In the fourth mystery in the Islands Investigations International series, Noel Franklin and Kyra Rachel are called to Moresby University on San Juan Island to investigate a case of possible plagiarism. As they look into the theft, the two get to know the small island’s university. They soon discover another, more menacing crime: the daughter of a professor engaged in highly sensitive research has been kidnapped. And her ransom is a piece of intellectual property far greater than any manuscript. While Noel and Kyra navigate the murky waters of university politics and come closer to discovering the origins of the crimes and their perpetrators, their lives are first threatened and then terrorized.
Kyra, an insurance investigator, and Noel, a former journalist, pair up their sleuthing skills once again in Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island, as they investigate crimes and mysteries in the Pacific Northwest.
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PRAISE FOR THE ISLANDS INVESTIGATIONS INTERNATIONAL MYSTERIES
“Authors Duncan and Szanto succeed in presenting a seamless and well-written story . . . A satisfying read with insight into the fabric that binds and threatens a family.” —The Hamilton Spectator
“It’s hard not to enjoy following along with the engaging investigative duo and the beautifully depicted Pacific Northwest setting in which they work.” —Mysterious Reviews
“The twisted plot is spun carefully and engagingly. The authors ramp up the foreboding and danger believably. Greed and ambition are found everywhere . . . A winning combination: novels that can be read as standalone mysteries but which offer probing insight into the developing main characters.” —Times Colonist
“Passes the test of good detective fiction: hard to put down until the last question is answered.” —The Gumboot Press
“The mystery, with its rather large and quite varied cast of characters, sweeps the reader along. But its plot also provides an educational experience.” —Reviewing the Evidence
“Duncan and Szanto bring their A-game to this daring and complex novel.” —Lou Allin, Crime Writers of Canada
Always Love a Villain
ON SAN JUAN ISLAND
Sandy Frances Duncan & George Szanto
To Phyllis and Ted Reeve, and Gloria Hatfield,
past and present owners of Page’s Books on Gabriola Island,
in appreciation of their ongoing generosity to the island’s writers.
PROLOGUE
HALF OF HER wanted to head down to Thor’s right now, check out if somebody new was around tonight. Spider and Tom and the others were good enough guys, but nobody to get it on with. Someone from off-island, somebody different. Or maybe Jordan would be there as this was his night off? Jordan was different, not so much a guy for her as an older brother. They’d spent time together the last few weeks, just talking. Okay, a decision: head out. Instantly the other half of her cried, Why bother? Things didn’t change at Thor’s. A beer was a beer.
She felt divided, the way she did most evenings when her reading and note-taking were over. Not over, really; this pre-reading for her fall courses could go on forever. So she had decreed a timetable for herself: noon to 8:30 with an hour off for a late lunch. Usually she also broke when her father came home, spent time catching up before he went back to his lab—some nights he’d be there till morning. Not today, though. He’d called: he had a conference with a colleague over drinks and dinner. Susanna hoped it was a female colleague. He needed to spend more energy on women; she’d decided this earlier in the summer when he’d invited some colleagues to the planning session for a conference he’d be holding next February. He’d been setting it up for two years. Susanna could tell he’d been turned on by a sexy female doctor, new to the group, Antoinette-something, full-barreled name preceded by Doctor. She was drop-dead stunning. Lush. Maybe late thirties with the richest wavy chestnut hair. And hypnotic gray eyes. Susanna had met her only once, at the departing cocktail party. They’d talked about nothing particular. Because she’d been staring at the woman’s eyes. It didn’t surprise her when her father had invited Dr. Antoinette to spend time with him in Seattle. He’d said not to tell anyone. Well of course she wouldn’t; who wants gossip? She was glad for him. But what, Susanna wondered, did the doctor see in her father? A nice enough looking dad, but no hunk. Though, they say, genius can be sexy in itself. And Laurence Rossini, everyone knew, had plenty of that.
She found herself staring out the window, and blinked. Thor’s would likely be a waste of time. On the other hand, staying home would bore her out of her gourd.
Twice since the end of May she’d met guys who turned her on. The first, a jerk, lasted one night. The second was okay and she’d spent four nights with him, then he had to go back to a girlfriend in Denmark. But those nights it’d been worth checking out Thor’s.
A glance at her watch. She was one of few people on San Juan who wore one, island time coming close to sacrosanct for most who lived here. Okay, to the pub before 9:00. She pushed away from the desk, the books, the computer, the bits of notepaper, and stood.
She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. Halter top and cutoffs, her only clothes for today. A hot afternoon but cooling off now. Jeans and a T-shirt? No, she’d done that last night. Friday Harbor wasn’t fashion central but she didn’t want to tire the guys. Maybe the white minidress, hadn’t worn it this week. She undressed and slipped the dress over her head. The hem fell to mid-thigh. Yeah, cool, both ways. A look in the mirror. Not bad, Susanna. Lucky you have long legs.
She combed her hair. Not born to be a honey-blonde but she’d helped that along. Automatically she squinted at the roots. Have to take care of those in the next couple of days. Tiny bit of lipstick, the rose bringing out the blue-green luster of her eyes. Yep, if a person of interest were around, he’d notice. Certainly the gold watch; her gran had bequeathed it to her and her father had saved it for when she’d received her BA. And just for good luck, the little gold ring that had also belonged to her grandmother. She slipped it on the pinky finger of her right hand.
She pushed into sandals and grabbed her pale turquoise silk stole; evenings turned chilly close to the water. She took a credit card and driver’s license from her purse and dropped them into a pocket at the loose waist of the dress, left her room and walked down the hall. “Dad!?” She hadn’t heard him come in; just checking. Downstairs she passed through the kitchen but didn’t leave a note—he’d know where she’d gone. Out to the drive and her snazzy red Camaro convertible, her real graduation present from her father.
She pulled out of the drive and turned onto Orcas Boulevard, part of the university’s private road system, then glanced back at her father’s house. Not his as in owning, but where he lived, and she too for the summer. A good house, five bedrooms, which he didn’t need but which did allow her two rooms, a study as well as a bedroom. On campus, which was good for him. Since her mother had died, her father’s work was his only life, and the house on university land kept his life comfortably close. Good for her too because she didn’t have to worry about him. Not that he couldn’t take care of himself, but until six years ago, when they’d moved onto the Morsely campus, her teenage self had felt more like a mother to him, or at least an older sister.
Up Orcas and out of the woods the university nestled in, through half a mile of fields on either side, up to Bailer Hill Road. Only late August but already getting dark. A right, then a couple of miles of straight pavement to Douglas, where the macadam swung left, a quick right onto Little Road, which was not only narrow but also short, left on Cattle Point, right onto Mullis and into town. Friday Harbor, the island’s commercial center—readily availabl
e amenities from art galleries through hotels, a florist, surf apparel, restaurants—had become familiar to Susanna, and comfortable. Not that Seattle and her newfound apartment a few blocks from UW, the University of Washington, would be any cause for concern—nor had Reed College been, safe as Sunday—but on San Juan very little you could call dangerous ever happened. Might be fun if a bit of jeopardy came along once in a while. But even a pickup at Thor’s was safe because everybody saw the guy you left with—worst that ever happened was the next day’s teasing.
She parked in the lot behind Thor’s. Two other cars, three was all that could fit, so she’d lucked out. She opened the back screen door and walked in, waved at two guys and three women about her age at a corner table, and at a couple sitting on stools locked into an intense whispered conversation with Thor behind the bar. Three older couples at three other tables and that was it. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. Spider.
“Hiya, Susie, long time no see.” He hugged her lightly.
He stepped back. “Hey, you look great. Meeting someone special?”
“That’d be nice.”
“Then you musta dressed up for me.”
She stared at him, gangly skinny arms and thin legs, and wondered again if his shape gave him the Spider name. “That’ll be the day.” She’d never asked, not him nor any of the others; seemed like it’d be intrusive.
“Aw come on, I’ve been dreaming about you all day.”
Then Tom came up behind Spider. “This fella botherin’ you, miss?” He hugged her, let her go and crooned, “Oh Susanna, now don’t you cry for me . . .”
An evening like all evenings. “So what’s going on?”
Nothing going on to tell her about. Another man joined the group, Turk, and two women, Raina, whom she’d met, and a stunner who was new, Sara. Damn, not a guy. But the moment Sara spoke—“Hey, lucky I’m in the fawnciest place in this dump”—Susanna knew it didn’t matter, just one more jerk, female variety. Spider ordered a pitcher of beer for them all. No, Susanna thought, let’s get a little different. “Thor, mix me a dirty vodka martini.” She considered what she’d said. “Make that a double.”
“Wooowee!” Spider.
“Hard day in the library, Sue?” Tom.
“Susanna.”
“Susie Susanna?”
They sparred and teased till the beer and her drink came. Tom brought it over for her—was he working tonight, or just helping out? Giggles from Spider and Raina. Why had she come? Right then she didn’t want to be here any more. She finished her martini in two swallows. Enough for tonight.
“Like I said before. Wooooooweee!”
She stood. “I’m taking off.”
“Yeah, better get home before the booze hits.” Tom mocked a leer, or maybe he meant it. “You want I should drive you home, just in case?”
“See you around, guys.” She ignored Tom, at the bar handed Thor her credit card, got her chit and headed out as she’d come in. The sky had darkened, a few stars, no moon. She felt a breeze on her bare shoulders and pulled her stole tighter. Right behind her and the two other cars in the lot, a big sedan, blocking them all. Damn! Stupid ass, who’d do anything so dumb? She walked over to the driver’s side and tried to look in. Too dark. A movement behind her. What—! She tried to turn but someone grabbed her upper arm and pulled her stole even tighter. A sack of some sickly sweet smell came down over her head. She fought but the hand and stole didn’t loosen. She had to get the sack off fast, jerked her shoulders and head sharply back and forth, then suddenly the effort became overwhelming and the smell went up her nose and down her throat and she knew when she’d wanted a little peril to come to San Juan she hadn’t meant to herself . . .
ONE
KYRA RACHEL HAD been focusing on the door to the sporting goods store for twenty minutes. Her stare, barely short of hypnotic, was making her nape and the back of her head ache. She sensed the phone vibrate and pulled it from her windbreaker pocket. “Rachel,” she answered, sotto voce.
“Is this Islands Investigations International?”
“Yes.” Whispering.
“My name is Peter Langley. I’m a professor at Morsely University on San Juan Island. I’d like to hire your firm.”
“What’s your problem?” Eyes not moving from the door, voice softer still.
“Possible plagiarism. It’s a bit messy. Can I talk to you about it?”
“Maybe my partner can handle it. Noel Franklin. Triple I’s email address is on our web page.”
“Oh. Yes. I’ll get to it right away.”
“Sorry, have to go.” Kyra shoved her phone back in her pocket; the object of her surveillance was leaving the store. Carrying a tennis racket! Cane over his arm like Fred Astaire, not the look of a fifty-two-year-old man allegedly suffering whiplash. The most common, and boring, kind of insurance case. She snapped three fast photos.
She envied Noel some nice plagiarism. Right up his alley, too; he’d told stories about newspaper word-and-idea thefts from his previous career: investigative journalism.
Fred Wisely sidestepped into his low-slung blue Toyota FT 86 Concept like a flashy teenager. Got that on camera, too. She started her Tracker’s engine, pulled out three cars behind and drove to the Bellis Fair Mall exit.
Ah! Wisely, fast dart up to the curb. She passed, noting Wise Guy’s sprightly gait into a florist shop—flowers to celebrate the insurance money? I think not! Should be Weasley, not Wisely. She parked ahead of his car. She pulled out her phone and tapped in Noel’s landline number. He always shut off his mobile at home.
But, up in Nanaimo, British Columbia, the line rang busy. Five minutes later, still busy. And no Wisely. How long does it take to choose flowers? He didn’t even take his cane this time. Get off the phone, Noel!
Wiseguy Weasley, grinning, appeared with a bouquet of tropical blooms, jaunted down the street and slid into his car. Quick shots over her shoulder. Kyra watched the rearview mirror and, when he was past her, pulled out. She trailed him home to his bungalow on Lake Samish, and wished him a terrible evening. His terrible day would be coming soon.
She called Noel again—busy, what the hell was he doing?—parked the Tracker in her condo’s underground lot, rode the elevator up five flights, and let herself in. A long bath would be grand. She opened her computer and transferred the photos of Wisely the Weasel. She uploaded, checked the pictures, and sent them to Puget Sound Life, 99 percent certain Wisely hadn’t really been hurt in the smash-up. Watch him another day to make sure? Maybe he was taking painkillers that allowed him to prance about. Better to be thorough. Six or eight more photos would clinch the case, one way or the other.
A glance at the clock, 5:25, late enough. She poured a vodka-tonic. She redialed Noel. “Hi. You were on the phone a while.” She sipped.
“Oh. Yeah. I was talking to Lucille.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I told her I don’t want to shoot anymore.”
“But we agreed—”
“I hate shooting. If it didn’t make sense for Triple I to have a gun on each side of the border, I wouldn’t have gone this far.”
“Was it something Lucille said? Or did?”
“No. It’s just me.”
“Did you use her handgun? Did she teach you anything?”
“Yes. Just nothing I like.” Noel sighed. “She said get a nine millimeter Beretta. I said I would but I don’t want more lessons. She said we could kayak together. Another useful skill for a private investigator.” He laughed, ruefully.
“But you got the Beretta. You agreed.”
“Yeah, and now I’m disagreeing. At least on who gets to use it.”
Kyra and Noel had met Lucille Maple, a seventy-four-year-old reporter for the Gabriola Gab with a deplorable writing style, while working on Gabriola. Kyra had said, “Private investigators need handguns. Talk to Lucille.” Turned out Lucille was a Senior Champion trapshooter. She’d picked Noel up at the ferry twice a week and brought him to a low level of c
ompetence. He’d acquired the pistol and a lockbox for ammunition and didn’t like any of it, not at all.
In Bellingham, Kyra kept a Smith and Wesson Airlite. The gun, weighing twelve ounces, barrel length under two inches, fit comfortably in her purse. With Noel’s Beretta in Nanaimo, they wouldn’t have to cart a gun across the border.
Noel just hoped they never had to use either. Kayaking would be more fun. Maybe. At least less noisy.
“We’ll talk about guns later.” She sipped her drink. “Did you read our email?”
“No.”
“We ’ve got a possible new case.”
“Yeah?”
“I had a call from a prof on San Juan Island. There’s a university there, Morsely, Mosely, something like that.”
“San Juan? That’s the island you get to off Sidney, isn’t it?”
“I think so but I haven’t looked. I’ve been in the bloody car all day.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Says he has a maybe-plagiarism case. He’s supposed to have emailed us about it. I’m still stuck in whiplash-land. I said you’d call him. If it sounds urgent, you want to come on down? Plagiarism doesn’t require guns.” She sipped her drink.
“How’s the whiplash going?”
“Guy has a cane he’s been leaning on, today he hooked it over his arm, later he left it in the car. I think he thinks he’s celebrating, but it ain’t gonna happen.” She chuckled. “I should be free of it soon. Maybe you can get the new case started?”
“Yeah. I’ll let you know. What’s his name?”
Kyra thought hard. “Don’t remember. Lincoln? London? Read his email.”
“Okay. Talk soon.”
“Bye.” She put the phone down and finished her drink. Noel must know we have to have a chat. Maybe several chats. As many as it takes to convince him.
Time for a bath. Two bedrooms, one and two-thirds bathrooms in the condo, which still felt new even after six months. In her bedroom she kicked off her loafers, pulled down her jeans, dragged the black turtleneck over her head, discarded underwear in the laundry basket. A few steps to the bathroom and she turned on the light and taps. She felt a bit beaten from sitting in the car so long and looked in the mirror. She ran her hand through her dark brown curls and decided she’d still do—no lines on her neck yet, no sagging breasts. Not bad for thirty-eight. She washed her hair and rinsed it while the tub filled, then turned off the taps and lay back.
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