Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (40 page)

Lyle, involved in murder? One way to find out.

Why can't I leave it alone. To find a little justice for Roy? Unlikely.

Noel called Albert. The machine. No sense leaving a message. Kyra was off food shopping. They were eating in tonight. A note: Gone to have a chat with Lyle. Back soon. N.

Down the stairs, into the garage. Tires okay. He drove out, headed south. It'd be dark in an hour. How to start this conversation? No, let it happen in the doing.

He stopped the car in front of Lyle's house. Up to the latticed porch. He rang the bell. “Swanee River.” He sighed.

The door opened. “Noel. What a surprise.”

“Hello, Lyle.”

“And what brings you by this evening?”

“To talk to you. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Lyle stepped back and Noel entered. Lyle led him along the hall. Noel noted a study on this side, a bedroom on that. They entered the largest room, to the right of the kitchen, the living room.

“Have a seat.” Lyle gestured at a fat brown leather chair.

It matched the sofa against the far wall. Two other plush patterned chairs about the room, both away from the wall as if in obeisance to the heavy sofa. A glassed-in fireplace. Half a dozen paintings, three of which Noel recognized as Lyle's. A thick green carpet. “Thanks.”

Noel sat.

“A drink?”

“Okay.”

They agreed on Scotch, neat. Lyle poured and handed Noel one of two heavy cut-crystal glasses. “To what do I owe the honor, and so on?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“So you said.” He grinned. “Should I put on the soft music?”

“A serious talk.”

“What? More tires slashed? More phone calls? I hope not something worse.”

“No, luckily.” Mention today's call? Remembering it had suddenly put Noel on edge.

“No obituaries? No more computer attacks? Hard to believe, Noel.”

“That the guy's leaving me alone?”

“That someone would mess up your computer. I find that implausible.”

Something weird about Lyle. Could work out okay, though. “Why implausible?”

“No no, not important, you came to talk.” He sipped. “About another of your problems.”

“Actually no. I came to talk about you.” Noel sipped in return. “Your problem.”

“About me? What an intriguing subject.”

Noel leaned forward. “Actually to help you, if I can.”

“Help me with—?”

“With the trouble you're in.”

“Trouble?” Lyle raised his eyebrows.

“It has to do with Jerry Bannister.”

Lyle grimaced. “I've decided not to paint him. He's impossible to be with.”

“But he's your pot-growing buddy, isn't he.”

A strain now on Lyle's face. “Bannister?”

Noel nodded. “In the grow-op. And possibly also in Roy's death.”

“You're crazy.”

Noel shook his head. “No, sensible. And I can call a Mountie friend, get him to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?”

“I think you're an accomplice, you could be charged with murder. You have to tell the RCMP what happened, how Roy died, what Jerry Bannister's role in this is.”

While Noel spoke, Lyle stared into his glass. Now he stood. “Let me see if I understand what you're saying here. I made a deal with Bannister to grow pot?”

“Right. You smoke the best dope. Best is what you grow yourself. You offered me some at my place, remember? And you provided Brendan with some good stuff.”

Lyle nodded. “Brendan. Yes. But Brendan was a friend. A very very dear friend.”

Dear? “Look, you were in this with Bannister, and he killed Roy. Likely by accident.”

“This is crazy.” Lyle paced to the window. “How can you think I'd get involved in growing pot, let alone murder?”

“I think it was an accident. Maybe you weren't even there.”

“Of course I wasn't there.” Lyle marched to the fireplace. “There was no there for me not to be at.” Back to the window. “Grow pot with that pig Bannister? For shitsake.” He finished the Scotch. “You couldn't be more wrong.”

He'll react soon. “I'm right. Admit it.”

“Come on,” pacing again, “I could no more” striding behind the chairs “have been involved in murder than—”

The last words Noel heard because a crystal whisky glass smashed into his head just behind the right temple.

• • •

Kyra put down the groceries. She was hungry. How could she be hungry after a late lunch? No sign of Noel. His phone caught her eye. He has to change his phone number. She went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, applied new lipstick.

The door to his room stood ajar. She glanced in. Nope. In the living room? No. She checked the little balcony. She called, “Noel? Noel!” Inside Noel's head, the pain pounded hard. I'm alive, he thought. He tried to touch the place of the pain but his hand had gone wrong, he couldn't move it. The other hand? No. But he felt something with his right hand, with his left too. Then he realized, each hand felt the other. In fact couldn't move from the other. Where was he? He'd gone to see Lyle. He said, “Lyle?” but it came out, “Mmmnbb” because tape covered his mouth, tearing at his lips and cheek.

He was lying on the floor. On his back. Under him, a carpet. He rolled to an elbow, tried to push himself to standing. His feet were connected to each other. He slumped down.

Lyle said, “Good morning. Or rather, good night.”

Noel said, “Mmuuyuu dnnnn,” which should have been, What're you doing?

“Why did you have to be such a fool, Noel?” Lyle sounded nothing like the Lyle who'd cheerily designed a business for Kyra and him.

Noel mmyed.

“This isn't good.” His tone was flat.

“Nnnnnn—”

“Are you religious, Noel? Funny, all the time I've known you and I don't have a clue. Do you believe in an afterlife? Where you'll see Brendan again? If you believe, grunt once. If not, twice.”

Noel grunted twice.

“That's good. Because if you did meet Brendan again, I'd be jealous.

Extremely.” He bent down, staring at Noel's face. “Again.”

Noel closed his eyes. Oh shit.

“You never knew about Brendan and me. Just before you arrived on the scene. Brendan never spoke of previous intimates. And who else could tell you? Me?” He laughed.

Triple shit.

“Here's a choice. Die knowing why you'll die, or die in ignorance.

Which would you prefer?”

Die? Die?

“If you want to know, grunt once. If not, twice.”

Keep him talking, keep him talking. Noel grunted once.

“Good. Don't go away, I'll just get myself another Scotch. Sorry I can't offer you one. I'll only be a moment, I have to get a new glass.” He laughed lightly. “Since you broke my first.”

Noel worked the tape around his wrists. No give. And his feet were wrapped so tightly they'd gone numb. Multiple shit. Why hadn't he told Albert's machine where he'd gone, what he was doing. He closed his eyes against a surge of panic.

Lyle's voice, quietly menacing: “Now, the famous five journalistic questions. You surely remember them. From your one-time profession. Until you decided you didn't want to be a public person any longer, until your press friends turned on you, exposed you. All those mistakes, how dumb. What was the name of that woman? Oh yes. Buckland. Tanja Buckland. So dumb.” He sighed. “Are you wondering, how do I know these things? I like to know my subjects thoroughly.” He shook his head. “Too bad Brendan didn't see how stupid you were. Are.”

Unbelievable. Who is this Lyle? Changed so completely so fast?

“The five questions. First, how. How it will be done. In this manner.” Noel felt a cold tickle on his nose. He opened his eyes. The tip of a broad-bladed knife. “It's served many purposes. Fileting fish, though it's a little large. Hacking chickens apart. It hasn't entered human flesh. At least not to my knowledge. Ooh—now that's wrong, I cut myself once slicing an onion. Wrong tool for the job.”

A moment of silence. Then: “Superior Scotch. You I served a common blend. Why waste this lovely Glenmorangie.” Silence. “Next, where. Let's do where and when together, shall we? Not here, not now, it'd be a mistake, blood stains on my carpet. Don't you agree? When it's dark, we'll go for a ride. Where? To, let's say, the Third Nanaimo Lake. Oh, in your car, naturally. It wouldn't do to leave my tire tracks up there. Nice new tires, Noel. Then I'll bring your car back. Where? To your garage. It'll be lots easier to get into this time. From the hot tub roof took some daring. And agility too, I might add. You do have an automatic door opener, don't you?”

Noel thought: would Kyra find his note?

“And then why. I think that's out of order. Silly journalistic order. But good in order for me. Why? Because you destroyed something perfectly wonderful, Noel. What? Why, Brendan and me. There has never been a better couple. Never! We were close, intensely close. Hard to achieve such singularity of ideal and purpose between two people. And you destroyed it. One week, all it took you. Which shows your power. Your casual power.” Silence. “So good, this Scotch. Ah, you may ask, why did I wait till now? You can't guess. No, you're not swift. Except in your stealth in stealing a man's lover. So I'll tell you. Because I loved Brendan. I still love Brendan. I wouldn't have hurt him. Not for the world. To harm you while he lived would be to hurt Brendan. I couldn't do that.”

He's nuts. Out of his fucking head. Would Kyra find this place? Noel hadn't left an address. She'd find it in the phone book! Get here, Kyra—Shit! Lyle's number isn't listed.

“And finally, who. We both know the answer to that. You and me. I and only I could do this. It would have worked out more painfully for you if you hadn't shown up here, I'll give you that. You were going to hurt in three ways, Noel. You've felt the beginning pain of each. What three, you ask. I'll tell you. But wait, a little light, so I can watch your face.” A standing lamp came on. “First, psychologically. Your panic from my calls, my breath in your ear. Clever of you to ignore them at night. But you couldn't escape your answering machine, could you. Thank you for suggesting lunch at the Crow and Gate, by the way. And now you see why I insisted on paying. You gave me such pleasure. Of course the obituary was mine, and the tires. But I've already mentioned the tires.” Silence. “And devious of you to increase my challenge. Messing with your computer? It never happened. Not what I like to do. All right then, I got to you psychologically.” He knelt beside Noel and whispered into his face: “Admit it. Grunt once if I got to you psychologically.”

Noel grunted. Lyle disappeared from his view.

“Good. Okay, your second area of pain. Noel Franklin, private investigator. Triple I. Increasing respect for your abilities. The public Franklin once again. Exposed, known. And so, vulnerable in the light of day. When everything is visible.”

Noel's glance shot to the window. Getting dark. Damn! He tried to pull against the tape again, the dozenth time. Nothing gave.

“And third, emotionally. The very best. Had we gone on seeing each other, you would have fallen in love with me. Deeply, wildly. When I work at it, Noel, I am irresistible. You were discovering this. That's why you took the initiative and invited me to that pub. You'd come to trust me, to tell me about the dangerous things that were happening to you. You needed my help. You believed I could help, I was a friend. In a few months, maybe only weeks, your passion for me would've been boundless. I'd have allowed it for a short time. Long enough to pierce your heart. And then I'd have hurt you as only a lover can hurt.” He laughed, a sad little laugh. “As you hurt me.”

A long silence. Noel thought he heard Lyle's throat catch.

“Ah well, dark enough, time to go. Now you've got, once again, two choices. Either I stand you up and you sit in my office chair, it has wheels, and I roll you to your car. I'll first bring it into the driveway. We'll lay you in the back seat. Or, to assure your passivity, I can knock you out again. No, I won't destroy another glass, I'll use a blunt instrument, like the poker. Then I'll drag you out of here in my wheelbarrow. One grunt to stand, two for the poker.”

Noel grunted once.

“Don't go away. I'll get the chair.”

• • •

Kyra arrived in time to catch the last few words of Lyle's speech, badly muffled, from the edge of the living room window. She'd seen Noel's note. Noel surely wasn't going to confront Lyle! Yes he was. She'd tried to locate Lyle's address, only a phone number in Noel's address book, nothing in the phone book, couldn't figure where on his computer he might have it. Then, an idea! She called Artemus Marchand. She gave her voice a bit of a Yiddish accent. Yes, interested in acquiring a painting by Lyle Sempken. Nothing at the Eaglenest Gallery? A shame, she was in Nanaimo for only a day, did Mr. Marchand have Mr. Sempken's address? Yes, she understood that Mr. Marchand was agent for all Mr. Sempken's work, no desire to cheat anyone. She simply wished to make her choice from what she could see of Mr. Sempken's. Marchand gave her the address.

She'd looked around the apartment for some kind of weapon. A hammer? She spotted a carving knife first and dropped it into her purse. The butt stuck out. So be it. She found a map, figured where Lyle's address should be, ran to her car and sped to Angus Drive. Yes, Noel's Honda. But the house seemed dark. No one here? She crept around the carport past a big old car to the back. A weak light came from a rear room. She saw Lyle standing, sipping a drink, staring down, talking. Noel on the floor? Then Lyle left the room. She snuck up to the window, tried to glance in without revealing herself. No one. Except, on the floor, two feet, bound together with duct tape. Noel? Had to be. Damn! Why was Noel tied up? What was Lyle doing? He wouldn't hurt Noel, would he? Yes, Lyle maybe would. But not here, somewhere else. He had to get Noel away. By car? Okay, back to the carport. The carving knife. Right rear tire, farthest from the house. She speared the sidewall, hard. The knife bounced back. She set the point against the sidewall, and worked at it, fifteen seconds, thirty, forty— A small spurt of air, tiny. A bit more. A blast now, still small—