Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (30 page)

Artemus sat at his desk. He aligned the pile of Foundation files. He'd been so engaged in preparations for the show he'd not yet sifted through them. Out of curiosity he pulled one from the middle. Stephane Mfane, Mali. Project: Harnessing solar power to drive mill wheels for grinding maize. A possibility, thought Artemus. The kind of project he liked.

The Foundation had been Rosie's idea. A clever woman, and he loved her for this too. But she merely gushed with ideas; he was the one to make it all work. Re-ruralization was essential. When he and Rosie had gone to São Paolo for the International Pigment Association Conference they'd seen for the first time the underside of urban sprawl: a countryside devoid of young people. Plenty of babies, lots of old people. Few in their teens, their twenties. Rosie had been eloquent. Find ways to get the young out of the cities, back onto the land. And don't give people our technology, give them the tools to make the technology they need for solving their own farming problems. Re-ruralize to survive. Artemus, though, was the one who found the wherewithal.

Now the Foundation gave out fifteen yearly grants of around five thousand each, and two for fifty thousand. Since the program's inception the annual big ones had been a follow-up to a successful initial grant. So many good projects. Luckily he could keep it going. Income from the sale of schools-of paintings went directly to the endowment.

A bell rang. Artemus waited forty seconds, then headed downstairs and opened the door. Kyra Rachel. “Please come in.” He led her to the living room. “I'm just on the phone. I'll be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” said Kyra.

Through the kitchen, back up the stairs. At his desk he opened a second file. Roberto Santangelo, Colombia. Project unclear, something to do with rice mutations growing in very little water. Not much chance for this one, he didn't like sending money to Colombia, too unstable. Never knew if you were dealing with the cocaine trade, FARC, or the government. Still, Rosie should read the file.

• • •

Noel checked his mail, two flyers and a bill. Nothing untoward there. He checked his tires. Fine. He drove south on the highway. How to handle the conversation with Lyle. Now the idea of lunch left him a bit queasy. Maybe soften Lyle up a little before getting into what Lyle and Jerry were talking about. He turned off toward Cedar and ten minutes later headed down the long drive to the Crow and Gate, an English pub complete with duck pond. He parked, glad he'd arrived here alone. Hey, this was a kind of fieldwork.

Lyle was waiting inside at a table by the window, handsome in open plaid shirt and slacks, grey pullover thrown over his shoulders, its arms knotted in front. He stood as Noel approached and gave him a small hug. Noel returned the hug in smaller fashion.

“So how's it going, buddy?”

“Pretty well.”

“Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

They headed for the bar to order—steak and kidney pie for Lyle, crab cakes for Noel. Each brought back a pint of pale ale. Lyle asked, “So what's happening?”

Well, his book was coming along, Kyra sent regards, no they hadn't talked about incorporating the agency yet—

“That should be the first thing. Get it all set up legally.”

“We aren't there yet.”

“Sure, fine by me.”

They sipped. Noel said, “Better choice of beer here than at Charlie's Oven.”

“Hey, you got a problem with the Oven?”

“Too faggy.”

Lyle chuckled.

“You go there a lot, right?” Noel raised his eyebrows and mock-quoted: “Lyle Sempken makes the Oven scene with Jerry Bannister.”

Lyle's face greyed. “What're you talking about, buster?”

“Oh nothing much.” Buster? “But if Jerry's grubby bawd appeals to you—”

Lyle's smile seemed forced. “Jealous?”

“Lordy-lord. Hardly.”

“I was interviewing him. See if he'd be a suitable subject.”

“For loveliest fella of the year.” Noel sipped.

“If you have to know, it's for a series of paintings with unattractive human beings as their focus.”

“And you met at the Oven. Did he know what he was, literally, walking into?”

“Yep. Or he thought he did. I wanted to see how uptight he'd be in a strange situation. Like, some day in my studio undressed. Turns out he's a pretty easy-going guy. Specially when he's stoned.” Lyle laughed, lighter now that he'd explained himself. “But if I use him, I'll have to fumigate afterwards.”

“Yeah, he's a charmer.”

Lyle took a long swallow of beer. “How do you know him?”

“Friend of Roy Dempster.”

“Right. You all done now on the Gallery case?” A waitress arrived with their orders.

“Yep.” They fell to. Good crab cakes, Noel thought.

“You said you had some sort of problem?”

“I'd like to sound you out on this. Since you know Marchand so well.”

“Shoot.”

“It could be connected to the Gallery. I'm having trouble figuring out where to begin.”

Lyle smiled. “In situations like this I always say, Begin at the beginning—”

“Good.” Noel nodded. He forked up more of his crab cake, chewed, swallowed, washed it all down with a little beer. “It started about a month and half ago. About three in the morning, the phone would ring. I hate calls like that, never good news. But with these there'd be no one there. Or rather, someone who just breathed.”

“Hey, creepy. Did it scare you?”

“At first. Then I let the machine pick up. But I'd still get the breathing in the morning.”

“Shit, terrible. Still going on?”

“Not in the last few days. But then somebody slashed all four of my tires.”

“Pretty dramatic.” Lyle sipped beer. “You figure there's a connection to the breather?”

“Yeah. I got the tires replaced and the next night I got the call again, only this time the breather said, ‘Nice new tires.'”

“Yep, that's a connection. What did you do?”

“Not a lot I could do. I've got a Mountie friend and I told him about it.”

“Aha.” A renewed grin. “The constabulary on the scene.”

“Glad you're enjoying all this, Lyle.” Why wasn't Lyle taking the story seriously? He wants to be a friend, you open up to him, he finds you merely amusing. “Forget it.”

“Sorry, buddy. But it's a hell of a story.”

Noel studied Lyle's expression. Contrite? “Then I pick up my mail and there's a letter. I open it and it's a fake newspaper tear sheet. My obituary.”

“‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.' Mark Twain.”

“Okay, never mind.”

“Hey, buddy.” Lyle put his hand over Noel's. “I'm not making light. Just that nothing like that ever happens to me, it's hard to know how to react.”

Noel removed his hand and used it to raise the mug. “It goes on.”

Lyle's brow furrowed. “There's more?”

Noel nodded. “That's why I wanted to talk to you about the Gallery.”

“You think Marchand is involved with your phone calls and tires? Look, I know Artemus and, to put it mildly, writing fake obituaries isn't his kind of thing.”

“Except a couple of evenings ago I got back to my condo after supper and somebody'd been there.”

Lyle squinted. “How could you tell?”

“Little things. Brendan's picture lying on its face. A rug shifted. But mostly, when I checked my computer, somebody'd messed up one of the directories. Only one. All the files I had for our Dempster investigation.”

“Now that's scary.” Lyle stared at Noel. “Amazing.”

“But I don't see Artemus breaking in either, and his wife even less so. Kyra's interviewed Tam Gill and can't see him doing it. But the Dempster file was fucked with. I have to wonder if Eaglenest is connected.” He leaned forward. “Any ideas?”

Lyle scowled. “It doesn't make sense. Did you know anyone at Eaglenest six weeks ago?”

“Marchand, from your opening.”

“Did you have a disagreement?”

“Nope. We exchanged maybe half a dozen words.”

Lyle shook his head again. “It's weird.”

“It's like I'm being played with. Stalked.”

“Hey, buddy, I know it's scary. But at least nobody's tried anything physical on you.”

“The tires were damn physical. And Lyle? Please don't call me buddy.”

“Sorry, buddy.” He winked. “But nobody's jumped you in the dark, right?”

“I will try to look at the bubbly bright side.” Noel tightened one side of his mouth.

The waitress arrived to clear their plates and glasses. “Dessert? Another round?”

“No thanks,” said Noel. “No more appetite.”

“I hope everything was all right.”

Noel gave her a friendly smile. “Loved the crab cakes.”

Lyle too was finished. The waitress left. “Anything I can do?”

“You see the Marchands and Tam Gill socially—and Artemus professionally. Any reason why he or whoever over there would want to hassle me?”

Lyle's eyes searched the middle distance for a couple of seconds. “Sorry. But I'll cogitate on it.” He grinned. “Hey. Let's talk about better things.”

He wanted Lyle to talk about this predicament. But it wouldn't happen. “Sure.”

“Like, say,” he raised on eyebrow, “you and me.”

“You know, Lyle—”

“No, no, don't start with Brendan. Brendan's gone, Noel. Get over him. We're here, we're alive, and we care about being alive. So we should care for each other too.”

Noel stared at the backs of his hands on the tablecloth.

“Come on. It's a fine afternoon. Let's spend it together. We can go back to my place—”

“Please, don't.”

“Just relax a little. We'll put some music on, I've got a New Zealand Semillon, three years old, I've tried it, it's great.”

“I—really can't.”

“Sure you can. Everything nice and easy. Maybe a joint to start, that'll relax us both.”

“Not a good idea.”

He reached over and set his right hand on Noel's left. “You got to start living again, baby.”

Noel stared at Lyle's hand on his. He couldn't move it away. Lyle was pressing gently, releasing a little, pressing again.

“You'll see, you and me, we could have a great afternoon. You know you need this. Must feel like forever since you needed to be with someone, right? And me, I need to be with you.”

Noel reached for his left wrist with his right hand, and pulled it out from under Lyle's. “It's no good, Lyle. You don't get it. I can't.”

Lyle glared at him, sudden icicle spears. “Hey, you cut your balls off 'cuz Brendan died?”

“For god's sake, don't.”

“You're an ungrateful bastard, Noel.” Lyle sat back and folded his arms.

Noel excused himself, got up and went to the washroom. He didn't need this. He got rid of some of the beer and washed his face. His stomach twisted. Stop it! Just a refused offer, that's all. But why had Lyle come on so hard? Noel had never suggested, not even hinted, he might be available. Nothing to cause so strong a reaction. Goddamn it. Well, was it really that strong? He saw Lyle's stare. Anger? Was he hurt? Pretty powerful stare. He dried his hands. Okay, chill out, finish this off. He saw his face in the mirror. Fine. All in control.

Not much of a lunch. But he had in fact learned why Jerry had met Lyle at Charlie's Oven. Jerry hadn't talked about posing for his painter friend, he'd never admit to it. Why had they met, according to Jerry? Yeah, so Jerry could clear some land for a painter. Noel returned to their table. “Has the bill come?”

“All taken care of, pal.”

“Look, this was my invitation.”

“Next time.”

Lyle did enjoy holding the cards. “Okay.” Next time? Not likely. “Thanks.”

As they walked out, Lyle said, “It probably won't happen, but if you're speaking with Marchand I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention what my new paintings deal with.”

“The beautiful Jerry Bannister?”

“And others.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Lyle's last words: “Think hard about incorporating.” They drove off, Lyle in a black and chrome 1962 Impala convertible, Noel in his Honda. One of the most invasive hours he'd spent in a long time. Could he have brought some of it onto himself?

• • •

Kyra waited. And waited. Would confronting Marchand with the break-in be a waste of time? Except, maybe, the surprise element—She stared out the window at the ocean framed by trees. Some early Renaissance seascape? Stick in a Moses figure dividing the ocean in two, and Marchand could display it, sell it. She stepped out to the deck and meandered over to the left. No, Tam's place wasn't visible. She went back in. And waited. 12:49. She waited.

Marchand came down four minutes later. “Please excuse me, the show.”

“And no doubt you have another appointment in ten minutes.”

“No,” he smiled, “but I need to call Toronto at precisely four. Their time.” He sat across from her. “How can I help you?”

“I'm curious. Do you ever show local artists, those here on the island?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Marchand's head froze in place, a few degrees right of center. He stared at her, eyes narrow. “Because they're bad artists.”

She squinted back. “Bad?”

He half rose. “Is this why you came here?”

“Not at all. Do you sell your paintings to clients other than The Hermitage?”

“Why are you asking this?”

“I'm here on behalf of a client, a potential customer for your schools-of paintings. He'd like to know, are you getting more?”

“Of course.” Sell to someone else? “When we locate more.”

“From where?”