Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  She returned. “So. The plagiarism case is dealt with. And we have to stay here at least another twenty-four hours. What shall we do?”

  Oh, he needed time to think about Kyra. But he said only, “First we tell Peter what we’ve concluded. I’ll see where he wants to meet us. Then we do what we want. Be tourists.” Noel took out his Blackberry and gauchely pressed in Peter’s number. Interesting. He’d memorized it.

  Peter took the news of the unlikelihood of plagiarism with equanimity. “You’ve done the best you could. It’s most likely that Jordan just does have two writing styles.” He lifted his eyebrow. “Or at least two.”

  “Where do we send our bill?” Noel asked.

  Peter gave him the address of the English Department office. “So you’re meeting tomorrow with Larry Rossini.”

  “We are,” said Noel. “And leaving the next day. Oh, may we use the house another night?”

  “Sure. Just one night? You don’t think you can help him?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Kyra said, “Any idea what his problem could be?”

  Peter shook his head. “He’s been acting weird recently. Even more than usual.”

  Kyra squinted at him. “Than usual?”

  “He’s working on some heavy-duty research that he keeps so secret nobody around here knows what it is.”

  “What’s his field?”

  “Biomolecular engineering. I have no idea what his specialty is. Nanotechnology, I think. All too esoteric for me.”

  “Sounds complicated,” said Noel.

  “When’re you meeting him?”

  “Tomorrow. Noon.”

  “Oh.” Peter’s face looked as if he were deciding something. “Want to come by my place? Around 5:30? Someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A surprise. And it’s not an invitation for dinner. A drink, yes. But I’m busy this evening.”

  “Sure,” said Noel.

  “Fine,” said Kyra.

  After a lunch with no more talk about hiring detectives, Toni and Larry returned to her hotel room, where they once again undressed each other and went at it. Then they both slept. Larry woke first, his thoughts rehearsing for the umpteenth time his responses to Susanna’s kidnapping. His ploy was not going to work. He’d hoped in three weeks the Sheriff’s people would find her. But they hadn’t, and time was running out. When the three weeks were up, the kidnappers, very angry, would contact him: The process didn’t work! He’d say they must have misapplied the algorithms. They’d say—what? He’d have to find a way to get them the real algorithms without admitting he’d tried to cheat them. Susanna mustn’t be harmed. He should have given them the correct ones in the first place. Which was more important, his discovery or his daughter? He’d thought he could have both. He shouldn’t have come to Seattle before convincing Rachel and Franklin to take on the case. He should call them again, tell them he must meet with them this evening. He’d return to San Juan, have them start immediately. If he remembered right, there was a 6:00 PM ferry. He leaned over to the side table and checked his watch. 3:10.

  He rolled over and put his arm around Toni. She stirred. He kissed the back of her head. “Toni?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I love you, Toni.” What?! He’d never said that before. The words had simply left his mouth.

  She turned to face him. “What did you say?”

  “I think I said I love you.”

  “Larry!” She reached for him, drew his face against her breasts, held him to her.

  He pressed his lips to her skin and lay still for a moment, then pulled away. “I want to be with you, right now and for a long time. But I’ve got to go back to San Juan.”

  “When? Now?”

  He kissed her hard. Relaxing his lips, he whispered, “Right now.” He pushed himself from the bed.

  She sat up. “Why now?”

  “In case the kidnappers make contact.” He pulled on his shorts.

  “From all you’ve told me, they won’t.”

  “Or if the Sheriff’s office has any news.”

  “If they’ve found out nothing till now—”

  “Toni, I need to be close to where I last saw Susanna. I shouldn’t have left the island. I shouldn’t be here.” He pulled on his trousers and shirt.

  She let herself fall back onto the bed. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me too,” he smiled. “Twice.”

  Kyra would sightsee, Noel would nap. They drove back to the house. She pored over his map. She grabbed a couple of pamphlets and her purse. Did she really need the mace and pistol? One never knew. Yes, she could borrow the Honda. She made a joke about getting both her and the car back in one piece. It fell flat. The last time she’d borrowed his car was still too recent. Sure, she’d be back in time to meet Peter’s mysterious person.

  Off the campus, out to the main road. First stop, Lime Kiln Point State Park. So named because lime had once been quarried there. Not much to see—some old bones of buildings, but a lovely ocean view. An old lighthouse stood at the water’s edge, a one-storey building and a two-storey tower with a beacon on top. No longer manned, the guidebook said, automated for years. Beyond it, Deadman Bay, so-called because of a sensational murder that happened more than a hundred and twenty years ago, not described but obviously a major event of the time. Likely of any time between now and then. The next crime to come along was the possible plagiarism of a novella? Kyra laughed out loud. She loved small islands.

  Onward. Lots of green fields, a number of farmhouses each with its requisite geese pecking at grass or floating on ponds. Past Mt. Dallas Road; Peter had mentioned lots of upscale housing that way, people wanting a view. Not much of a mountain, Kyra remembered—barely a thousand feet high. Of course sea level was close by. Then Smallpox Bay, called this because of an infestation many years ago among the native people. Burning with the illness, they leapt into the bay to kill the fever, but they caught pneumonia and killed themselves instead. Another sad story.

  At last, the English Camp, one of the bases during the Pig War. On a well-protected harbor. Good place for military fortification. Long-stretching lawns. Some restored buildings, and a formal garden. All very pretty on this sunny summer day. Good place to bring a baby who’s just learning to walk. Oh dear.

  Raoul set the phone down. Now he was worried. The boss had been very angry. Had the girl seen Fredric’s face? How trustworthy was he? Fully, Raoul had said. But in reality he didn’t know. They’d never done anything like this, kidnapped someone. Fredric was a good buddy, had been for years. But he’d only had to trust Fredric with situations between the two of them. When a third party becomes involved, new factors enter. And in fact, four factors were at play here: the two of them, the girl and the boss. No, he had to assume Fredric was completely trustworthy.

  The boss had pointed out that if the girl had seen Fredric’s face, they’d have to get rid of him. No, he’s always masked when he goes to feed her; she couldn’t have. Get rid of Fredric? He would never do that. Scare Fredric, keep him in line, sure. But kill Fredric? Raoul couldn’t even imagine it.

  And then there was the order. That one he could handle.

  The office of the president of Morsely University, more correctly the suite of offices, took up the western half of the third floor of the Mansion. An outer office staffed by Mrs. Ann Buttrick protected the president from unwanted visitors. Mrs. Buttrick wore her owl-eye spectacles like a weapon of instant destruction, her eyes behind the lenses drilling into the face of any unexpected arrival. Joseph Martin from EST-K-Sum was no exception, nor was his companion, Edgar Dupres. Though Martin had made an appointment, Mrs. Buttrick treated them as anointed representatives of the unwelcome. Martin’s flat-top crew cut, Windsor-knotted bright-blue tie and navy suit, like Dupres’s rounded face, flat ears, red polka-dotted bow tie, yellow shirt and also navy suit, screamed: We are not Morsely! She knew she would have to show them in to Richard’s office soon—Ri
chard was expecting Martin—but for twenty minutes she let them cool their butts. The waiting room held no magazines, no pictures hung on the walls. The smart visitor always brought a book. Martin looked distressed with nothing to do; Dupres seemed agitated.

  Suddenly, as if just having received the signal, Mrs. Buttrick stood. “President O’Hara can see you now.” Three long strides and she reached the door behind her desk, turned the handle, and pushed the door open. Martin loped quickly as if in fear she’d shut it again, and Dupres, far taller than he had looked sitting, strode after. She said, “Mr. Martin and Mr. Dupres to see you, Dr. O’Hara.”

  O’Hara had nothing for Martin, not even a date for the possibility of making a promise. This morning, when he’d spoken with Mick Dubic, Mick had reiterated that he could not and would not pressure Rossini to sell or lease his invention. Richard stepped out from behind his desk. “Come in, gentlemen, come in.”

  Mrs. Buttrick closed the door behind them.

  Introductions by Martin, Dupres a colleague, also with EST-K-Sum. Richard, back behind the desk, but not feeling protected. The two visitors in chairs facing, leaning forward. A few moments of very small talk: Did they take the ferry over? They flew. Will they be staying the night? No.

  Martin, cutting to the chase: “Dr. O’Hara. Have you obtained the rights?”

  Richard O’Hara wished for nothing more. With the rights to Rossini’s discovery, the entitlement to lease it out, and with Martin’s offer four weeks ago, Morsely would be on solid financial footing once again. He had to give Martin something now, the most tentative of promises. “We’re getting there,” he said. “Professor Rossini needs more time. He’s still in the early stages of his experiments and—”

  “How much time?”

  “He has to do more human trials and—”

  “He was given that permission over a year ago.”

  How did Martin know this? Oh dear. “It’s a very slow process, and I’m sure he’s moving as quickly as is safe.”

  Dupres bent farther forward, set all ten fingers on O’Hara’s desk as if taking possession, and stood, leaning halfway across the desk, well into O’Hara’s space. “O’Hara?” His first words, each syllable pronounced singly, a low growled voice. “Get those rights.”

  Dr. O’Hara heard the words as a threat. No one threatened Richard O’Hara, and especially not in his office, not at his desk. But this fellow Dupres looked—no, was—intimidating. So Richard stood, his head now higher than the leaning Dupres, and stared into the man’s eyes. Such a round head on such a tall man. “Sir. Sit down.”

  Dupres, not moving, repeated, “Get those rights from Rossini. Or we’ll get them directly.” He held O’Hara’s glare for a moment, pushed back and sat.

  Richard’s great fear—that he and Morsely be cut out of the deal. He had spoken with Larry Rossini at least half a dozen times about the university’s constitutional rights to all of Morsely’s research. Except he, Richard O’Hara, had made the exception: Rossini retained the rights even though he was working at Morsely. Without that in the offer, Larry would never have left Duke. But how to make him understand that he, Larry, threatened the very fate of the university? Madeleine Augustiner, his CEO, had been over the contract as closely as it could be read, and found no way to bypass or rescind the clauses relating to Rossini’s right to retain his intellectual property. With time it might be possible to convince Larry of his duty, but if these two government bullies threatened him now, he would remain forever obdurate about sharing with Morsely. “If you go near Larry Rossini—”

  “Yeah?” rumbled Dupres.

  “You’ll get nowhere. Farther away from Rossini’s work than you are now.”

  “You doubt our powers of persuasion?”

  Richard O’Hara despised and feared violence. Even the threat of violence. He could think of no answer to Dupres’s question. “You gentlemen better be careful,” was all he could think to say.

  Joseph Martin said, “Whatever it takes to get the rights.”

  O’Hara closed his eyes, opened them. “Don’t you think I want to lease you the rights? My leasing them to you is best for all of us.”

  “Then make it happen,” said Dupres.

  “Listen, Richard,” said Martin, “we’re the good guys here. You should know we’ve been authorized to increase our offer by 20 percent. And to present you personally with a 10 percent commission above the purchase price. But you have to get those rights. We’ll take Professor Rossini along with his product—he’ll be able to work on it, develop it, be recompensed more than fairly. What could be more just than that?”

  President O’Hara sighed. “I’ll do my very best.”

  “Call me when you succeed,” said Martin. “In any case, we’ll be back in a month. And when I return I want the invention. Your very best attempt may not be good enough.”

  “We both want the same thing,” said O’Hara.

  Martin stood, then Dupres. “We’ll make our own way out.” They turned toward the door.

  Richard O’Hara watched it close behind them. How was he going to convince Larry? The man was immovable.

  Noel made up an itemized receipt for Morsely University’s English Department and emailed it to their office. Then he shoved two pillows against the head of his bed, lay down and propped the Twain autobiography against his thighs. A weighty tome . . .

  In his pants pocket his phone vibrated. He pulled it out. Didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Franklin, it’s Larry Rossini again.”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “Could we change the time of our appointment? You wanted to meet sooner. I’ve been called back anyway, so we could talk this evening. Say, 7:30?”

  A quick thought: sure. And if they couldn’t help Rossini, Noel could get the mid-morning ferry. Tonight a final conversation with Kyra. “Okay, 7:30’s good.”

  “See you then,” said Rossini. “Thank you.”

  Noel put the phone back in his pocket. He lay down on the bed, picked up the book, read four or five pages, but he could feel his eyelids trying to crash down. He fought for a couple of minutes to keep them open, then thought better of it. Napping, he wouldn’t have to think about Kyra’s baby project or any involvement with Peter. His eyelids won.

  A vibration against his thigh. A tickle. Pleasant, let it go on. But instantly he dragged out his phone again. Rossini wanting to change the appointment? Didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Noel Franklin?” Low voice, slight undeterminable accent, something European maybe?

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “You will leave San Juan Island. You and your partner will not poke your nose into island business. Obey me. Do you understand?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Leave the island or someone will be hurt. You or someone you care for.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No joke, Mr. Franklin. Leave.” The line went dead.

  Noel stared at his phone. He’d just been threatened! He felt caught between sudden anger and a slap of fear. No one had ever threatened him before. Not anonymously, anyway. He felt outrage.

  He got up and walked to the front door, opened it, looked out. No one. Of course not. Closed the door, walked through the living room, kitchen, dining room. Again. Someone intimidating him because he was investigating plagiarism? Was there more to the Beck affair than he or Kyra had sensed? The voice had sounded nothing like Beck’s. Too deep. The accent, hardly Beck’s. But Beck had many voices on paper; maybe he had a range of spoken voices too. But the Beck he’d met wasn’t a man who would threaten. Then again, his written material seemed to come from two different people. The mild-mannered Beck masking a man capable of bullying? Possible? Doubtful.

  Poking around in island business. What else had they poked at? Nothing. Maybe they’d be poking around for Larry Rossini. So far, just Jordan Beck.

  He looked at the time. He’d slept for nearly an hour. Well, bet
ter call Kyra. Tell her what? That they’d both been threatened? It wouldn’t scare her. She’d likely laugh and go on sightseeing. But with a niggling sense that Noel might be upset. And that’d spoil her afternoon or at least make it less enjoyable. No, if he called, he wouldn’t let on that he gave a damn. Just so she knew. But why should she know if not to worry. Damn.

  He poured a glass of water and drank half of it. Good water here. Maybe he should call Peter. After all, it was Peter’s case. Or had been—they were off it as of before lunch. Still, Peter should know about this development. He’d just drive into Friday Harbor and tell him. Good idea. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the deck. No Honda. What—? Of course, Kyra had taken it. Call him then. Or wait till they met him at 5:30? With the guest standing there, Noel saying, Hey Peter, some guy called and told me to get off the island or I’d get hurt? Pretty melodramatic. Where’d he put the damn Blackberry? There, on the bed. He picked it up and tapped in Peter’s number. His message broke in. Noel asked Peter to call when he could.

  Should she keep going north, Kyra wondered, check out Roche Harbor? Supposed to be a pretty little enclave. The clock was pushing four. Better head back; if she had time, she could stop at the American Camp. To the car. According to the map, she could take a different route. Past an alpaca farm, and a little lake. The turnoff, Mitchell Bay Road, her route. No, straight ahead. A large herd of cattle on the left. Very rich grassland. Tiny roads, heading in both directions.

  Over the next miles, a growing feeling of apprehension. About Noel’s car? She listened to the engine. Purring along. The plagiarism case? They’d sent in a correct report, she believed. About herself, then? She did a quick mental check of her body. Felt right, except for a little place in the brain. Should be a road called Boyce that cut off to the right. Yes, she turned. Then Long Ago Lane. Nice. Shortly a right turn as Boyce became Wold. Then Bailer Hill Road and a minute to the Morsely turnoff. Or continue on and go to the American Camp? It couldn’t be far away. But that sense of unease remained. She turned right onto Orcas Boulevard and swung left at the Mansion.