Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (33 page)

Tam looked Artemus over. “Too far to walk to the house?”

“Rose says she needs a word with you.” He scowled. “And guess what. Peter Rabinovich just arrived.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He's over at the house with Rosie.”

“We must've been on the same ferry.”

“Possibly. He drives at Nevada speeds.”

“What the hell's he doing here?”

“Maybe he's come for the two shows.” He shrugged. “I don't know.”

• • •

Lights on in Lyle's kitchen, the sound of television news. Get out of here while the getting's as good as it going to get. Noel stepped around the side of the shed away from the porch, past the carport on the neighbor side, across the grass, between two bushes to the sidewalk. He walked back to 1131, crossed the street, passed Lyle's place on the other side, at the corner crossed back. He leaned against the side of his car and took a deep breath. He unlocked, sat a moment, started it, no lights, did a U-turn and drove away. Well, he thought, I investigated the land-clearing question. With only a bit of that adrenalin fear.

And what had he learned? Improbable that Jerry posing for Lyle was ever in the cards. Had Lyle asked Jerry to clear some other land? Maybe Lyle owned a woodlot, wanted to build a country cottage? Didn't sound like Lyle.

What were they arguing about, damn it.

He stopped at the mall. Maybe the photos were ready. Yes. He took them home. As a reward he poured himself a tall gin and tonic and laid the photos out on the table.

Greenhouse plants. Plants had never much interested Noel, but when Brendan had redone their balcony garden he'd bought some books. They'd joked about putting in a little marijuana. But they weren't into marijuana then, not till Brendan got sick. Thanks to Lyle. Lyle had good marijuana. Would he be involved in growing it? Best way to control quality. Were Jerry and Roy growing the stuff in the clearcut by where Roy had worked? How would Lyle figure in that deal? Maybe not at all, people get their grass in lots of ways. But Jerry had specifically said a nameless painter who'd had a show at Eaglenest wanted him to clear some land, the guy had this bad back. A good lie if Jerry wouldn't admit he'd let Lyle paint him nude. But why meet with Lyle at the gay bar? Noel wished Kyra would get back. He had to think this through out loud.

Her pictures of flowers. Rose Gill's greenhouse, but not full of plants. A tray of crocuses. Crocuses in October? Crazy. And the carnations. Boy, did he miss Brendan. Miss, that was sensible. No agony, Brendan wasn't around, somebody to miss from time to time, time to— Shit.

He searched the bookcases for the flower books. Aha, bottom shelf. Why were flower books so big? He set them on the table and refilled his drink.

Much flipping of pages and he had five groups identified: blue Siberian Iris, red Valerian, Michaelmas daisies, the crocuses and carnations. Normal. Flowers grow in greenhouses.

He poured a third drink and studied the pictures of the inner room. Little round bulby things, plastic bags with a tarry substance. Not pretty but interesting. Track down what they were via the Internet? Where the hell was Kyra?

• • •

Tam left Artemus in the living room with Rab. What did those two have in common, other than a love for schools-of paintings? He found Rosie in the guest bathroom putting towels out for Rab. Her face seemed pale. “You all right?”

“No.” Her eyes met his. “Come here.” She closed the toilet lid.

“Sit down.”

He did. “What?”

She whispered, “Your female detective is locked in your cellar.”

Tam closed his eyes. A sigh came from his gut. “Shit.”

“Correct,” said Rose.

“How?”

“She was down there. I locked her in.” She shook her head. “Why'd you leave the house with the door unlocked? And the trap open?”

“I didn't. Honest. She must have broken in.”

“How did she know where to look?” Likely spotted something when Tam screwed her.

“I don't know.” He pounded his right fist into his left palm. “God.”

“What can we do?”

“I don't know.” A small sound, almost a hum, came from his throat.

Rose put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, saying nothing.

She waited, and said finally, “I have to get back to the living room.”

He took her forearm. “Just a minute.”

“Tell me.”

“We have two choices. Or three. First, she agrees to say nothing and we can let her go.”

“But how can we be sure she'll keep her word?”

“I don't know. Yet.”

“She won't agree to anything.”

Tam gave a small shrug. “I don't know very much. Except that we have three choices.”

“Okay. The other two?”

“We leave her down there. For a very long time. I would go away.”

“Someone would come looking. Her partner. The police. What else?”

“We make sure she never again talks to anyone about anything.”

“No. I draw the line right there.”

“I don't mean kill her. But an unavoidable accident—”

“No.”

He smiled brightly. “And there is a fourth possibility.”

“What?”

“We let her out, she goes to the Mounties, we get arrested, sent to jail.” His smile grew ironic. “I do hear the women's prisons aren't so bad. But I don't know about wheelchair access.”

“My god—”

He stood. “Should I go talk to her?”

She shivered. “You think it'd do any good?”

“You never know.” Though he figured he did.

She nodded, still shivery. “If by a miracle we get out of this, no more sales to Rab. Of anything.”

“Even those we find?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.”

“But what do we tell Rab? And Artemus?”

“You'll invent something.”

Tam laughed thinly. “That my sources are drying up?”

“Very good.”

• • •

Kyra's only constructive thought was to pick the lock. She wandered the room. Palette knives too wide. Paintbrush ends too wooden—

She went to the toilet. Don't flush after every pee on water-scarce islands but damned if I'm saving these guys' water. She banged the handle. Fuck you, she said to the satisfying gurgle. An oubliette, I'm in an oubliette. On her trip through Europe she'd seen oubliettes in old castles, holes in floors where anybody who disagreed with the duke or bishop could be dropped, the stone cover slid in place, the prisoner left to die among the bones of those who'd died before. She started to tremble. She scrambled up the stairs, banged on the closed overhead door; banged, banged. “Let me out!” She turned around on the step, put her head on her arms. A couple of panicky sobs escaped before she could cut them off.

Her fist throbbed. She moved down, sat to her full height and rubbed her hand.

• • •

With every stride up the path Tam had gotten madder and madder. Now he was furious. What to do about her? Why the hell was she in his house? Had she called to find out when he wouldn't be home? How'd she get a key? Oh shit! The key in the coveralls, if she finds that it's all over. And Rab here, what the hell? Most important, don't let Rab know, he'd go ballistic. What would a ballistic Rab do? So deal with Kyra. How? He'd figure something. Wait till Rab is gone. Keep her in place down there.

He opened the door and looked around. The anvil. He set the flowers aside. In the closet he set the anvil over the keyhole. If she found the key and pushed on the trap door, the anvil would wedge against the wall and keep the door from opening.

All he could do right now. He spun around, took a step down the walk— Spun again. Wrong. One more thing. Serve her fuckin' right.

• • •

Okay Kyra, you're locked in. This is Not Nice. Sit in their oubliette till you die. Or get creative. How? Can't put a knife in the crack and push up with your back, the deadbolt is a thick steel sheath. So attack the tumblers, get the bolt to slide. She wiped her face. Any sharp objects here? Penny nails? She headed over to the shelves. Just paint supplies. She glanced around. The empty frames, suspended from nails! No, from spikes, hanging by wires. She crossed the room. Each wire was looped over a spike in the joist. She lifted a frame to reduce the tension. Not all that heavy. She unwound one side of the wire and lowered the frame to the ground, then slid her fingers along the facade, its relief of flowers and curlicues. On the back of it, curious, a hollowing out on the right and left frame-sides. Deep, maybe an inch. She leaned the frame against the wall and reached for the wire—

The light went out. “Hey!” she stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Do not panic. You're allowed one panic per case, girl, and you just had it. The fluorescent tubes, burned out? Both? Someone had flipped the breaker, left her in the darkest dark she'd ever felt, she could wait forever for her eyes to adjust. Damn, piss and fuck! The flashlight too was in her bag.

She turned her head to where the trap door should be but no comforting light leaked around it. Okay, don't charge off in nine directions. Figure a plan.

• • •

Rab mixed Rose a strong vodka tonic, as requested, and took an iced vodka with peppercorns for himself. He sat next to her wheelchair. “Your face is full of worries. Tell me.”

She patted his hand. An hour ago this would have been fine, this friend at her side, listening to her telling him anything in the world. Just not about the detective in Tam's basement. If Rab knew about the basement, at the very least she'd no longer be his friend. Except his response might be way more painful than that. A violent response.

After dinner would have been better for serious matters, but her nerves were so on edge she had to parade a real problem before him now. “Rab, I'll be completely straightforward—”

“As you always are.”

“Yes. I think it's best if Eaglenest makes no further shipments to The Hermitage.”

“Of anything?”

“Not of my speciality, at any rate. And Tam tells me his sources are far reduced.”

“And what does Artemus say about this?”

“He understands.” A small lie.

He stood slowly, his eyes not leaving her. His fingers interwound. “Hmm,” he breathed. “You sound fearful.”

“Mostly, I'm careful. With these wars going on, our two countries have changed.”

He sat again on the arm of the couch. “I would miss our regular contact.”

“We'll still talk, and even visit you. And you can come here any time, you know that.”

He nodded, though not, she thought, in agreement. “I'll consider what you are saying.”

Her eyes suddenly teared. “Have I upset you?”

Artemus came around the corner. “Oh. I thought Tam was here too.”

• • •

With the light dead, Kyra didn't move for what felt like a long time. Now she reached out. Her fingers touched the frame resting where her well-lit mind remembered it. And the wire, fairly heavy, it felt the thickness of a number two pick. What picks had she used on the trap door? She unwound the wire from the other side of the frame. Wire in one hand, waving the other hand in front of her, she advanced by small steps.

Sudden thought: If no light leaks in, how is the air replenished? Would she suffocate in her own carbon dioxide? Stop. Get the trap door open. Her hand touched a wall—damn what's a wall doing here? Styrofoam or wood? She knocked on it, wood, the bathroom, she'd turned too far. Correcting to what she hoped was a straight line, she started off again holding the wire out to warn her. She imagined reaching the stairwell, bashing her shin and falling up the stairs. Stop. She tried to visualize the room. Only a few steps from the bathroom to the stairs, right? Only a few steps anywhere. She moved her hand. The wire touched something. She reached out, knocked it over, a shuffle and a crash. She knelt. The painting and the easel. “Oh shit.” She was completely turned around.

She contemplated the layout again. Follow the walls, Kyra. The easel had been at the end on the stair side of the table, the table about two feet from the wall with the bookcase behind. Can't be many more steps to that wall. She brushed by the clothes hanging on the rack, reached beyond it—ah, Styrofoam. She turned right. With one hand on the wall and the wire fishing around in front she came to a corner, turned right again, shuffled a dozen steps and bumped her head. “Ow, damn.” She rubbed the bump, and reached out. The stair edge. She stepped back, out from under the upper risers. The wire, then her hand, contacted the right-angled lower stairs.

She crawled up on all fours. No banister here. Her hand brushed against something, it slid away, crashed to the floor. What? Her camera! Oh, god. She backed down the stairs, on the floor on hands and knees, groping. She found it. Oh no! The casing had sprung open. She clicked it closed. It stayed in place. And for a moment she appreciated the dark room.

Up the stairs again, camera in hand. Her head bumped the trap door. She turned and felt for the underside of the lock. Lock-pick Mike had drummed it into her: it's all in the fingertips, reading a lock is like reading Braille. Her fingers stroked the lock. Edge, keyhole, shape. These locks had a small tumbler not reached till two bigger ones were out of the way. Maybe one strand of wire single, one doubled over. She slid down a step and set to work shaping her tools.

WHATEVER ELSE PYOTR Rabinovich could import to Las Vegas, an ocean was impossible. He had suggested a walk over the sandstone of the Malaspina Galleries, where Rose's wheelchair needed only a little help. About ending their commercial arrangement they would speak later. Was she truly afraid of international commerce? Or was there something else? He had never seen her afraid. Now he sipped his drink and smiled at his hosts. “Which shall I see first, my paintings or the wondrous flower?” How tense they all are, he thought. Their collaboration with him? Or stress relating to their upcoming shows? But what anxiety could be born from providing the pleasure of five paintings and a new flower? Despite what Herm 3 had found, surely not some mini-spanner thrown by two rustic detectives? Rab could wait till Rosie or Artemus told him more. And tell him they would. Eventually, people did.