Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  “So Roy was definitely killed and the body dumped.”

  “Yep. The most recent dirt on his shoes didn’t match the dirt there. He’d gone off to the old clearcut the previous afternoon. Same kind of dirt up there as on his shoes but there’s dirt like that all over the island, thin ferrite clay.”

  “How’d his body get to the Gallery?”

  Yardley sighed. “Car, truck, something.”

  “What did Dempster drive?”

  “A 1999 Toyota pickup. And yes, same ferrite clay on the tires and undercarriage as on his shoes. The truck turned up in the community hall parking lot. Smeared prints everywhere, mostly Dempster’s. Except on the steering wheel, that was wiped clean. Bird guide on the seat.”

  “Binoculars?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you pretty much ruled Marchand out?”

  “Nobody’s in or out.”

  “What else? Enemies?”

  Yardley closed the file. “No, far as we know. He was in some men’s group, called—” he searched—“Bearers of the Eternal Faith. No apparent enemies there.”

  “And the GIS in Victoria?”

  “You can ask the guy. He’s in Nanaimo today. Inspector Albert Matthew.”

  “Thanks.” The many roads to Albert.

  • • •

  The map of Nanaimo showed Tam’s karate club eight blocks from Cameron Island, walkable Noel had insisted. The most important thing Kyra knew about sea level was, from there it’s all uphill. She took her car.

  She turned right, past a marina with commercial fishing boats, sailboats and the Protection Island ferry—called, quaintly, The Protection Connection. Then across the street the concrete concert hall, its glass facade reflecting sky, marina, and the rear of Cameron Island.

  At the Coast Bastion Hotel she turned left. The bastion itself, a last remnant of Hudson’s Bay Company days, now painted white and blue, disappeared in her rear-view mirror. Past a First Nations art outlet and onto an overpass. She found Machleary Street on the left, and a parking space.

  Mid-Island Karate Association was in an old wooden building that had once been an elementary school. Kyra all but heard hordes of students thundering down worn stairs from the front door. Inside, a young bleach-blonde receptionist sat at a desk that held a telephone, a computer, and an empty in-out basket. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Tam Gill.”

  “He should be done soon. Take a seat.” Bleach-blonde looked at her as if she were sizing up the competition. Kyra gazed back professionally, glad she’d dashed to a store first thing this morning. New tan wool slacks and loose green woven top reassured her. She’d also found a comfortable pair of black suede shoes which, as she sat, she admired.

  A man appeared. Tam. No doubt about it; the family resemblance was marked. As handsome a man as Kyra had seen in months. Six feet of taut brown skin, curly black hair still wet from the shower, a dominant nose. Black cycling shorts, brown T-shirt. Bleach-blonde lilted, “Someone for you, Tam.”

  Tam rewarded her with a smile and a wink. “Thanks, Deb honey.” The smile dropped away as he turned to Kyra and raised his eyebrows.

  Kyra stood up. “Mr. Gill? I’m Kyra Rachel. Could we go somewhere and talk?”

  “About?”

  “The Dempster death.”

  He looked her over appraisingly. “I really don’t know much. I left for Europe that evening, just got back.” He nodded as if she’d passed muster. “But sure, if you insist. I’ll buy you a coffee.” He smiled at Deb-honey, who’d been glaring at Kyra, but Tam’s smile quickly set her Deb bones a-melting.

  At the bottom of the stairs Kyra asked, “Where to?”

  “A place down there,” he pointed, “the green sign. I’ll get my bike and meet you.”

  “You can ride with me. I’ll drive you back.”

  “I’m going that way.” He walked to the bike rack and waved.

  Kyra drove around the block and back down Fitzwilliam. By the time she’d found a parking space Tam Gill was sitting at a table in a little courtyard. She thought, he’s damn beautiful. Then she thought, damn, I swore and damn, he’s turning me on. Get professional, Rachel.

  “What will you have?” Gill asked as she sat.

  “A latte, I guess. You?” She started to rise.

  He jumped up. “No no, I’ll get them.”

  “Business expense.”

  “My treat. Hold the table for us.” He went inside. She sat again.

  This is a controlling dude. Through the window she watched him laugh with the server. He runs on high-test allure. Ten-twelve years younger than his sister? Late thirties somewhere.

  He returned with a steaming latte for her, what smelled like a lemon something for him. “Thank you.” He sat. She sipped, and licked her upper lip. “Now, about Roy Dempster.”

  “Not much to tell. You’ve talked to my sister and brother-in-law, right?” Kyra nodded. “I doubt I can add anything.”

  “What about the fight at that pub, the White Hart?”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Two.”

  “Yeah, could be. Roy apologized. Actually, he apologized half a dozen times. He’d joined some men’s group. He was into apologies.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “Aghgh. Roy was with a bunch of guys at the next table. I was with a friend from Victoria, another artist. We’re talking about—” he raised one eyebrow, “—important things. Roy’s group’s getting piss-loud so I lean over and tell them to shut the eff up, we’re talking business and can’t hear each other. Roy leans over and squeals, ‘Why don’t you ragheads go back where you come from!’ And, can you believe this, the guy giggles. My grandfather came from the Punjab eighty years ago and my friend is third generation Iranian-Canadian.” He smiled. “I found out later Roy’s father arrived from Cornwall after the Second World War.” He sipped his tea. “Easy to talk about now, but I felt kind of furious.”

  She was intrigued. “What’d you do?”

  “My friend figured what set Roy off was me saying Roy’s neck was so red his father must’ve been a peckerless rooster. He came at me swinging— You really want to know?”

  “Of course.” She enjoyed hearing his voice. And saw that Tam Gill knew this. “Tell me.”

  “Well, Roy gets his right arm back for a roundhouse and lets swing but I duck and bring up my own arm so that the tops of our arms make contact—here, bring up your right arm.”

  “What? How?” She extended her arm.

  He slid the two cups aside, reached over the table, took Kyra by the elbow, made an ell, brought her arm up and toward her so as to bring her to half-standing. The tops of their arms touched halfway between wrist and elbow. “Now push.”

  She pushed. Her heart was pumping hard. His forearm angled below Kyra’s, pushing back and up. She was swung to his right, instantly off balance. Tam laughed. “Exactly!”

  She ran the fingers of her flipped arm across her hair. Her forearm tingled. “Okay.”

  “You see what happens. I go with his swing and take it in the direction it’s going. He doesn’t make contact so he goes half-around. My hand slips to his wrist, I grab it and hold on. When you swing like that and suddenly your arm stops, your body keeps going, your shoulder gets caught up, you fall to your knees or flat on the ground, depending how hard you swing. I catch Roy with a kick in the ribs and knock the air out of him, and it’s all over.”

  “Wish I’d seen it.” Their eyes locked. Exceptional large dark brown eyes. Quick pulse, as if she’d been in the fight. Say something else. “Did you hurt him?”

  A chuckle from Tam, and his gaze dropped. “I figure he ached for a few days. But a medium-low rib kick won’t break any bones. I could’ve taken out his knee easily enough, or the dramatic kick to the head. But this wasn’t a big-deal fight. I shouldn’t have lost my temper but I’d had enough to drink, and he was a loutish bully.”

  Loutish. No one says loutish any more. Kyra breathed deeply. More relaxed now, and
she was charmed. Roy had been provocative and racist. And loutish. “And then he changed his ways after that, as Lucille Maple wrote?”

  “Oh, Maple. My brother-in-law pays too much attention to her. You must have more important cases to investigate.” He sipped his tea, looking at her. “Anyway, it’s not Artemus’ business to find out who killed Roy.” He leaned back in his chair.

  Kyra, pleased he’d accepted her professionalism, tried not to look his way. But her gaze was drawn to his cycle shorts, T-shirt, gloves, cycle shorts— Concentrate!

  Gill said, “Do you get many murders in your business?”

  “Do you think Dempster was murdered?”

  He shrugged. “Seems that way.”

  “Actually my experience of murder is rare. I investigate divorce cases, insurance claims, that sort of thing. And you, you paint?” She would ask the questions. “Are you successful?”

  “Moderately.”

  “Ah.” Modest or truthful? “I gather you spend time in Europe.” It was all becoming too much let’s-get-to-know-each-other, not enough wily-snoop-collects-information. “Doing what?”

  “I sniff out schools-of paintings for the Gallery. Know what a school-of painting is?”

  Kyra nodded. “Done in the school of some major painter.”

  “Sort of. It’s how we attribute anonymous paintings to the area or artist their styles most closely resemble. Since Eastern Europe opened up there’s a lot of stuff out there that hasn’t seen the light of day in sixty-seventy years. Also paintings that were hidden from or stolen by the Nazis are being rediscovered. Well,” he reconsidered, “a lot in the early nineties, less now. We buy paintings like these, show, and sell them.”

  “I’d like to see some.”

  “The Gallery’s having a show Thanksgiving weekend. You live in Nanaimo?”

  “Bellingham.”

  “The University Gallery there’s got a fine example of the Sienese School. Fourteenth century.”

  “Oh,” Kyra said. His tone was kindly. Her voice sounded dumb.

  “Are you going home soon?”

  “Pardon?” She gave herself a mental shake.

  Patiently he repeated his question. She nodded. “Well if you’re here around Thanksgiving, come by. Our Thanksgiving, not the American one.” Tam drained his tea and stood. “I’ll show you what we have.” He shook her hand. “Nice meeting you.” He put on his bike helmet.

  “Nice meeting you,” she said. Dumb and fatuous, both.

  “Maybe we’ll meet again.” Still smiling, he lowered his eyelids in apparent invitation as he straddled his bicycle and wheeled away with a wave.

  Kyra started to leave, then got out her notebook. Tam Gill, she wrote— She glanced at her watch. Nearly 11:30! She bolted to her car. Next ferry to Gabriola left in minutes. The time on the meter had expired. No ticket, but a uniformed parking-checker half a block down was fining away.

  • • •

  Kyra should be taking on Lucille Maple. Nice insightful chat between two women of the world, he’d said to her. And she said, You want to deal with Tam Gill instead? Maple lived in a rambling rancher off South Road back from the water just east of Brickyard Beach. No large trees but many tended garden beds. Each segment held one kind of flower only—blue buttony ones here, fading reddish somethings there, feathery climbing things at the side of the house. Each bed, Noel noted as he turned off the engine, set off by a border of shells, old butter clams in various sizes.

  Beside the carport, a kayak. In the carport, that had to be a TR6. On thick grass to the left a green table, a closed sun umbrella listing in its hole, and matching plastic chairs.

  Noel had telephoned. Now a woman opened the front door as he walked up her flagstone path. “Step on the stones!” A brisk contralto. “That’s grass seed between them!”

  Noel, usually a reserved man, found his legs bopping along the flagstones as if his feet were playing hopscotch. And—where’d that come from?!—a pirouette, Noel a giraffe in ballet shoes. In order, he realized as he reached the stoop, to make Lucille Maple laugh. Why? Because her article was so ridiculous?

  She laughed. “That was silly.” She pulled her face into a line of composure. “Just what kind of detective are you?”

  Missing no beats, Noel said, “An effective detective.”

  She tried to keep her face straight but another laugh escaped. “Oh stop.”

  “Actually, I’m just a researcher. For example, why grass seed in September? Isn’t it too late for seeds to germinate? And once the rain comes, won’t it rot?”

  “I’m ever hopeful,” Ms. Maple said. “Gardens grow years after they were planted and stuff that was composted sprouts.”

  They grinned, each recognizing the other: failures in elementary gardening.

  Noel followed her into a cool, bright, long hall. Shoes off? She had shoes on. She led him to a neat Edwardian sitting room on the left. Through glass doors Noel noted a desk, a computer, a chaos of paper.

  “Sit down. We will not talk about gardens.”

  “Good.” Noel sat on a suede ottoman.

  “You would like some tea.”

  “Of course,” Noel agreed.

  She headed down the hall.

  He looked about the room. One wall held a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with books. A quick scan showed Lucille Maple’s range, at least as represented here: from sixteenth-century poetry to sci-fi power-women, from European and Latin American travel to biography, mostly about or by women. And a separate section, books about islands; shelved, Noel noted, alphabetically by name of island. A high cupboard with china cups below, china dolls above. Against the side wall, Maple’s music center—a CD player, tape deck, turntable and pre-amp.

  Maple returned with a tray holding a pot of steaming water, milk in a plastic container, sugar in a silver bowl, and two tea bags on a plate. She took cups and saucers from the cabinet, set them down, dropped in the tea bags. “A godsend, microwaves, know what I’m saying? Sugar?”

  “No thanks.” Tea bags were bad enough but a microwave to heat the water?

  She handed him a cup, tea bag soaking. “Now then, Noel Franklin, ask me your questions. But since I usually ask the questions, I know all the tricks.”

  He pressed a spoon against the bag, put it on the saucer and sipped. Bitter, already cooling. Then he sat back and put on a facade that suggested deep thought. He evaluated Lucille Maple. Early sixties, he guessed. Tall and fine boned, alert eyes, short curly grey hair, good muscle tone on her arms She wore a red-print blouse, denim skirt, ankle socks and running shoes. Tanned calves, he noted, also firm and trim. “I’m investigating Roy Dempster’s death.”

  “Silly twit. Do you know that since white settlement in the 1880s we’ve only had three murders on the island? Till this one.”

  “So you’re sure he was murdered?”

  “Killed, anyway.”

  “I read your article. You seemed sympathetic to him—”

  “When you were at the Vancouver Sun, you wrote what you thought, yes?”

  “How’d you know I was at the Sun?”

  “Answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”

  “Okay. I wrote what I thought.”

  Maple nodded. “Helps explain why you never became an editor.”

  “I was an editor. Well, acting. How’d you know, anyway?”

  “Young man, I’ve been raking muck for fifty years. I have my sources.”

  Fifty? “Tracked me down between my phone call and now?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fast work.” He sipped the tea. “And your sources for the story about Dempster?”

  “Dempster was an ass. But when I write for the Gabriola Gab it’s not my role to take down Roy. Especially now he’s dead.”

  “Why lay his death at Marchand’s door?”

  “I didn’t. The killer tossed the body there, not me. I ask: Why?”

  “To throw the cops off-track? To lay the guilt on someone at Eaglenest?”

&nb
sp; “Maybe. That’d be a little progress.” She squinted at him. “But again I ask, why?”

  He laughed. She was questioning him. “You’re very good.” Progress?

  “Lots of experience.” She lowered her eyelids demurely.

  Noel sipped more execrable tea. “Okay, could anyone there be guilty?”

  “Oh, all of them, know what I’m saying? Guilty of something. Murder? I don’t know.”

  “Marchand himself?”

  “Artemus Marchand is a gentleman.”

  “Then why’d you light into him in your column?”

  “Can’t let prejudices show in a newspaper, know what I mean?”

  No, he didn’t.

  “Listen, he discovers new young artists. Many aren’t very good, but lots of artists from previous centuries weren’t much good either. And the Marchand Foundation funds small projects in developing countries and stays out of the clutches of the IMF and the World Bank. That’s enough in itself, but he also contributes to our charities. Without him, the Walk-In Breakfast Program would have died last year. He’s put thousands into the Wildlife Conservancy. And anti-drug programs in Nanaimo. I can’t imagine him hurting another person. My money’d be on his wife. A cool one, needs to hear regular glorious things about herself. Works with flowers. Some big surprise at the Thanksgiving show, I have to cover it. What can you say about a flower show.”

  “What’s the story with her? The wheelchair, I mean.”

  Maple sipped. “I interviewed her when her gardening aids for the disabled were patented. Pretty and talented is Rosie Gill. You know Gill Timberlands Inc.?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Her grandfather was Sihan Gill. Gills have been in the Cowichan Valley since the early nineteen hundreds, one of the first Indo-Canadian families on the island. Business goes to the eldest son, Nirmal, then to Nirmal Jr., Rose’s older brother. But the others have to make their way with talent. 1978 Commonwealth Games, Edmonton, gold in the butterfly, silver in the relay. Montreal Olympics in ’76, two golds. Glory. Her two greatest competitions and she never got to leave the country. She retired when she graduated from UBC, straight A grades in her majors, botany and chemistry. Didn’t go on, though. Married Artemus, oh he was a dish, they met at a party a year after he finished at Princeton. Oldish whitish BC money marries oldish brownish BC money. By old I mean fifty to a hundred years in BC And what a wedding, Noel, what a wedding. Enough multiculturalism there to satisfy a decade of liberals.”