Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (34 page)

Rab usually managed to beguile Rosie just as he usually managed to get under Artemus' skin. Important to keep the man a little off balance. Or else he could take control, hold on to it with absolute belief in his own infallibility, and bring about some small unpleasantness. In Rab's experience of claiming and maintaining dominance over the powerful or charismatic men he'd known in the last years—high- or low-minded sabras, B'nai Brith moguls, renegade rabbis, Israeli mafia; or oil-and-pride-rich sheikhs from the Arab states; or apparatchniks from the former soviets; or well-groomed grandsons of dons from the old Vegas families that he now dealt with—only Ivy League Protestants eluded him. Men like Artemus Marchand who could stick their bare feet into leather loafers with panache, even apparent comfort. They possessed such a sense of remote natural superiority that the multi-dimensioned webs spun by Pyotr Rabinovich's spiders of machinations melted into air with the lightness of a slivered lemon peel dropped into a Marchand-like martini. Superiority, untouchability, certainty. In the eye of these WASPs Rab became again, and he could hear the whisper, “The little Jew from—where was it?” So he kept Artemus, whom he had in fact learned to like, a bit nettled. “Hmm, Artemus? Since I will soon possess the paintings, why not see them?”

Rose said, “Go ahead. I'll set the table.” She gave Rab a smile twice as bright as the moment required and turned to Artemus. “Would you grill your famous lamb chops for us? I'll defrost them while you're in the Gallery.”

Artemus gave her a private hard-done-by look, but sighed and said, “Come on,” to Rab.

• • •

“Inconsiderate, Kyra, just plain inconsiderate,” Noel said aloud. Had she suggested she wouldn't be back for dinner? You go off in the morning, seven hours later you're not back, at least make a phone call. Screwing Gill again, is that it? Had she promised to call after talking to Marchand? He couldn't remember. He tried her cellphone. “Hello. You have almost reached Kyra Rachel. Please leave me a message.”

“Kyra! Where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this.”

• • •

Rose relaxed as the Gallery door closed, then tensed again. What was taking Tam so long? He'd refused the beach walk in favor of biking around the island—he needed the speed, he'd said. Across her lap she clipped a tray to the chair arms, wheeled to the kitchen, got out plates and cutlery, salt and pepper cellars. Was Tam so panicked he'd skip dinner? She set four places. Then a sudden image brought a smile. Why not? She wheeled down the hall and out to the greenhouse. She collected two of her lesser chrysanthemums, clipped the pots to the tray, wheeled back slowly and placed them on a mirror in the center of the table. She played with the chandelier dimmer switch until the light brought out the richest gleam from the purple-black petals. Then she took two bottles of Rab's present, Pessac-Léognon, and stood them on the sideboard.

• • •

It had been Artemus who, years ago, first induced Peter Rabinovich to visit Eaglenest Gallery. Or rather, Rab had allowed himself to be tempted by Artemus Marchand, a man who had gained eminence by becoming a world-renowned expert in locating lost or forgotten fine European paintings. For Rab had conceived a grand idea: if the original Hermitage in St. Petersburg needed Great Works of Art, a disciple Hermitage needed the Best Works Available. Like those produced by the students of the great masters. A shame if it were all to stop now.

Outside the Gallery door he put his hand on Artemus' arm. “Do you concur with Rose that we have to limit our business relationship?”

Artemus frowned. “She's talked to you about that?”

“She mentioned it.” Rab waited for Artemus to respond but the man's face had taken on that mask of remote infallibility. “But neither the States nor Canada wants the border to create business difficulties.”

“No, but in the short term, security concerns slow things down.”

We are stating the obvious, Rab thought.

“After the Thanksgiving show, we can talk. But you know Rosie,” Artemus laughed dryly, “when she's made up her mind, nothing can move her.” He unlocked the Gallery door.

Years back Rab had chosen Herm 5, Deacon Thywold, to search out potential suppliers. Herm 5 had rounded up possibilities from Copenhagen to Santiago, Chicago to Capetown. And on the island of Gabriola in British Columbia's Strait of Georgia.

In the wilderness? Unlikely. One of the few times Rab doubted Herm 5, despite his Oxford doctorate in European painting, seven major monographs and so many scholarly articles no university could afford him. Rab had bought him. Art on an obscure Canadian island?

Herm 5 had shown the boss dozens of slides of paintings and of characteristic details. And read him records, produced copies of authentication documents, photocopies of bills of sale. Eaglenest Gallery was legit. And Pyotr Rabinovich needed legit.

So he flew his Learjet to Nanaimo, rented a car, and ferried to the island. A pleasant ease took him as he approached Eaglenest Gallery, a comfort found him the moment he saw the wealth of flowers, the handsome house, the sea and mountains behind. Meeting Rose was a happy shock, suddenly a delightful and distant romance, safe and proper. His Caspian Rose. They talked till four in the morning, Artemus long in bed. Rosie and Rab, as he very soon asked her to call him, became twin spirits of the mind. Partly because, they discovered, they shared a sensate yearning for mastery, always had, often hidden but now, privately, kindled again. They agreed: such quintessence, their version of it, could come only from common geographic and, likely, ethnic sources as well, western Asia, Tadzhik, Srinagar, their ancestors near neighbors.

The next day Pyotr returned to Las Vegas after agreeing with Artemus that if he, Peter Rabinovich, wanted to buy one of Marchand's discoveries he would be allowed to bid 10 percent over the highest offer Marchand had obtained.

Rose and Artemus visited The Hermitage the following February. By their second day Rose was swimming, at least afloat in the warm pool as her strong arms pulled her useless legs forward, a freedom she'd not felt in twelve years. No thank you, she wouldn't dive, not just then.

That night too Artemus retired early. Again Rose and Rab talked late. She heard the public part of his story, Russia and the Communists, Israel and the Socialists. She grew to care for him, always treated him as an equal. Few others could, and she knew Rab found it hard to react to this, as if the equality she imposed endeared her to him.

• • •

Hell with her. Noel made rigatoni with pesto and a green salad for one. He ate it standing inside the balcony door, glaring through glass at the cliffs of Gabriola. He put his plate in the dishwasher, picked up the phone, again dialed Kyra's cell. “Hello. You have almost reached—” He hung up. Sure she was screwing Gill. In disgust he scooped up the photos and spread them out beside his computer. Rose's inner sanctum. The metal cylinders, hinged on the top. The bulby things on the counter— They looked familiar now that he thought about it.

He sat back and contemplated. A person with a double-locked room into which others can't see and into which only that one person can enter is protecting something. What? Herself against outside interference, yes. Something secret, yes. Her plants themselves, yes. In the interest of science? In the interest of herself? All perfectly legal. Or—maybe not? What illegal acts could a botanist with a greenhouse commit? Genetic engineering. Rose does that. Not illegal. Something with drugs. The logical flower to make drugs from is the poppy and yes! that's where I've seen these bulby things before, eureka maybe? He got on the Internet and searched.

• • •

Kyra's stomach rumbled. She'd probably been hungry for a while. Okay, one piece of wire and maybe a triple fold. She moved up and felt the lock again. Start with double. Long time since that dreadful chowder and garlic bread. Right now she'd eat anything. She untwisted the end of the wire, straightened it, folded it to double thickness, angled the double in the middle. A medium rare Porterhouse steak, little fat drip off the edge, baked potato and salad would do nicely. Sour cream, chives, and bacon bits on the potato. Or a pizza, vegetarian. There was a pizza delivery on Gabriola, Noel had read about it. Maybe the delivery person would unlock— The wire, Rachel.

If she still smoked she'd have a cigarette now, that'd dull the hunger. Except she would've left her cigarettes in her purse. If she still smoked, she'd be really frantic now. Except if she still smoked she'd have brought her purse down— Shit! If her period started, no tampons.

She had made what felt like a simulated ten. Plus the two the wire resembled. Yes, she'd used the ten and two above. She tried them. Nope. She crouched down to fiddle again. Bacon and scrambled eggs with hash browns and toast, hell, a bowl of dry cereal, hell, stale bread. There was water in the bathroom. She wouldn't die immediately. One didn't die for weeks if one could get water. Great.

She recombined the wires, a tighter bend. If she could see the lock, that might help. She felt her way back up the stairs. How to visualize the lock— Yes! She slid down the stairs, fumbled around till she found the camera, back up. She held the camera to one side, her index finger found the switch, her other hand located the lock, she clicked. An explosion of light, instant black and she squeezed her eyes tight. But her memory now held the image she needed. And in her camera a photo of the underside of a Weiser lock.

• • •

“Where are they?”

Rose whirled her chair about and glared at Tam. “You scared me!”

“Sorry. Where's Rab? And A.?”

“In the Gallery.” His forehead glistened with a thin layer of sweat.

She released her tension with a long sigh. “Did you go over to the cabin?”

“Yes. Earlier.”

“And?”

“I listened for a while. It's like there's a big rat in the basement. Scurry, scurry.”

“She knows everything.”

Tam sighed. “I flicked the breaker. But she'd have seen it all. I worked till five this morning and left everything out.”

“The present project?”

“I said everything! Five minutes—one!—and she's figured it out.”

“What a mess.”

“Anyway I know I'm not doing anything wrong. Just practicing my craft.”

“Others,” she arched her eyebrows, “might disagree.”

“Rab won't find out.”

“Let us pray. Because,” she now believed this, “if he does he could have us killed.”

“Don't overdramatize.”

“I don't want Rab as an adversary. We have to deal with your detective ourselves.”

“I've thought about it.” He folded his arms. “I believe she'll keep quiet.”

“What, make her your concubine?”

Tam sneered. “Oh Rosie, sometimes you are just so off the wall.”

Rab, suddenly in the kitchen, asked, “And why is Rose so off the wall? Share it with us.”

Rose shook her head. “Some things one shares only with a brother.”

Tam looked from one to the other.

“Very well.” Rab sat at one end of the long couch and crossed his legs— And leapt up and strode to the dining table. “Rosie-Rosita! Those are splendid!”

Now Tam too noted the flowers. “Pretty impressive, BSR.”

“It's the chrysanthemum—?” ventured Rab.

“
Chrysanthemum morifolium,
” Rose elaborated. “A very common plant, but not a common color. Nobody's produced a black one before.”

Artemus joined them. He knew instantly here was a breakthrough, an original. His chest filled with love and pride. He laid his palm on Rose's shoulder. “Well done, my dear.”

“That black has purple in it,” Tam pointed out.

“All black flowers have a purple tinge. It's the nature of the pigment.”

“This requires a toast.” Rab uncorked one of the wine bottles, and poured. “To beautiful paintings and magnificent chrysanthemums!” They sipped. “And to two very clever people!” Rab saluted his glass, bowed to Artemus, then reached for Rose's hand and kissed it. Rose looked at her brother and her lips copied his small smile. Tam raised his glass in acknowledgment.

“And what will be the accompaniments to Artemus' lamb chops?” Rab sat down on the sofa again. “I hope your vegetable garden is as happy as your flowers.”

“I'm afraid not, but we'll make do.” Rose wheeled to the deck window beside Tam.

Rab repeated his delight in the splendid chrysanthemums. But not half as splendid as Rosie! As splendid as the angels in that Correggio student's clouds.

Tam stopped listening. It was okay. Rosie held Rab in the creases of the palm of one hand. Like he could hold Kyra Rachel. Rab would be gone in the morning, off to break a neck or make someone disappear. Somebody like Kyra. He went to take a shower.

• • •

Quickly Noel learned that the opium poppy is
Papaver somniferum
, that the Sumerians called it flower of joy, that the raw sap, opium, is refined to morphine and further refined to heroin. Ten grams of opium produce one gram of heroin so even a modest habit requires acres of poppies. Hmm, Noel thought, Rose Gill doesn't have acres planted in poppies. Maybe in the spring? Heroin and morphine are white, opium is black and tarry. He looked at the photo of goo in the plastic bags. Opium? Being sent off to be refined? Albert will be most interested. We don't like heroin, do we. Though we do like morphine for pain.

Recent increase of opium use in the Seattle area, the Internet told him, an elite fad for Victorian-style drugs. Well, well. Noel remembered reading about the opium dens of early Vancouver. If people wanted to sit around and smoke themselves some joy, he had no problem. As he recalled, though, the Fathers—and probably Mothers—of early Vancouver did.

He contemplated some more. So our Rose is manufacturing opium? Where is it going? To Seattle? To The Hermitage? They ship pictures there. The opium arrives. With the pictures? And there they turn it into heroin? Oh where the hell is Kyra? He dialed her cell number again. Again the message. Oh come on, you can't screw all afternoon and all evening too!