Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (42 page)

“You think we'd get sent to prison for anything you've mentioned?” Near to a sneer from Tam. “Our friend would never let it happen.”

Noel shrugged. “No, your friend Rabinovich wouldn't want any of us in jail. He has his own rules, doesn't he? I personally fear your friend. Perhaps you should as well. Half a million for a forged painting? Oh dear.”

“Go on,” Rose repeated.

“Mostly there's the danger to our—what were Tam's words, Kyra?”

“Friends and relations.”

“Right. Not to mention to ourselves, and to yourselves. Who needs that, right?”

None of them answered.

“So. We say nothing. Some conditions. First, no further sales of schools-of paintings, forged or not. Not to anyone. The Internet knows all, and tells all.” He looked from Tam to Artemus. No reaction from either.

A tiny smile from Rose. “And?”

Noel turned to her. “No more opium. Anyway, where would you sell it? Without your vials, without selling paintings.” Many places, he feared, but waited for their response.

A small breath of a laugh escaped from Tam's nose. These guys just didn't get it about his sister. The sap-rich poppy and the black chrysanthemum were likely the final flowers his BSR would ever breed. If you completely master a task, why continue? He loved the irony, Rab and these guys both misunderstanding Rose in about the same way.

Noel smiled at Rose. “Congratulations, by the way, on masking the pigment age.”

Rose smiled at Noel.

“Getting the paintings past all the tests.”

Rose's smile widened.

“Assuring that they dated them wrong.”

She nodded. “Each time. They test in patches. Often it doesn't read. Normal, they said.”

Noel looked from Rose to Tam to Rose. “And your use of the pigments. Very good.”

“The stuff Rosie brewed up,” Tam grinned, “was great to work with.”

Artemus whispered, “Pigments, Rosie?”

She nodded.

“Oh my god.” His head drooped. “It's not possible.” He pressed his palms to his temples. “You can't fake pigment age.”

“I can. I did.”

“And the canvas? And the frames?”

Tam laughed quietly. “There's lots of junk out there from the seventeenth century.”

“You painted them in Nanaimo? That's why you bought the condo.”

“No. In the cabin basement.”

“There's no basement.” Artemus' face was grey; his hands shook. “Just a crawl space.”

Tam looked at him with a pitying smile. “Remember when you went to that conference in Brazil and stayed on for four months exploring South America? I put in a basement. Wondered if you'd ever notice.”

To Kyra, Artemus looked ten years older. He asked, “How—did you do the paintings?”

Tam affected modesty. “I flaked the paint from old canvasses and painted on them. And Rosie mixed the old flakes into her non-organic soup. No way to prove fakery, not by elemental analysis or carbon-14 dating. And with the flakes there's so much evidence of authenticity any expert would have to concede the legitimacy of the painting.” Modesty shifted to smug: “Especially when the brush strokes confirm the master's signature.”

“You used your own flowers, Rosie?”

“Do you really want to know?”

A long silence from Artemus. “No.” The tears were back. “No.”

“Good.” She reached her hand to her face where he'd hit her. “You know, we only did all this to see if we could. And when we'd succeeded, it snowballed. We just kept on going.”

Artemus rubbed his eyes. “He'll kill us.”

“Why?”

“Oh for christsake, Rosie!”

Tam said, “Listen to me, A. You sold him a painting from, say, the School of Alphonse Schnürer. Painted by one of Schnürer's students. I, in fact, am a student of Schnürer. One of his best. It's too bad I never met the man, but I doubt I could have learned more from him.”

“Don't patronize me—”

“I'm not! What do you think these so-called school-of paintings are? People making a few basic paintings, copies or bits and pieces of a larger work. Some are just studies, not even made for sale. But if a collector's willing to buy? The collector, Rab or whoever, buys and he's happy, he's got a school of this or that on his wall. He hangs it in suites he rents out to others, and they've got an original oil right there, and their snob side's just delighted. You've got a packet of money in your pocket. For the Foundation. The Foundation gives it away, some worthy project in Sumeria or Sumatra has a real lease on life, a village has clean water for the first time, whatever, because of you, because of me. Because of Rab. Everybody benefits. No complaints. Okay?”

A defeated glaze in Artemus' eyes. “The perfect victimless crime.”

“No crime, Artemus.” Rose again touched her cheek. “Students don't stop painting when the master dies, they go on and on. It makes the master even more famous.”

“Say what you will,” Artemus breathed, “they're still forgeries. They're not painted in the period they're supposed to represent.” He rubbed his knuckles. “Did Dorstel really call you?”

“Not recently.”

“But a few of the paintings were real?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Eight. The Correggio, the Titian, the—”

Noel cut Tam off. “Here are our conditions for silence. Ready?”

They stared at him. They waited.

“You will found, build and maintain an artists' center, with at least five studios for painters and sculptors. Artists to be selected by a jury of other artists. You don't get to decide who's chosen. Full open competition, except for one slot that always goes to a Gabriola artist.”

“What a terrible idea.” Tam scowled at Noel. “Anyway, the Official Community Plan won't permit that density. Don't you know anything about building codes?”

“Then you'll just have to buy yourselves a larger piece of land.”

“With what?” Tam shook his head. “You just told us we can't sell any more paintings.”

“Oh, break my heart. Sell contemporary artists. Dip into the Marchand fortune.” Noel glared at them yet spoke softly. “Imagine the glory it'll bring you. Gabriola, womb of the finest young artists from around the world. The School of Artemus Marchand.”

Rose gazed at Artemus. His face and hands were wet.

Kyra, all cheer, smiled at Tam. “You'll run the center, Tam. You've got such great technique, you can adapt yourself to anybody's style. You'll be a great teacher.”

“Yeah? And if I don't want to?”

“But you do. Especially since it coincides with your very best interests.”

Rose turned to Kyra. “I can hardly wait to hear your plans for me.”

It was Noel who said, “Nothing you won't enjoy. The art center buildings will be handicap-accessible. You'll design them well, you're too professional not to. Then you'll build a workshop with two purposes. One, a place in a beautiful setting for the disabled to brainstorm new ideas. And two, machines and tools available for guests to build prototypes for making life easier for themselves and others. Just as you did with your gardening tools.”

Rose said, “I'm not gregarious.”

“It's easy to be friendly with your admirers. Those you give a door to new freedom.”

“And,” Noel added, “you might think about a swimming pool, Rose. Heated. You'll design all kinds of aids to make a pool more accessible.”

“You've destroyed us.” Artemus shook his head. “You've destroyed me. Are you done?”

“One more thing. Quarterly you send a check for $23.65 to this lawyer's address.” He stood and handed Marchand a card.

“What for?” Rose asked.

Noel gave them his pièce-de-résistance smile. “The price of the safety deposit box that holds a copy of this deposition,” he held up the file again, “and the photos and so on.” Now he smiled at each of them separately. “A small regular reminder of our agreement.”

Kyra said, “A win-win situation.”

Rose said, “How nice.”

THEY ARRIVED BACK at Cameron Island just before two. Kyra needed some space so tramped the seawall to Departure Bay and back. She stopped off at the seaplane office. When she returned she announced, “I lucked into a cancellation tomorrow morning.”

“You don't sound happy. How about a celebratory martini and a delivered pizza?”

She shook her head.

“I hope the negative was to the pizza.”

She smiled, sort of. “Not hungry.” She checked her watch. Nearly five. “A martini, sure.”

In the kitchen Noel fixed a shakerful. He got down two glasses and poured. Kyra stared out at the ferry from Gabriola. A mist was descending, the island's cliffs losing solidity. Noel clinked her glass with his. “To a closed investigation,” sipped, not bad. “Not going to toast?”

She shrugged, sipped. “Nice drink.”

“Great compliment.” Noel sat on the sofa. “What's up?”

Kyra sipped again. “Rabinovich. You think maybe Rose was under his spell, in some way?” She put her feet on the coffee table.

Noel raised an eyebrow. If anyone knows about spells, it's you, babe.

“Okay, okay.” Kyra contemplated her olive. “And that's all I'm going to say.”

“They gave in faster than I'd expected.”

“I suspect they liked our idea. It is in fact a stroke of genius.”

“You think Rabinovich really values those people?” Noel wondered.

“Oh cases,” said Kyra. “You get a glimpse into lives and relationships, then it's over and they're left cryovacced in your mind.”

“Like each case is a two-hour movie? No sequel.” At the counter he hefted the shaker. “You want to eat out?”

“What are the freezer options?”

“Turkey soup. Or the leftover
bourguignon
. It'll taste better without Lyle's company.”

“The latter. And more martinis. I need to get drunk. A little.”

He filled a bowl with pistachios.

She scooped a handful. “It's just, they're people I detest. But, as Tam said, who's been hurt? Rabinovich, he's paid fortunes for fake paintings. He deserves to be taken in. Is it wrong to hurt the criminally rich just because they're criminally rich?”

“I hope they run with the art school. At least we got their threat under control.”

“Okay.” She puffed a sigh. “Tell me we can't do anything about Rabinovich and his obscene power—”

“Really, we can't.”

“—and I'll say, Case closed.”

“And our report to Lucas?”

“We tell him Marchand's sources have dried up. The truth.”

“Let's drink to that.” Noel raised his glass.

“Wait.” She touched his wrist. “I must say you got the worst of the deal, with Lyle. I didn't like him and now I detest him.”

“Yeah. Damn, he was terrifying. For a bit there I thought it was all over.” He squeezed her hand. “But then you showed up. And the Mounties.”

“Yeah. Like when I heard you when I was in Gill's basement.”

They drank to their gratitude.

Kyra's cellphone rang. “Hello? . . . Oh hi, Margery . . . The police think it's suicide?”

Noel noted Kyra's smile, warmed by a new puzzle. The Eaglenest case was the best new thing he'd done in years. He took dinner from the freezer and put it in the microwave.

Kyra was saying, “I'll be back in town tomorrow—” She made scribbling motions. Noel passed her paper and pen. “I'm sure that'll be fine . . . yes, I'll phone first . . . no problem. Thanks, Marge. Goodbye.” She stared at the paper. “A Ms. Oswald says she knows who killed her husband and why, but Puget Sound would prefer it to be a suicide.”

“So they won't have to pay?”

“Right.” She twinkled. “Want to come along?”

“To Bellingham?”

“Orcas Island. Maybe this case will be a simple black-and-whiter.”

“A case on Gabriola, a case on Orcas. Islands Investigations International?” He ruminated. “We better get some cards printed.” He pulled out his notebook and scribbled,
cards
.

Kyra held up her glass. “To Triple-I.” They drank. “The only thing Lyle was good for.”

The microwave beeped. Noel poked the
bourguignon
. Another ten minutes. “Soon.”

“I've never been to Orcas Island,” Kyra said.

“I was there once, before I met Brendan. Don't remember a thing. Oh, I said I'd phone Lucille.” He picked up the phone again. “Hi, it's Noel. The Mounties have charged Jerry Bannister with Dempster's murder, and the painter Lyle Sempken as accessory . . . That's the one . . . You're welcome.” He paused. “Oh, I had a little adventure of my own—” And told her. “And you can print any of that you want . . . Yes. Of course I, or my partner,” he grinned at Kyra, “will let you know. Bye.”

NOEL'S FAX BRRR-ED out paper. He picked up the sheet.

Hi Noel,
Since you were so involved with Eaglenest Gallery last year, I thought you'd want to see my recent column. Hope things are going well for you and your associate. Drop in for tea sometime, my kettle's getting dusty.

Lucille

A THRILLING EVENT

By Lucille Maple
Yesterday I attended the GRAND OPENING of Gabriola's newest institution, The Marchand School Of Art. Gabriola is indeed fortunate to have been picked as “home” by a family so talented and generous as Artemus Marchand's.

Last year they bought sixty acres of the old clearcut and, after demolishing foliage (rumour hath it BLACKBERRIES were used to hide a forbidden substance) work proceeded apace all year.

Now there are three buildings: a large studio-gallery, a large workshop and a student residence. Everything is wheelchair accessible, I was assured, and the workshop is to be used for training the disabled in making Tools for Self-Help. Rose Gill is in charge of the workshop, you all recall her skill with inventing gardening tools for the disabled. [See Gabriola Gab, April 13, 2000. Ed.]