Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  “Uh—”

  “Sure,” Kyra announced firmly. “But we’d like to talk about your earthly boyfriend.”

  Sue nodded and held the door open. “Poor Roy. Does anyone know yet who killed him?” They crossed the lino area in front of the door past shoes neatly aligned.

  Murder does seem to be the accepted version of Dempster’s death. Kyra shook her head. “We’re still investigating.”

  Sue was barefoot. Noel wondered, should we take off our shoes too? Sue didn’t ask them to so he didn’t. She led them over to a worn sofa under the front window. The thin red-flowered curtains didn’t shut out much light, but, Noel noted, they did clash admirably with the green and yellow floral fabric of the sofa.

  The sun’s rays reached two chairs at an arborite table in the dining ell. Kyra looked for another place, then sat beside Noel. “Our sincere condolences on your fiancé’s death, Sue.”

  “Death means being with Jesus so you shouldn’t condolence.” She wore a short tight T-shirt that told Kyra, Island Time is Jesus Time, above tight jeans. Her bare feet were dirty.

  Noel’s first impression of her prettiness gave way to an awareness of weather lines around her mouth and eyes. Jesus hadn’t soothed her face. Her mind, then?

  Kyra asked, “Do you know where Roy was the day before he was found dead?”

  “Off birding.” Sue pulled a chair out from the table. “Birds gave him peace, he said.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah, he liked being out there, standing all quiet looking for birds. He said Carl said there was a strange bird near the bog so he went up to see.”

  Kyra asked, “Carl?”

  “Carl Pocock. Our pastor.”

  “Here on the island?” Noel took out his notebook.

  “Not this week. He’s up north. Birding.”

  “And where’s this bog?” Noel made a couple of notes.

  “By the clearcut.” Sue’s words came out disinterested. “He said it was a great place to see different birds since it was logged. It’s not a clearcut any more now it’s growing back, but everybody still calls it the clearcut. Roy said it used to have eagles and ravens and hawks, but now it gets strange little birds.”

  Noel jotted some notes.

  “Roy came by around six,” Sue continued. “He already had his binoculars around his neck like he’d maybe see a weird bird right here in my backyard, so I knew he was getting on his one-track. He asked me if I wanted to go but I had a dog to groom. That’s the job Jesus got me, grooming dogs and exercising them.” She wound her arms around her knees and her face became animated. “Roy wouldn’t let me bring the dog ’cause dogs scare the birds. He thought watching them was a way of worshipping too. I keep wondering, if I’d’a gone, would he still be alive?”

  Or you might be dead too, Noel thought.

  Sue blinked hard. She leapt up, rubbing her eyes, and padded down the hall. They heard the rattle of a toilet paper holder and a noseblow. She returned, still wiping her face. “Sorry. I should be glad Jesus wanted him. But sometimes I think it’d be nice if he was still down here. Except now I don’t have to decide whether to marry him or not.”

  “You were unsure.” Kyra’s statement a question.

  Sue nodded. “He used to have a bad temper. Patty said I should wait and be sure he had it really under control.” Sue wound her arms around her knees again, a bundle of thin limbs. She looked at Kyra as if deciding how much to tell. Kyra let her face take on a sympathetic-keeper-of-female-confidences look. Noel dropped his gaze to his notebook. “See, the real problem is, I’m preparing to be a Born Again Virgin.”

  Noel kept his head down only by force of mind. Kyra turned her smile of amusement into one of sympathy. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “We’re bringing it back at our Church,” Sue announced. “It’s for Jesus,” she hastened to assure. “See, long ago, if a woman didn’t have sex for seven years she could call herself a real Virgin again and go into a nunnery. So some of us are doing it. Or not doing it, I guess.” She smiled.

  Kyra returned the smile. “How close to the seven years are you?”

  “Eight months without sex,” Sue announced. “Well, next week.

  And I’ve given my past sins to Jesus too. Our Church doesn’t like sex without marriage. And all that AIDS stuff.”

  “Lot to be said for celibacy,” stated Kyra.

  “Yeah, that’s the word.” Sue nodded. “Roy joined the Faith Bearers, they’re celibate too. Just till marriage. You see the problem, if I married Roy he wouldn’t let me be a BAV. Also maybe I want children. It’s just been hard to decide.” She scrunched up her face.

  “That is a dilemma,” Kyra nodded in A+ confidante style.

  After a moment Sue said, “Well, I guess it isn’t now.”

  “Did Roy have any enemies?” Noel asked, needing to change the subject. Though he thought, three celibates in one room talking about a dead celibate, is that some sort of record?

  “Enemies?” Sue, picking at a hangnail, thought about that. “No, Roy liked everybody. Even if he didn’t really, I mean. Maybe before he’d get drunk and there’d be some clowning around, you know how guys are. He had a fight in the pub once. With the Gallery guy.”

  Carefully Noel repeated, “The Gallery guy? Artemus Marchand?”

  Sue blurted a laugh. “No, the cute one, Rose’s brother.”

  “What was it about, the fight?”

  She shook her head. “I dunno. I wasn’t there.”

  “You must have heard something—”

  She turned to Noel with defiant squinting eyes. “I didn’t see it, I said.” She shook her head. “I don’t spread gossip.”

  “Well, your opinion then. Could anyone at the Gallery have had it in for Roy?”

  “What a terrible thing to think!”

  Kyra changed tack. “Patty Bourassa told us Roy meddled in her sister’s marriage.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘meddle.’ It’s just, Roy was really keen on the Faith Bearers and one of the faiths is to help others.” Sue seemed to have succeeded with the hangnail. She turned to Noel. “I know this because Roy told me. So it’s the truth, not a rumor.” She glanced at Kyra, almost shyly. “There was a guy Roy wanted to get into the F.B.s and kept inviting him and one day his wife yelled at Roy, right in the parking lot, ‘You leave us alone and don’t ever talk to either one of us again!’ and a lot of swearing.” She shook her head. “Some people are just really hard to save.”

  Noel smiled. “Anybody else he tried to save?”

  “Mmm—he wasn’t really keen on the homos on the island. He was thinking it was maybe his duty to show them a better way.”

  Oh dear, thought Noel. “Did he approach any of them?”

  “I dunno.”

  “When did you last see Roy?”

  “Oh, late that afternoon. He liked to go birding toward evening when the birds come home.”

  “Did Roy live near the clearcut?”

  “Nope, he’s over on Berry Point.” Noel unfolded the map and Sue got up to show him.

  “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just past Seagirt,” she pointed. “Brown with pink trim. You can’t miss it.”

  Noel scanned the map. “And where’s the clearcut?”

  “In here, behind the Community Hall.” She pointed to the middle of the island. “The trees are growing, it’s being renewed.” Suddenly she looked shy. “Just like himself, Roy said.”

  “How did Roy get to the clearcut?”

  “Drove.” Sue looked at Noel, a guy who’d flunked Basic Knowledge 101. “Mounties found his truck at the Community Hall the next day. Maybe whoever killed him put it there.” Her tone doubted Noel could figure this out for himself.

  Kyra stood. “Thank you, Sue, you’ve been helpful.”

  Noel scribbled his name and phone number on a blank page in his notebook, tore it off and handed it to Sue. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.” He crossed to the
door, opened it and nodded goodbye.

  Back in the car, Kyra said, “Truck at Community Hall, body at Eaglenest Gallery. We really do need to talk to the Mounties before we go much further.” She started the engine. “Compost and Born Again Virgins!” She backed onto the road.

  “Amazing how much people talk,” Noel said. “I’d’ve figured islanders would be more closed-mouthed to off-islanders.”

  “Except most people love talking about themselves.”

  “‘I am the most fascinating person I know. Want me to tell you all about me?’”

  “And most people like being asked their opinions.”

  “Let’s go see where Roy lived.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. Check the ferry schedule.”

  “We’ve got forty minutes.” He wanted to be on that ferry. He wanted to have dealt with his tires.

  “Too bad the sister’s not home.”

  “It’s okay, I’m peopled out for today. We can see her tomorrow.”

  “Find Berry Point Road.”

  They passed a garden store, a road called Tin Can Alley, the fire hall, an elementary school, then drove through Gabriola’s downtown: small white mall on the right, Folklife Village on the left, and quickly by a gas station.

  “Turn right down the hill,” Noel said.

  A curvy road cut through Douglas fir, maples, and arbutus. Houses nestled comfortably on their lots. Around a bend, a block of shops.

  “We’ve segued onto Berry Point Road,” Noel announced.

  Past a beach with majestic mountains across the Strait of Georgia. Then Seagirt: a badly marked road. Beyond it, a white house, a brown house with no pink trim, more driveways, and the start of a hill. Berry Point curved around a bay to the left. “We’ve gone too far,” Kyra said. “Let’s try those driveways.”

  “Let’s not intrude.”

  “We’ll make like we’re turning around.” She pulled into the first driveway, and rounded a curve. “Bingo! You can’t miss it. Hah!” The house was small and old, stained brown with fading pink trim. Kyra stopped the car.

  “What if he has a housemate?” Noel whispered.

  “Nobody said.” Kyra got out. Trees had hidden the house from the road. The grounds looked neat, as did the weeded deer-fenced vegetable garden—a few last tomatoes and some bolting vegetables.

  Kyra walked up two steps to a front deck and knocked on the pink door, Noel following. No answer. She cupped her hands to her temples and stared into a kitchen.

  “Kyra—”

  High gloss clutter-free counters, empty dishrack, bare wood table. A folded dish towel hung from the stove handle. She moved to the window left of the door. Noel glanced through the window she’d just vacated. She surveyed the living room. Mustard-colored sofa, armchair with hassock, straight chair. TV. Wood stove. Well kept, Kyra thought. On a stand in the far right corner were four birds—are those Roy’s carvings, she wondered? She returned to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. “I thought people on islands never locked their doors.”

  “There’s evidence inside. The Mounties would have locked it.”

  “Evidence is why I want in.”

  Noel again followed, exasperated and admiring at the same time. Years ago, as an investigative reporter, he’d have acted like this. He was out of practice.

  Across the back, Kyra shifted past the door to the last window. “A bedroom. Double bed, chest of drawers.”

  Noel stared in. A spartan room. “Let’s get out of here.” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes till the ferry.”

  FIVE

  ON THANKSGIVING WEEKEND, Rose Gill Marchand would unveil her triumph at the Annual Fair in the Agricultural Hall. But her creations were born for a world far from home. Her floricultural transformations had brought the botanical journals’ high priesthood to Gabriola to exclaim, to interview, and to write about each new success. This time her mastery would be broadcast beyond the confines of the discipline to millions who found delight or solace or enlightenment in remarkable hybrids. For she had bred a black Chrysanthemum morifolium.

  Her excitement had been muted by dear Artemus. Mostly he thought and acted as she did. Now Artemus had struck out on his own. And screwed up.

  Tam would have gone first to Jenny or Gretchen or Betsy, whatever her name was this month. Usually, Rose didn’t interrupt him in town, the boy needed to entertain himself. She consulted her watch—4:30, by now he’d be at his dojo.

  She double-locked the inside door, wheeled her chair through the trough of disinfectant and along the track beside the carnations. This generation was so gloriously slowed, the flowers had bloomed ten weeks late. Rose drew her cellphone from her pocket and called Tam in Nanaimo. A female voice explained he was in the midst of warm-ups. She left a message.

  She rolled to the outside door, drew it closed behind her, and turned off her phone. She settled squarely into the chair. She’d not done this since the morning she found Roy. Poor Roy. Damn Roy. She grabbed the turning rail, burnished oak, and concentrated on its warmth. Felt one with the chair, her spine its spine, its wheels her legs, she and the chair a single energy. The chair and Rose thrust forward onto the asphalt. Her lungs screamed, “YyiiiYyy!!” She was rushing ahead, hard as her hands could pull at the wheels, fierce as the wheels could draw from her hands, around the circular drive, around again.

  She’d given birth to the cry in her first triathlon year, a triple trumpeting: to the water as she rose from her dive, to the wind as she mounted her bike, to the hills as she started her run. Her coach had warned her, the cry was a waste of breath. She knew it doubled her energy.

  Around a fourth time. Till, her heart pounding, the chair slowed to a stop at the path to Tam’s cabin. She breathed in to the depths of her lungs. She glared at the ground. What was Roy doing here at night, what got him killed? She’d checked the greenhouse right away. All had been in order. Roy, a good worker, finally just another handyman, a human being sure, but as a gardener replaceable. And hiring detectives? Let the police earn their pay. Having the Mounties on the case was bad enough, but at least they were respectful.

  She still breathed hard. Slower in her recovery time, but not too bad. She studied her hands. Wrinkles by the knuckles, blue veins too. Old woman’s hands. Better than her useless legs. But she wouldn’t vegetate! Vegetating was for plants. She laughed aloud. Eighteen years ago even Artemus thought she was half finished, vegetable from the waist down. He’d bought her a cat, a rag-doll. The beast climbed onto her lap and lolled there. Artemus had assumed—and feared—that a cat was all her lap was good for. Hah! She’d hated that cat. Like she hated dwelling on her past. Slowly she rolled her way along the pergola to the house.

  Artemus stuck his head out the doorway. “Tam’s on the line, dear.” He handed her a cordless phone.

  She stared at Artemus. She felt a sudden pang of warmth toward him and took the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Exercising, were you?” Tam asked.

  She saw Artemus’ small smile as he turned and disappeared into the house. “Spying, were you?” Tam hadn’t called her cellphone? Oh yes, she’d turned it off.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did A. unhire him?”

  “Them. Artemus agreed the detectives—two, the other’s a woman—weren’t necessary. But as soon as they appeared he changed his mind. Again.”

  Tam swore under his breath. “They smart?”

  She realized she didn’t know. “Not particularly.” Added, “The woman seems cleverer than the man. And younger by maybe ten years.”

  “Cute?”

  “Pudgy.”

  “Bosomy?”

  “Stacked. Like teenage baby fat. They want to talk to you. About Roy and so on.”

  “Sure. I’ll tell everything. Which is nothing.”

  Rose nodded.

  • • •

  Back in his condo, Noel checked his e-mail. Spam; a note from his brother; his server’s monthly stat
ement. An unknown address: greatart@brokernet.com. Hi Noel, Since you keep saying no for lunch when I call, how about an electronic meal invitation. In the next few days? Like to see you again, buddy. Lyle.

  Noel hated buddy. He replied, Hello Lyle. Next few days pretty full. Maybe later.

  Noel made two vodka tonics and joined Kyra on the balcony. She had her feet on the railing, watching the lights of a late-arriving sailboat slide across the harbor’s twilight.

  “Thanks.” She sipped. “Now what do we know?”

  Noel sat and sipped too. “The preliminary work on the Dempster case was done by the Mountie on Gabriola. Yardley. He brought in Victoria.”

  “You reached Albert?”

  “Yep. And guess what. He’s become head goose in Victoria—”

  “Head what?”

  “Head of General Investigative Services. Plainclothes. GIS. Geese In Suits. For Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands. He’s coming up tomorrow.”

  “Good. What else did he say?”

  “Not much. We can talk when he gets here.”

  Kyra nodded. “What about your car?”

  “He was irritatingly blasé. No chance the police could track down the culprit. Easy enough for him to say about my car. I called the Honda dealership, they said simplest thing was I should buy new tires, they’d bring them by and install them tomorrow. By 8:00 AM.”

  She glanced at him. She suddenly saw what else had seemed different all day. “You took out your earring!” Some sleuth.

  Noel said, “Yeah.” Two days ago he had linked his earring with Brendan’s, its twin, the rings of their compact, and put them in a velvet jewelry box in his dresser drawer. “It was time.” Which reminded him to look at his watch. 7:30. “That’s the trouble with Tuesday night at Enrico’s, not enough delivery guys on.”

  True, the pizza was taking forever. Kyra’s stomach gnawed.

  “Maybe I’ll grow a mustache.” He set his glass on the rail, and sat back. “Used to be a time, ring in the left lobe meant who you were.” He stared out over the harbor. Nothing moved.

  “When you talked with Albert about your car, did you mention the late night calls?”