Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Before, as a kid, as a teenager, she had regarded islands and ferries as magical. In fact, a family story had it that Kyra, on her first ferry trip, cried because the fairy didn’t have wings. Now she saw ferries and islands as twin parts of a privileged life—living close to the bustle of the mainland or, like Gabriola, to Vancouver Island, but separated from all that noise and impatience.

  Noel had been addicted to islands long before she was. For years his parents had owned a cottage on Bowen Island, only a short ferry ride from Vancouver. Then her family rented the summer place next door, and she and he became friends. Noel had taken her fishing. She was ten and had never caught a salmon. He was eighteen and knew where they ran. She remembered her first one, flopping in the bottom of the boat. He showed her how to club the fish—the skull, right between the eyes—so it wouldn’t suffer. Back at the cottage, with her father watching, Noel made her gut the fish. She could still hear Noel saying, You shouldn’t ever keep more fish than you’ll eat. Now she said, “You’ve never wanted to explore Gabriola?”

  “Brendan and I went there.” He pointed at Newcastle Island, a provincial marine park, no cars, no homes, only half a kilometre from shore. “That was our island.”

  She’d been there with them twice, first a pleasant picnic for three, second time with Sam soon after their wedding. Sam had gotten along well with Noel. But the foursome made Sam uncomfortable, which Kyra hadn’t expected.

  She’d loved Sam, or thought she had. Then. She’d left Sam. So she had left sex behind.

  Question: How bad is life without sex?

  Answer: Not bad at all. Because sex involves you in some of the world’s biggest messes.

  • • •

  Tam set the coq au vin going in the microwave. Then he strode to the end of the hall, through his sister’s suite and out the door to the pergola leading to the greenhouse. Where he met Rose, wheeling toward him.

  “Tam, dear, what were you doing in my room?”

  “Rushing through. Sorry. But Rosie—”

  “Please stay out of my room.”

  “I said sorry. But listen, A. may be messing up.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Tam stared at Big Sister Rose, eleven years older. BSR, the way he’d thought of her since learning to spell. “He wants to hire a detective.”

  His whisper was hoarse with a suppressed shout.

  “What for?” Her eyes slitted.

  “He’s worrying about the Gallery’s reputation. We don’t want any detectives here.”

  “Of course we don’t.”

  “Okay, tell him. I’m off to town.” He’d discharged his responsibility and turned back toward his coq au vin.

  “Do not go through my room, please.”

  He hunched his shoulders in mock-fear. “Yes, BSR.” But he did understand. She had her private spaces, her room, her greenhouse. Just as he had the cabin to himself. And of course Artemus his aerie. He headed for the kitchen by way of the front door.

  Just here to eat, that boy. Now he’ll bike to the ferry and Nanaimo’s charms. Rose wheeled to the water side of the pergola and took in Northumberland Strait, a freighter, two sailboats, Nanaimo buildings, mountains. She loved this view. Then she wheeled back to the greenhouse. She’d talk to Artemus when Tam was gone.

  • • •

  The walk-ons walked on. The ferry worker signaled the front car. When the row beside her had boarded, Kyra started up and followed the vehicle parade across the ramp, bump up, bump down. She cut the engine and slouched into a renewed pleasure of ferry travel, a stretch of peace until it docked again, and all the more so on a small ferry where she could remain in the car.

  This slashed tire business had gotten to Noel. Yes, and to her. Slashing tires of a single car in a garage shouted out serious personal venom. She wondered if it had anything to do with the 3:00 am phone calls. Wondered too if Noel had made a connection. What could he have done to bring on slashed tires and deep-night phone calls? She glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead.

  This was a bigger small ferry than to Bowen in the old days, five lanes for cars, and it looked like passenger lounges on both sides. On the Bowen ferry you climbed up the stairs for a great view. “Tell me about Marchand’s gallery.”

  Noel blinked, and jerked toward her. “I just want to say, I’m glad we’re coming over together.” He folded her in a solemn hug. “You know— Oh, you just know.”

  She hugged him back. Her one-time mentor, become her friend. She kissed his cheek.

  Noel pulled away, leaned against the passenger door and again fell silent.

  “Okay,” she said, “the gallery on Gabriola Island.”

  He nodded, and took the printout sheets from his pocket. “Eaglenest has a show coming up, Thanksgiving weekend. Some old paintings Marchand’s located. What they are is a big secret.”

  “Heck of a way to attract an audience.”

  Noel glanced at the second sheet. “Gabriola’s full of artists and weavers, potters, alternative wellness workers.”

  “Wellness?”

  “Massage, reflexology, acupuncture. And colon hydrotherapy.”

  She shuddered. “Yuck.”

  A sudden chilly breeze blew through the window, the salt-breath of ocean, early fall. “Come on, let’s go up front. I want to see the island as we approach it.” He grabbed his jacket and the printouts and stepped down.

  They passed the rows of cars, maybe fifty on board, two-thirds full, mostly British Columbia plates. Before them lay a broad landmass, high cliffs to the right, thickly treed with Douglas fir or so it seemed from this distance. On the left, a shoreline of hollowed sandstone beach at low tide. On the cliff above, red arbutus, some with their bark peeling, sun-splattered bright green leaves. On deck, people in groups chatted or perused the oncoming island, the gulls, the blue-grey water. A couple of cyclists, helmets at their sides, sat on the deck playing cards.

  “It’s strange,” said Noel, “I look out at this island every day and I don’t know much about it at all.”

  “Mmm.” Suddenly Kyra was standing up front on the ferry to Bowen Island watching Snug Harbor approach, she was ten, her bony collarbone pressed the rail, she could smell the salt tang of back then, see salmon jump— “Read some more about the place.”

  He scanned the printout. “About fifteen kilometres long, a third as wide. Three provincial parks, some regional pocket parks, golf course, tennis court, couple of marinas. Local history museum.”

  “Sounds pleasant enough.”

  “About 4,000 population year round, 6,000 in summer. Three pubs.

  RCMP detachment with three Mounties, two medical clinics.”

  Kyra’s eyes followed a flat-bottomed boat travelling toward them at remarkable speed. “Hey, look at that thing.”

  Noel glanced at it. “Pretty good engine.” He squinted to make out a sign on the cabin. “Arbutus Water Taxi.” The ferry approached a dock. “Descanso Bay.”

  “Look up there.” Kyra pointed to the top of a fir to the left. A bald eagle, white head gleaming, watched the ferry approach. “You rarely see them around Bellingham.”

  Noel said. “Majestic.” He turned to her. “Kyra?”

  “Hmm?” But she knew his question before he opened his mouth.

  “You think there could be a connection between my tires and those phone calls?”

  She spoke slowly. “They’re two different kinds of things.”

  “The tires were likely slashed at night. And the calls—”

  “So now we know your enemy’s an insomniac.”

  The ferry slid into docking position. “Come on.” Kyra walked back and sat in the car. Noel got in. A ferry worker lowered the ramp. “Read me whatever you’ve got about Marchand’s Gallery.”

  Noel glanced from the printout to the map. “Eaglenest sits on that cliff we saw.” He read on. “Marchand opened the Gallery about fifteen years ago. Two areas of expertise.” He glanced down the sheet. “First, discover
ing new painting talent. Some from around here but others from as far away as California and Alaska. He also acts as agent.”

  “Good for him, I guess.”

  “Yeah.” He read on. “Area two, he tracks down lesser classics, sixteenth- through eighteenth-century works from the schools of master painters. He shows them first at the Eaglenest Gallery. Wonder if Gabriolans can afford to buy.” He slipped off his jacket.

  Foot passengers, bikes and motorcycles streamed off the ferry. Kyra turned the key. She looked up toward the eagle tree, but the bird was gone. And their row was rolling. “Here we go.” She drove up the ramp, along the trestle and onto Gabriola. In the parking lot, cars picked up the walk-ons, and new passengers waited to board. Outside the lot, a row of cars was lined up on the hill, heading to Nanaimo and beyond. Cars approaching from the right were blocked by the cars from the ferry. A small traffic jam on Gabriola.

  • • •

  Rose met Artemus in the kitchen. “Hello, darling.”

  He beamed down at her, bent over her wheelchair and they kissed. He straightened. “Your brother’s eaten all the coq au vin.” His disapproval was mild.

  “Did you like the find he brought? He wouldn’t tell me a thing last night.”

  “Excellent.” Artemus gloated. “A school of Correggio.” He rummaged through the freezer.

  Rose gazed up his back. Thick silver-grey hair rested on his blue shirt collar. Time for a haircut. “Tam tells me you want to hire a detective.” She kept her tone flat.

  Artemus took out a long package, and turned to face Rose. “It’s the Roy rumors.”

  “The RCMP’s on the case.”

  “Rosie, I can’t stand it. I go shopping, and people stare. ‘Hello, Artemus,’” he mimicked, “‘so sorry about Roy and how come at the Gallery, tsk, tsk—’ He put the package on the counter, turned again, a pleading look. “The rumors’ll hurt us if we don’t nip them in the bud. Like last time.”

  She tapped her long fingers on her wheelchair arms “A whole salmon is too much for just two of us, dear.” She watched as he placed the frozen fish back in the freezer. “No detective, Artemus. He’ll ask questions all over the place. There’s too much risk. Think of the Foundation. Think what that solar generator means to that Somali village.”

  “Oh, Rosie, what could he possibly—”

  “Roy’s death is unfortunate, dear. But rumors pass.” Had two segments of Artemus’ mind somehow disconnected? “Forget about the detective. The Mounties can manage.”

  “I’ve already hired him, Rose.”

  “Then call him back and unhire him.”

  Artemus took a can from the cupboard and looked at it. “Bamboo shoots?”

  Rose shook her head.

  He put the can back in the cupboard. She was a tough woman, his Rose. But he would be cleverer. His call would come too late. “Okay.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, picked up the phone, poked in the numbers. “Artemus Marchand here. I won’t be needing your services so I’m canceling our appointment. Thank you.”

  “If he shows up, dear, pay him for a day. How about tuna steak tonight?”

  THREE

  TAKE A RIGHT in front of the parking lot, Marchand had told Noel. Kyra did. The Tracker turned up a steep slope. The road narrowed to a single lane. Kyra noted a mirror, a foot and a half in diameter, angled to show traffic coming around a blind curve. They reached the crest, dipped down and left the ferry commotion behind. “Okay,” she said, “what else did you find about the island?”

  “That’s about it. Except for a bit that came up when I googled Marchand.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He got into some trouble about four years ago. He bought a forgery and didn’t know it. A miniature School of Hals. Donated it to some gallery in Salmon Arm. The Feds were most unhappy.”

  “Why donate a picture to a small-town gallery?”

  “For the tax write-off, I assume.”

  “Oh.” She waited. “And that’s it?”

  “How much do you want for a couple of minutes’ research?”

  They drove along a little beach littered with sun-bleached tree trunks, escapees from passing log-booms. Across the bay Kyra saw their ferry. It suddenly seemed a friendly symbol of union, a moving bridge holding pieces of land together. Her father, in the days when they all spent summers on Bowen Island, saw ferries as unreliable modes of travel, precarious links to the mainland. But Kyra loved ferries. Their double meaning fascinated her, that they were at the same time a connection between island and mainland, and proof beyond doubt that an island is separate, different, special.

  Noel gave a self-conscious laugh. “You know, I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Neither have I. Yet.”

  “But you’ve done investigations of all sorts.”

  “About a dozen cases. One and a half sorts.”

  “The dead body sort?”

  “No.”

  “With Marchand, when I’m fumbling around, you’ve got to take over.”

  Aha, permission to be bossy, she thought, even as she said, “You’ve spent years finding the truth in really messy stories. You’ll be fine.”

  Kyra drove uphill. The road flattened. To the right, a clear space between the trees—a glimpse of Nanaimo’s sprawl across the water. They passed some houses, then a stretch of undeveloped land. Finally a sign, low relief on a cedar slab, told them they’d arrived at Eaglenest Gallery. Open gates invited them in. The tires hummed over asphalt. Where a wide path led off to the left into a wooded area, another sign, GALLERY, pointed right. They cruised a curve, part of a round drive. Flower beds encircled both sides of a small pond. To the right, a late vegetable garden. A large house stood before them, an elegant stretch of first floor, a smaller block on top at the right. To the far left, a pergola, then a greenhouse. Parked between the pergola and the front entrance were twin white vans and a beige BMW.

  Kyra stopped the car and pointed to the second floor. “Is that the eagle’s nest?”

  “The gallery’s on the first floor.” Noel gestured at a low extension on the right surrounded by shrubs.

  Kyra checked her face in the visor mirror. Enough lipstick, and her corkscrew curls were no messier than usual. “If the gallery is separate, how did you see the so-called Titian in the living room without snooping?”

  “Well—people were milling about—there was a door into the house—” He sounded lame and knew it.

  She shot him an arch knowing look as they got out. “You’re a natural for the detecting business.”

  Carved on the double doors were eagles, on the left in flight, on the right perching. Noel glanced at a smaller door, labelled GALLERY.

  The large left door opened as they reached the flat slate stoop. “Mr. Franklin?” A nod from Noel. “I see you didn’t get my message. Well, come in. I’m Artemus Marchand.”

  “My associate, Kyra Rachel.” Greetings, handshakes, and they entered. Noel noted Marchand wore loafers, so left his own shoes on. “What message?” An ample tiled foyer brought them into a living room. Noel recognized it.

  Marchand said, throwing the words away, “Oh, my phone call . . .”

  Kyra examined Marchand: in his fifties, six feet, thick hair almost white, a mild tan on an inoffensive face, blue silk shirt covering the hint of a paunch, light grey trousers. She glanced around the living room: it ran the depth of the house. On the near end three long windows overlooked the driveway. On the far end a wall of glass featured a grand view, framed by two immense cedars and a small arbutus grove, of Northumberland Channel and the Vancouver Island mountains beyond. Kyra stared out. Far below she heard the muted crashing of surf. “Magnificent.”

  “Yes, isn’t it.” Marchand smiled. “Have a seat. A drink?”

  Noel turned to Marchand. “Thanks. Some water. But what message do you mean?”

  “It’s not important now.”

  Noel pointed to a windowless side wall. “I was here a couple of ye
ars ago for Lyle Sempken’s show and you had what I thought was maybe a Titian madonna hanging right about there.”

  Kyra looked to both side walls. They were covered with paintings, representatives of the history of western art from the fifteenth to the twentieth centuries; must be worth a fortune.

  Marchand’s smile had deepened. “A favorite. From the school of one of Titian’s students, Cesare Franco. Filled in by Franco’s own students. It’s a copy of a Titian original, the Mary Magdalene in the Pitti Palace.” He turned to Kyra. “In Florence. And what would you like to drink?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Marchand went out to the kitchen. Oh damn, should he hire them? First get a glass, Rosie would say. Rosie also said he didn’t need an investigator. But Rosie didn’t know how people talk, she was impervious to people’s opinions. But the art world ran on opinions, it wasn’t botany. I’m an art professional, he told himself, I can’t stop these rumors. I need professional assistance. The Mounties are pros, but Roy’s death is only one of their cases. He peeked into the living room. Franklin, alert, slim, quick movements, soft white shirt, he knows his clothes. Rachel, casual wear, dressed for gardening, but a strong capable face, frizzy hair. I do think they’ll be helpful. I’ll explain it to Rosie later. He filled a tumbler with water.

  Kyra and Noel stood at the glass wall, staring out. One panel, a door open to a deck, allowed a breeze to enter. Kyra whispered, “I’m some bumpkin who’s never heard of the Pitti Palace? Heck, I’ve even been there.