Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (6 page)

“He's not here,” explained Marchand. “He's gone to Nanaimo. Just back from a trip.”

“Was he around when Dempster died?”

“Yes,” said Marchand.

“Then we better hear what he has to say.”

Noel asked, “How do we find him in Nanaimo?”

“Oh. Likely at his condo or his karate club.”

“Artemus,” Rose broke in. “Leave the boy his privacy.”

Noel said, “Perhaps you can show us his cabin, Mrs. Marchand.”

“I don't go in when he's not here.”

“And I don't go in at all. Tam is an artist. We don't invade his space.”

Some kind of threat in Marchand's voice? Noel wasn't sure.

“We just walk down this path, do we?” Kyra started off.

More trees here, suddenly heavily wooded, already out of sight of the Gallery. It smelled like Bowen Island at years-ago Thanksgivings, a dying-leaf smell Kyra could all but taste. Rose rolled reluctantly behind Kyra down the hard-packed path, Noel and Artemus following.

“What's your brother's name?” asked Kyra.

“Tam. Gill.” A neutral tone.

About a hundred and fifty feet along the path Kyra reached a low house, clad in cedar siding over a poured-concrete foundation, set among close-growing firs and a few ruddy arbutus. Shady, almost cool. Kyra liked it. What might she find in its medicine cabinet?

Some stairs and a ramp against the wall allowed access to a wide oceanview deck and side door. The ground sloped downhill toward the cliff. The deck, at its highest, stood about five feet above the ground. Kyra started up the stairs.

“Please,” Rose Marchand said, “not unless Tam is here.” She turned her chair.

Kyra shrugged, and stepped back down.

AN EXCHANGE OF goodbyes. Noel and Kyra headed for the Tracker and got in. They drove out the gates.

“Well,” said Kyra, “what do you think.”

“Not very much, just yet.”

“At any rate, you're working again.”

“
We
are.” Was she backing out? “You pushed me into this.”

“Let's talk about it. I'd like a beer.”

“That'd be good.” He scanned his printout. “There's that pub by the ferry dock, and one at the south end.” She'd better not be backing out.

“The south end pub.” Kyra accelerated. “Get an overview of the island.”

Noel checked the map. “Turn right. Looks like about twelve kilometres.” He shoved a Nina Simone CD into the player to keep his imagination away from slashed tires, and her elegant rendition of “Wild as the Wind” kept night phones from ringing. Back to the ferry dock, up the hill, past the post office and the museum. They passed a house with a duck pond and a greenhouse that wasn't open today before Kyra said, “What about Roy and that religious group? Ever hear of them?”

“Bearers of Eternal Faith? I did a story on them years ago. A hint left of Jerry Falwell and somewhere to the right of the Promise Keepers. Upright stalwarts for Jesus. Human perfection and celibacy unless married. Not even lip kissing.”

“Back to medieval times.”

He grinned. “The dark ages were way raunchier than that.”

They passed a golf course. They wound down through a forest of mainly fir to the water's edge, a flat beach. Noel pointed to the land across a narrows, “That's Mudge Island, population fifty-one. No ferry or bridge.”

“How do you get there?”

“Row or outboard, I'd guess. Islands are like that, you see.”

“Thank you, Noel.” They were both smiling.

Away from the water again, flat fields, sheep grazing, a pretty bed and breakfast place. Oh the pleasure he and Brendan had found in sneaking away for a couple of days, staying in little places like this. And their vacations, country inns in the Dordogne or in Tuscany, museums by day, fine local food in the evenings—

Kyra swerved the Tracker around a hard left curve. Noel grabbed the door handle. The speedometer said 50 MPH. He said, “Uh, are we late?”

“For what?”

“I don't know.”

“Then why'd you ask?”

“You're driving too fast.”

“I'm only doing fifty.”

“That's miles per hour. The limit here is 60 KPH. Remember what country you're in.”

“Oops.” She slowed to forty-two.

“You don't want to hit a deer. We need a driveable car.”

“You're right.”

Close to the ocean again, past a graveyard, past the island Community Hall, at last the south end, large pastures with more sheep, turning right at the drive to Silva Bay Marina and Pub. Nina Simone intoned, “Please don't let me be misunderstood . . .”

On the deck overlooking the water, protected and warm enough to sit outside, each a foaming pint in hand, Kyra offered, “To islands and marinas.” They sipped.

In the harbor two dozen substantial yachts lay at anchor, as many more tied up at the marina. Noel said, “Maybe there is enough money on this island to buy a Titian.”

“Yeah.” Kyra took another sip.

“Okay. Are you going to do this job with me? You said you would.”

“If I said no now?”

“I guess I'd do it myself.” He leaned toward her. “But it'd be way better if we worked together.”

“Well— Yeah. Okay. A deal.” She lifted her hand to shake. He took it. A firm double squeeze. Clear Eaglenest's reputation together, then Noel's going to be fine on his own.

“Now,” Noel took a drink, “what do we know? And what do we need to find out?”

“Okay. Roy Dempster is dead. Looks like a blow to the back of the head. He was found lying on his stomach.” Kyra sipped more beer.

“Do we accept he was killed?”

She shrugged. “Maple's column said so. Marchand thinks so.”

“So we start with that assumption.”

“Let's brainstorm. Start with extremes. Every idea is equally valid.”

“Yeah. Focus afterward.”

“Okay. He had an epileptic attack, bashed his head, flipped onto his stomach and died.”

“Oh sure.”

“Don't eliminate anything before considering it.”

“We'd have to find out if he had fits.”

“Okay. He was a pothead, now reformed. A member of the Something Bearers.”

“Bearers of the Eternal Faith.”

Kyra said, “Not suicide. You don't kill yourself with a blow to the back of the head. What if Marchand himself bashed Dempster, created the uproar, then hired us as a cover?”

“Except why? Anyway, he didn't strike me as a murderer.”

“How many murderers do you know?”

“Who knows who's a murderer.” Noel thought for a moment. “Okay, what do we know about motives?”

“Blackmail? Jealousy? Maybe Dempster was having an affair with Rose. In the greenhouse. He lifts her from the wheelchair and lays her on the flowerbeds.” Kyra grinned. “Why is she in a wheelchair anyhow?”

“I think I heard at Lyle's opening she had a swimming accident.” Noel sipped, and thought. “The newspaper column hints at some sinister connection between Marchand and Dempster. Would people take that paper seriously?”

“Maybe. It's Marchand's second mess-up in the last few years, remember. Tell me more about that fake picture he sold.”

“He didn't sell it.” Noel picked up one printout. “This is from Exhibitors' Art On-Line. The article implies it was an honest mistake. Written as a cautionary tale. A charitable donation, and he got a tax break. That's what made it complicated. You sell a forgery, it's a crime against the buyer. But if you take a tax break it's a crime against the government. Marchand paid $152,000 for the painting, so in fact he was the one who lost out.” He read to the bottom. “A School of Hals. Supposedly painted by one of Hals' students, somebody Spätzler.”

“I am impressed by the speed of your research,” Kyra said, half wry, half amazed.

Noel heard both halves. “Good.” He read the rest of the printout. “Yeah, I see.” He glanced over to Kyra. “It sort of pushes what fake is—the painting's been bought and sold as legit three times since it first got catalogued in 1876. But there's some new test for figuring the age of pigments and the best guess is Marchand's fake was painted in the 1860s. It's been a successful counterfeit for a long time.”

“Who'd you say Marchand gave it to?”

“A private gallery.”

“Hmm.” Kyra sipped. “Oh great, thanks,” she smiled at the buxom crewcut server who put down their order of nachos loaded with cheese, jalapeños and olives.

“Okay. What else do we know?”

Kyra shoved two nachos into her mouth, chewed, swallowed. “We know Rose Marchand, or Gill, has a greenhouse. And it's easily contaminated.”

“Would Dempster go inside?”

“We don't know. Or where he died, or was killed. And what Rose's brother knows. And the Mounties are still investigating. We need some hard information. Can we talk with your friend Albert?” Another nacho.

“I think so.” Noel reached for the plate. “What else?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay then, tactics.”

“We ask some people a few questions. Who first?”

Noel checked his notebook. “Local Mounties.” He looked at her. She nodded. “And Danny Bourassa. Lucille Maple of the egregious column. And Tam Gill, I guess. The painter-sister Charlotte whatsis. And that Jerry something. Then Albert back in Nanaimo.”

They finished their beers and food, and checked out the bathrooms. Noel caught his face in the mirror, a face he thought he knew well. Adequately formed, in balance, but nothing exceptional about it. He remembered Brendan telling him that he had a great face, that he loved Noel's face, across the table, as they drove down new roads, beside his own on the pillow. For a moment an image of Brendan's face came, not as in the portrait in their bedroom but as it had drained and yellowed over the last year, so slowly Noel had seen no change from day to day, so quickly as to horrify them both when a photo or a friend provided a point of reference. Noel ran cold water, rubbed it into his face and didn't glance up to the mirror again.

By the time he returned, Kyra had found addresses and phone numbers for Danny Bourassa, Charlotte Plotnikoff and the Mounties, the latter's building close to the ferry. They retraced South Road up-island.

In the Mounties' parking lot a young woman officer told them Corporal Jim Yardley, in charge of the Dempster case, was gone for the day, he'd be on again in the morning. Noel checked his watch. Right, nobody commits a crime on Gabriola after 4:33 pm.

Back in the Tracker, Kyra called Charlotte Plotnikoff on her cell-phone. The machine asked her to leave a message. She didn't. At Danny Bourassa's home a woman answered, “No but I expect him just after five.” Kyra said they'd like to talk with Mr. Bourassa about his friend Roy Dempster. The woman hesitated, then gave Kyra directions and identified herself as Patty.

They drove over to North Road and came across a small shopping center, Folklife Village. “I need to buy film,” Kyra said. She turned into the parking lot.

Noel turned back to the printout. “This place was part of Expo 86 in Vancouver. They dismantled it there and recycled it here.”

Kyra scanned the little horseshoe mall. Wooden sidewalks all around, covered on the left and right sides. The cedar-sided buildings with large display windows housed a food market, pharmacy, clothing store, art gallery, café advertising jazz on Saturdays, hardware store, small library, wine store, DVD rental, and a realtor. “Not bad for an island mall.” She bought her film at the pharmacy and rejoined Noel.

“Check out the local denizens.”

“What?”

“Like at that Eaglenest show I went to. Take a look.”

Kyra glanced about. The men: jeans or tan chinos, and T-shirts or sweatshirts, work boots or Birkenstocks, more chins unshaven than razed. The women: jeans or blue or brown chinos, and T-shirts, one tank top, running shoes or Birkenstocks. On men and women, lots of long hair on many tied back and, more often than not, smiles or grins. The young, though, looked like teenagers anywhere, sloppy boys' pants and bare young midriffs. “Gotcha,” Kyra said.

“And the clothes don't say who's on welfare and who owns a yacht.”

Along North Road, then down a hill to a subdivision called Whalebone. The streets had names like Moby Dick's Way, Quequeg Place, Captain Ahab's Terrace. “Turn right,” said Noel.

They stopped in front of a green clapboard house. A large dog, part shepherd, mostly many other breeds, growled as they approached. “Nice mutt,” Noel muttered. The dog's rumblings broke into a series of deep barks.

A woman wearing a yellow turtleneck and jeans appeared at the door. “Stop that, Princess!” Princess slunk around the corner of the house. “She's really very gentle. I'm Patty.”

They introduced themselves. Patty's head, Noel noted, was round. Hair cut to helmet her head, no protruding ears or extended chin, and eyes wide, in echo of her overall face. In fact she was round all around, not fat but large-curved, round fingers, short round forearms, rounded breasts, and, when she turned, particularly round buttocks. Trim bare feet in thongs, with round toes. She led them into a small living room. Chairs and the couch were protected by slipcovers, a red and yellow plaid, frills on the arms, each looking ready to head off square dancing. “Danny's showering,” Patty said. “He just came home.” A large print of a down-home Jesus dividing up a small fish hung on one wall. On another, a wedge of varnished fir, the words “Jesus is Lord” etched in. Noel stared at it. Patty said, “Danny carved that,” with hesitant pride.

“He's a woodworker, then?”

“Oh no, just a hobby. He's in site preparation so he gets real dirty, that's why he's showering. He doesn't like to be dirty.” Patty giggled, and her lips rounded.

Noel said, “About Roy Dempster. What kind of guy was he?”