Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  “You covered the wedding?”

  “Yep. A ten-minute interview turned into a ten-second clip. Editors! Just as bad in TV as in newspapers, right?”

  Noel didn’t bite. “What did she say?”

  “I interviewed her earlier. Told me how she became a sportswoman around town. Triathlon was her thing, she fought to make it an Olympic sport. Tennis of course, and charity golf. Then she takes up diving. Looked gorgeous on the high board, flips and double twists. She got a lot of TV time, being who she was. And her body was stunning. She’d organize performances for the cancer society. As if they need more money. For kids with cystic fibrosis. And one day, practicing, she springs, and comes down so her back catches the tip of the board. When they pull her out of the water they don’t think she’ll live. She was thirty-six. Paraplegic ever since. She your client?”

  “Maybe my client’s the brother. Tam Gill.”

  “Tamar Gill. Artist. Nirmal’s other pride. Art and sports, the lifeblood of the nation. But Tam never made it beyond Nanaimo. Not even into his brother-in-law’s gallery. Good craftsman. But an artist has to grow, know what I’m saying? Not Tam Gill. A gallery in Nanaimo hangs him every other year and every show he’s on a new tack. Three years back it was all abstract flowers in greys and browns. Before that, soft pinks and oranges for triptychs of nudes—men, women, kids. Last year he did super-realistic mechanical objects—inside of a stove, gearshifts, teeth of a water wheel. I have to review these things because he’s a Gabriolan. How much can you say about a naked orange baby?” She finished her tea, not bothered by execrable.

  Noel nodded his sympathy.

  “‘Naked orange woman cute, naked pink man with large parts hairy.’ Can’t say too hairy, even if you know it. Not in a family newspaper.”

  “Ms. Maple, how long have you lived here?”

  “Forever. First time I came over was 1963, to visit a friend, and in half an hour I knew the island was made for me. One of those rare perfect matches. Before I retired I came here every time I could. And make that Lucille.”

  Noel nodded. “And you came here. To write for the Gabriola Gab?”

  “Not intentionally. I’m an old lady, Noel. Haven’t you noticed?” She sounded, after angry, almost wistful. “Nobody wants a seventy-four-year-old muckraking old-lady TV journalist. Hell, no one wants a fifty-four-year-old female on TV, even if she looks thirty-four. Dumb pricks.”

  Noel laughed and placed his cup and saucer on the tray.

  “Sorry. That snuck out. No, life’s fine here. But it’s hard to get the hang of this writing stuff again when you’re used to just talking. And my editor keeps sticking comments in my articles! Damn editors.” She snorted. “I love islands and this is a great one. I like it out on the water too—I kayak around the islands, camp sometimes. Old Maple fits right in, know what I’m saying?”

  Noel figured he did. “Yep.” He stood. “Thanks for seeing me.” He shook her hand, a sincere shake. From both. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  She saw him to the door. “I’m a good interviewer,” she said, “and I know when I’ve met another. Watch those stones.”

  “Won’t take my eyes off ’em.” He wrote out his name and phone number, and handed the paper to her. “You learn or figure anything interesting, let me know.”

  “About Roy Dempster?”

  “Or whatever.” He stepped down to the walkway. At each flagstone he bent low.

  “Hey! What’re you doing?”

  He turned back. “Watching the flagstones. Don’t worry, they’ll be okay.”

  SEVEN

  KYRA PARKED THE Tracker in one of the guest spaces at Cameron Island and ran. The ferry was already unloading. She paid her fare and hurried down to the crowd of foot passengers. After the last car drove off, she walked onto the ferry and strolled to the front. Really the front, not the bow; bow and stern were interchangeable, depending on the ferry’s direction. A shuttle ferry, she thought, back and forth, back and forth. What would it be like to work on? What—Nonsense questions. Why? Nonsense questions were like juggling. Admit it, Tam Gill turned you on.

  No way for a woman of thirty-six, married three times, given up on sex, to feel. Such a woman controls her hormones, right? But how do I know how I’ll react to strangers? Like why did Marchand get to me, with his Pitti Palace throwaway? And Tam? And Tam.

  She headed to the back of the ferry. Halfway there she noted a familiar white van. A white-on-blue handicapped logo hung from the rear-view mirror. Eaglenest Gallery. The greenhouse. Rose Gill Marchand. Another stranger I didn’t take to. Kyra glanced toward Gabriola. Lots of water before we get there. She walked around to the driver’s window. “Hello.”

  Rose Marchand looked up from her book. “Oh. Hello.”

  Kyra introduced herself again and looked into the van. The driver’s seat had been removed to accommodate a wheelchair, clamped down left and right. “What a fascinating adaptation,” she enthused. “How do you manage the gas pedal? And braking?”

  With a small why-does-everyone-ask smile, Rose said, “This is the gas. This is the brake.” She indicated levers on either side of the steering wheel.

  “How do you get the wheelchair in?”

  “With my pneumatic lift. Here.” She indicated her door with her head.

  “So you can be completely independent?”

  “Independence is important.”

  “Indeed it is,” Kyra agreed. “I must say I admired your garden yesterday. I tried gardening once but I have a real black thumb.” A glimmer of interest from Rose? Or vexation? “The only plants I didn’t kill were dandelions. Shouldn’t gardening in Bellingham be just like here? I mean, no real difference in climate or anything?”

  Rose closed her book and set it on the passenger seat. “Depends. Rainfall, sun, exposure. Something in your soil. Have you had it tested?”

  “No.”

  “It could be too alkaline.” Rose’s expression turned less pedagogic. “Or acidic.”

  “Maybe the previous owners did something.” Gardening, one of Kyra’s weaker topics. “Do you grow all your flowers in the greenhouse?”

  “I start the seeds there.”

  “And Roy helped you with your flowers.”

  She hesitated before saying, “Yes.”

  “I suppose he’ll be hard to replace.”

  “He had a good eye. But Gabriola has lots of good gardeners.”

  “Though not nearly as good as you. I drove around the island.”

  Rose bowed her head slightly but did not demur. “One must strive for mastery.”

  “Like your diving?”

  Rose squinted at her. “Of course,” she said, dismissing both question and Kyra.

  Kyra considered leaning her elbow on the window frame, but decided against it. Blundering should not be overdone. “The accident must have been terrible.”

  Rose shrugged.

  Kyra flinched in sympathy. “Your husband said some flower species are named for you?”

  Rose tightened her mouth. “Chrysanthemum articum roseum and Gladiolus callianthus gillis.”

  Kyra shifted to wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Will other new flowers be named after you too?”

  “Probably.”

  “Are your flowers available?”

  “I suppose so. But that’s not the point.”

  “Oh? What is?”

  “To create one perfect plant.” Rose half-lidded her eyes. “When you’ve done that, there’s nothing left to prove.”

  “Oh. Well. Your husband must be so proud of you.”

  Silent, Rose stared out the windshield.

  “And you’re so careful, you worry about germs getting on your plants.” Kyra looked forward. The wall of trees behind the Descanso Bay ferry dock loomed.

  “One must be careful. More and more diseases are air- and waterborne.”

  Kyra stood instructed. “I hadn’t noticed.” She stared at the gas lever, the brake lever. “You studied botany?”

  “Yes.”
The silence grew thick.

  “Where’d you go to university?”

  “Excuse me. I have to prepare to unload.”

  “Oh.” Too direct. Slow down—no, let it go. For now. “Well, good luck.” Kyra stepped back. Rose inclined her head in dismissal. Kyra joined the foot passengers at the front. Tam clearly owned the Gill family’s allotment of charm.

  • • •

  Kyra found Noel at the pub by the ferry, sitting in a large chair at a table. She plopped into another chair. “Golly gee.”

  “What do you know?” Noel asked, his tone bright.

  “I’ve just had an unsatisfactory conversation. ‘One must strive for mastery.’”

  “I agree with that.”

  “You wouldn’t if you’d just heard it from Rose Marchand.”

  “Yeah?”

  Kyra reprised her conversation with Rose. “And I had my meeting with her brother.”

  The server arrived, a tall woman. They ordered beers and hamburger platters.

  “Tam Gill,” said Noel.

  “They have people in Europe locating these schools-of paintings. Gill checks out each one.”

  “So now you can tell your dad how he finds them.”

  “Okay,” said Kyra, “your turn. Tell me what you know.”

  Noel filled her in: Dempster’s body dumped, his truck at the community hall. Bird book yes, but not the binoculars Sue had mentioned. “Maple’s sure he was murdered.”

  Kyra said, “Then it wasn’t Marchand. He wouldn’t dump Roy’s body on his own front lawn.”

  “Unless he’s extremely devious.”

  “Don’t see him as devious. Now as to Rose—”

  “Why would she want to kill him?”

  “They’re having an affair, Roy calls it quits, she kills him. If she can’t have him no one can.”

  “Oh sure, she wheeled up on him in her sporty wheelchair, he knelt down, put his face in her lap and she bashed the back of his head in with her trusty trowel.”

  The server set down their mugs of beer, and they drank.

  “How about blackmail,” said Kyra. “Roy discovered Rose’s deep dark secret—”

  “Which is?”

  “Everybody has one.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s yours?”

  “If you don’t know,” she smiled sweetly, “I won’t tell.”

  “What’s Rose’s?”

  “Murder, maybe? Roy and Artemus are having the affair, Rose gets jealous, she kills Roy to save her marriage.”

  Noel shook his head. “Not the homophobe Roy whom born-again Sue knew.”

  “Still, we can’t rule out blackmail. Even if we don’t know who was being blackmailed.” She saw Noel’s grimace. “Okay, we weren’t hired for that. Just to clear the Gallery.”

  Noel considered this. “The body was dumped there. That clears the Gallery.”

  “Except Marchand didn’t need us to get that information. The Mounties already knew that.”

  “But they never told Marchand. We have to.”

  “And we also have to talk to Roy’s sister, and the friends.”

  Noel took a mighty glug. “And Albert at six. Maybe he’ll dot each i and cross each t for us.”

  “Great.” Kyra glugged too. “Tell me about Maple.”

  “She’s quite the gal. Seventy-four, has a kayak and a vintage TR6. We talked journalism. Nose like a ferret. Anything she may know she kept to herself. So I decided just to chat her up. Maybe tomorrow she’ll open up some more. My sense is, she figures if she keeps digging she’ll beat the Geese to the perp.”

  “Jeez, Noel, who writes your lines?”

  “I’m learning to talk the talk, don’t you think?” He consulted his notes. “She insists there’s no way Artemus had anything to do with Dempster’s death.”

  “But that column practically tried and sentenced him.”

  “She said she was being objective. Oh—she’s written an article about Rose Gill’s inventions. Remind me to look it up.”

  The food arrived, hamburgers with lettuce, tomato, mushrooms, onions, jalapeños, mayonnaise, relish, and mustard. The fries were crisp and hot. He told Kyra about the two Thanksgiving shows weekend after next, art and flowers. She told Noel about Tam’s enactment of the fight here in this pub. “Tam’s more of a charmer than his sister. But, like her, he insisted Marchand didn’t need to hire us.”

  “We all agree, then.” Noel chewed and swallowed. “Still, why get so het up about it?”

  They finished their hamburgers. They munched their fries. Noel reached for the bill and stood. “Roy’s sister, the friend, and Albert. Then we turn in our report.” He paid, they left. Working with Kyra made him feel like her contemporary. When he’d been her age he’d felt he could do anything, all options available. A long time ago, so few years back. They reached his Honda Civic. He glanced at the tires. Fine. He’d be sorry when she went home to Bellingham.

  • • •

  Roy Dempster’s sister Charlotte Plotnikoff lived on Malaspina Drive. Noel turned at a sign pointing to Malaspina Galleries.

  “More galleries? Schmidt, another artist? Doesn’t anybody here work for a living?”

  “You don’t think art is work?”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “Anyway, it’s not an art gallery,” Noel said, recalling his research. “Naturally scooped rock formations. Apparently pretty dramatic.” Two minutes later he stopped. “Here’s the house.”

  Charlotte Plotnikoff’s home had to be on the waterfront, but from the driveway the house blocked any sense of beach. Half the door was glass. Noel knocked on the wood frame. Through the glass they saw a staircase.

  A minute passed. Kyra noted a rope dangling from a cowbell and pulled. It clanged. Below it an oyster shell overflowed with butts. She wanted a cigarette—No, she told herself, no you don’t.

  A glaring woman in an ankle-length batik dress and no shoes pelted down the stairs. She opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Plotnikoff?” The woman nodded. Noel introduced himself and Kyra. “We’ve been hired to investigate your brother’s death.”

  “Oh god, Roy,” the woman’s face crumpled, she blinked fast and opened the door. “Let me put the lids on my tubes.” She dashed back up the stairs, calling, “Come in!”

  Noel glanced down the hall, a high-sheen oak floor, to a living room wall-to-walled with thick white carpeting. “Shoe removal,” he said, kicking his off.

  Now that she’d lived in the US all these years, Kyra found shoe removal a drag. In snow or mud it made sense. But September on Gabriola? With an eye-roll at Noel, she slipped off her shoes.

  The woman came rushing back down the stairs. She led them into the living room. Noel’s socked feet sank into the carpet. Beyond a wall of sliding glass doors, the view was a panorama of the Strait of Georgia from the hills behind Nanaimo to the Sechelt Peninsula. Texada and Lasqueti Islands were framed by two smaller islands. A short flight of stairs led to a sandstone beach and some tidal pools. A large bleached log nursed salal and a couple of cedar seedlings.

  “Beautiful spot,” Noel exclaimed.

  “We’re very lucky.” Her tone indicated this to be her automatic response.

  “Our condolences about your brother, Ms. Plotnikoff,” Kyra started.

  “Charlotte, please. Oh god it’s dreadful, dreadful.” The rims of her eyes reddened and she blinked rapidly.

  Noel took control. “May I?” He dropped into a rose velour-covered armchair. Kyra chose a matching sofa.

  Charlotte folded her arms and paced. She was a plump woman in her early fifties with short grey-blonde hair. The red-purple dress, hanging from her shoulders, suited her in an aging hippie manner. “I’ve been over it and over it. I just don’t know who could have done this.”

  Had she been in young Roy’s druggie crowd? Noel wondered. “Roy have any enemies?”

  “He was Mr. Kindness. My husband is phobic about heights so Roy cleaned our chimney. And the gutters.” She sigh
ed. “I just wish he hadn’t gone to work at the Gallery!”

  “Why?” Noel asked.

  “Marchand’s such an arrogant, patronizing bastard. Like he’s God’s Gift to Gabriola.”

  “God’s gift.”

  “Yeah, he wants to be a citizen of the world. And if the world comes to Gabriola because of him, then Gabriola becomes the world. You know he’s got this foundation that gives away millions? Not to any of us, heaven forfend. Give it to us and nobody’d hear about it. Give it to somebody in India or Timbuktu and you’re a great man. That’s Artemus.”

  Jealousy? “You say he ignores Gabriola artists?” Kyra wriggled the bait, a slow retrieve.

  Charlotte bit and ran. “Damn right!” She dropped into a wood-armed chair. “He only shows from off-island. For me it’s okay now, I’ve got four galleries that take my work. But it sure would’ve been easier if I’d had Marchand’s support.”

  “He outright refused to hang your work or just paid no attention?”

  Charlotte turned to Noel. Her eyes narrowed. “I took him some pictures. He said he was booked up for the next two years.”

  “You know he wasn’t?”

  “Look, I live here so I can’t be any good. Heck, even his brother-in-law’s in my boat. But I’m okay, I’ve got lots of support, other artists, my husband.” She considered this, and nodded. “Walt’s very supportive.”

  “Is he an artist too?”

  “He has a denture clinic in Nanaimo. Making false teeth is a lot like sculpting, he says.”

  “But,” Kyra observed, “Roy did decide to work at the Gallery—”

  “Too damn right!” Charlotte spat the words. “Roy didn’t understand. ‘Just get over your feelings,’ he’d say. ‘Get over your feelings and let your heart lead the way.’ Bull.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him, anyone at all?”

  “Nobody’d want to hurt Roy, ever.”