Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  The next day Pyotr returned to Las Vegas after agreeing with Artemus that if he, Peter Rabinovich, wanted to buy one of Marchand’s discoveries he would be allowed to bid 10 percent over the highest offer Marchand had obtained.

  Rose and Artemus visited The Hermitage the following February. By their second day Rose was swimming, at least afloat in the warm pool as her strong arms pulled her useless legs forward, a freedom she’d not felt in twelve years. No thank you, she wouldn’t dive, not just then.

  That night too Artemus retired early. Again Rose and Rab talked late. She heard the public part of his story, Russia and the Communists, Israel and the Socialists. She grew to care for him, always treated him as an equal. Few others could, and she knew Rab found it hard to react to this, as if the equality she imposed endeared her to him.

  • • •

  Hell with her. Noel made rigatoni with pesto and a green salad for one. He ate it standing inside the balcony door, glaring through glass at the cliffs of Gabriola. He put his plate in the dishwasher, picked up the phone, again dialed Kyra’s cell. “Hello. You have almost reached—” He hung up. Sure she was screwing Gill. In disgust he scooped up the photos and spread them out beside his computer. Rose’s inner sanctum. The metal cylinders, hinged on the top. The bulby things on the counter— They looked familiar now that he thought about it.

  He sat back and contemplated. A person with a double-locked room into which others can’t see and into which only that one person can enter is protecting something. What? Herself against outside interference, yes. Something secret, yes. Her plants themselves, yes. In the interest of science? In the interest of herself? All perfectly legal. Or—maybe not? What illegal acts could a botanist with a greenhouse commit? Genetic engineering. Rose does that. Not illegal. Something with drugs. The logical flower to make drugs from is the poppy and yes! that’s where I’ve seen these bulby things before, eureka maybe? He got on the Internet and searched.

  • • •

  Kyra’s stomach rumbled. She’d probably been hungry for a while. Okay, one piece of wire and maybe a triple fold. She moved up and felt the lock again. Start with double. Long time since that dreadful chowder and garlic bread. Right now she’d eat anything. She untwisted the end of the wire, straightened it, folded it to double thickness, angled the double in the middle. A medium rare Porterhouse steak, little fat drip off the edge, baked potato and salad would do nicely. Sour cream, chives, and bacon bits on the potato. Or a pizza, vegetarian. There was a pizza delivery on Gabriola, Noel had read about it. Maybe the delivery person would unlock— The wire, Rachel.

  If she still smoked she’d have a cigarette now, that’d dull the hunger. Except she would’ve left her cigarettes in her purse. If she still smoked, she’d be really frantic now. Except if she still smoked she’d have brought her purse down— Shit! If her period started, no tampons.

  She had made what felt like a simulated ten. Plus the two the wire resembled. Yes, she’d used the ten and two above. She tried them. Nope. She crouched down to fiddle again. Bacon and scrambled eggs with hash browns and toast, hell, a bowl of dry cereal, hell, stale bread. There was water in the bathroom. She wouldn’t die immediately. One didn’t die for weeks if one could get water. Great.

  She recombined the wires, a tighter bend. If she could see the lock, that might help. She felt her way back up the stairs. How to visualize the lock— Yes! She slid down the stairs, fumbled around till she found the camera, back up. She held the camera to one side, her index finger found the switch, her other hand located the lock, she clicked. An explosion of light, instant black and she squeezed her eyes tight. But her memory now held the image she needed. And in her camera a photo of the underside of a Weiser lock.

  • • •

  “Where are they?”

  Rose whirled her chair about and glared at Tam. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry. Where’s Rab? And A.?”

  “In the Gallery.” His forehead glistened with a thin layer of sweat.

  She released her tension with a long sigh. “Did you go over to the cabin?”

  “Yes. Earlier.”

  “And?”

  “I listened for a while. It’s like there’s a big rat in the basement. Scurry, scurry.”

  “She knows everything.”

  Tam sighed. “I flicked the breaker. But she’d have seen it all. I worked till five this morning and left everything out.”

  “The present project?”

  “I said everything! Five minutes—one!—and she’s figured it out.”

  “What a mess.”

  “Anyway I know I’m not doing anything wrong. Just practicing my craft.”

  “Others,” she arched her eyebrows, “might disagree.”

  “Rab won’t find out.”

  “Let us pray. Because,” she now believed this, “if he does he could have us killed.”

  “Don’t overdramatize.”

  “I don’t want Rab as an adversary. We have to deal with your detective ourselves.”

  “I’ve thought about it.” He folded his arms. “I believe she’ll keep quiet.”

  “What, make her your concubine?”

  Tam sneered. “Oh Rosie, sometimes you are just so off the wall.”

  Rab, suddenly in the kitchen, asked, “And why is Rose so off the wall? Share it with us.”

  Rose shook her head. “Some things one shares only with a brother.”

  Tam looked from one to the other.

  “Very well.” Rab sat at one end of the long couch and crossed his legs— And leapt up and strode to the dining table. “Rosie-Rosita! Those are splendid!”

  Now Tam too noted the flowers. “Pretty impressive, BSR.”

  “It’s the chrysanthemum—?” ventured Rab.

  “Chrysanthemum morifolium,” Rose elaborated. “A very common plant, but not a common color. Nobody’s produced a black one before.”

  Artemus joined them. He knew instantly here was a breakthrough, an original. His chest filled with love and pride. He laid his palm on Rose’s shoulder. “Well done, my dear.”

  “That black has purple in it,” Tam pointed out.

  “All black flowers have a purple tinge. It’s the nature of the pigment.”

  “This requires a toast.” Rab uncorked one of the wine bottles, and poured. “To beautiful paintings and magnificent chrysanthemums!” They sipped. “And to two very clever people!” Rab saluted his glass, bowed to Artemus, then reached for Rose’s hand and kissed it. Rose looked at her brother and her lips copied his small smile. Tam raised his glass in acknowledgment.

  “And what will be the accompaniments to Artemus’ lamb chops?” Rab sat down on the sofa again. “I hope your vegetable garden is as happy as your flowers.”

  “I’m afraid not, but we’ll make do.” Rose wheeled to the deck window beside Tam.

  Rab repeated his delight in the splendid chrysanthemums. But not half as splendid as Rosie! As splendid as the angels in that Correggio student’s clouds.

  Tam stopped listening. It was okay. Rosie held Rab in the creases of the palm of one hand. Like he could hold Kyra Rachel. Rab would be gone in the morning, off to break a neck or make someone disappear. Somebody like Kyra. He went to take a shower.

  • • •

  Quickly Noel learned that the opium poppy is Papaver somniferum, that the Sumerians called it flower of joy, that the raw sap, opium, is refined to morphine and further refined to heroin. Ten grams of opium produce one gram of heroin so even a modest habit requires acres of poppies. Hmm, Noel thought, Rose Gill doesn’t have acres planted in poppies. Maybe in the spring? Heroin and morphine are white, opium is black and tarry. He looked at the photo of goo in the plastic bags. Opium? Being sent off to be refined? Albert will be most interested. We don’t like heroin, do we. Though we do like morphine for pain.

  Recent increase of opium use in the Seattle area, the Internet told him, an elite fad for Victorian-style drugs. Well, well. Noel remembered reading about the opium de
ns of early Vancouver. If people wanted to sit around and smoke themselves some joy, he had no problem. As he recalled, though, the Fathers—and probably Mothers—of early Vancouver did.

  He contemplated some more. So our Rose is manufacturing opium? Where is it going? To Seattle? To The Hermitage? They ship pictures there. The opium arrives. With the pictures? And there they turn it into heroin? Oh where the hell is Kyra? He dialed her cell number again. Again the message. Oh come on, you can’t screw all afternoon and all evening too!

  Suddenly he thought: she could be in deep shit.

  • • •

  Loin chops of four-month-old Gabriola Island lamb, grilled with shredded tarragon and mustard, on a bed of rosemary. Even to Rab’s educated palate, a thorough success. And Rosie’s accompanying shallot and red pepper couscous brought an eye-dampening memory to Rab’s congratulations. His mother had adored sweet peppers in her couscous. Sweet red peppers had not been easy to find in the Sverdlovsk markets of the fifties.

  A shame therefore that only he and Artemus showed much appetite. Rosie picked at the lovely meat as if she feared the mustard glaze. Tam ate little and refused the lamb.

  Rab slaked his thirst with some of the Bordeaux. Slaked, such a fine Anglo-Saxon word. Well, whatever bothered Rosie and her boorish brother was more than the turmoil of world politics. Likely tomorrow, before his departure, they would tell him. He smiled in silence.

  Rose caught him. “Do you find us humorous tonight?”

  “Always, Rosie. Always.”

  She stared at her plate. With her fork she cut a small slice of potato. Halved it. Brought it to her mouth, between her lips, held it and withdrew the fork.

  Tam said, bemused, “Why always?”

  Always? Not, thought Rab, on his second visit to Eaglenest Gallery. For example. He glanced out through the small grove of trees to the same thick sea. “You’re right. Not always.”

  “When not?” Tam enjoyed this rich and too powerful fool who bought canvases painted by many students from many schools. Rabinovich who didn’t need to say aloud, I’d never buy a Tam Gill painting, just as Artemus had not said aloud, I’d never show a Tam Gill painting. This idea with its two unequal parts now seemed quite funny to Tam, so he gave Rab a smile.

  “When not?” Rab repeated. “Early in our acquaintance. You do remember?”

  Tam glanced at Artemus, who seemed far away. At Rose, who nodded. “Of course.”

  That summer evening Rab had expounded on several subtle improvements at The Hermitage, not least his newly acquired original oils, four from the seventeenth century, two from the eighteenth, one from early nineteenth. They hung on the walls of seven elegant period-decorated suites of his hotel casino. “They are lovely to see, but something’s missing.” He’d shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t understand.” Artemus, during their visit to The Hermitage, had felt thoroughly comfortable in the opulent suite.

  As if shaping a response to Artemus, Rab waved both hands before him. Then he settled for an idea. “Mastery is the measure of things.”

  Rose said, “Perfection.”

  ”Perfection?” Artemus squinted at her.

  “In the balance.” She spoke slowly.

  Rab nodded. “Go on.”

  “A balance in what is close.”

  “Ah,” said Rab.

  “The perfection of light. I see this, at times. The perfection of a human body slicing through the air. I was this, long ago. The perfection of a single flower, its balance, its—yes, its power.” She glanced away from Rab, almost shy. “I can do this.”

  No humor in Rose’s tone, nor in her intent. Rab had to respond, “What kind of flower?”

  “The one I believe you’d like best.”

  He had nodded. “What I believe, Rosie, is there can be a perfection.

  My hope is to make perfection available at The Hermitage.”

  “With a poppy,” she said.

  Comprehension took his face. “You’re amazing.”

  She tipped her head to the right and smiled, lips closed. “I am.”

  Artemus said, “A poppy?”

  Rab nodded at Rose, offering her the lead. She said, “An opium poppy.”

  “For pity’s sake, Rosie! Heroin kills. The white death—”

  She touched her husband’s forearm. “Without morphine I couldn’t have endured life. I wouldn’t be here today. You know that.”

  “Of course, but not opium.”

  “Without opium there’s no morphine. True, there’s no heroin either. But I don’t think Rab’s talking about heroin.”

  Rab shook his head. “Pure opium. Three times I’ve spent time in a perfect place. Once for forty hours, twice for thirty and more. The perfect realm of opium innocence.”

  Rose, fascinated, nodded. “And what is it like?”

  Rab had closed his eyes, searched. “When you make the perfect dive, the air against your face and torso, your legs, the air holds you, yes? You fly. Your flight is timeless, all silk and grace.” He opened his eyes.

  She’d nodded. Artemus, gazing at her, saw his wife again for a moment as the exquisite young swimmer he had met twenty-five years before, the only other person in the room at a crowded fraternity party. Rose’s ethereal face said, Anything is possible. Even perfection.

  Now Tam said, “Yeah, I remember that evening. And my comment to my sister: No.”

  Rab’s turn to be bemused. “Charming, Tam.”

  • • •

  There had followed weeks of discord between Artemus and Rose. He despised recreational drugs and Rosie must not, must not, produce opium. But opium, she had argued, was hardly cut heroin, or crack cocaine, or even ecstasy—hardly a jolly party drug. I won’t allow it, Artemus shouted. You allow morphine, Rose argued, you allowed it for me. And what, damn it, is opium’s medicinal value!? Opium is another category of things, Rose explained—neither medicinal nor recreational, but a drug to enter the spirit. By what power could she say such a thing, Artemus raged, what hubris to pretend she knew this as a truth? She explained: she had felt the embrace of perfection. I was so close, Rose told him, so nearly there. I have to try to produce it, the finest opium, to test it. If it works, share it with Rab. Tiny quantities, Artemus. No chance of danger or pain. And my way to say thank you to the poppy, for relieving my own despair.

  In the end, Artemus acquiesced. Rose made so few demands, he had never reached for the unequivocal No. How could he? He approved of medicinal marijuana and morphine. His principles, he discovered, were not sheltered by absolutes.

  Nineteen months after Rab’s challenge to achieve the quintessential flower, Rose produced a small harvest of opium poppies with rich sap, three times the quantity available from a normal opium poppy, 82 percent more viscous. Perfect poppies. Or, as she joked, so near perfect you couldn’t tell the difference. She’d bred them, grown them, bled, dried, and bagged them. With Tam’s help, shipped the bags in narrow tubes inserted in the ornate frames of paintings done by, well, a student of European masters. Her new crop had been set to go next week. Now—

  From the start, Rose had made it clear to Artemus: these tubes were not being sold, they were gifts. Because Rab was their friend.

  At The Hermitage Rab had constructed a luxury opium den. He estimated it cost him about twenty-two thousand American dollars to give a select friend a unique experience: thirty-six hours in the purity of perfection. A small chamber, an appropriate amount of opium, a constant but concealed attendant, optional escort pleasures according to taste, then twelve hours of steam, massage and sleep.

  Rose Marchand’s cache of enriched opium was limited. She could produce only enough to supply five guests twice a year. A few people out there, Rose figured, seriously owed Rab.

  Twice at The Hermitage Rab and Rose shared a period of opium heaven. They reveled privately for twenty-four hours in their imagined desires. For Rab, his dead young wife walked out of the burning bus and literally, bodily, into his beating heart. For R
ose, her powerful legs walked her from the wheelchair to a velvet ocean, she swam, she swam, she needed no legs. For one day, each was a perfect being.

  This evening around the dinner table, far less than perfection. With the possible exception of the lamb, Rab noted. But the best of it lay congealing on the platter.

  • • •

  At 8:30 Noel couldn’t stand it any longer. He picked up the phone and dialed. After four rings Artemus Marchand answered. “Yes?”

  “Artemus, this is Noel Franklin.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m trying to locate Kyra Rachel. Is she there, by any chance?”

  “Of course not. Why should she be?”

  “She had an appointment with you earlier. Was she there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she mention where she was going?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Did she talk about staying on Gabriola?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  “Did she say she was going back to Nanaimo?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. Now if that’s all, you’ve disturbed us at dinner.”

  “Sorry. Thanks.” Noel put the phone down. “Damn.” He breathed deeply. He walked through each of his rooms. He sat down, instantly got up. He shivered. He’d gone beyond anger and worry, right through to damn scared.

  TWENTY-ONE

  KYRA CRAWLED UP again, inserted, hmm, tighter fit, ah! a tumbler clicked. Onward. If she drank more water she wouldn’t feel so hungry. But the water was over there in the dark. She was thirsty. She had to pee again. Did she care if she peed in the toilet? Pee here. She’d either get out or get killed. Who cared about a cleaning bill. She sighed. Fastidiousness bumped her down the steps, the bent wire held out like a short thin cane. Twelve steps, she counted. And in spite of herself, giggled. She found the toilet and peed. A 12-step program. Head under the tap, and she drank. It did help. She started back to the steps.

  A flash of light. The trap opened, things flew down. She throbbed with adrenalin terror.