Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Rosie wanted those times to be over. What was the matter with her?

  • • •

  Lucille turned down the absent neighbor’s driveway. Daylight glowed over the trees ahead. The two Jaguars in their cages, and another car, a small red Taurus. Maybe Kyra’s rental—? Noel said, “Okay. If I’m not back in two hours, come looking. But please, stay here till then.”

  Lucille looked irked but said, “Okay,” and reached for a library book.

  Noel inspected the red car, parked where they’d left his for the break-in. On the floor in back, running shoes. Kyra’s? Maybe good news. He returned to the road, found the split fir, headed down the trail. Tam’s cabin. He crouch-walked up the steps to the porch. Glanced in. No one. Kitchen tidy. He walked around the front. A studio, an easel, paintings. Another glass door. A bedroom. Bed made. Damn! Gill’s pad in Nanaimo, is that where she was?

  Down the walk to the circular drive. Silence. The two Gallery vans. The BMW. A large black Lexus. Kyra’s rental? Unlikely. The rear door of the van beside the black car opened. He sank instantly to the ground. A man got out. Tall, shorts, a black T-shirt. Well-tanned skin. Or naturally dark? From Kyra’s description, Tam Gill? A new gardener? The man closed the door, stretched, walked to the carved-eagle door and let himself in. Not likely a gardener.

  Noel stayed in place, barely breathing. No one left the house. A rustling behind him. He flicked his eyes as far to the side as he could without moving his head. Slowly he turned it. A deer, munching the wisteria draping down from the pergola. His shoulders sank in relief.

  Closer to the house. He skirted the periphery of the circular drive. The deer bolted. Noel sank under the cover of a shrub, astounded at the deer’s hoof-clicks on asphalt. Would someone come out to investigate?

  No one. He peered around, and breathed in. How easy to forget to breathe. He stepped cautiously around to the far side of the house, up close to the Gallery. He crouched low and zipped over to the van the man had come from, the passenger door side. He turned the handle. It squeaked. He cringed. He stepped onto the running board and climbed in. Behind the seats, a mattress, a crumpled sheet. Where the hell was Kyra?

  The house door opened. Noel dropped flat on the van seat, then slowly raised his head. A man in a dressing gown, slender, bald, heavy eyebrows, middling height— And instantly Noel recognized him. Peter Rabinovich walked over to the Lexus, passenger door. A key. He opened the door, leaned in, took out what looked like a camera case. Closed the door, locked. Noel dropped flat. For a long long time. Raised his head. Rabinovich was gone.

  Travis McGee would have a gun. He’d ring the doorbell, stick the pistol barrel up Marchand’s nose and demand to know what they’d done to Kyra. Noel didn’t have a gun. If he had a baseball bat— He didn’t. A tree bough from the woods, grab a branch, storm up to Marchand’s door, in his hand a thick fir bough with little green needles, shouting charges of abduction, kidnapping. Looking and sounding like an idiot. Like Birnham Wood.

  He stepped out of the van. Was Kyra in the house? The side facing the water was mostly glass, he recalled. Try to see them before they saw him. Good luck.

  • • •

  Tam Gill looked like he’d slept in a shed, Rab thought. Same shorts and shirt as yesterday. Chin stubble. Had Gill not slept in his cabin? Strange.

  Breakfast turned into a half hour of light and tiny talk. Rab created something like joy by asking Rosie if he could take a photo of her chrysanthemum. She smiled. As Artemus cleared the table, Rab stepped out on the deck and let his gaze follow the ridge of mountains across the channel. A magnificent world these people lived in. A shame if they stopped exporting to him. He would not have a reason to come back. He breathed deeply and returned to the house, sliding the screen closed. Yes, a final cup of coffee in the living room.

  Perhaps he’d been wrong and they wouldn’t mention their problem today. Perhaps it was only the cessation of their shipment. So he’d raise the subject himself. “Now,” he said, “I’ve considered further, Rosie, your side of our agreement. You may be right, the borders are uncertain these days. Though I believe our arrangements are safe, we shouldn’t press our luck.”

  “Good.”

  Tam looked bored.

  On Artemus’ face, that old superiority.

  “When the times change, and change they shall, then we can reconsider.” He shook his head sadly. “I shall miss your shipments, Rosie. No one can compete with you. So as you produce more, don’t sell it in Canada. No one would appreciate its excellence.”

  “I shall be producing—less, I think.”

  “However,” Rab continued, “I can think of only one reason to cease shipping the paintings, Artemus.”

  “Hmm?” said Artemus.

  “Do you have another market?”

  “Of course not!”

  Tam grinned. “That whole point’s moot anyway. We’ll be getting way fewer paintings in the future. If any.”

  Artemus spoke with great control. “Will you elaborate on that, Tam?”

  “Our wonderful idea has become the prototype for both the Rijksmuseum and the Bilbao Guggenheim. A joint E.U. project. They’re putting real money into keeping their art at home.”

  “Outrageous,” Artemus said, his lips tight.

  “But whatever you acquire,” said Rab, “our original agreement still holds. Breaking contracts is a dangerous commercial practice.”

  “Of course,” Artemus said quietly.

  “And one more thing. About those detectives you hired—”

  • • •

  From behind a broad rhododendron below the deck, Noel heard snatches of conversation. He’d come around the corner by the Gallery just as someone inside, a man, it didn’t sound like Artemus, so Tam or Rabinovich, had mentioned shipments, something about quality. To hear and see properly he’d have to sneak right up to the glass doors. Not a good idea. Now a few words were coming through clearly: “ . . . that was foolish, Artemus. So rash . . .” Another voice: “Rab, I was only trying . . .” The voice disappeared, the first came back: “ . . . in our business . . . investigators who . . .” Gone again. Then a woman’s voice—no, not Kyra—saying: “ . . . incompetent, Rab . . .” And again Rabinovich: “ . . . a lot about you . . . and me . . . his computer . . .” and the woman, “ . . . wasn’t like that, Rab . . .”

  What was all that? Where is Kyra? Leave, check the other room. Wrong side to come around but he took the chance and crouch-ran the length of the deck, he figured out of any sightline from inside. At the far end he climbed to the deck and hoped no one would step out. Two big sliding doors here. The first a small room, an unmade bed, a small suitcase open, no obvious person. The next, from the bars around the bed, would be Rose Marchand’s room. No one here either. A closet. Not locked. No Kyra. Enough. Off the deck, and he checked underneath. A slab, no basement or even crawl space. Around to the side, a sprint across the bare land, the path to the cabin. He was in the wooded area, and safe. Well, safer.

  By Gill’s cabin— Something didn’t fit. Why wasn’t Gill in his cabin? The guy who got out of the van, was that Gill? The cabin. Up the stairs. Noel stared through the window into the kitchen. Still no one visible. Was Kyra in there? Go in? No lock picks or skeleton keys. He tried the handle. The door swung open. How about that. He closed it behind him. He called quietly, “Hello? Tam Gill?” No answer. Kitchen empty, a studio—easel, paintings, paintings everywhere. No one in the bedroom, a bed not slept in. A closet. Shirts hung carefully. On the floor, an anvil. What was that about? And Kyra’s purse. Her low boots. “Kyra?” No answer. “Kyra?!” Still nothing. No one here, nothing to lose, and he screamed, “Kyra!!!”

  The sound of his shout died from his ears. A voice, muted, said, “Noel?”

  “Kyra! Where are you?”

  “Down below you.”

  “You can’t get out?”

  “No!! There’s a trap door.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “You’re maybe sta
nding on it.”

  “Oh.” What, under the anvil? He moved it aside, and lifted the rug. A ring in the wood. He tugged. Locked. “What do I do?”

  “Get my picks. They’re in my purse.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Just get them!”

  He scrambled around in her purse— A noise in the living room? He froze. The fridge rumbled into a steady purr. He grasped the picks. “Got them. Now what?”

  “Get—I think it’s a two and a ten.”

  Noel separated them. “How do you tell a two?”

  “The one with the sort of double chink, right by the tip.”

  Noel examined the picks. Some were double, some triple, others wedged. “I don’t know—” A squeak from the living room. It’s nothing, just a wooden house, it shifts.

  “Okay— Let me think.”

  Small creak from the bedroom. He picked up the anvil. Heavy bastard. Slowly he stepped through the doorway. Nothing in the bedroom. To the living room. Just old wooden floors.

  He heard Kyra calling, “Noel, for god’s sake get back here!”

  How to pry the trap open? Smash it with the anvil? He looked around the room, maybe a crowbar? Not even an axe. In the bedroom? In the drawers of the chest? Sweaters, underwear, stationery. On top of the chest, keys! He grabbed the ring, dashed into the closet. “Okay, I found some keys. Hang on.”

  Nine keys, half of them shaped wrong. Two fit in, wouldn’t turn. A third— “It turns!”

  “Twist the ring and lift.”

  He did, and saw her face a metre down. Holding her camera she climbed up, shading her eyes from the sudden light. He grabbed her hand, lifted her out, hugged her for an instant.

  Kyra grabbed her purse and slid her feet into her boots. “Bless you, Noel.” She shivered.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hold on.” Kyra closed the trap, replaced the rug.

  “Right.” And Noel put the anvil back on top.

  They reached the door, looked, saw no one, down the stairs, through the wooded land to the neighbor’s drive. “Wait,” Noel said. “Lucille drove me here, she’s parked next door.”

  “So am I.” Kyra stopped. “What does she know?”

  “That I hadn’t heard from you since yesterday morning.”

  “Let’s leave it that way. Come on.”

  In the drive, Lucille’s TR6 faced the road. Noel reached her. “She’s okay, it’s okay.”

  “But what’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain later, I’ll call you. Just get out of here.”

  “But—”

  They ran to the Taurus. Kyra handed him the key, got in the passenger side. Lucille, behind them, hadn’t moved. Noel waved to Lucille: back out! Slowly the Triumph did. Noel followed, close. Both cars drove past the Gallery driveway slowly. A hundred metres beyond, Noel floored the accelerator, passed Lucille, reached sixty, seventy. To hell with island speed limits.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A RED-TAILED HAWK, gliding between the house and a grove of curving arbutus trees, caught Pyotr Rabinovich’s eye. His glance followed the bird to a perch high in a tree. A cool wind swept down the channel. Protected by the closed glass door he took pleasure in the bright light and the blue water beyond the grove.

  He would not soon be back to Gabriola, and that saddened him. So setting the Gallery and its environs as a mind-picture was important. Because at this moment something was off, wrong. Normally he understood Rosie well. The brother stood transparent, each of his motives clear on his face. The quandary, then, remained Artemus. True, the man had his own fortune. But to spend one’s investments when new money could come in so easily? Another WASP idiosyncrasy. As to Tam Gill’s argument that ever fewer schools-of were coming onto the market, perhaps he was right. He’d ask Herm 5 to look into it.

  • • •

  Kyra’s Taurus arrived at the ferry lineup. No ferry. “Shit.” Kyra slouched, cursed again, pulled her hand through her scraggly hair, panicked that a van bearing Tam would instantly be next in line. No, she told herself. She turned to Noel. “Hi.”

  He leaned her way. “God, you had me scared.”

  She croaked a small laugh. “I was scared too.”

  “Did anybody—hurt you?”

  “Just my ego.”

  He reached out, took her hand. “Must’ve worked you over pretty hard, then.”

  She covered his hand with her other. “They didn’t have to. I was stupid.”

  “But why did they lock you in?”

  “I’ll tell you. In a minute.”

  “As soon as they find out you’re gone—”

  “Sometimes I hate islands, nowhere to hide—”

  “Maybe we should head over to the RCMP office and—”

  “No! We can’t. We mustn’t.”

  “We could leave, go down some dirt road, come back later. They won’t cover every ferry.”

  “We’ve got to get off the island.” She stared out across the water. “Meanwhile we’re sitting here. Two ducks.” She shuddered. “They’re dangerous.”

  “The Marchands?”

  “Yeah, but they know a guy who’s way more dangerous. Tam said he’d kill you or Dad if I said anything.”

  “About what?” Noel asked.

  “The basement. It’s Tam second studio. He paints his own schools-of paintings there. I saw one in process.”

  “We rejected that possibility. How does he get away with it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kyra. “But we’ve got a bigger problem than that.”

  “The dangerous friend.”

  “The nearby dangerous friend. Tam said he was right there in the house.”

  “Oh my god. Rabinovich.”

  “What?”

  “I just saw him,” Noel said. “Heard him. Recognized him from his award picture.”

  “Well, Tam said this friend kills people who get in his way. And the Marchands are working for him.”

  Noel considered this. “You mean, like Roy Dempster?”

  She shook her head. “No. I think Tam and Rose killed him. Tam, really.”

  “And Artemus?”

  “I don’t think Artemus could kill anything.”

  “But why Tam? And Rose?”

  “If Dempster found the basement and saw what I saw—”

  Noel considered this. “No, it doesn’t feel right.” He told her about searching for her. He included his guess that, from overhearing the Marchands at breakfast, their powerful friend, Rabinovich, had organized the break-in at Noel’s condo.

  She leaned against the headrest. “I should’ve had that damn cell-phone with me.”

  “It mightn’t have worked down there. You up to filling me in?”

  “I’ll try.” She told him, from the truncated interview with Artemus to Tam’s deal of silence and threat, killing Noel or destroying her father. With each mention of Gill a roll of nausea took her stomach, heaves of disgust. Suddenly she threw the door open and breathed deeply. That pig had been inside her! She gagged, leaped out, and threw up. After a few seconds she straightened, tears in her eyes. “Water. In my purse.” He got it for her. She rinsed out her mouth, wiped her lips, got back in the car. “Thank you.” They sat silently for half a minute. She said, eyes shut, “Now you tell me what you know.”

  A small press on her hand. “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well. I think Rose is shipping out merchandise in two-centimetre cylinders.”

  “About an inch.” She told him about the picture-frame hollows.

  “Yes. Maybe. I had the greenhouse photos developed. Opium in cylinders?”

  “Could be.” Kyra opened her eyes. “And I’ve got more photos. From Tam’s basement.”

  The ferry approached the dock. Noel looked behind. A long row of cars. A Gallery van?

  “The frames.” She thought back. “Tam picked them up. From the float plane. They came from somewhere in Oregon. North Bend. Sinbad—no. Sultan. That’s it. S
ultan Suppliers.”

  “I’ll track them down.”

  “You sure it’s opium? Not heroin?”

  “Heroin takes complicated refinement. Anyway, it’s not like her. She plays with flowers.”

  Kyra considered this. “She modifies poppies?”

  “Could be.”

  “Yeah. The highest grade product. Her kind of perfection: I have developed the perfect flower, I am perfect.” Kyra sat back. “The Mounties could get them for dealing.”

  “Shipping it across an international border—”

  Her head drooped. “I can’t think. I’m wiped.”

  “I bet.”

  She rested her head on the headrest and closed her eyes. They waited in silence.

  Noel watched people walk off the ferry, followed by the cars. “We’ll load in a minute.” Foot passengers boarded. The ferry worker signaled. They drove on. Safe. Well, safer.

  • • •

  After they’d waved Rab goodbye, Artemus had turned to his wife and brother-in-law. “Now will someone please tell me what’s going on here?”

  “What do you mean?” Rose spoke quietly.

  “All this about the European Union, that’s crazy! Art goes to the highest bidder.”

  “Which we no longer are,” said Tam. “I had a call from Dorstel. Both he and Enfrescu have gone over to the Rijksmuseum consortium. They’ve got the cash.”

  “We can compete. Rab has lots of money.”

  “It’s cultural politics, the way Dorstel explained it.” Tam hung up the dish towel. “European patrimony—they know the importance of hanging on to their cultural heritage. We don’t know much about that in North America.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we’ll never be able to buy cheap again.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “So all decisions are taken out of our hands. It’s best this way.” Rose held out her arms

  Artemus leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Well, I don’t like it.” He headed up the staircase.

  Rose said to Tam, “We’ll wait till the ferry’s gone. We don’t want Rab coming back.”