Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Lyle’s sudden shift from enthusiasm left Noel uncomfortable. “The Mounties found the man’s truck at the community hall and his binoculars at another house. The guy had gone into religion. An ex-hippie, ex-druggie. Had to be ex for Marchand to hire him, being so deadset against drugs.”

  Lyle shook his head. “You know, Artemus isn’t anti all drug use. Just uncontrolled use, the street scene. I agree with that—those pushers are evil. And recreational drugs, that sends Artemus into a tailspin. But controlled use for medical reasons is okay, he supports that. Remember how much good that grass did Brendan.”

  “I do. With eternal gratitude.” Noel gave Lyle a weak smile.

  “How do you know so much about Marchand?” Kyra asked.

  “Hey, he’s my agent, right? But also I’m the treasurer of GLANS and I—”

  Kyra laughed. “What?”

  “Gays and Lesbians Against Narcotic Slaughter. Artemus sends big checks to our annual fundraisers. Some who donate are categorically against drug use, others are just as explicit in demanding legalization. With someone like Artemus—he’s considered the nuances—it’s a relief.”

  “Interesting,” Kyra mused. “I’d have figured him totally pro war on drugs.”

  “Seconds?” Noel watched them both refuse. “Salad then?”

  “Yeah, he leaves that impression,” Lyle grinned disarmingly. “Absolutes are dangerous. I’m with GLANS but I like really good pot.” A smile for Noel. “As you know.”

  Bringing that pot for Brendan: was Lyle already coming on to me then?

  Kyra served herself salad. “Tell us about Marchand. He sounded as if he always agreed with the last thing he heard.”

  “I like the guy. Hey, all artists are a little in love—oh, and in hate—with their agents. He abhors conflict, tries his damnedest to avoid it. Maybe that’s what you picked up on.”

  “Maybe,” Noel said.

  Lyle sorted through his salad with his fork. “He’s knowledgeable on many topics. He went to Princeton, took so many partial majors it took him two extra years to graduate.”

  Kyra, remembering the lure of arcane courses, nodded sympathetically.

  “I’d say, Artemus Marchand is a gentleman in the best sense of the word.” Lyle gave Noel a honeyed smile. “A true Renaissance dabbler.” Lyle reached out. “I’ve changed my mind.” He served himself another dollop of bourguignon and took a chunk of bread. “Actually, we’re quite incestuous. Artemus manages my art and I advise him on his portfolio.”

  “How would you rate him as a dealer?”

  “I’d say he has a great eye for art. Particularly mine.”

  With sudden bravado Kyra asked, “And how good is Tam?”

  “Gill?” Lyle reflected. “I’d say very good but,” more musing, “there’s something missing. The thing that says a work is an original. You know, whatever makes it the artist’s own.”

  “Artist as against technician?” Kyra tried to elaborate. “Imagination? Vision?”

  “All that. To see what’s out there, and what’s in here,” Lyle tapped first his forehead and then his belly. “Then meld them, then rise above them. Sort of, a translation.” He stared hard at Noel, then nodded to himself. “Like if I were to paint you—” He chuckled, another private joke. “That was delicious, chef. You’ll make some lucky man a fine hausfrau.”

  Noel sniffed a laugh. He hoped Lyle would remain this manageable. Meanwhile, it was flattering to be desired.

  Kyra got up to clear. “I talked to the curator at Western Washington. She said there are casinos in Las Vegas buying schools-of paintings.” She edged the plates into the dishwasher. “But I also learned they’re hard to get now. You have a take on that?”

  “Aha, see the detective picking brains. Good investigative technique.” Lyle’s smile took the sting out of his patronizing tone. “Sorry, the schools-of market isn’t my department. I know what anybody who’s taken art history knows. Sometimes the technique is fascinating.”

  Kyra carried the Dutch oven and trivet to the counter.

  “Brendan and I looked at some in Europe,” Noel said. “They’re imperfect, so you can learn a lot about method.”

  Lyle shook his head. “Some are so imperfect they’re junk.”

  Kyra came back, decided to dive right in, and sat. “What does Marchand pay for them and what does he sell them for?”

  Lyle looked uncomfortable. “Come on, even if I knew I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.” But she wanted corroboration of her father’s sense of half a million to a million. “Just, in general. In your artistic opinion, how much would, say, a school of Titian go for? At auction, say.” Maybe she’d pop over to Gabriola tomorrow, maybe get a preview of Artemus’ Thanksgiving show. Set it up with Tam.

  Lyle stared past Kyra, out the window. “Hard to tell about auction houses. Schools-of aren’t easy to price in themselves. Good ones are pretty scarce and it depends on who wants them.”

  “Can you ballpark?”

  “Extremely variable. Ballpark? I’d say, depending on this, that, and the other, hundred thou to a mil for an authentic school of Titian, variables being size, how close to the master, if the master touched it. Or a budding student who later became famous in his own right—”

  “Or hers.”

  “If any hers,” Lyle said to a yacht in the harbor, “we never her about them, ha.”

  “Dreadful pun, Lyle,” Noel said, but did smile.

  Kyra added, having just decided, “I’m going to try for a preview. Of Artemus’ new show.”

  Noel squinted at her. Lyle said, “Good luck.”

  She smirked. She’d get one. Even if it cost her a kiss.

  “Artemus doesn’t give previews. But if you can finagle this—” Lyle turned to Noel, “you’ve got yourself a damn good partner, buddy.”

  “We aren’t partners.” Again Noel wished he’d cut that buddy stuff. “You know Marchand got caught up giving away a forgery?”

  “He was devastated.” A red and white float plane landed smoothly. “An honest mistake. That painting had fooled people for over a hundred years.” He laughed, as if complimenting the forger. “I bet the painter’s chuckling in his grave. Who was that guy who forged the Vermeers? Sold one to Hitler’s sidekick Goebbels?”

  Noel realized he knew nothing about forgeries. Tomorrow he’d check out Vegas casinos and forged art. Tomorrow he’d find Albert and show him the obituary. What could Albert say or do about it? Maybe he’d say, a different kind of forgery. He headed to the fridge. “I have procured crème caramel for dessert. It is, I guarantee, superb.” Dessert on table, plates, spoons.

  Kyra reached for her spoon and ate with great happiness. Then she pled a headache, withdrew to her room, left them to their brandies and cigars or whatever. Noel would take care of himself. But, she hoped, not with Lyle. Lyle made her uneasy.

  As for herself, time for a private talk.

  • • •

  Noel set the dishwasher going. He wished Kyra hadn’t left. He wanted to tell her about his meeting with Lucille who, he realized, had impressed him. Despite her tea.

  Lyle hadn’t made another advance, not even as a joke. They sat on the balcony and drank port. Warmer than yesterday evening. Lyle wanted to hear still more about Noel and Kyra’s investigation. But Noel said, “Sorry, Lyle, that’s as much as I can talk about.” They watched the dark, silent harbor. The ferry from Gabriola arrived. Pleasant to sit with someone, simply enjoying the evening. Except that the obituary crept across the screen of his mind . . .

  Lyle pulled a thin flat silver case from his shirt pocket and opened it. Two large roaches.

  He offered the box to Noel. “Care for a toke?”

  Noel had smoked pot in his day, and again when it had soothed Brendan’s pain. Now its scent would bring back Brendan’s sickbed. The pleasant evening had evaporated. “I can’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “The last time was with Brendan. I just
can’t, Lyle.”

  Lyle nodded, and packed up the case. The ferry departed for Gabriola. Lyle must have sensed the evening was over. “I guess I should be going. Early class tomorrow.” He got up.

  “Yeah.” Noel followed him through the living room.

  “Great meal, Noel. Thanks a lot.”

  “Good. And thanks for the wine.”

  “And good luck with the agency.” He headed for the front door, Noel behind him. Lyle reached for the knob, suddenly turned and gave Noel a large hug.

  Though caught by surprise, Noel slowly hugged Lyle back. The momentary closeness felt good. But then Lyle was kissing the side of his neck and Noel dropped his arms. Lyle stepped back, placed both his hands on Noel’s cheeks and let his fingers slide down. He reached for the door again. “See you soon, buddy.”

  Noel closed the door. He was maybe attracted to Lyle, but did he like him? A good-looking man who wanted to be in Noel’s company. It had felt just fine to be hugged again, and not by Kyra. But his kiss had felt wrong. The man’s insistence made him uncomfortable. Maybe the light of tomorrow’s day would clarify the evening.

  • • •

  In Noel’s study Kyra had unlocked the leather case and taken out three balls. She’d undressed, climbed into bed and lay still in the dark, the balls by her pillow. She’d been able to hear faint talk from the living room. Her body still tingled. If Tam were here now—No? Yes? She got up and took a fourth ball from the case. She lay down again, two balls cupped in each palm. They were good for squeezing as well as juggling.

  Celibacy is mind over matter, isn’t it? You decided to be self-possessed, to need no one. Now one cute guy comes along and you’re ready to sacrifice Born-Again Virginhood?

  He was only wanting to kiss.

  Sure, tell me another.

  Well—

  And where has sex ever gotten you?

  Kyra tested the heft of the juggling balls. She would juggle her history with men. From the start. Not the year before Reed, that was just heavy necking. The first real one was Jimmy, a quiet sophomore down the hall. It took the two of them a week to admit to each other they were both virgins. They had three months of learning good things about sex till Jimmy the liar went home to Kentucky for Christmas and found his high school girlfriend five months pregnant, so he married her. Kyra was, naturally, heartbroken. Which didn’t stop her from having great times. A one-man woman with each of her boyfriends, in four years six of them. Not one of the relationships had ended well: three fights, one dropout, two abandonments. Her fate.

  All practice for her real men. Juggle the real men. She got out of bed, turned on the desk lamp, set three balls on the computer table, tossed one in the air. Kyra the juggling nude.

  At her graduation dance she had met Vance Perrugia. Instant passion, a love affair for all time. They married in August, white gown and veil. September honeymoon in Italy to meet his aunts and uncles, Venice on his mother’s side the first ten days, Naples on his father’s the second ten. Then ten days on their own. From intensity as fervor to intensity as triggered temper to intensity as violence. She left him for two days. He found her, all apology and tears. Everything would be okay when they got back to Oregon. She agreed. October proved tense, but that was because they were setting up house. By the middle of November he’d beaten her four times. She filed for divorce in December. Being bashed around by Vance was not her idea of fun. She moved back to Vancouver.

  Skiing at Whistler two winters later she met Simon Kerr, a lawyer, early thirties, sense of humor, straight teeth and nice ears, took on immigration cases, some pro bono work, moving up in the world. Ball two in the air. She lived with him a year, making sure he wasn’t of the wife-beating persuasion. No, a gentle man, though sometimes given to depression. With Kyra’s tender jollying he could snap out of it. They married. Marriage changed Simon. His depressions deepened. She tried to talk with him. “Simon, you really do need help.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little black sometimes.”

  “I can’t see you when it’s so black.”

  “Just talk to me Kyra. Make me laugh. Like you used to. I’ll be fine.”

  “Simon, I love you. But I don’t know what to do.”

  “I told you. Help me laugh.”

  But he hadn’t laughed in months. He hadn’t even smiled. “I can’t help you, I want to but I can’t. You need professional help.”

  He was crying by then. “I need you, Kyra.”

  “If you don’t get professional help I won’t be able to live with you.”

  Weeks of arguing. At last an appointment with his doctor, at last a referral to a specialist. The morning before his session, in their third year of marriage, he drove up Mount Seymour and shot himself.

  Noel read about the suicide. Simon Kerr, survived by his wife, Kyra Herschel Perrugia Kerr. He phoned in sympathy and invited her for lunch. They talked. She blamed herself. If she hadn’t intimated she’d leave Simon he’d still be alive today. Noel suggested to her that she herself could use some professional help. She found herself disagreeing. “Noel, for pity’s sake, I don’t need to see a shrink. I’m fine.”

  Noel smiled gently. “Kyra. Did you hear what you just said?”

  “What?”

  “Quote–unquote: I’m fine.”

  She spent six months seeing the psychiatrist Simon had refused to meet. At the end of that time she told Noel honestly, “I’m fine.”

  When Kyra had been at Reed, she and Noel sent each other comic postcards with shorthand messages: “Exams! Wish you were here.” “Too much rain, not enough brain.” After her first marriage they drifted apart; Noel had disliked Perrugia from the beginning. But during the time she spent with the psychiatrist they again became friends, and had remained so since.

  It was after Simon that she decided about her name. She’d wanted neither Vance’s, nor Simon’s. Go back to her maiden name? Her mother’s maiden name? She opted for her own, her middle name. Kyra Rachel.

  Sam met Kyra while visiting from Bellingham five years ago at a dinner party. He became her third husband fifteen months later. Third ball up, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, a waltz with Vance-Simon-Sam. Between Simon and Sam, ten months of traveling in Europe and North Africa on an inheritance from Gran; best part of the trip was the week in Siena with Noel and Brendan. Sam, clever and funny and strong, big machines his passion, excavators and derricks, cement trucks. Sam’s construction company was based in Bellingham. He’d done well building apartments, an airstrip, parking garages, small-town malls. His work made sense to Kyra. And what should Kyra do with her life? Something, anything, he told her, just make it your passion.

  Vance-Simon-Sam-Vance-Simon-Sam-Vance-Simon-Sam. Three balls in the air, around, around— She caught them, retired them, turned out the light, and climbed into bed.

  It began just as a job. Kyra met Margery for lunch and after the second martini replayed Sam’s plea, passion-job-passion. Margery said, “Well my boss is passionate about not paying out money to some of the people who have policies with us. Maybe you could help him.” Kyra followed her natural tendencies and began snooping for Puget Sound Life Insurance. But love for the work and irregular hours upset Sam badly, too full involvement with her work, not fully with him. She kept pointing out it was his idea. Last April they separated.

  Three loves in her life, three disasters. She shuddered. Admit it, Kyra, four loves. The summer she was fifteen had been part of her sexual history too. William arrived on Bowen to be with Noel. He was slender and handsome, quick and witty. It took Kyra many agonizing days, that summer from hell, to understand Noel would never be her life partner. They’d become close, and friends. That was a lot. But that was all it could be. Until now. Business partners? Thank you, Lyle, for Triple-I?

  Eaglenest Gallery. Triple-I’s first case? Gabriola tomorrow. Tam, her secret entry.

  He only asked if he could kiss you. And you said no. Juggle that one, Kyra.

  FOURTEEN

&nb
sp; RAIN AGAINST GLASS woke Noel. His window was open. He dragged himself up and pushed it closed. Cold. A major weather shift since last night. He peed, then slid back under his duvet. Quarter to six. Any other windows open? He trudged to the living room. No. Back to bed. Warm. But no more sleep.

  He considered yesterday. Take Lyle seriously? With Brendan so recently gone? Think it right: so recently dead.

  Suddenly he felt cornered. Lyle had picked up the half-assed idea, a detective agency, named it and thrown in a logo, discussed incorporation, partnered him with Kyra and sent them their first case. Hell, he’d practically sold the Initial Public Offering.

  And the obituary, in its envelope. Sunday. He had to locate Albert.

  Get up. Get out of this mental loop. Coffee. Breakfast later, with Kyra. Asleep on the sofa bed beside the desktop. Lucky he’d brought the laptop to his bedroom. Lucas’ question, How does Marchand find so many paintings? Noel pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. Steaming coffee mug on the table, laptop open. Wallpaper, a picture of Brendan, warm smile, like on his desktop.

  But an hour later, in searching for schools-of paintings around the world, he had learned virtually nothing about where they were found; that an organization called the Monuments Men Foundation had restored many schools-of paintings to their rightful owners, mostly Jews, from whom they had been stolen by the Nazis; that one could buy reproductions of schools-of from several sources; how to get into an art school modelled on the schools of Martini, Lorenzetti, Fungai; thumbnail histories of various schools of great masters; and some information about buyers of schools-of paintings in the last fifty years. Museums, universities, and foundations headed that list. But as Kyra had noted, some large hotels and even a couple of casinos had gotten into the game. In his Lucas file he saved the names of those who had bought in the last five years.

  To find sellers, check into buyers? But here a curious discretion pervaded the net: neither source nor price was mentioned. He followed up on the casinos, The Hermitage and The Kingsway, both in Las Vegas. The Kingsway had bought a school of Becafumi two years ago; mostly they were acquiring original twentieth-century art. Saved and filed. More coffee, and check out The Hermitage. Rose Marchand’s T-shirt, Picture Yourself At The Hermitage, and a Hermitage casino buying schools-of? Connection or coincidence?