Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Never Sleep with a Suspect

  ON GABRIOLA ISLAND

  Sandy Frances Duncan & George Szanto

  For Marilyn and Ian, Phyllis and Vic,

  and all the NDWs

  for your ongoing support.

  Prologue

  ROSE MARCHAND PRESSED the remote button on the arm of her chair, and the door to the deck swung slowly open. She stared up at the bluing cloud-free sky. After a night of light rain it was a perfect morning. The world washed clean.

  She pushed on the chair’s guide wheels and propelled herself forward, onto the low, narrow deck. Behind her the door closed with a small squeak. Why did it squeak on closing but not on opening? She’d get Roy to oil it. She rolled over to the ramp and let herself glide down. Though the day should warm nicely, now at 6:00 am it was cool.

  She gripped the wheels and started her roll along the circular asphalt drive. Another thrust, another, another, and she was rolling faster than most people jog. Great to be alive.

  The air past her face felt soft, and now she could see the sun rising beyond the tall, straight firs and the angled arbutus trees. Their home and the Gallery backed to the ocean. In front, a long avenue led from the circle drive to the road. The circle served as her track, about thirty metres in diameter. Artemus had designed it well.

  She pushed hard, past the path to Tam’s cabin, eyes on asphalt ahead. But her peripheral vision noted a dark bundle to her left. She sped up, she needed to get her heart rate higher. Back to the house, second circle. Arm and shoulder muscles now fully awake. Around again. She slowed a little, glancing ahead to spot the bundle.

  There, on the grass. A dump of clothes. Or a person? Flat on his face, dirty jeans, faded shirt, no cap. Damn! She had to break her rhythm, deal with whoever lay there, some drunk? Here? Drunks didn’t casually pass out on the Gallery grounds. She guided her chair toward the person’s workboots. “Hey! You!”

  No movement. She rolled by him and leaned toward his head. Oh dear god! “Roy! Roy!”

  She rolled her left wheel against his side. No response. Oh god, was he dead? She reached down to check for breathing. None obvious. Damn it to hell, she thought. And then she thought, Call the police. At last she thought, Poor Roy.

  It would not be a first-rate day.

  ONE

  KYRA RACHEL STEERED her Chevy Tracker behind the row of cars moving down the Horseshoe Bay parking lot and onto the 10:30 ferry to Vancouver Island. Ten minutes late loading, but she’d still be in Nanaimo in good time. On board, she turned off the engine, locked the doors, walked up three flights of stairs to the front lounge and found a chair by the windows. A ferry was a place out of regular life, good for reading, people-watching and, despite the quality of ferry food, eating. No. In two hours she’d be lunching with Noel, and besides, her father had just made her finish a stack of his superb blueberry pancakes.

  Kyra stared up Howe Sound. White-topped mountains shone in the sunlight. Dulcet tones on the loudspeaker: “Welcome aboard BC Ferries. Our sailing time to Nanaimo will be one hour and thirty-five minutes.” The ferry departed. Kyra stared out. An immense green mound hove into view—Bowen, the island of her childhood. Early autumn maples dotted its flanks with a golden tinge. She remembered it as, mostly, a satisfying place. But way more houses there now than then.

  Slowly Bowen Island’s western tip slid behind the ferry. Go outside? Maybe later. When she’d smoked she’d headed outside even before finding a seat. Even after six months the desire for a hit of smoke in throat and lungs often consumed her. Now she breathed deeply, smokelessly. The lounge had filled with people, the general noise level increased. Get coffee? She continued to sit, deeply inhaling no-smoke.

  Before boarding, she’d called Noel in Nanaimo. The answering machine had come on. She figured he’d be monitoring his calls. “Noel, I know you’re home.” No response. “I’m on the next ferry from Horseshoe Bay. How’d you like to go out for lunch.”

  Noel had picked up. “I don’t want to go out for lunch. I’m fine as I am.”

  “The convention is first you say ‘Hello.’ Hello, Noel.”

  “Hello, Kyra.”

  “Anyway, I’m not fine. It’s the three-month anniversary.”

  “So?”

  “So we’ll go for lunch at the Acme.”

  “I don’t want to go to the Acme.”

  “Yes you do. We’ll toast Brendan.”

  “Don’t be so bossy.”

  “Not bossy. Efficient.”

  Silence. Then, resignedly, “We’ll see when you get here.”

  “You’ll be fine.” She closed her phone. Three months since Brendan’s death. Noel still needed time for his mourning to wind down. Had she herself fully dealt with Brendan’s death?

  Her own mourning, she realized, was for the on-top-of-everything Noel, the funny Noel she’d known for years. Then three-plus years ago, when Brendan’s company moved him to Nanaimo, Noel’s deflation began, tiny bit by little bit. Could Noel, a first-rate investigative reporter for the Vancouver Sun, still do the job from Nanaimo? Sure, both he and Brendan agreed. But the real answer was, No.

  • • •

  In the women’s room, Kyra washed her hands and stared in the mirror. Lipstick needed repair. She unclipped her hair. Curly dark brown wisps tickled her neck. She dragged a comb through the mass and clipped it back in place. She felt torn about how to be with Noel—assertive as just now, or something gentler? She’d not seen him since the funeral but they’d e-mailed three-four times a week, and spoken on the phone. When Brendan was still alive Noel was at least there—angry, caring, ironic, devoted, whatever. But these last three months . . . Shake him out of this withered sense of himself he’d allowed to take him over. She had to.

  Her brows looked thick. She wet a finger and stroked them. The weight she’d added since separating from Sam made her chin bulge. How could she not have noticed that? She sucked in her gut, thrust out her chest and pulled herself up to her full five foot six and three-quarter inches. Yep, Noel needed a little tough affection.

  • • •

  Ten minutes before Kyra’s call, Noel had folded the last letter, addressed and stamped the final envelope, and set it on the small pile. He leaned back and gazed at the framed photo of Brendan. He’d stood it on the dining table a month ago, when he began writing wearying thanks-for-your-condolences notes. The picture was a head and shoulders portrait taken a year before Brendan had been diagnosed: a man in his prime, sculpted features, straight black hair greying at the temples, lips curved up as if smiling at a joke only he—and maybe Noel—knew. Lips that now, achingly, Noel could feel on his own. He pulled his gaze away. A month of replies, the four piles to mail each over ten inches high. Now what was he supposed to do? Today, tomorrow, the next day?

  Brendan had had a wide range of friends; so much sympathy. Damn you, Brendan, who gave you permission to die?

  Getting up, Noel took the envelopes to the hall table. He thought: wallet, keys, shoes— The phone rang. He shuddered, a mechanical reaction by now. At least it wasn’t three in the morning. Still, he didn’t want to answer. He easily might be not here—gone out the door two minutes ago to mail the thank-you notes. Anyway, he couldn’t locate the receiver, damn cordless phones. The ringing stopped, the answering machine cut in. Kyra’s voice. Talk to her? He glanced around the living room. Hard to locate a receiver that’s stopped ringing. She was inviting him to lunch. He looked at his watch: nearly ten. He lifted yesterday’s newspaper from the coffee table. Aha. He picked up the phone. Listened, answered. Smiled, relieved she couldn’t see him.

 
They talked. He suddenly looked forward to seeing her. Briefly. “See you—” But she’d already hung up. How did she know he’d be fine? And why has she gotten so bossy these last few months? He wanted to call her Kira again as he had years ago when she was in a mood. She hated Kira. She used to shout at him, “Keera! Keeeera!” He set the receiver onto the newspapers, on second thought carried it to its base. Way too soon for a fun lunch at the Acme.

  He poured more coffee and took it onto the balcony. He stared and sipped. A tug trailed two barges of sawdust. A seaplane ratcheted out from its dock by the hexagonal pub and restaurant. Four yachts churned by, only one under sail. He took another sip. An immense gleaming white motor launch was tied up in the marina. You’re ostentatious, Noel told it.

  Noel had gotten used to living on Cameron Island. Despite the name, Cameron Island is not an island. It had once been an island but early on Nanaimo city fathers had filled in part of the harbor with coal-mine slag. Now Cameron Island was an upscale condo development that jutted into the harbor next door to the Gabriola Island ferry slip. He liked his condo well enough, and the view. But in the last weeks he’d begun thinking, Should I stay here? Every detail reminded him of a Brendan project, a Brendan comment, a Brendan splurge. Should he even stay in Nanaimo? Since leaving Vancouver he’d shifted his pace of living, had come to like the more casual life, gentler, way less tense. Move to one of the Gulf Islands, even more relaxed than here? Island time, little pressure, tasks that didn’t get done today could be worked on tomorrow, or next week. By next month it would become obvious the job didn’t have to be done at all.

  He finished his coffee. Damn Kyra, why is she being so pushy? And so pious, giving up her esses. Good thing booze doesn’t begin with an ess or she would’ve quit that too—no sex, smoking, or swearing was bad enough. Her “dang” and “schmidt” sounded so precious. Except he did, after all, adore her. But no lunch out.

  The phone rang. Good. Kyra, calling to moderate her efficiency. “Hello?”

  “Is this Noel Franklin?” A deep, pleasant voice.

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Artemus Marchand. I’d like to engage your services.” Worry in the words.

  A familiar name. “What services?”

  “A dead man was found on my property.” Agitation, and insistence.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I need your help. It’s my groundskeeper, Roy Dempster. The Gallery’s groundskeeper. The Eaglenest Gallery. He’s dead.”

  That’s how Noel knew the name, from the Gallery. On Gabriola. He’d been there with Brendan.

  “My wife found Roy’s body. I’m concerned about the Gallery’s reputation. And about Roy. Though it’s too late for him.”

  “You need my help?”

  “You come highly recommended. I’d like you to make it clear to everyone that Roy didn’t die on Gallery grounds.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Bye.”

  “Wait. Please. Is this the Noel Franklin who used to write investigative columns for the Sun?”

  “Used to is right.”

  “I’m told you’re discreet and thorough.” Marchand’s voice quavered. “That’s what I need. Roy may have been murdered. Or maybe not.”

  The conversation was beyond Noel. “What on earth do you think I can do?”

  “Would you come over to the island? I’ll explain everything.”

  “If it’s maybe murder, aren’t the Mounties handling it?”

  “There’s a column in our newspaper— I’m deeply concerned. I’ve got to stop the gossip. You can read it for yourself. Give me your fax number. I’ll send it over.”

  “Listen, I don’t investigate anything any more. Okay?”

  Silence. Then, “Very well. Sorry I bothered you.” The line went dead.

  • • •

  Tam Gill tucked the brown-paper-wrapped painting under his arm. A. would be in his office, and big sister Rosie in her greenhouse. Such creatures of habit.

  He walked down the steps from his cabin, passed through the little copse of fir and high salal, and strode across summer-burnt grass to the big house. He inhaled slowly, deeply. Fresh September air, tang of sun-warmed cedars and fir, bit of salt from the chuck. Great. Bucharest had been all bus and ancient-taxi exhaust.

  He let himself into the house and climbed up to A.’s second-floor office. A., always with the period after, was how Tam thought of his brother-in-law, Artemus too big a mouthful, Art wrong, and certainly not Artie. Tam knocked lightly on the closed door.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door. Sunshine flooded the office and glittered off the whitecaps in Northumberland Strait. In the distance lay Nanaimo’s sprawl with Mount Benson beyond, a green guardian. An empty easel stood beside the black-and-silver-striped sofa.

  Artemus glanced up from a pile of files on his open roll-top desk. He studied Tam’s tawny long-planed face, so similar to Rose’s. Except for his short curly hair and of course the mustache. “You seem okay. Rosie said you looked like hell last night.”

  “Hello to you too,” Tam laughed. “Sleep and a shower helped. Jet lag’s as bad as a hangover.”

  “Twelve hours?”

  “Fourteen. Feels like twice that.” Tam set the package on the coffee table.

  “No trouble at customs?”

  “No. But it still pisses me off, the security guys making me take my shoes off. Passed them through the X-ray separately.” He shrugged. “Me and everybody else.”

  Artemus remained silent, possibly imagining a grim-faced airport guard. “Okay. Ready?”

  “Yep.” Tam undid the string and pulled the paper off the painting. “Got the tape in?”

  “Yep. Rab really enjoys these little backgrounders.” Artemus combed his thick silver hair with his fingers, then reached into a desk pigeonhole, found a remote and flicked it toward the sound system on the far wall. A tiny whirring hum as a tape began to record. “Go ahead.”

  The painting, an oil nearly a metre high and two-thirds as wide, featured three pink and orange angels, fingers angling toward a point just off the canvas, set against ruddy sun-smeared clouds in a lowering sky. The thick, battered frame had lost most of the original gilding. He carried the painting to the easel. “It is, as Dorstel reported, a School of Correggio.”

  “God bless Dorstel.” Artemus studied the oil painting. “Very very nice.”

  “Almost certainly from the Parma period, possibly done by Lanfranco himself. Right where Enfrescu said it was, a small town southeast of Bucharest. About a hundred fifty k over a road from hell. My rental never heard of shocks.”

  “What was the name of the town?”

  “Polorescou. You won’t find it on the map. The painting was hanging way back around a dark corner. If the shop sells anything else this month it’d be a miracle.”

  “You sure it’s from Correggio’s school?”

  “See the way that right one’s finger’s pointing? Some say he copied it from Leonardo. Also, Correggio worked on that kind of illusion, like it was actually all happening up in the sky. Well, after Mantegna developed the technique. Likely one of the sketches for the Dome of Parma Cathedral.”

  “That’d make it, what? 1520s?”

  “Yeah. He had a commission in 1526 for an Assumption of the Virgin. See that figure, foreshortened? I’d say he sketched a few like this, then his students filled them in. The pigmentation isn’t the Master’s but the positioning of the figures sure is.” Tam shook his head in admiration. “Correggio really is undervalued.”

  “Barnabé did the authentication?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Artemus gazed at the angels. “Well done, Tam. Thank you.” He stopped the recording.

  Tam sat on the sofa and propped his runners on the coffee table. “It cost us 4,200 new leis.”

  Artemus reached for a small calculator. “Still about three leis to a dollar?”

  Tam nodded.

  Artemus
tapped some numbers. “You paid $1,400 US—”

  “Plus change. But as usual, over half the cost was for the beautiful thick frame.”

  They laughed.

  “What do you figure it’ll go for, half a million?”

  “American,” Artemus said.

  Tam crossed his arms behind his head. “Will you put it in the Thanksgiving show before Rab takes it?”

  Artemus’ smile turned smug. “The community does enjoy the shows, don’t you think?” A faux-naive question. “The Eaglenest Gallery Schools-of Open House.” He savored the words. “Our sixth annual. Then on to Vancouver. You’ll hang them.”

  “Of course. But I was thinking, getting them down to Rab—you’re not worried about the border?”

  “Relax. Paintings don’t wear shoes.” He laughed.

  “Tell me something, A.” Tam spoke quietly. “Do you—trust Rab?”

  “Trust? Of course I do. What do you mean?”

  “Not sure. Just that, sometimes he, well, scares me.”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s a friend. Completely trustworthy. Ask Rose.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Tam swung his feet onto the floor and stood up. “What’s in the fridge?”

  “I made coq au vin yesterday. There’re leftovers.”

  “Great.” Tam headed for the door, reached for the knob. “Anything new on Roy’s death?”

  “No.” Artemus looked out the window. “Except Maple’s written an article about the body being found here.” He turned to face Tam. “I’m taking matters into my own hands.” He rubbed them together. “I’m hiring an investigator.”

  Tam’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”

  “To protect the Gallery’s reputation.”

  “Did you discuss this with Rose?” He stepped back from the door.

  “No need. The Gallery’s reputation isn’t her department.”

  “For shitsake, A.—”

  “Roy’s death has nothing to do with us,” Artemus proclaimed.

  “Who thinks it does?”