Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  “What?” Rose wheeled out, closing the door. Her eyes and mouth tightened. Her brother. Her husband. They yanked at her loyalties. “Are you saying Artemus called them back?”

  “Or she’s after my bod.”

  Could Artemus have changed his mind again? Why? Today at lunch he’d been fretting about three important critics who hadn’t yet confirmed their presence for the Thanksgiving show. “When did she phone?”

  “I don’t know. What time is it now?”

  “Ten to three.”

  No wonder he was hungry. “Between nine-thirty and now.”

  From nowhere Rose felt a pang of fear. “Artemus couldn’t have.” Or, yes he could.

  “Where is he?” Tam’s stance had returned to focus, legs apart, body centered.

  “Probably in his office.” She touched Tam’s forearm. “We should all talk.”

  Tam nodded. “I’ll find him.” He left.

  She wheeled in through her suite and along the hall. She watched Tam follow Artemus downstairs. As they approached she launched in. “Artemus dear. Did you rehire the detectives?”

  “What?” Artemus squinted at Tam. “What’s she talking about?”

  “The woman left a message on Tam’s machine. She wants to ask him more questions.”

  “I never revisit yesterday’s problems, you know that.”

  “Artemus.” Rose’s wife-in-control-of-family tone. “Are you saying, truly, that you’ve had no more dealings with them?”

  “Of course not. Haven’t thought about them.” Then he did. “So they’re still at it?”

  “Yes,” said Rose.

  “But the RCMP will cope now. Won’t they?”

  Tam turned to Rose. “I’ll find out what’s up.”

  • • •

  Kyra took a long walk around Lake Samish. She wouldn’t like to live in any of these houses. Too settled and demanding. Clean my eaves, sweep my chimney, paint my doors. Back at her duplex she took a shower. Tonight she’d stay home and read a book. She dried herself off, pulled on her robe, noted a message on her phone. Tam Gill. “Hi Kyra. Sure I remember. Love to see you again. I’ll also be in Nanaimo tomorrow, be free by late afternoon. How about a drink? I’ve got a small condo in Heritage Mews, number 231. About five-thirty? Give me a call to confirm. I’ll take a drink with you as reward for a hard day’s work.”

  She breathed way down deep. What would she read tonight? First she’d have a drink. No, first call him back. Again his recorded voice. Did he just pick up messages, never go home? “Great. The Heritage Mews at five-thirty. Number 231.”

  Coordinate with Noel. She called, told him she was coming up. And felt good about it.

  ELEVEN

  NOEL’S ATTENTION BELONGED 20 percent to his notes on Eaglenest Gallery: did they make different sense looked at from the consortium’s point of view? They didn’t. Figuring out how he felt about investigating an ex-client took five percent. A need for lunch held 74 percent. And one percent listened to his boeuf bourguignon burbling on the stove. The phone rang. He looked up in irritation. “Hello?”

  “Is that Noel?” A shivery whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Patty Bourassa on Gabriola. Danny’s wife. Can you come over to the island? Please?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m scared they’ll arrest Danny. You said if anything else happened—”

  “Right, but—”

  “They found Roy’s binoculars in our shed. Lucille—you know, the reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She got a tip and she and Jim Yardley came over and found them. I’m scared Jim’s coming back to arrest Danny.” A quiver in Patty’s voice. “Jim told us not to leave the island.”

  “Look, I don’t know how I can help but I’ll catch the next ferry. Make some hot tea, lots of sugar and milk. How’s Danny?”

  “He’s sitting on the stoop.”

  Noel glanced out the window. “I’ll be there soon. The ferry’s halfway here.”

  “Thanks,” Patty whispered and hung up.

  In fairness, Patty couldn’t have known he’d finished working on Dempster. He sent Kyra a short e-mail about the call, maybe she’d pick it up along the way. Then he printed it and left it on the table in case she came in before he returned. He switched off the stove. Why he’d made so complicated a meal for Lyle he didn’t know, but he’d enjoyed the process. He set the entry rug at its oblique angle and locked the door. At the mailboxes he grabbed several envelopes and headed for his Honda. He drove to the ferry, paid, and got in line.

  A horde of kids walked off, laughing, bumping each other. Then a stream of vehicles. Noel bounced the Honda on. He checked his mail. Phone and cable bills, pre-paid anyway. The ferry began to move. Another envelope, no return address. He tore it open. He pulled out a piece of newsprint. It looked like an obituary from the Sun. He read it.

  Franklin, Noel. 1964–2008. One-time star investigative reporter for the Vancouver Sun, Noel Franklin, a three-year resident of Nanaimo, had been working on a book. His naked and mutilated body was discovered in a gully beside Nanaimo Lakes Road. He is survived by his parents, Samuel and Diane Franklin of Parksville, and by a brother, Sidney, of Stanford, California, but not by his partner Brendan Yi. His book would have been a failure. Don’t send flowers.

  • • •

  Goosebumps. Okay Noel, easy. Chill out. First, reread it. He did. The words didn’t change. He turned it over. Blank. Fake newsprint. He set it on the passenger seat. Fingerprints? But why, why? Why!

  The tire-slasher phone-breather. Someone who knew him. Or someone who’d researched him. As he had Marchand.

  Naked. Mutilated. Ha! The unkindest cut related to his book. It was maybe correct.

  Phone Albert? And Kyra. The ferry arrived at Gabriola. He shoved the obituary to the back of his mind.

  He found Danny and Patty on the back deck, empty mugs and Princess beside them. The dog barked without enthusiasm. Patty looked better than she’d sounded but her round face sagged. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Jim showed up with Lucille right on his tailpipe,” Danny said. “They marched over to my shed,” he pointed toward the back of the property, “a minute later Jim came out with the binoculars in a plastic bag. He asked me where I got them from. I said I didn’t know they were there.”

  “You sure they’re Roy’s?”

  “Yeah.” Danny got up and leaned straight-armed on the railing, still looking toward the shed. “His name’s engraved on them, his sister gave them to him.”

  “Did Lucille say who tipped her off?”

  “Not to me.” Danny squeezed his eyes closed. “Beats me.” His head shook. “Just beats me.”

  “Had to be planted there,” stated Patty. “But why? Danny was Roy’s best friend.”

  “Maybe to turn the attention from somebody else. Show me where the binoculars were.”

  They crossed the brown grass, Princess too, and Danny opened the door. He pointed at a pile of rags. “Under those.”

  Noel noted paint tins, pots, shovel, hoe, rakes, lawnmower. Tidy. “This your workshop?”

  “No. I’ve got half the garage. This is just storage.”

  Noel stepped through the entry and examined the door—a latch and hasp on the door frame, but no lock.

  Danny noted his gaze. “Nothing here to steal.”

  “And the rags, how long have they been here?”

  “About a week?” Patty paused. “Last Sunday? When I repotted the African violets?”

  Danny nodded. “Before your parents came for dinner.”

  “They arrived early. I forgot about the rags.” She bent to pick them up now—

  Noel put a hand on her arm. “Better leave them till you know the Mounties are done.” A sudden panic in her gaze. “When was the last time you were in here, either of you?”

  “I guess then, Sunday.” Patty looked over to her husband. “Unless you’ve been?”

  “No, it’s been weeks. Since I
last cut the grass.” He turned to stare at his brown lawn.

  “Who’s visited recently?”

  “Sue’s come for coffee twice,” Patty said. “She’s dog-sitting, so we take doggie walks.”

  “Steve came by yesterday to borrow my Skilsaw,” Danny offered. “Anyway it’s in the garage.”

  “No one else?”

  They shook their heads in unison. “Not while we were here,” Danny said, adding, “Jim’s a friend. Much as a Mountie can be a friend. They get moved every three years.”

  Noel said, “I think it’s all going to be okay.”

  • • •

  He could still make the 3:10 ferry. He was curious now: who had tipped Lucille about the binoculars? Lyle wasn’t coming till 6:30.

  His knock pulled Lucille from her computer—Noel could see it from her blinking eyes. “Hi. I’m disturbing you, but can I come in? I’ve got a few questions.”

  “Tea?”

  “No thanks.” Then lunchlessness hit him. “On second thought, sure. But would you do a finicky man a favor and boil the water in a kettle?”

  “You worried? My well water’s just fine, I had it tested three months ago.”

  “No, no. Kettles heat hotter.” He smiled and hoped it looked ingratiating.

  “Oh, all right. I think I have a kettle.”

  He followed her down the short hall into the kitchen. A kind of fussiness here: chintz curtains, matching tablecloth and wallpaper, a round dwarf bowl marked Cookies, toadstool salt and pepper shakers. A wall plaque proclaimed the kitchen to be the Heart of the Home. Different from the living room side of Maple. Maybe the side that segregates flowers.

  Lucille pointed up over the fridge. “Reach that down for me.” Noel handed her a sixties-vintage electric kettle. She filled it and plugged it in. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Her tone wasn’t displeased. She sat at the table and indicated a chair. “Ask away.”

  “The tip on Roy’s binoculars you got this morning. From whom?”

  “Phone call. Probably a man’s voice but disguised—high, breathy, muffled—could have been a woman’s. He or she said, ‘You’ll find Dempster’s binoculars under rags in Danny Bourassa’s shed’ and hung up. I phoned the cop shop then drove like a bat out of Hades, know what I’m saying, so I got there just as Jim did.” She looked smug.

  The kettle’s decibels increased from purr to chortle. Noel spoke louder. “Any idea who?” She shook her head. “Somebody who knew how you’d respond.”

  “That’s half the island,” said Lucille.

  “Knew you’d call the police. Not the Bourassas.” She nodded, not competing with the kettle. Now Noel knew why she preferred the microwave. “What happened there?”

  Noel watched her set out teacups, sugar, milk. She plucked teabags out of a canister. No teapot, Noel noted, resigned.

  “We walked into the shed.” Lucille’s muckraking voice. “Jim sorted through the pile of rags with an evidence bag and picked up the binocs.” The kettle broke into a rolling burble, surf in a storm.

  She let the water boil a good ten seconds, then unplugged the kettle and poured the water over the tea bags in the cups. “Thank you,” Noel said. “Think Danny or Patty hid the binoculars?”

  “Not judging by their shock, know what I’m saying? But they might be good actors.”

  Noel added sugar and milk to tell his stomach his throat wasn’t cut. “I think they’re pretty transparent people. Who else?”

  “I’d guess an angry islander, pointing fingers in various directions.”

  Noel plucked the bag from his cup. “You going to write about the binoculars being there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t you ever worry about pissing people off?”

  “Ah, pish and tiffle. I sell newspapers.”

  “I thought the Gab was free.”

  “I mean sell ad space, of course! Steamy stuff gets readership.”

  “I guess.” Noel sipped. Still awful.

  “Okay, who told you about the binoculars? Patty or Danny? You must’ve been on the very next ferry.”

  “Patty.” He had nothing more to tell her.

  Nor did Lucille have more for him. So Noel stood, leaving half his tea. At the door she said, “Don’t bother watching the flagstones, know what I’m saying? They’re okay.”

  “Thanks for the tea.” He drove off. Unsatisfactory conversation. He glanced at the ferry schedule. Damn! Next ferry was dangerous cargo only, no vehicles or passengers. Over an hour till the one after that. At the Village Market he bought two apples and a pizza bun, then drove toward Eaglenest. He stopped by a little beach and unwrapped his pizza.

  Did Kyra seriously want to be partners in a freelance research agency with someone who got his own obit in the mail? Did he want to be partners with her? The idea didn’t appall him. Though it was ridiculous. He had a book to finish writing. Fifty minutes till the ferry. He wished Kyra were here.

  • • •

  Bellingham to Nanaimo, middle leg of the flight. The aircraft arrived from down the coast. After Nanaimo it would head north to Comox. At the check-in desk, Kyra learned that the routing, advertised for months, had been approved only five weeks ago. Lucky. A security guard examined her flight bag, handling every item as if it held nitroglycerin.

  She was dressed right this time, low-heeled city boots, loose chinos, white top with long sleeves, taupe cotton jacket, Gore-Tex in hand. A blouse, jeans, sneakers and underwear in her carry-on. And her purse was a standard detecting kit—cellphone, flashlight, camera, lock picks, tissues, tampons, two snack bars, lipstick, moisturizing cream and wallet.

  The seaplane glided along the dock and stopped. A crew-woman tied it in place. Three passengers and a tall uniformed young man got out. Eight minutes later the man in uniform marched her and four fellow passengers to the end of the dock. She showed her passport, the US one. They boarded a Raven Air nine-seater, joining three others. The left engine sputtered to life. The uniformed man, likely a pilot, closed the hatch and bolted it, the right propeller whirred. He handed them each a customs declaration form. Kyra filled hers out and stuck it into her Canadian passport. He joined the captain at the controls. Yes, co-pilot. The crew-woman cast the plane free. It growled across flat water. How did they know where the runway started? Sudden increase in engine roar, Kyra’s back rounded into the seat cushion, and they were in the air.

  She stared down, sailboats receding, the town and the bay growing small. On the ground, tiny inlets and tide pools burbling with life fascinated her, anemones and starfish and inch-long darters, sea-worms, mussels, scuttling crabs and dead crabs. Even from up here she could almost feel hard warm wet stone against her palms. From here too she saw the patterns, pools and inlets, land intruding into water, water gliding into land. The inlets down there had to be huge, each with its own mini-inlets and pools. Up here her eye held the overview. Yes, she liked seaplanes. No border lineups in the air.

  The plane crossed from Washington into British Columbia somewhere between Patos Island, a state park accessible only by water, and Saturna Island. They skirted Salt Spring Island on the strait side, two humps of land pinched in the middle, then long skinny Galiano, and across the channel to Valdes, Gabriola next, along the northeast. They descended into Nanaimo harbor and slid gracefully to dock at the seaport landing.

  On the dock, waiting to meet the plane, half a dozen people. Including Tam Gill! Come to meet her? He couldn’t know she’d be on this flight! He waited back from the others, not watching the passengers.

  She handed her customs card and Canadian passport to a woman wearing a peaked hat that said Immigration-Customs/Douane, separate functions except at small ports of entry. No, nothing to declare. Nothing but a sudden pounding heart. The woman kept the card, handed back the passport. Bureaucracy done with.

  Tam was staring at her. Their eyes met. From him a moment of recognition, then uncertainty. Then a huge smile, a wave, and he elbowed his way toward her. “Hi!”
r />   “Hello. What are you doing here?”

  “Come to meet you, of course.”

  “How’d you figure me on this flight?”

  “Just lucky.” He grinned. “No, I’m lying. I’m picking up a shipment for the Gallery. Need a ride? I’ve got the van.”

  “I only have to go a couple of blocks. It’s just as fast to walk.” Drat.

  “Two blocks are two blocks.”

  That smile again. She smiled back.

  “Let me grab my shipment. Aside from everything else, I’m the Gallery customs broker. Give me a minute.”

  Her eyes followed him to the cargo pod. A dock crewman unloaded suitcases, small wooden boxes, half a dozen cardboard packages, and three high, wide, thin crates.

  Well, darn it. His appearance had thrown her into a fuss.

  Tam collected the crates. The dock man handed Tam a sheet of paper. He located a dolly, loaded it, wheeled the packages to the van and piled them in back.

  Most irritating was, now she’d have to change. She couldn’t meet Tam later in clothes he’d already seen her in today. Professionalism demanded an image that controlled, and that included tactical clothing. Likely, and she let an ironic smile grow in her mind, likely he’d already undressed her. Peeled off her jacket, let her pants fall to the floor. The sex dance.

  “You coming?” He opened the passenger door.

  She walked over, not managing the brisk step she wanted. He reached his hand over for her elbow but she used the door’s armrest to pull herself in. He closed the door.

  Only a pair of jeans and another blouse. Dang!

  “Where you headed?” He smiled at her through the open passenger window.

  “Cameron Island. The whole two blocks south.”

  “No problem. I just have to stop up there.” He pointed. Above the back of the dock, a government placard said, Customs/Douane. “Won’t be a minute.” He headed off.

  Two minutes. Three. She could have been at Noel’s apartment already. Customs. Voluntary honesty here, pick stuff up, go by, report. What was he importing? She leaned around, supported herself on the driver’s seat. Still warm— Well of course it was warm, the whole van was warm, it was a warm day. Five minutes. The three crates lay stacked flat. She eased herself between the seats. Snooping headed the description list of any job she’d ever be interested in. On the top crate, a bill of lading enclosed in plastic. From Sultan Suppliers, North Bend, Oregon—