Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (35 page)

Suddenly he thought: she could be in deep shit.

• • •

Loin chops of four-month-old Gabriola Island lamb, grilled with shredded tarragon and mustard, on a bed of rosemary. Even to Rab's educated palate, a thorough success. And Rosie's accompanying shallot and red pepper couscous brought an eye-dampening memory to Rab's congratulations. His mother had adored sweet peppers in her couscous. Sweet red peppers had not been easy to find in the Sverdlovsk markets of the fifties.

A shame therefore that only he and Artemus showed much appetite. Rosie picked at the lovely meat as if she feared the mustard glaze. Tam ate little and refused the lamb.

Rab slaked his thirst with some of the Bordeaux. Slaked, such a fine Anglo-Saxon word. Well, whatever bothered Rosie and her boorish brother was more than the turmoil of world politics. Likely tomorrow, before his departure, they would tell him. He smiled in silence.

Rose caught him. “Do you find us humorous tonight?”

“Always, Rosie. Always.”

She stared at her plate. With her fork she cut a small slice of potato. Halved it. Brought it to her mouth, between her lips, held it and withdrew the fork.

Tam said, bemused, “Why always?”

Always? Not, thought Rab, on his second visit to Eaglenest Gallery. For example. He glanced out through the small grove of trees to the same thick sea. “You're right. Not always.”

“When not?” Tam enjoyed this rich and too powerful fool who bought canvases painted by many students from many schools. Rabinovich who didn't need to say aloud, I'd never buy a Tam Gill painting, just as Artemus had not said aloud, I'd never show a Tam Gill painting. This idea with its two unequal parts now seemed quite funny to Tam, so he gave Rab a smile.

“When not?” Rab repeated. “Early in our acquaintance. You do remember?”

Tam glanced at Artemus, who seemed far away. At Rose, who nodded. “Of course.”

That summer evening Rab had expounded on several subtle improvements at The Hermitage, not least his newly acquired original oils, four from the seventeenth century, two from the eighteenth, one from early nineteenth. They hung on the walls of seven elegant period-decorated suites of his hotel casino. “They are lovely to see, but something's missing.” He'd shrugged. “I'm not sure.”

“I don't understand.” Artemus, during their visit to The Hermitage, had felt thoroughly comfortable in the opulent suite.

As if shaping a response to Artemus, Rab waved both hands before him. Then he settled for an idea. “Mastery is the measure of things.”

Rose said, “Perfection.”

”Perfection?” Artemus squinted at her.

“In the balance.” She spoke slowly.

Rab nodded. “Go on.”

“A balance in what is close.”

“Ah,” said Rab.

“The perfection of light. I see this, at times. The perfection of a human body slicing through the air. I was this, long ago. The perfection of a single flower, its balance, its—yes, its power.” She glanced away from Rab, almost shy. “I can do this.”

No humor in Rose's tone, nor in her intent. Rab had to respond, “What kind of flower?”

“The one I believe you'd like best.”

He had nodded. “What I believe, Rosie, is there can be a perfection.

My hope is to make perfection available at The Hermitage.”

“With a poppy,” she said.

Comprehension took his face. “You're amazing.”

She tipped her head to the right and smiled, lips closed. “I am.”

Artemus said, “A poppy?”

Rab nodded at Rose, offering her the lead. She said, “An opium poppy.”

“For pity's sake, Rosie! Heroin kills. The white death—”

She touched her husband's forearm. “Without morphine I couldn't have endured life. I wouldn't be here today. You know that.”

“Of course, but not opium.”

“Without opium there's no morphine. True, there's no heroin either. But I don't think Rab's talking about heroin.”

Rab shook his head. “Pure opium. Three times I've spent time in a perfect place. Once for forty hours, twice for thirty and more. The perfect realm of opium innocence.”

Rose, fascinated, nodded. “And what is it like?”

Rab had closed his eyes, searched. “When you make the perfect dive, the air against your face and torso, your legs, the air holds you, yes? You fly. Your flight is timeless, all silk and grace.” He opened his eyes.

She'd nodded. Artemus, gazing at her, saw his wife again for a moment as the exquisite young swimmer he had met twenty-five years before, the only other person in the room at a crowded fraternity party. Rose's ethereal face said, Anything is possible. Even perfection.

Now Tam said, “Yeah, I remember that evening. And my comment to my sister: No.”

Rab's turn to be bemused. “Charming, Tam.”

• • •

There had followed weeks of discord between Artemus and Rose. He despised recreational drugs and Rosie must not,
must not
, produce opium. But opium, she had argued, was hardly cut heroin, or crack cocaine, or even ecstasy—hardly a jolly party drug. I won't allow it, Artemus shouted. You allow morphine, Rose argued, you allowed it for me. And what, damn it, is opium's medicinal value!? Opium is another category of things, Rose explained—neither medicinal nor recreational, but a drug to enter the spirit. By what power could she say such a thing, Artemus raged, what hubris to pretend she knew this as a truth? She explained: she had felt the embrace of perfection. I was so close, Rose told him, so nearly there. I have to try to produce it, the finest opium, to test it. If it works, share it with Rab. Tiny quantities, Artemus. No chance of danger or pain. And my way to say thank you to the poppy, for relieving my own despair.

In the end, Artemus acquiesced. Rose made so few demands, he had never reached for the unequivocal No. How could he? He approved of medicinal marijuana and morphine. His principles, he discovered, were not sheltered by absolutes.

Nineteen months after Rab's challenge to achieve the quintessential flower, Rose produced a small harvest of opium poppies with rich sap, three times the quantity available from a normal opium poppy, 82 percent more viscous. Perfect poppies. Or, as she joked, so near perfect you couldn't tell the difference. She'd bred them, grown them, bled, dried, and bagged them. With Tam's help, shipped the bags in narrow tubes inserted in the ornate frames of paintings done by, well, a student of European masters. Her new crop had been set to go next week. Now—

From the start, Rose had made it clear to Artemus: these tubes were not being sold, they were gifts. Because Rab was their friend.

At The Hermitage Rab had constructed a luxury opium den. He estimated it cost him about twenty-two thousand American dollars to give a select friend a unique experience: thirty-six hours in the purity of perfection. A small chamber, an appropriate amount of opium, a constant but concealed attendant, optional escort pleasures according to taste, then twelve hours of steam, massage and sleep.

Rose Marchand's cache of enriched opium was limited. She could produce only enough to supply five guests twice a year. A few people out there, Rose figured, seriously owed Rab.

Twice at The Hermitage Rab and Rose shared a period of opium heaven. They reveled privately for twenty-four hours in their imagined desires. For Rab, his dead young wife walked out of the burning bus and literally, bodily, into his beating heart. For Rose, her powerful legs walked her from the wheelchair to a velvet ocean, she swam, she swam, she needed no legs. For one day, each was a perfect being.

This evening around the dinner table, far less than perfection. With the possible exception of the lamb, Rab noted. But the best of it lay congealing on the platter.

• • •

At 8:30 Noel couldn't stand it any longer. He picked up the phone and dialed. After four rings Artemus Marchand answered. “Yes?”

“Artemus, this is Noel Franklin.”

“Yes?”

“I'm trying to locate Kyra Rachel. Is she there, by any chance?”

“Of course not. Why should she be?”

“She had an appointment with you earlier. Was she there?”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention where she was going?”

“No, nothing.”

“Did she talk about staying on Gabriola?”

“I'm afraid I don't remember.”

“Did she say she was going back to Nanaimo?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. Now if that's all, you've disturbed us at dinner.”

“Sorry. Thanks.” Noel put the phone down. “Damn.” He breathed deeply. He walked through each of his rooms. He sat down, instantly got up. He shivered. He'd gone beyond anger and worry, right through to damn scared.

KYRA CRAWLED UP again, inserted, hmm, tighter fit, ah! a tumbler clicked. Onward. If she drank more water she wouldn't feel so hungry. But the water was over there in the dark. She was thirsty. She had to pee again. Did she care if she peed in the toilet? Pee here. She'd either get out or get killed. Who cared about a cleaning bill. She sighed. Fastidiousness bumped her down the steps, the bent wire held out like a short thin cane. Twelve steps, she counted. And in spite of herself, giggled. She found the toilet and peed. A 12-step program. Head under the tap, and she drank. It did help. She started back to the steps.

A flash of light. The trap opened, things flew down. She throbbed with adrenalin terror.

“Sorry about this, Kyra.” Tam's voice, flat. “Here're sandwiches and blankets. You shouldn't have gone where you weren't wanted. You've left us no alternative.”

“You fucker, you major fucker, let me out!” She dashed to the stairs but the trap door slammed down again, and clicked. “At least turn the light on!” Damn, damn, damn! The tumbler she'd released had clicked back in locked position.

“Kyra?”

His voice through the wooden door came to her a bit muffled. “What?”

“You want to talk?”

“About what?”

“Well, first you could say thank you for the sandwiches and blankets.”

“Fuck off.”

“Then you can tell me what I should do with you.”

“It's simple.” She stared up to where his voice came from. “Let me out.”

“I can't. Not till we reach an agreement.”

Something was shifting. Likely not for the better. “What agreement?”

“I could promise to let you out and you could leave unharmed. But you'd have to promise something too.”

She waited a moment. “Like what?”

“Like, to help me keep my secret.”

His voice became more muted, as if he'd moved away from the trap door. “What secret?”

“About my studio. My work.”

“Sure, that's no problem. I promise, I really do.” Damn! She'd spoken too eagerly—

“But how do I know—”

“Hey, Tam, I can barely hear you.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Then his voice sounded clearer. “Okay. Tell me this. What do you know about Rose and Artemus?”

“Huh?”

“I'll ask another way. Maybe you don't know anything at all about the Marchands, nothing except Rose Marchand, world-renowned botanist, Artemus Marchand, gallery owner, patron of the arts. Roy's body was dumped here, after being killed elsewhere. Nothing more?

“Noel's report said that. What more is there?”

“How do I know you'll keep on being ignorant? That I can trust you?”

“Come on, Tam.” She forced her grimace into a smile. “You know you can.”

“I'm not sure. And we have alternatives.”

“Yeah?”

“We could keep you down there. For a long time. Without any sandwiches.”

She shuddered. “After a while I'd start to stink.”

“But before that you might disappear somewhere else. The strait is deep. And close by.”

“Come on, you wouldn't kill me.” Or would he? She didn't know.

“I know a man who has no problem with projects like that.”

“I understand what you're saying. I'll keep my mouth shut tight. You have my promise.” She waited. “Do we have an agreement?”

Silence from Tam, till he said, “The man I know does many things. People can meet with car accidents. Like your friend Noel. Or your father. We wouldn't want his shop to burn down.”

“Are you talking about you?”

“I'm not in that league.” He snorted a laugh. “This guy's ruthless. And he's as close to us right now as the house.”

Oh man, am I in deep shit— No, don't think about it now— “Hey! Tam! I'm not stupid.” She forced her voice to stay steady. “We've got a deal. Total silence from me. I'm outta your life, you're outta mine.” No response. “Okay?”

“We'll sleep on it.”

“Please, let me out.”

“Good night.” Heavily muffled.

“Hey Tam!” No answer. What man does Tam know? Helldamnpissfuck.

• • •

Artemus visited while Rose prepared for bed. They spoke little: Can you get me my robe? Do you want to floss? An avoidance of talk, with Rab in the next bedroom.

That she and Rab had upset each other was clear to Artemus. Rab was too unctuous, Rose too silent. Her unwillingness to send more opium, surely. Which didn't explain why she had undermined the upcoming sales of the paintings. “Rose?”

“Mmn?” She applied cream to her face.

“You told Rab we wouldn't be able to get many paintings in the future. Where do you get information like that?”

“Tam. And keep your voice down. I don't want to talk about this now.”

“You left me looking like a fool—”

“I'm sorry.” She wiped the last of the cream between her fingers. “Really. But can we wait until Rab's left?” She smiled, looking as if she were about to cry. “Please?” She reached out to touch his hand.

“All right. But you've made me extremely angry.” He turned and left the room.