Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (36 page)

• • •

Noel turned off his computer and switched on the ten o'clock news. It couldn't distract him. He was royally scared. On the screen, images flashed past. She's driving an unfamiliar car. She had an accident on Gabriola. Do they have a jaws of life over there? He grabbed the phone again, looked up the number for the Gabriola RCMP, dialed. A machine: Call the Nanaimo number. Nanaimo RCMP: No, no accidents reported today on Gabriola. He disconnected, turned off the TV, on impulse dialed Albert in Victoria. Not at the office, back in the morning. At Albert's apartment a machine, Albert wasn't available. He left a message, Kyra's gone missing, please call. Shit shit! He called Emergency at the hospital. No, no Kyra Rachel had been admitted.

Was she simply with the artist brother-in-law? He picked up the phone and called Tam Gill's number. Another answering machine. Kyra's cell again. The service again.

Okay, he had no idea what to do. He'd never taken a course in criminology, or police work. He didn't even read detective novels much. Though he'd loved John D. McDonald. What would Travis McGee do right now?

How could he ever partner with Kyra if he worried like this.

He turned on the news again. A broadcaster with tight lips bade him good night.

Not a good night. Travis McGee would get his ass over to Gabriola right now. He'd be stuck there, but he'd search all night. He checked his watch. He rushed to the balcony. Shit! The ferry, just pulling out. The last one, always on time. Okay, a water taxi— Sure, get to the island, no car, walk all night— Damn it, there should be a bridge to Gabriola!

His phone was ringing. Kyra! “Yes?”

“Hello, Noel, it's Lucille.”

“Oh. Hello.”

“You don't sound excited to hear from me.”

“Sorry, Lucille. It's, uh, late.”

“Well I thought you might want to know, the call I got about Roy Dempster's binoculars? I copied down the calling number on my screen and the next day I got in touch with my friend at Telus. She just called me back. The phone belongs to an island fellow, Jerry Bannister. He's got a bit of a record. A cellphone.”

“Very interesting—”

“Franklin! Pay attention! How did Bannister know the binocs were where he said?”

“I get it, Lucille. He planted them there.”

“Very good. And where did Bannister get Roy's binoculars from?”

“That's only a surmise. Okay, a pretty good one.”

“I should've had the information sooner. But what with the weekend, and I don't have my old clout at the phone company. Not like it used to be. Know what I'm saying?”

“I do. But you ought to tell this to the Mounties.”

She laughed. “I write a better story when I'm not my own hero.”

“I'll get the information to those who can use it. Thank you.”

“Sleep tight.” The line went dead.

He called Albert again at home. “Hi. An update on my last call. I have important information. Call when you get in. No matter how late.”

He tried Kyra again. Same. Okay. Wherever Kyra was, she couldn't phone. Why not? No answer. First ferry in the morning. He brushed his teeth, pulled off his shirt—

Lucille! Water taxi time. He grabbed the phone, punched in her number.

It rang once. “Maple.”

“Hello, Lucille. It's Noel.”

A moment of silence. “It's, uh, late, Noel.”

He laughed. “Sorry. But listen.” He explained his worry, Kyra's absence, not returning from Gabriola this evening, no word. “I need your help. I'm coming over. By water taxi. Could you meet me?”

“I'll send our fellow from here. Cheaper than the Nanaimo rip-offs. And he owes me.”

“You sure?”

“If you don't hear from me in fifteen minutes get yourself to the seaplane dock in forty-five. His name's Isaac.” Excitement in her voice. “I'll pick you up.”

“Okay.” But she'd already hung up. He checked his watch. 11:25. A boat was the bridge to Gabriola. Shirt back on, sweater. Windbreaker at the ready. He wrapped his toothbrush bristles in a tissue and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He slid four fifties into his wallet. What else? The flashlight. Computer? No. Notebook and pen.

Quarter to midnight, no call. He waited till midnight, locked, walked down the stairs, out, along the promenade to the quay where the seaplanes dock. Two of Nanaimo's water taxis floated there, bobbing in easy sleep. He waited, hands in pockets. Another fifteen minutes and he heard the hum of a motor, then saw the approaching lamp, and the taxi docked. “Isaac?”

“Let's go.”

Noel climbed aboard a flat-bottomed craft, small cabin up front. “Thanks for coming.”

The taxi bobbed. “It'll be a hundred.” Isaac, tall and skinny, made no move to leave.

“Sure.” Noel gave him two bills.

Isaac studied him down and up. “Might want to get into the cabin. It's cool out.”

“I'll be fine.”

Isaac gave him a two-second stare, turned to the wheel and pointed the taxi across the harbor toward Gabriola. The engine roared, picking up speed quickly. Noel came close to losing his balance. But the sea lay smooth and they skimmed across. “Sorry to get you out so late.”

Isaac nodded.

Noel wondered what Isaac owed Lucille. And what to do when he got to Gabriola. Lucille could drive him to Eaglenest, he'd do an all-night stakeout. Should've brought his down jacket. But was Kyra there? Where else could she be? The taxi slowed. Except they weren't landing at the ferry dock. The taxi's beam took in a rickety floating platform. “Where are we?”

Isaac lashed the boat to the dock. “Green Wharf. Across from Mudge.”

“Oh.”

“Off South Road.” He killed the engine, stepped onto the dock, brought out a flashlight. “Near Brickyard.” He pointed with the beam to a steep tottering ramp. “Lucille'll be up there.”

“Thanks.” Noel could see the ramp in the starlight. He turned on his light and climbed the shaky slope up to a higher platform, this one solid. He crossed to shore and heard the low murmur of an engine. Double high beams hit him. He heard Lucille shout, “Climb in!” Yes, her TR6. He sat beside her. “I appreciate this, you know.”

“I do know.” She backed up, turned, and headed up a potholed dirt road.

Wrong car for here, thought Noel, but the Triumph wound between gullies and over ridges with no bottom scrape. Up on South Road, Noel said, “Can you drive me to the Gallery?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Nothing'll happen till it's light.”

Shit. “Lucille, I need to—”

“At night on small islands, people sleep. You do business by day. Legal business or illegal business, no difference.”

“So why did I come over?”

“So you can be in place at the first twinkle of dawn.”

“For god's sake, Lucille—”

“I understand this island, know what I mean? We'll have a drink, you'll get a little sleep.”

He could walk to the Gallery. Or steal her car? Or maybe she was right.

She turned into her driveway and parked in the carport. In the living room the couch had become an impromptu bed. They sipped Scotch. “Okay,” she said, “what's going on?”

How much should he tell her? Jerry, Roy, the pot patch? Rose and the opium? Hazardous to dangle unprovable allegations in front of a journalist, right? “All I know is, Kyra's missing. And I'm worried.”

“You think the Marchands have done her in? Why?”

“The Gallery's the last place she's known to have been.”

“Probably some guy. Tam Gill, maybe.”

Noel felt the name grind behind his eyes. “Likely that's all. But I need to find out.”

She squinted at him, doubt on her lips. “Okay.” She gave him an alarm clock, the time a red glow, and showed him the bathroom.

• • •

Kyra patted the floor beside the stairs until her hand connected with a packet. Sandwiches in a Baggie. She crawled back up the stairs, pushing a blanket out of the way. Trapped. “You've left us no option.” Us. Artemus, Rose, Tam. But Tam made the deal.

She unwrapped the sandwiches and sniffed. Meat and mustard. At least they weren't going to starve her right away. Lamb? One more bite. Slightly charred, barbecued? Delicious! Cheese and lettuce, and a tart herb, probably tarragon. On firm sourdough.

Her jaws stopped. What if they've poisoned it? She moved the suddenly tasteless morsel around her mouth, slowly swallowed. Idiot! Rose knows poisons for sure. Deadly nightshade? Leave me here to die an agonizing death. Kyra poked some meat out from between two teeth and wiped her finger on the stair edge. Yeah, they stay over at the house, don't have to listen to my agony. I should know pretty soon if it's poisoned.

Maybe poisoned, locked in the dark, knowing too much about someone else's business, their knowing you know, what to do? Get control. Keep it in the air, label the balls, around and around. Faked schools-of painting, ball number one, up in the air. She closed her eyes in the dark and the ball was in her hand, lob up, drop down, caught by feel. Second ball, a black basement room, up in the air, the painting down, up again. Ball three a poisoned sandwich, up, around, over, across. Fourth ball, the lock picks, up, over— No wonder she was getting nowhere! Shift in mid-air? She'd never done this, have to try, the great jugglers can. She plucked ball two from on high, flipped it in between three and four, around, around. It worked! Lock pick ball beside door ball, up, over, lock pick perfect among the tumblers, around, over, around. Minutes it felt like, or hours. Till she caught all the balls in one hand, held them tight, opened her hand and they were gone. Opened her eyes. The dark was still here.

She found the wire and crawled up the steps. More careful fiddling. A click. Good. Professional lock picks, a worthwhile invention. Like a plow instead of a stick to dig a hole. She'd rather be digging. Her arms were tired noodles over her head. She let them hang, and shook them. If she escaped, she'd work out again. Hard.

She yawned. Rather, a yawn yawned her. Okay, what do I know, lock-wise? One tumbler loose. She stuck the wire back in, she felt about with it. But her fingers sensed nothing, they'd gone numb. The poison? She pulled her hand down, placed the wire in her lap, shook her hands and pressed them on the step. Normal feel. Her stomach didn't hurt. Maybe just exhausted. The blankets, a couple hours sleep. If she wasn't dead when she woke, the rest of the sandwiches.

She bumped down the stairs and made a blanket-nest just outside the bathroom. She lay down. The film cartridge dug into her hip. She shoved it between her breasts under her bra.

• • •

In jagged dreams Lyle and Jerry played some grotesque version of hide-and-seek with Tam, Rose and Artemus. And Noel was it. He woke three times before five o'clock. When he finally pulled his pants on and headed for the toilet he found Lucille in the kitchen, dressed and sipping coffee. “You didn't have to get up. Can I borrow your car?”

“Have some coffee. I'm going with you.”

“Lucille, no.”

“I can handle the Marchands better than you.”

“Look. I don't know what's happening there. And you don't want to be your own hero.”

She studied him. “I'll take you. I'll wait in the car. In case anything goes wrong.”

“The getaway driver?” He grinned. She didn't.

She drove fast, headlights reflecting ground fog. To keep from talking, Noel played a solitary What-do-we-know? Rose Gill is producing poppy-sap. Being refined into heroin? By whom? Where? Yesterday Kyra went to talk with Art Marchand— Oh god, Marchand. Art Merchant. A name to be cursed with. No wonder he insists on Artemus.

• • •

Not so much a sleepless night for Artemus, more a lot of darkness with tiny naps. Despite his sleeping pill he lay awake more than ten times between 11:40 and 6:55.

All night he'd felt Rab studying him, from up on the ceiling or from behind the mirror, just as over dinner Rab had searched down and across his face. Rosie's as well, the long glance of a casino owner who needed to know everything all the time. But Rab had asked nothing. Artemus had waited for Rosie to take the lead. She didn't. They all went to sleep. Rather, to bed.

At moments his anger had ebbed. But when thinking about Rose's claim that he couldn't find more paintings— How might it have been, without the successes of the last years? Without doing everything possible for the Foundation? How lucky to have found the world's most single-minded buyer in Rabinovich.

Such pleasure when Tam brought him first the School of Tintoretto his people had located in that little town near Debrecen, and then the School of Schnürer, part of the estate—several minor masters, a few Old Testament groups from schools of the greater masters—of a shoe-and-boot commissar for northern Hungary. How did good communists come to have estates? Likely the commissar had been a clever fellow and a bad communist. For the moment the heirs would sell only one, from the Schnürer school. It was a small complex study for the
Moses in Sinai
now in Munich's Alte Pinakotech, the early rendering already equipped with tablets and horns.

Tam had picked it up, he told Artemus in great excitement on the phone from Budapest, for just over US $11,000. Back on Gabriola, Artemus too bubbled with pleasure. His ardor had communicated itself so well to Rab that he'd bought it after seeing only the slides. Artemus showed it as part of that year's Thanksgiving Day show. Rab had paid US $366,000 for it.

Rosie wanted those times to be over. What was the matter with her?

• • •

Lucille turned down the absent neighbor's driveway. Daylight glowed over the trees ahead. The two Jaguars in their cages, and another car, a small red Taurus. Maybe Kyra's rental—? Noel said, “Okay. If I'm not back in two hours, come looking. But please, stay here till then.”

Lucille looked irked but said, “Okay,” and reached for a library book.