getting rusty? She wondered how she'd feel breaking into locked places. She had enjoyed the learning. Picking locks was a skill, like juggling. Not needed at Noel's door. Any key would unlock it. She slid hers into the loose lock and pushed the door open.

Noel sprang up from his chair. “Kyra! Welcome back. Glad you can join us.”

She noted Lyle move his arm along the sofa's back, the disgruntled expression on his face quickly rearranging itself to blandness. Had that been delight? relief? in Noel's voice?

Noel stared at her, “The shirt—” he forced a laugh, “looks good on you.”

“I hope you don't mind,” she said, and Noel shook his head. “Listen, you need to change your lock. And the deadbolt only has two screws.” She dropped her keys into her bag. “Hi. You're Lyle, right?”

“Yes. And you are?” He stood.

“Kyra Rachel,” Noel supplied. “You met at Brendan's funeral.”

“Oh yes. Hello.”

Noel turned to Kyra. “This is great. Plenty of
boeuf bourguignon
for all.”

“Certainly, dine with us.” Lyle, now debonair. “I want to hear about Noel's case. Has he told you he's been detecting?”

“Want a vodka tonic? Or something else?”

“Okay.” She'd had enough alcohol but needed a drink right now.

Noel zipped to the fridge. He blinked rapidly a couple of times. The shirt—

“We've been working on the case together,” Kyra informed Lyle.

He raised an eyebrow. “So you can both fill me in.”

A lot going on in the room, Kyra could feel it. She sat in the seat she thought of as hers, an over-stuffed 1920s green and grey armchair her father'd given Brendan and Noel when they made their public mutual commitment.

Noel handed her a glass. She sipped. Noel and Lyle sat. “And how are you doing, Lyle?”

“Not too well.” He grinned at Noel.

“We can eat if you want,” Noel said.

“Why don't you let Kyra drink her drink? Tell me about the case.”

Noel rattled his ice. “Body found on the Eaglenest grounds. The groundskeeper, actually.”

“Groundskeeper?” Lyle flipped his wrist in parody. “It's too
Lady Chatterley
. No one on Gabriola has a groundskeeper. Not even Artemus.”

“It's a booming business. They just don't call themselves groundskeepers.”

“Groundskeepers.” Kyra could feel herself relaxing. “Groundskeeper has a certain—”

“Cachet,” Lyle finished.

“Baggage,” Noel insisted.

Kyra instantly pictured four variants of sex in the grass. She set her drink aside for later.

Noel stood. “Dinner really is ready.” He brought the Dutch oven and a trivet to the table—set, she noted, with Brendan's Royal Doulton. First time out since he died? Bowl of steamed potatoes, loaf of sourdough French bread, green salad. First time Noel's had a dinner guest since Brendan's death? Who have you invited to dinner recently, Kyra dearie?

They served themselves. First mouthfuls, spoken yums for Noel. A Brendan recipe.

Lyle poured wine. “And the case?” he asked.

“Confidentially, we got paid for not very much.” Kyra sipped. “Very nice wine, by the way.”

“If I leave teaching, I'll become a sommelier. Contact me then.”

“Ah.” Two sommeliers today, both flirting. At least this one was gay. Safety there.

“Anyway,” Noel could satisfy Lyle's curiosity with common knowledge, “the groundskeeper was killed by a blow to the head.”

“I know that. I recommended you to Artemus, remember?”

Kyra looked up from her plate. “You did?”

“Sure.”

“Aren't there any established detective agencies in this town?”

“A few. But I've always thought of Noel as a natural investigator.”

For how long, Noel wondered, had Lyle thought of him other than as Brendan's partner?

Lyle turned to Kyra. “And you've joined Noel?”

No need to confide totally in Lyle. She fed a small smile a dab of
bourguignon
sauce. “I work for an insurance company.”

“Two naturals, are you? Couple of super snoops?”

Was Lyle suddenly, what? peeved? jealous? Noel said, “Investigative research is not the same as snooping.”

“But, since you asked,” Kyra sopped up some sauce, “we enjoy working together.”

“Oh?” Lyle said politely, and glanced to Noel. “You moving to Bellingham?”

“He wouldn't live in the States.” Interesting. Lyle knows where I'm from.

“Well, that's a relief.”

“He has no need to move,” Kyra continued. “We'd work both sides of the border.”

“It's only at an early talking stage,” Noel said. No. Damn. Sounded like he was apologizing to Lyle. They were nowhere close to working together.

“I like it.” Lyle folded his arms. “Always better to go international.” He turned to Kyra. “What do you do for your insurance company?”

“Oh, stakeouts, tailing.”

“In Bellingham?”

“Mostly on the islands. I've been on San Juan, Waldron—”

“Aha! There's your schtick. An international company detecting on islands. Yeah, guys, this could sell. Get out there. Advertise.”

Noel noted the excitement reaching Kyra's face. Slow down, Kyra. “Have some more wine.” He picked up the bottle.

“Yeah,” Lyle enthused, “it's a great idea. International Islands Investigation.”

“Islands aren't international—”

“Okay, International Investigation on Islands.”

Kyra tried. “Or Islands Investigations International.”

“That's it! I love it. I.I.I.”

“Triple-I,” said Noel. Why when you name something does it suddenly take on reality?

“Here's your logo,” Lyle waxed. “Three wide eyeballs connected at the edges.”

“The Cyclops Agency,” Kyra threw in, laughing. “Or the Third Eye.”

“You have to incorporate,” Lyle continued. “I could help you there, I know someone who can— Say, you could make it quadruple I. Islands Investigations International Incorporated.”

“No no no, not four.” Kyra shook her head. “We wouldn't want a logo that says myopia.”

Noel laughed.

Lyle said, with dignity, “Just so everybody can tell who you are.”

Noel didn't like this going public business. Let alone being pushed into a partnership in something he might never do. He sat up straight. “You wanted to know about our case.”

“I want to know everything, Noel.” Lyle chuckled, sharing the joke only with himself.

Lyle's sudden shift from enthusiasm left Noel uncomfortable. “The Mounties found the man's truck at the community hall and his binoculars at another house. The guy had gone into religion. An ex-hippie, ex-druggie. Had to be ex for Marchand to hire him, being so deadset against drugs.”

Lyle shook his head. “You know, Artemus isn't anti all drug use. Just uncontrolled use, the street scene. I agree with that—those pushers are evil. And recreational drugs, that sends Artemus into a tailspin. But controlled use for medical reasons is okay, he supports that. Remember how much good that grass did Brendan.”

“I do. With eternal gratitude.” Noel gave Lyle a weak smile.

“How do you know so much about Marchand?” Kyra asked.

“Hey, he's my agent, right? But also I'm the treasurer of GLANS and I—”

Kyra laughed. “What?”

“Gays and Lesbians Against Narcotic Slaughter. Artemus sends big checks to our annual fundraisers. Some who donate are categorically against drug use, others are just as explicit in demanding legalization. With someone like Artemus—he's considered the nuances—it's a relief.”

“Interesting,” Kyra mused. “I'd have figured him totally pro war on drugs.”

“Seconds?” Noel watched them both refuse. “Salad then?”

“Yeah, he leaves that impression,” Lyle grinned disarmingly. “Absolutes are dangerous. I'm with GLANS but I like really good pot.” A smile for Noel. “As you know.”

Bringing that pot for Brendan: was Lyle already coming on to me then?

Kyra served herself salad. “Tell us about Marchand. He sounded as if he always agreed with the last thing he heard.”

“I like the guy. Hey, all artists are a little in love—oh, and in hate—with their agents. He abhors conflict, tries his damnedest to avoid it. Maybe that's what you picked up on.”

“Maybe,” Noel said.

Lyle sorted through his salad with his fork. “He's knowledgeable on many topics. He went to Princeton, took so many partial majors it took him two extra years to graduate.”

Kyra, remembering the lure of arcane courses, nodded sympathetically.

“I'd say, Artemus Marchand is a gentleman in the best sense of the word.” Lyle gave Noel a honeyed smile. “A true Renaissance dabbler.” Lyle reached out. “I've changed my mind.” He served himself another dollop of
bourguignon
and took a chunk of bread. “Actually, we're quite incestuous. Artemus manages my art and I advise him on his portfolio.”

“How would you rate him as a dealer?”

“I'd say he has a great eye for art. Particularly mine.”

With sudden bravado Kyra asked, “And how good is Tam?”

“Gill?” Lyle reflected. “I'd say very good but,” more musing, “there's something missing. The thing that says a work is an original. You know, whatever makes it the artist's own.”

“Artist as against technician?” Kyra tried to elaborate. “Imagination? Vision?”

“All that. To see what's out there, and what's in here,” Lyle tapped first his forehead and then his belly. “Then meld them, then rise above them. Sort of, a translation.” He stared hard at Noel, then nodded to himself. “Like if I were to paint you—” He chuckled, another private joke. “That was delicious, chef. You'll make some lucky man a fine
hausfrau
.”