Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (32 page)

• • •

Rose powered up the ramp, turned the corner and pinned the note to the doorframe. There, you'll just have to wait to get yours. Hope you're desperate, dearie—Through the window something caught her glance. The bedroom door pulled near to closed? Tam never moved it, it didn't fit its frame right. She wheeled around to the side deck and looked through to the bedroom. Closet door open. Downstairs light on. Stupid Tam! Rushed out so fast he left the light on and door up? Damn! That woman would be along any minute!

• • •

Halfway down, the stairs turned at a right angle. At their foot lay a large space, a table, a bookcase. Two fluorescent tube lights hung an inch below the joists. At the far end stood an easel holding a canvas. Kyra tiptoed over to it. The picture was still in progress. It looked like an old portrait. Like those schools-of-somebody. The obvious clicked into place: Tam paints them.

• • •

Rose tugged at the sliding glass door. Locked. She wheeled to the kitchen door, keys from her pocket, her hand fumbling for the correct one. Inserted it— Unlocked! Over the threshold, close the closet and the trap before that woman comes along— Rose pulled open the bedroom doorway and rolled through— A purse. Boots. A noise. Someone—? That woman?!

• • •

How about that, Kyra thought. A portrait of a burgher, his breadth of stomach exuding wealth, round ruddy face, purple vest— Aha! The purple she'd seen on Tam's forehead yesterday, the something about colors that had bothered her. She snapped a couple of photos. Next to the wall another canvas, a picture of a vase of flowers. Another school-of-somebody? Other canvases stood stacked, facing the wall. More photos.

If he painted these, why go to Europe? Did he ever go to Europe? The keys, where? There on the chest. Rose reached with the Extendiarm, lifted the keys, rolled into the closet, slipped the key ring around her right index finger and clutched the seat arms with both hands. She slid forward along the seat and silently lowered herself to the floor, leaned forward, forearms holding her in place till she lay flat. She reached, grabbed the trap door, slammed it shut. From below she heard a muffled, “Hey!” Still on her belly she slid the key into the lock and turned the tumblers. She lay there, heart pounding. Pounding in time with the beating on the trap from below. Stupid. Damn! Damn damn damn!

It took more than four exhausting minutes to drag herself back up into her chair.

• • •

As the door slammed, Kyra's throat had started a shriek. Only the “Hey!” came out. She ran, slipped, caught her balance, clambered up the stairs. But the trap door had shut tight. She pounded, realized she wasn't breathing, sucked down air. When she'd opened the door it stood angled to the wall, no way it could close by itself. Tam? Had she heard a noise just before the door slammed? Artemus? She sat. She breathed steadily. Okay, explore. Damn, if she'd just held on to her bag. The picks, the cellphone— She put the camera on a step.

Another way out. The walls were unfinished beyond white Styrofoam board insulation. Splotches of color enlivened the grey floor. The ceiling, seven feet up, was bare joists, pink insulation between. She pulled some away. Solid subflooring. She pulled at an edge of wall Styrofoam. She found what she feared, solid concrete foundation. As she remembered: no doors.

A small room kitty-corner to the stairs, two-by-fours and quarterinch paneling, held a toilet and sink. The seat leaned against the tank. At least she wouldn't have to make a puddle on the floor. Depending how long she was trapped. A non-productive line of thought.

The concrete was impregnable without a jackhammer, the subfloor over her head without a saw. Okay, photos. She grabbed the camera from the step, turned the canvas around—a school of who?—and snapped pictures. Then several angles of the one on the easel.

Against the wall stood a paint-stained bookcase, beside it a wooden coat rack dangling a sweater, a sweatshirt, a carpenter's apron, and orange coveralls. The bookshelves held two flat-bladed knife-scrapers and a cutting knife. She felt the blade; reasonably sharp. Rags, palette, peanut butter jars containing brushes, various jars of colors tightly lidded. She opened one and smelled: oil paint. Jars of clear liquid whose smell she couldn't identify. She took pictures.

On the table lay a used canvas, scraped of most of its paint, stretched on a rack. In some stage of preparation? Books:
Techniques of the Old Masters. Representations of European Art 1400–1700. Five Centuries of Famous Forgeries.
More photos. End of the roll. She removed it, put it in her pocket, inserted new film. Three empty frames hanging on the far wall. From the float plane? Now suspended from the joists by wires. Photos of the ornately carved fronts. Then Kyra thought, better safe than sorry, and rephotographed everything.

Had Roy stumbled on this just as she had? Tam or Artemus killed him to keep him from talking. No, both. Or all three. Just as she and Noel had hypothesized. And dumping Roy's body here on the grounds, a clever ploy. They'd kill her too. Her stomach lurched. She hobbled to the steps, sat, dropped her head, crossed her arms, closed her eyes and tried to think.

• • •

Noel checked his tires. Nothing slashed. Should he check for a 90 percent slashed fan belt, a punctured radiator, drained power steering or brake fluids? Never in his life had he thought about such things, but now think he must. He looked under the hood, tugged at the belt. It seemed fine. He measured his fluid. Okay too. On with the fieldwork.

He started the engine, turned left, then onto the highway heading south. Three blocks, a right turn, half a dozen streets, another left. The old miners' district here, little houses of two bedrooms, tiny lots. Several near-new condos, the beginnings of gentrification. Many of the houses remained in neglected mode, paint peeling, weeds in front. A time to buy?

He slowed in front of 1131 Angus Drive, a house being transformed, painted facade, bushes clipped. He felt conspicuous and drove on, past 1135, Lyle's place, to the end of the block, turned the corner, parked. He walked back to 1135, a redone single-storey house: bright cream paint, black shutters, molded wooden pillars and latticework around the small porch, a new roof. Well landscaped, bushes along the sidewalk and surrounding the house's foundation, light greens and dark greens, trimmed to just below window level. He took note of the carport: Lyle's elegant old Impala convertible was absent. The guy must do okay with his paintings.

How to handle this? Hi Lyle, I was curious to see where you'll want to paint Jerry's body-portrait? Or, if he were Kyra, Hi Lyle, how about seducing me? Or, basically, Just wanted to see where you live, Lyle. Likely the car not being there meant Lyle wasn't either. Likely this was a bad idea. Just get on with it, see if he's got land to be cleared, and leave.

He stepped onto Lyle's property. Flower beds lined the flagstone walk to the front door; shades of Lucille. He walked up the two steps and rang the bell. Inside, little bells played the first phrase of “Swanee River.” He waited, no answer. Again. A reprise. How could Lyle stand it, each time someone came to the door?

Okay, check for uncleared land. He walked around the carport side. Nothing here except a big arbutus tree and shrubs beside a picket fence. A covered walkway connected the back porch to a large shed. “Lyle?” He waited. “Lyle!” No response. At the back of the lot, more fencing.

Okay, he hadn't intruded, a friendly visit, shame Lyle wasn't home. What would Kyra do? The shed. Check it out? He had no lock picks. Anyway, why? Kyra would answer, Because it's there. And maybe not locked. He felt himself drawn to the shed door. He reached for the handle. Okay, locked, that solves the problem. A window? Maybe in back. Noel walked around. No windows anywhere. Sure, if he were going to paint a naked Jerry, better to have no windows.

That was that. Though there was the house— No! Time to get in his car and—

From the driveway, the sound of an engine. Noel fled to the rear of the shed. The engine stopped. A door slammed. Someone strode to the back door. He peeked around. The door opened, Lyle stepped inside and closed it behind him.

Triple shit. What if Lyle comes out, decides to survey his shrubs—goddammit. Okay, take it easy. Dark in a little while, less than an hour. Just wait. It's not cold, not raining. Soon you'll walk silently around the Impala, back to your car, and drive away. Simple.

Four minutes later the back door opened again. He could hear Lyle's voice, one end of a conversation. “Yeah . . . I know that . . . Yeah . . .” Then half a minute of silence. Then: “Jerry, you're an asshole, you know that? And from me, that means you're in trouble and you better watch your back.” More silence, then: “Well he better not, believe me. You're deep in it . . . Just do nothing. Period. You got that, pal? . . . Good.” Then a minute, then two, of the longest silence Noel had ever lived through. Then a whispered, “Shit.” The back door closed.

Lyle and Jerry. This Lyle didn't sound like any Lyle Noel had ever met—not even like Lyle the rejected suitor. He needed more information. Ring Lyle's bell again? No way. Wait till twilight settled in, then get the hell out of here.

• • •

One can never be prepared enough. Or too soon. Four days till the opening and Artemus took pleasure in knowing all was in hand. Not too little here, not too much there.

Strange, that detective acting as agent for someone wanting to buy paintings. To describe them in such detail, to estimate so precisely how much Rab would pay for each. Impressive she'd figured the Zurbarán
Jaws of Hell
at within eight thousand.

Marchand opened the top application. From the Democratic Repubic of Congo, something to do with windmills. He couldn't put his mind to it. Stared out the window at the sea and the mountains. All those people arriving soon. For him, because he'd announced a new show. Satisfying.

He got up, stretched. Through the front window he saw Rose racing up the driveway to the road. She disappeared around the curve. He returned to the applications. No. What was up?

• • •

Rose rolled back and forth on the twenty feet at the head of the drive, trying to hurry Tam's arrival. She watched a grey car pass. Her brain couldn't shape her thoughts, let alone marshal them; just fear now. No problem, panic, hurting no one, how to hold on to the secrets, why worry, the woman down there, nothing wrong, panic panic. Artemus mustn't find out, no more Vegas, no more schools-of. Panic!

No! Calm. Another car. It sped past the drive. Here is a problem. All problems have solutions. Therefore this problem has a solution. She didn't know the solution but a solution there would be. From an unexpected source. Tam? He knew the woman, could bargain with her. Buy her? Would they ever be really safe?

A sudden hum of tires on the road. Her hands grabbed the wheel-rims and she lunged herself toward the gates. The humming slowed, approached. She saw it then, not the Gallery van but a black sedan, tinted windshield reflecting sun. Rose covered her mouth to keep from calling out. From behind she heard Artemus' voice, “Rosie? Are you okay?”

The sedan stopped beside her chair. The opaque-green driver's window opened.

Rose whispered, “No—!”

Pyotr Rabinovich's tanned pate reflected muted sunlight. “Rosie-Rosita!”

She said, “Hello, Rab. What brings you to Gabriola?”

Rabinovich opened the door and stepped out. A large grin puffed his cheeks. His handsome dark-eyebrowed head looked like a friendly obelisk set on a slender solid torso in windbreaker, white polo shirt and tan linen slacks. “Sweetheart!” He squatted beside Rosie's chair, gave her a hug, and a large kiss on her left cheek.

She held onto him for a moment. “So good to see you.”

He pulled away, stood and turned to Artemus, “My dear good friend!” shook his hand and gave him a Mexican-style embrace, the pat on the lower back doubling as a check for hidden weapons. Most unlikely Artemus carried a pistol inside his waistband, Rabinovich found himself thinking, but best to stay in practice. Even in gun-controlled Canada.

Rab here, twice in one summer? Strange, thought Artemus. “Welcome again to Eaglenest.” Now thinking, is Rab checking on the quality of the paintings? Could he have somehow learned there might be a bidding competition?

“Thank you.” Rab breathed deeply. “Yes, the sea air! You live in paradise, Artemus.” He took a step toward the house, then turned quickly. “Ah Rosie, so clever of you to be at the gate. My welcoming committee. How great!” He enjoyed the colloquial phrasing in American speech.

“Come to the house. You look like you could use a drink.” She knew she could.

His grey eyes laughed. “How does he who could use a drink look?”

She smiled at Rab. “Thirsty.” Get him to the house. She turned. “Artemus, could you make sure the gate's open for Tam? I need a word with him as soon as he's back.”

“All right.”

“And then be a dear and bring Rab's car to the house.”

Rab raised his eyebrows. “The gate is open. I just drove through.”

“Sometimes the wind blows it closed. Tam's supposed to fix it.” Rose wheeled away, end of conversation.

“It's not windy.” But Rab let it go and followed Rose, thinking she seemed very on edge. He called to Artemus, “There's a case of wine in the trunk for you!”

Twenty metres down the drive, their backs to Artemus, Rab spoke softly to Rose: “And the detectives? What interference from them?”

A whisper from Rose. “They're gone. Also, I didn't bother Artemus with your report.”

“Good. And, how nice, you've eliminated my need to be here.”

“You can shift from industry to enjoyment.”

“Eloquently put.”

• • •

Artemus watched the wheelchair, accompanied by the white shirt and slacks, leave him behind. He thought of a small parade, a little float and a drum major, passing into the distance. Park the car, dear, park the car. He parked and headed back to the gate just as the Gallery van approached. He waved it to a stop, opened the passenger door, and got in.