Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (25 page)

He came out, saw his sister's face and knew why she'd stopped by. So he grinned.

Rose said, “What?”

“She's clay in my fingers.” Tam shook his head, grin still in place. “If I were a sculptor, you'd say I created a work of art this afternoon.”

“Tam! You let her into the cabin!”

“Don't worry. Like a beer?”

Rose glared at him, turned her chair, and slowly wheeled away.

IN GINA'S THE hostess hello'd and how-are-you'd Noel and Kyra and led them to a table.

Kyra glanced at the menu. “I should branch out. But it's always back to a chimichanga.”

“You guys ready?” A young man, short hair gelled, three rings in each ear, a nose ring, stud centered in his lower lip, set down a basket of taco chips and salsa.

Noel said, “We'll have a jug of margaritas, please. The small.”

Kyra smiled. Sometimes a man being authoritative could be nice.

“And,” Noel looked at her, “we're still studying the menu.”

“Our specials tonight are—”

A lip stud. How does he kiss? The only special Kyra caught was chicken chili rellenos.

Noel said, “Tuna mole sounds interesting.”

“Okay,” the ringed man rapped cheerily, “I'll be back.”

“—someday,” Noel lilted.

A great smile. “Ya got it, dad.” Flicked his extra menus and moved to the next table.

“Who is he?”

“Nineteen-year-old tree planter, twenty-six-year-old physics PhD, thirty-one-year-old downsized electrical engineer. He's got a job in a restaurant. The growth industry.”

Minutes later the waiter was back with a margarita jug. She settled for chimichanga. Noel ordered the tuna mole. The server said, “You won't regret it, dad, it's some dish.”

Kyra poured, sipped, took a chip and salsa-ed it. “Yum. Okay, what do we know?”

Noel opened his laptop and told Kyra about his Hermitage research. “And we know bits of Rabinovich's history. Is it important? I don't know.” Noel scanned the Eaglenest directory.

“Okay, why did we just spend time at that casino?” Kyra sipped again.

“Never been before.” He grinned. “Check out everything. Like why go to Vegas to stay in an expensive room with a school-of painting.” Noel drank too. “Mmm, good.”

Kyra mulled for a moment. “We're not focusing. We're interested in the owner, not the guests.”

“Eaglenest sells paintings to The Hermitage. Marchand's people bought these paintings—”

“Actually, Tam Gill bought them. Marchand's team just locates.”

“He makes the decisions alone?”

“That's what he said.” She detailed her visit to the Gallery. “Hey, I got photos of the paintings.” She described them. “You figure they're for The Hermitage?”

“‘December, special display of five new paintings.' Tam say what they sold for?”

“Nope.”

“We'll find out. I've got their names in the file.”

“Good. Tam said the names. I don't remember but I'll recognize them.”

Noel typed.

“But where are they coming from and why can't others find them?” Kyra took a couple of chips. “Another talk with Marchand.”

The waiter appeared with their entrees. He scowled at Noel's computer. Noel saved, slid the laptop into his tote bag and set it gently under his chair. “Enjoy,” the waiter said.

They took a first bite, Noel's mole delicious, Kyra's chimichanga fine and spicy. She said, “Okay. Our three Marchand-Gills?”

“Artemus, independently rich, Princeton, won't show island artists, gives a leg up to others like Lyle, finds schools-of Old Masters, sells them for big money. A foundation, grants to small-scale technical projects in the Third World, to moderate drug projects like Lyle's group.”

“And his wife.”

“Athlete, Olympic medalist, now paraplegic but impressive upper body strength, studied botany and chemistry, perfectionist, mucks around with flowers. Two species named after her. Respected. Botanists come to call. A large greenhouse.”

“Right. Invented tools for it.”

“Fears contamination. A big shed, plastic covered.”

“Big,” she repeated, thinking. “Perspective?”

“Huh?”

She shook her head. “And Tam.”

“Artist, technically very good, range of styles, buys for Marchand, does karate.”

“Control freak,” Kyra added, “Handsome and sexy.” She grinned naughtily. “Great in bed.”

“Kyra!”

“Detecting is a complex art.”

“Kyra. For fucksake.”

“Precisely.”

“But it's the wrong kind of involvement.”

“I'm very objective.” She set her hand on his. “I'm careful too. Always.” Well, mostly.

Noel saw her, ten years old. He put a mental arm around her shoulder. To protect her. To safeguard himself. She had been more intimate with Tam Gill than she could ever be with him. No, he wanted only her friendship. Still it hurt that someone had been closer to her than he would ever be. He tried a laugh but it came out busted. He made himself say, “And how was it?”

“My body felt like it'd been played by a great violinist.”

He looked at her, a woman of thirty-six. “Kyra the Stradivarius.” A couple of lines on her forehead he hadn't noted before. “One more celibate bites the dust.”

“Whatever the investigation calls for.” She noted his scowl; disapproving? sad? both, maybe. “I think Sue's BAV stuff got to me. I never meant to be a saint. Even less a born again virgin.” But, she wondered, had she just hurt Noel? Not the sex part, that wasn't what she and he had together. Something else. What?

Noel returned to his tuna mole. It suddenly tasted off. He realized it wasn't the mole's fault. “Okay. Could Tam Gill be preventing others from finding paintings?”

“How?”

“Threats? Intimidation?”

“Doesn't sound like Tam. He's a charmer.”

“Okay, who does he charm to stay away? Or maybe he paints them himself.”

“No way. They test carefully, pigment analysis and all that. You can't forge seventeenth-century paintings in the twenty-first century.”

“The forged painting Artemus gave away was viable for more than a hundred years.”

“But it was found out.” She took the last bite of chimichanga. “Maybe it's just his luck. Like repeat winnings from the same slot machine.”

“Maybe others find these paintings, too, but Eaglenest offers the most money.”

She shook her head. “My father would've heard about that.”

The waiter arrived, took their plates, proffered the dessert menu. They shared a piece of chocolate cake and ice cream.

“Now.” Kyra pushed her plate away. “Can we talk about our partnership?”

“Potential partnership. Let's talk on my balcony. Over a nightcap.”

• • •

“Don't forget your computer.”

“More chicken, Rosie?”

“A wing. It's delicious.”

Artemus knew the paprika sauce was excellent but appreciated the compliment. And dinner alone with Rosie was just fine. The meal was a favorite of Tam's but he had chosen not to join them. So, a good evening and Artemus' private world was in fine shape. Rosie smiled warmly. He was not prepared when she spoke.

“Artemus,” she said. “I'm worried.”

“Oh?” He put his fork down. “About what?”

“Maybe— I think we have to stop making shipments to Rab.”

“I don't understand.”

“We've done very well. We've reached a—a kind of peak. But with the increasing fear of terrorism, the country's changed. All this new security. Maybe the time has come to stop.” She sighed. “And I worry about Tam traveling so much.”

“Rosie— I think that might make Rab very unhappy.”

“We shouldn't be greedy. Either of us.”

“No telling what an unhappy Rab might do.”

She felt a small shiver but wheeled to his side and took his hand. “I think Rab will understand.”

“But what about increasing the Foundation's endowment?”

“It's strong enough for what we want to do. We have to leave well enough alone.”

“Rosie, do you really think things have changed that much?”

She looked into his eyes. “I do.”

“I mean, for all our work.”

“Yes.”

Perhaps for Rose. But his charitable endeavors couldn't disturb anyone. Just the contrary. Commerce and philanthropy must go hand in hand.

• • •

They dropped off the film of the Gallery paintings at the drugstore. At his apartment Noel unlocked the door and Kyra entered. He stared down at the rug. “How'd you do that?”

“What?”

“Kyra—” He shook his head and closed the door. “A little tequila?”

She glanced at the rug—parallel to the threshold—then at Noel. “Yeah. Tequila and talk. I'll get the drinks.” He suddenly looked worried.

“It's at the back of the cabinet. Use the narrow glasses from the cupboard.” The answering machine was blinking. Noel pressed the Play button. Albert's voice: “Got your messages. What's up? Call me at home.” Noel did. The machine again. In the bathroom he peed and washed, then returned to the bedroom. Something felt off. He glanced around. In the dim light all looked normal. Except— A chill took him. He flicked the light switch. On the chest of drawers, two photos, himself and Brendan. The third, of Brendan alone? He walked to the chest. The picture lay image side down. He stared at it, reached for it. Stopped himself. “Kyra!” He stepped backward to the door, turned. Bumped against her.

“Hey! Careful.” She held out two full tequila glasses. “What?”

He pointed. “Brendan's picture. It's face-down!”

“So? It fell.”

“It can't fall forward. It leans backwards.” A glimmer of sweat beaded down his forehead.

She put both glasses on the chest and picked up the photo. Brendan smiled out at her. His cleanly etched eyes and lips, in life making him attractive to men and women both, looked weary. “At least the glass didn't break.” Noel's carotid artery throbbed. She lay her hand on his wrist.

“How'd it fall?”

She checked the hinge and set the picture upright. “I don't know. A small earth tremor?”

“Oh sure.” He pulled his arm away. “Here, but it missed Gina's.”

“I have no idea. Come on, let's have our drink and talk.”

He took his glass and followed her out of the bedroom. Halfway to the balcony his feet slowed. The rug, the picture— “Wait. I have to show you something.” Back to the bedroom, pull open the bottom drawer, reach for the envelope— He thought about it, in the kitchen he opened the utility drawer—

“What's up?”

“Just a minute.” He found a package of plastic gardening gloves from Brendan's patio garden days, tore off two, slipped them on, returned to the bedroom, lifted out the envelope. Back in the living room he plopped onto the couch. “Read this.” He drew the newsprint obit out of the envelope and unfolded it. She sat beside him. “I'll hold it. You read.”

She did. She said, “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“When did you get this?”

“Yesterday morning. Leaving to go to Gabriola.”

“What! And you waited till now to show me?”

“There hasn't really been a chance. Lyle was here and—”

“You could have told me.”

“I wanted to speak with Albert first. I mean, it could just be someone playing a joke.”

“Like the tires.”

“Okay, the tires. And Brendan's picture. Someone's sending me a message.”

“About?”

“No idea. But I do think someone broke in here this evening.”

“Wouldn't take much.”

“Guess not. Any ideas?”

“Yes. Our drink. Tomorrow you show it to Albert.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “Uh, let's have our talk in the morning?”

To the bleak look in his face she said, “Sure. We could use some sleep.”

He glanced at his watch. Barely 9:30. “Yeah, I'm tired.” He drank down his tequila.

“Good night.” She kissed him on the cheek, and left him.

He took off the gloves and set the envelope on the dresser beside Brendan's picture. He undressed, lay down, tried to read. The words on the page buzzed into each other. He killed the light, shut his eyes. Did someone break in? He fell asleep. Dreamed of Brendan, a high stone wall in the woods, Noel on this side, Brendan, Kyra, Sam and Lyle on the other. All walking fast, the wall went on, on, he met people—

He sat up, sharp awake. Checked his watch. 1:18. Kyra, Sam and Lyle with Brendan on the other side. He turned the light on. Peed, drank some water. The picture of Brendan, upright as it should be. “Good night, Brendan.” He sat on the bed.

Stood. Strode across the living room to the study. Opened the door. Kyra, a fast-asleep lump on the couch-bed. In the corner, his computer. He tiptoed over, turned it on.

Kyra muttered, “I hope that's you.”

“Yep.” The computer whirred.

“What you doing?”

“Checking. I— Aagh!”

“What? What?” Kyra leapt from the bed.

“There.” He pointed to the screen.

“What?” She stared. “I don't see anything.”

He pulled away from the keyboard. “Brendan's gone.”

“Oh!” The first computer image Noel saw every morning. Erased. “A glitch?”

“Somebody was here.” He checked his closet. “Computer glitches don't move pictures. Or a rug.” He checked the balcony.

“But why?” Kyra wore her jacket as a bathrobe.

Noel sat. He took a deep breath. Released it. Sat forward. Tapped the keyboard, worked down his subdirectories. Third level, Other. Fourth level, Eaglenest. Fifth, first subdirectory Artemus. Subsubdirectory, Artists. He opened the first file: some electronic garbage, half sentences about flowers, Hermitage, pieces of words jammed together. “It's fucked.” Second file, background, schools-of: snatches on gambling, many smiley faces, e-mail addresses chopped up.