Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  “Course not. He’d think I was paranoid.”

  “Try it out on him.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  “Don’t eliminate anything without giving it some credence.”

  Noel’s lips tucked in.

  • • •

  Kyra had had an easy relationship with Brendan. And Brendan had loved many things about her. Like her juggling. Soon after Noel and Brendan had moved to Nanaimo she’d juggled on the lawn late one afternoon. They’d had a couple of bottles of wine but her hands were steady. Two balls in the air, bright red, “Noel and Brendan, Noel and Brendan,” a label for each. She’d reached for a third, chanted “Kyra, Noel, Brendan, Kyra—” added a fourth, “Sam, Kyra, Noel, Brendan, Sam, Kyra, Noel, Brendan,” around and around, her yellow sundress swirling, the green grass her stage, cheers of delight from Brendan and Noel. A fifth ball, and she swirled toward it, reached, found, flipped it up—too high! She waited that instant too long, missed, and all the balls plopped down. She fell to the lawn, laughing beside Noel and Brendan, who were whooping with pleasure. One of those crystallized moments of pure happiness. For all of them.

  Fifteen months ago Brendan had made the Great Mistake. When the last of the tests came back, Noel drove down to Bellingham without calling ahead. He’d burst through her front door into the living room. Sam wasn’t home. Kyra was on the phone. Noel had collapsed on the large sofa as if he couldn’t travel any farther.

  “Call you back.” Her instant fear, Noel has AIDS. “Tell me.” She sat beside him. He shook. She took his hands. “What?”

  He breathed deeply. “Remember last month, Brendan went to San Francisco for that conference?”

  Kyra nodded. It poured out. Brendan confessed he’d had unprotected sex with a guy from Atlanta. For a week and more Noel had seethed with anger, hurt, betrayal. How could Brendan jeopardize all they’d built, just like that? First he’d withdrawn into punitive silence, turning away from Brendan, refusal of warmth, no intimacy. Then he came to take the confession as a sign of Brendan’s love; sometimes people played around at conferences and didn’t say a thing; Noel would never have known. He and Brendan put the incident in a kind of temporal parentheses. Hell, everybody slips up somehow, Noel had allowed. And anyway, Brendan joked bleakly, he’d been too drunk for anything like a good time.

  Brendan had been really scared. Every jab of pain became a symptom of guilt. His gums felt swollen, his bones often ached, he was tired a lot of the time.

  The tests brought good news and unsettling news: definitely not HIV-positive. But the blood work showed some weird results. More tests needed, more tests done. Then the really bad news: acute nonlymphocytic leukemia. If his blood hadn’t been analyzed so carefully he’d be beyond repair. “Good thing I’ve been so afraid of AIDS,” Brendan had said, and shivered.

  As it was, he needed massive chemotherapy. If the chemo took, a bone marrow transplant. If a donor could be found. They’d already checked Brendan’s sister. Not a match.

  “Fuck.” Kyra had put her arms around Noel and tried to bring him to her. But he sat rigid. She’d driven back with him to Nanaimo. She spent three days with them, sharing their despair and fear. In the next months Brendan received a wide range of chemical soups, methrotexate injected into his spinal fluid. The National Bone Marrow Registries of Canada and the US couldn’t come up with a match. Brendan lost the little hair he had left, and grew weaker. On one of the few better days Noel told Brendan he, Noel, forgave him, Brendan, the one-night stand.

  Now Kyra shivered a little in the cooling air. Down below, the ferry pulled in. She glanced again at Noel. His head was shaking.

  “Did you see those carnations in that greenhouse today?”

  “No. What about them?”

  Noel remembered a bad moment before the funeral: no carnations available. Now he said, “Simple carnations, that’s all I wanted for Brendan’s funeral.”

  “I remember.” Kyra reached out and patted Noel on the arm. “Maybe it’s time to give Enrico’s a call, see how close that pizza is?”

  He phoned. “It’s on its way.” He pointed a finger at her glass. “Some more?”

  “With the pizza.” She sipped melted ice. “So. Tomorrow. The cops and the newspaper lady over there, Marchand’s artist brother-in-law over here? The sister and that other friend? And you said Albert is coming.”

  “A lot for one day.”

  “Should we divide up?”

  “At least in the morning.” He sat back. “I will now change the subject. Tell me about Sam.”

  “Nothing to tell. Sam’s out of my life. He does seem to be coping.”

  “That’s final?”

  “Noel,” she took his forearm, “there are two men dear to me these days, you and— Oh dang—!” She leapt up and looked around for her purse. “I told my dad I’d call tonight.”

  “Call from my phone. And ask him how much a school of Titian goes for these days.”

  She dialed. Lucas answered. “Hi Dad. Sorry for not being there, I’m still here.”

  Her dad told her he understood. He always understood.

  “How was your day?”

  “Fine, thanks. And how is Noel doing?”

  “Oh, okay. He really appreciated your note. I’m helping him with a little detecting.”

  “A case of his, not yours?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is everybody becoming a detective? Can you talk about it?”

  Could she? Why not. “Well, a body was dumped at an art gallery on Gabriola Island and we’re hired to prove the owner didn’t kill the guy.” She heard a tinkling of ice from the kitchen.

  Lucas chuckled. “Islands seem to need a lot of investigation work.”

  “Really.” He knew that several of her jobs for Puget Sound Life were on islands.

  “What sort of gallery?”

  “A snazzy place. Noel was there a couple of years ago and he saw a painting by someone from the school of Titian. What would something like that be worth?”

  For a moment Lucas didn’t speak. Then he asked, “Who’s your client?”

  Kyra almost gave him the stock “That’s confidential” response, but what difference if her father knew? “The gallery’s owner. Artemus Marchand.”

  Lucas sniffed a laugh. “I’ve met him a couple of times, Marchand. At auctions. Our paths cross in the eighteenth century. But his choice of paintings wouldn’t fit well over my settees.”

  Stop talking about the client, Kyra. Except, as long as she only elicited information . . . “What do you think of him?”

  “Affable.” Lucas was mulling. “No strong opinions. Attitudes neither here nor there.”

  “That’s him.”

  “A man who’s found luck. Over the years he’s earned a respectable reputation and a large amount of money. No, that’s unfair. He makes his luck. Like most of us.”

  Kyra said, “Oh?”

  The doorbell rang. Noel went to answer.

  “He finds good examples of paintings done by gifted students of great masters. Like the school of Titian you mentioned. I don’t know how much it would be worth actually. Depends on size, on quality. Maybe in the mid-six figures. Was the dead man connected with Marchand?”

  “The gallery’s groundskeeper.” Time to back off. “Whoops, got to go.”

  “What I and my friends consider a mystery is how Marchand finds the paintings. If you and Noel were to solve that you’d be doing our section of the art world a favor.”

  “Dad, there’s a pizza calling me. See you tomorrow. I’ll try to be there for the concert.”

  “Give Noel my best. He’s a good man.”

  “I will.”

  “Bye.” Lucas said goodbye and she put the phone down. Vancouver in time for the concert would be a trick.

  Noel reappeared, large box in hand. They shared an excellent vegetarian pizza and vodka tonics. She told him her father’s guess of the price of the Titian school. And that Lucas had met Marchand.<
br />
  “The world runs on coincidence,” Noel said.

  As she undressed for bed in Noel’s study, Kyra thought: schmidt, what did Lucas mean, the mystery of how Marchand found the paintings?

  • • •

  Women who work out are better in bed than women who run. Greater range of movement, more muscle control, more subtlety. Tam felt his blood stirring again, pressed himself into Gloria’s back and rubbed her flank. Sound asleep. He raised himself on his elbow and peered over her shoulder at the clock. 2:12 am. He wasn’t near close to sleep, damn jet lag. Karate workout hadn’t helped. But okay enough to make it a couple more times with glorious Gloria.

  Tam flopped onto his back and put his arms under his head, clipping Gloria’s ear with his elbow. She burrowed deeper into the covers.

  An okay-plus day. A personal-best bike ride to the ferry had used up his anger at A.’s stupidity. Descanso Bay had sparkled in the sunlight, Nanaimo and Mount Benson stood out razor sharp. He’d breathed in deeply and coughed out. The last, he hoped, of Bucharest phlegm. The ferry was on time. He didn’t know any of the walk-ons so found a little peace going across.

  A fast pump up the hill to Machleary Street and his karate club. His master said he’d be ready to try for his fifth in black before the end of the year. A shower, then downhill to Heritage Mews, the studio apartment he’d bought two years ago, a sweeping view of the harbor and the islands. With binoculars he could make out Eaglenest. Even the hideous Cameron Island tower had begun to blend in.

  Gloria lived conveniently in the same mews, a one bedroom. At four o’clock she’d gone to work at the Health Club, finished massaging people by eight. At 8:40 she called, ready to go. He knocked on her door. Tall, blonde, full lips, open smile. White mini-dress with a deeply scooped neckline; Tam was partial to clavicles. He’d thought about painting her, all warm bare breasts and pink round hips.

  “Missed you for four whole hours,” he whispered after their third athletic kiss. She kissed him again, nodding. He envisioned hoisting her over his shoulder, carrying her to the bed, and spreading her out. But she’d got so dressed and made up, better to wait.

  She poured him a Scotch. She’d bought his favorite single malt, Loch Sneead. Better watch that. They’d agreed, not too serious. She draped a red shawl over her shoulders and they set out in her car.

  Late dinner at Amrikko’s Indian Grill, a shared ginger beef and a vegetarian red curry, back for a small drink. He’d been judicious with the Scotch. Gloria was his nightcap.

  Mm-hmm, he mused, why can’t you remember the whole thick rich experience of sex until you’re having it again? You recall movements and touches but the sensations blur, like a watercolor background wash. He rolled onto his side and pulled up the duvet. Gloria understood comfort: a king-size duvet for a queen-size bed.

  Thank god he was here tonight. He could imagine what was going on at the Gallery, he’d seen versions before—free-form battle tangos, cha-cha-cha, or venom polkas, A. and BSR shifting the steps to trip the other up. The one he remembered best came just after Rab—Peter Rabinovich, as A. had still called him then—had made the initial phone contact with Eaglenest. Tam had seen the dance starting and got up with his plate to leave. He couldn’t understand why they insisted on drawing him back to the table. Not just to finish Artemus’ excellent duck with cherry sauce, artichoke hearts and pommes de terre Lyonnaise. Tam ate little fowl or fish, and almost never red meat, but the canard aux cerises had been superb. Till Big Sister Rosie started in.

  A. was jocular. He’d agreed to sell a school of Celesio to Rabinovich for $376,000. And Rabinovich might want other paintings. Tam had said, “Great! Congratulations!” Then BSR glared disapprobation.

  In Tam’s memory A.’s right hand was 80 degrees up, his left at 60 behind. Rose took the tango lead. “The guy’s built a hotel in Las Vegas?” Cha! “You want to sell to him?” Cha! “That’s gambling money, we don’t do gambling money.” Cha! Cha!

  A. spun and straightened, soft-shoe shuffled, trying to lead into a verbal waltz. “Three seventy-six, darling. A three-thousand-room hotel. Multiply, multiply.” Their dinners cooled.

  Rosie clicked flamenco: “No hotel is built in Vegas without Mafia money. I draw the line,” a hand slice, snap snap snap of fingers, “at selling to organized crime.”

  Tam remembered cheering to his forkful of duck: That’s my BSR.

  “Oh darling,” A. into Strauss now, “You understand, this fellow,” swoop “has turned over a new leaf,” longer swoop. “Russian, a Jewish type.” Skaters’ Waltz on the Neva?

  Tam put down his fork. He chewed slowly.

  “Peter Rabinovich,” march march, tramping Cossacks, “couldn’t stand the Soviet system, he went to Israel,” a faint ram’s horn?

  Tam took a bite of excellent potato. “Why don’t you eat,” he’d said. They both glared at him. Intermission?

  No, back at each other.

  Why, Tam wondered now, was he remembering the fight in dance?

  “This poor guy,” A. had pleaded, “he went to the States from Israel because Israel was even more socialist than the USSR,” whining Rimsky-Korsakov violins.

  “He’s taken you in.” Rosie Kurt-Weilled, And his name is Rab the Knife. “You’re so soft!” She was actually wheeling around the table double speed. “You fall for any sleazy story!” She was going so fast, Tam couldn’t choreograph— Ahh, fast as she used to swim! Memories from around their parents’ kitchen table, his swim star, the family so proud, he’d worshipped her.

  “Will you please stop moving? Let me explain!” A.’s firm soft-shuffle. “The money for the paintings, it’s for the Foundation!”

  “Gambling money, gambling money, gambling money!” His sister speeded up yet more. Tam leapt out of the way so suddenly his chair fell back. Rose wheeled around again. Tam took a protective karate crouch. “No!” he yelled. “Talk about this deal!” Her wheelchair stopped in mid-roll. He reversed her gently 180 degrees, left her facing her husband. Who was stuttering, hands out minstrel style, about his Foundation project.

  Lying in Gloria’s bed, he thought: Well how about that, karate is dance. So I danced the final steps of the dance with Rosie that night. I turned her in just the direction she wanted to go. To A. And therefore to Rab.

  Lots of money did come in. The Foundation benefited as A. had hoped. BSR got to muck around with her flowers in world-class style. Turning Rose around wasn’t the worst thing in the universe, was it?

  Tam buried his nose between Gloria’s scapulae. He breathed her scent. No more thinking. Skin, and wet, and the brain turned off.

  SIX

  AS PROMISED, FOUR new tires had been mounted on the rims of Noel’s Honda Civic. Clipped to the windshield wiper, a bill for $544.23. Alone on the ferry he wondered, should he file an insurance claim?

  Corporal Jim Yardley greeted Noel in the vestibule of Gabriola’s RCMP headquarters. “Heard you’d been by.” Yardley in full uniform, including a tie. Solid jaw, bushy eyebrows, brown hair cut short. Some would say handsome. “Come into the office.”

  “Thanks.” Noel followed him to a double-windowed room, a desk against the wall and a small conference table at the center.

  The Mountie gestured to a chair, and took one himself. “The Dempster case, right?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “You know how it is on islands.” Yardley glanced out the window. “I was told I could answer your questions.”

  Probably phoned Albert, Noel thought. Albert Matthew had helped Noel a number of times over the last few years, most recently when he needed information from the Nanaimo Mounties in the early research for his Chung murder book. Albert proved himself an excellent source. He was a bloodhound for old unsolved cases, especially if his damned rivals at Canadian Security Intelligence Service might have messed up an investigation. He made files available Noel could never have located. In the early days of their acquaintance Albert had been the kind of homophobe who acted the liberal so thorough
ly he’d actually befriended Noel to show he had no problem with queers. Noel had played into this relationship in part because he believed that education takes place in mysterious ways: if he could break down Albert’s fear of gays, BC might be a bit better place to live. They’d argued often—which Noel realized was a major step—and with decreasing rancor. Whatever works, Noel had decided.

  “So how can I help you?” Yardley was asking the window.

  “We need some fill-in on what happened.” Noel took his notebook out.

  “Who’s we?” Yardley moved his gaze back to Noel.

  “My associate, Kyra Rachel, and I.”

  “Who’re you working for?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Ten to one Artemus Marchand hired you. You want help from this office, you cooperate. Right?”

  “Okay. Marchand.”

  Yardley sat back, hands behind his head. “Here we’re second-level. General Investigative Section took over the case right away.” Read: Never give the field guys a chance. “They’re handling it out of Victoria. They keep us up to date, forensics, whatever.” Read: As much as they have to. “And we feed them reports.” Read: Since we have to.

  The local field unit handles the initial stages, Albert had explained, then turns it over to Nanaimo’s GIS. But Nanaimo doesn’t have the technology for complex cases so Victoria does the fancy work. If there’s no arrest in the first couple of days, the case passes back to the on-site unit.

  From a desk drawer, Yardley brought out a thin file, laid it flat, opened it, took out a sheet of paper. “Dempster’s body was found on the grounds of Eaglenest Gallery September 19. A contusion on the side of the head behind his right ear, heavy hemorrhage. Bruises on his left cheek and ear. No trace of a weapon.”

  Noel nodded, and scribbled.

  “Found about 6:15 am by Mrs. Marchand. She called 911, I went over. It had rained, back of the body was soaking wet. His chest and face were muddy, the ground underneath was dry. Clearly not killed where he was found. Coroner’s report says he’d been dead since early the previous evening. Mrs. Marchand had wheeled around the place just at twilight, nothing there then.”