Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (3 page)

“That'd be good.”

Which was why he'd likely never write his book. That thought absorbed, she said, “You could solve a problem for someone. Without making yourself public.”

“I could. But why would I want to?”

“Because, third of all,” she realized he was taking the hook, decided, and grinned, “you'd be working with me.”

His brows went up. “You want to work together?”

“Why not?”

“We never have.”

“Lots of stuff we've never done together.” She grinned bigger.

He snorted a laugh. “And never will.”

“But,” and again she took his forearm, “getting involved with this dead man thing could be interesting. We've got different ways of looking around, so we'd learn twice as much as you would working alone.” There, that was good—build in some assumptions. And she had his attention. “Go on, call this guy. Say you'll be over soon. When's the next ferry?”

“What about you?”

“I'll be with you. But don't mention me till we get there. I'll be your, uh, associate. Now go call him.”

“I don't know, Kyra. I don't even have his phone number.”

She headed for the telephone rack, grabbed the book, found the number, read it out, handed Noel the phone.

Pushy. He dialed, mainly because he had no reason not to. Marchand answered. Noel said he'd reconsidered.

“Oh, very good. Could you come soon?”

“Well, if you want, this afternoon.”

“Excellent. There's a ferry in forty minutes.”

Noel glanced at his watch. “Okay.” Then he had another notion. “You have some sort of column about the case?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Can you fax it to me right now? Same number as the phone.”

“I appreciate this, Mr. Franklin.” Marchand gave him directions to the Gallery from the ferry.

Noel set the phone down. “Wonder why he called me? I'm not listed anywhere as an investigator.”

“Don't look at the gift horse's teeth.”

He picked up Brendan's photo, gave it a moment's loving stare, and carried it back to its proper place on the bedroom chest of drawers.

“Well,” he muttered to the photo, “I guess that's what I do with the rest of the day.”

The phone rang. The faxed newspaper column. They read it together.

WHAT IS THE CONNECTION?

By Lucille Maple
What is the connection between the body of Roy Dempster, long-time island resident and noted birder, and Artemus Marchand, world-renowned gallery operator?

This question is being asked in the market, in the Credit Union, in the restaurants and on the ferry, wherever more than one Islander is gathered.

What happened on Marchand's property that got Roy killed?

Who would want to kill such a nice man? Granted, Islanders know that Dempster was wild in his youth, coming to Gabriola as part of the 70s “hippie” movement, working as little as possible and spending his days (and nights) in a haze of various drugs, but he'd “turned over a new leaf” a number of years ago and had recently joined the “Bearers of Eternal Faith.” As a member of that upright organization, he was crusading against the vile vices of drugs (he knew them all) and was attending The Church of the Strait at the Narrows.

Someone (who shall remain nameless) was overheard to say that it can be no “coincidence” that his body was found on Marchand's property. Others speculate that the connection must go back to before Mr. and Mrs. Marchand [née Rose Gill. Ed.] arrived on our beautiful island, some sixteen years ago, after Mrs. Marchand's tragic diving “accident.”

Now how can this be? Everyone knows that until his “conversion” to the church Roy Dempster was a “layabout” who probably dealt drugs. He was not likely THEN to have had an opportunity to “hang” (as the youth say) with someone as important and influential and generous as Artemus Marchand. Dempster had been working for the Marchands as general factotum and “dogsbody” for only a year, long after he cleaned up his act. It is important for Gabriolans to remember how lovingly Roy tended the grounds of the Eaglenest Gallery.

On the other hand, “life is stranger than fiction” and so might there be a previous connection?

Or did the two have a serious falling out, as some Islanders, recalling Roy's old temper, have asked? Was Marchand about to “fire” Dempster?

Unless the Mounties are able to solve this heinous crime, Gabriola's tongues will continue to wag. But I caution our citizenry against “besmirching characters” and spreading possibly baseless rumours.

Noel finished after Kyra. He flicked the fax onto the table. “Total drivel.”

“Yeah, it is.” She ran her hand through her hair but failed to untangle a bunch of curl. “Still, Marchand wants to talk about it.”

“It's tripe and innuendo.” He glanced at the byline. Lucille Maple? Gawd. “Maybe this is a bad idea, Kyra.”

“It's a new idea. And you have to head in a new direction.” She set her hands on his shoulders and stared at him. “You'll always love Brendan. But you have to do something new and you don't know what. We'll take your car. Since I've paid for all-day parking.”

“Okay. You win. But slow down, Kyra.”

“And this evening I'm taking you to dinner.”

“You don't have to go back to Vancouver?”

“I'll stay over. Unless somebody's trying to scam my poor billionaire insurance company again and they need me tomorrow.”

He glanced at his watch, then down at the ferry parking lot. Not too full and they still had twenty-five minutes. “Let me find a map of the island.” He activated his computer screen, poked around the Internet and printed out three sheets.

Knows-where-to-look Noel. She smiled. He hasn't lost it. “So what did you find?”

“A map, ferry schedule, some tourist info. And the Gallery's home page.”

“Good.”

He looked out his window. The cliffs of Gabriola three kilometres away backgrounded the approaching ferry. Nice day, he thought. Sun on water, all that stuff.

“Tell me about the Gallery.” Kyra collected her purse and followed Noel to the front hall.

“Let's get on the ferry first.” From a little chest under the mirror he took a key. “Here.” He handed it to her.

“What's this for?”

“The front door. Just so you have one.”

She squinted at him, but took it. “Okay.”

He grabbed the printout information sheets, folded them, stuck them and a small notebook and pen in his shirt pocket, stuck the map in his leather jacket, corrected the angle of the inside floor rug to 30 degrees and locked the door behind them. “You know, I was on Gabriola once and met Marchand. A friend of Brendan's had a show at the Gallery. That painting above the couch? Lyle Sempken did it. Brendan bought it. You met Lyle at the funeral.”

Kyra remembered Lyle. Lyle had given Noel a hug of the sort, Kyra figured, Noel might one day have to think about. Handsome fellow, tall, elegant. When he slumped he still stood a couple of inches taller than Noel's five-ten.

“He's invited me for lunch a few times— No, not like that!” as she raised one eyebrow. “He's just someone to talk to, for god's sake. Brendan and I saw him now and then. Anyway, I said no.”

They headed for the stairs. “What's he like?”

“Who, Lyle?”

“Marchand.”

“Oh, cashmere sweater, silk shirt. Arcadie tie. He stood out.”

“Yeah?”

“It was an island opening, right? A few people in fluorescent sport pants and jackets, the Vancouver-on-holiday look. Mostly the usual small-island Gore-Tex and jeans. Clothes say it all.” He shook his head. “Put Marchand in overalls, I wouldn't recognize him.”

Across the lobby Noel unlocked a door and they stepped into the parking garage. Kyra wished she weren't wearing khakis and a casual shirt. For cashmere she ought to be in a suit, but at least she had her teal sweater to go over her shirt.

“I explored the house part of the Gallery. Marchand had lots of paintings on the wall. I'm pretty sure one was—you ready?—a Titian.”

She turned to Noel. “You don't find Titians just hanging in island living rooms.”

“It sure looked like one. It was oil, not a printed copy.”

“Then we know he can pay for your services.”

Noel took out the key to his new Honda. Something felt wrong. The chassis was down too low. He stepped back and scanned the car. “Shit.”

“What?”

“There.” He pointed to the front tire. Flat. He glanced to the rear. Flat too. “Shit shit.”

Kyra ran her fingers along the sidewall. She passed around the back of the car and stared at the tires on the driver's side. “All of them,” she said. “Slashed.” She glanced about at the other cars in the garage. Their tires appeared fine. “Don't you have any security here?”

“I thought we did. You saw me unlock the door.”

“You've got enemies, my friend.”

Noel stood still, his arms folded. “What's going on?”

He looks green is what's going on, Kyra thought. “One thing it means is we have to take my car.”

“Hey! I have to have my tires fixed. I have to report this to the police.”

She took his right elbow and gently pulled. He refused to unfold his arms but did let himself be drawn back. “We have an appointment to keep.” She spoke calmly. “The slashing probably happened last night. Your tires will still be slashed when we get back. We'll call the cops, then you'll deal with the tires. And maybe even figure out who you've pissed off.”

“We can't just leave—”

“Yes we can.” She fast-walked him to the long-term lot, opened the passenger door of her Tracker, and nudged him in. They drove the two hundred metres to the ferry booth without speaking.

Noel passed her two twenties. She gave the bills to the attendant, asked for a receipt and got very little cash in change. They pulled into the ferry lot, nearly three-quarters full. She turned off the engine and faced him.

He spoke evenly. “The 2:00 pm is a good ferry. The 3:45 is full of high school kids. A boatload of giggling and flirting and touching. Makes my skin crawl.”

“I thought you'd been to Gabriola only that once.”

“Even from there,” he pointed vaguely up to his third-floor balcony, “I hear them down here. Louder than gulls squabbling over a rockfish corpse.”

She knew what he was doing. She pulled her cellphone from her purse. “I'll just call my father.” No answer at the shop. She phoned his house. His answering machine advertised the concert he was playing in tomorrow evening. He must be rehearsing. She left a message: “Sorry, I have to stay over in Nanaimo. See you tomorrow. Love you.” Same message to her boss, minus love.

In the rest of the world Nanaimo has a certain fame, such as it is, for two things. First, for the annual Bathtub Race featuring motorized fibreglass contraptions that zip in a looping course around the Strait of Georgia. And, second, for Nanaimo Bars. Noel claimed he hated Nanaimo Bars—a sweet, sticky, gloppy mess, he said. They were really, she knew, a firm layer of sugar, butter, nuts and coconut; a yellow layer of sweet custard; and a top layer of thick semi-sweet chocolate. Deadly. Yum. She too could keep herself from thinking about Noel's slashed tires.

The ferry slipped in between the dock supports. An attractive ship in BC Ferry colors, white, a red and a blue line running its length. It clanged into place and tied up. Foot passengers strode off. Backpacks, strollers, a roll-along suitcase. Someone disembarking waved to someone waiting to get on. Pieces of a self-contained society. A white-haired woman strode along the ramp, followed by a giggle of teenagers and a couple around Kyra's age, their arms about each other. Then a rumble of cars, maybe fifty in all, island beaters, pickups, SUVs, a Mercedes and a cement truck, driving off. She looked at her watch. The precision of ferries, here and for most of the islands, Canadian and US, had impressed Kyra for years, and especially in the last months—half of her cases for Puget Sound Life Insurance had been on islands.

Before, as a kid, as a teenager, she had regarded islands and ferries as magical. In fact, a family story had it that Kyra, on her first ferry trip, cried because the fairy didn't have wings. Now she saw ferries and islands as twin parts of a privileged life—living close to the bustle of the mainland or, like Gabriola, to Vancouver Island, but separated from all that noise and impatience.

Noel had been addicted to islands long before she was. For years his parents had owned a cottage on Bowen Island, only a short ferry ride from Vancouver. Then her family rented the summer place next door, and she and he became friends. Noel had taken her fishing. She was ten and had never caught a salmon. He was eighteen and knew where they ran. She remembered her first one, flopping in the bottom of the boat. He showed her how to club the fish—the skull, right between the eyes—so it wouldn't suffer. Back at the cottage, with her father watching, Noel made her gut the fish. She could still hear Noel saying, You shouldn't ever keep more fish than you'll eat. Now she said, “You've never wanted to explore Gabriola?”

“Brendan and I went there.” He pointed at Newcastle Island, a provincial marine park, no cars, no homes, only half a kilometre from shore. “That was our island.”

She'd been there with them twice, first a pleasant picnic for three, second time with Sam soon after their wedding. Sam had gotten along well with Noel. But the foursome made Sam uncomfortable, which Kyra hadn't expected.

She'd loved Sam, or thought she had. Then. She'd left Sam. So she had left sex behind.

Question: How bad is life without sex?

Answer: Not bad at all. Because sex involves you in some of the world's biggest messes.

• • •

Tam set the
coq au vin
going in the microwave. Then he strode to the end of the hall, through his sister's suite and out the door to the pergola leading to the greenhouse. Where he met Rose, wheeling toward him.