“And why not?” Kyra shook her head. “No, wrong question, it’s the size thing. Like we only glimpsed part of the interior.”
“Could be. Some lab to develop her flowers? What sort of flowers were there? Flats of carnations. What else?”
“Marchand closed the door too fast.” Kyra stared back to the memory.
“One blind alley after another.”
She ignored him. “What was it? Perspective?” She got up and paced. She muttered, “How can we get Rose out of her greenhouse?”
“Wait a minute. What’s Rose got to do with the paintings?”
“We don’t know. But what’s she got in there? You noted the discrepancy of space. We have to get her out of there and have a look around.”
“Come on, what do flowers have to do with old art? Except as subjects for still lifes.”
“Did you check her out on the Internet?”
“I haven’t been researching botany.”
“You never know what you’ll find. Go look.”
“Oh for pissake.” He headed for the computer. “I thought you hated this machine.”
“Call Lyle first.”
He glared at her, then found the phone book and called. “Hello, it’s Noel, glad you’re home. I was just thinking, maybe I’m ready to go out for lunch. Interested? . . . Well how about today? Sure, tomorrow is fine . . . Yeah, something I want to talk to you about . . . Naw, I don’t like Charlie’s Oven, how about the Crow and Gate . . . Yeah, I really would prefer it. Twelve-thirty? . . . I’ll meet you there . . . No, that’s okay, I’ll be out doing errands. See you.” He broke the connection and turned to Kyra. “Tomorrow at twelve-thirty. We have to figure out how to—Damn! We’re seeing Marchand tomorrow.”
“Hey, it’s fine. I’ll deal with Marchand.”
“I don’t think you should go alone.”
“If he was responsible for the break-in we have to show we don’t scare.”
Noel couldn’t figure a response so he sat in front of his desktop and got on-line. His mind ran back to the phone conversation. Lyle had been so brisk, no warmth there today.
• • •
The phone rang. “Hello, my darling Rose, my Peace, my American Pillar, my Queen Elizabeth—”
“Hello, Rab.” Rose varieties? Why? “Is everything okay?”
“What are you doing so I may picture you as we speak?”
“I am staring at my black Chrysanthemum morifolium and wondering what I could do to augment its perfection in the next generation.”
“With perfection, you must admire.”
“Do you have something complicated to tell me?”
He sighed. “I took the liberty of investigating your investigators. They’re pretty good. They had files on their computer about The Hermitage, and about me. Including some facts that require serious searching and combining to find. The link to The Hermitage was supplied by the Curator at the gallery at Western Washington University in Bellingham. Your brother told the female, Kyra Rachel, about the place.”
“Hell.”
“Exactly. The detectives reported to Artemus, but then were hired by a consortium of antique dealers in Vancouver. One of the dealers is the female’s father.”
Long pause, then, “What else?”
“Of importance? Nothing in the files.”
Rose absorbed all this. “I feel—plagued. It’s worse than their looking into Roy’s death.”
“My dear, I don’t want you worrying. But be careful. For all our sakes.”
“I will,” Rose whispered. “Rab, we have to talk.”
“Yes. Soon. I’ll call you.” The line went dead.
For an instant she trembled. Suddenly her world felt precarious. She needed support. Right now she’d settle for Artemus being nearby. She’d lean her head on his hip and bring her arm around his waist.
• • •
“Rose Gill doesn’t have a website,” Noel called to Kyra, “but she’s mentioned all over the place.” Kyra appeared at his elbow. “Canadian Association of Botanists, American Association of Botanists, International Association of Botanists, Botany Statistics Service, US Botanical Service.” He continued to click and save. “It can’t be relevant to what Lucas wants.”
“What’s that you cruised by?”
Noel clicked back. “International Pigment Association.”
“Scroll down.” She leaned over his shoulder. A sidebar read, in blue print, “About primary pigments.”
“Click on that.”
He did as he was told, new screen, and she read, “Most primary pigments are derived from flowers, herbs, and grasses—”
“Okay. Let’s see.” Noel clicked, saving occasionally, until they had several files of information about pigmentation. Interesting too that the International Pigment Association had sponsored a conference in São Paolo, Brazil, at which Rose Gill had given the keynote address: “Pigment Transformation Through Controlled Mutations.” Abstracts available. Noel clicked, downloaded and scanned two paragraphs of botanical jargon. He shook his head. “Read this.”
Kyra did. “One of us mentioned something about pigment age.” Kyra dredged a shadow of memory. “A test.”
“The gallery in Salmon Arm. Marchand’s forged gift,” Noel said.
“Some new method of testing.”
“Look—this pigment stuff is irrelevant unless we go back to a forgery hypothesis. But even Lucas said those paintings have been verified by the best in the business.”
“Yeah. We’re off track.”
He blew through his lips. “How do we find out about Rose’s research?”
“Translate the abstract into plain English. You know any experts?”
“Nope.”
“If we saw what she’s doing, we might understand more.” Kyra thought for a moment. “Want to break and enter?”
“Looking for what while we contaminate her greenhouse?”
“We get surgical gloves and face masks. Plastic slippers. And leave no fingerprints.”
“No. I can’t do that.”
“Then I’ll go by myself. I’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”
“What if she’s there?”
“We lure her out.”
Noel stared over to the cliffs of Gabriola. Kyra mustn’t go alone. But he did have an idea. “How about, we ask Lucille to get her off the property.”
“Maple? You trust her?”
He thought about a younger Lucille. “Yeah, I do. If we set it up right. There’s shrewdness there. I think she’d love being a little nefarious.” He hoped. Or maybe this was a mistake.
Kyra too looked out to Gabriola. “Let’s say she says okay. She draws Rose out, you and I break in.” She smiled. “You’ve come a long way, baby.”
He felt his neck flush. “You said it might be necessary.”
Beyond the sliding door the ferry chugged into the harbor. She turned back to him. “You know Maple. I don’t.”
“We’re on the same wavelength. Like her repeating she’s an old lady. She knows I know she isn’t.”
“For some people old doesn’t exist. What would Maple say to Rose?”
“We give Lucille her assignment,” Noel said. “She can choose her own tactics.”
Kyra checked the ferry schedule. “Any time after the 11:40 gets in.”
Noel bookmarked the entry page of the International Pigment Association.
SEVENTEEN
NOEL LOOKED UP the phone number and poked it in.
“Maple.”
“Hello, Lucille.”
“Noel. Coming for tea? I’ve still got the kettle out.”
A caller ID, or did she know his voice? He cocked his head, A-okay, at Kyra. “Look, we’ve got something to propose to you.”
“You and your associate I’ve not met? How does he like his tea?”
“She. Doesn’t. Coffee only. Listen, would you do a job for us?”
“What job?”
“Do you need to talk to Rose Gill? For about hal
f an hour?”
“Ah. So you can check out the greenhouse.”
Noel, silence. Lucille, silence. Noel looked at Kyra looking out the window. “Let’s say, curiosity. Maybe about that new flower. If our research pans out you’ll get the scoop.”
Long pause. “What do you want?”
Noel nodded vigorously to Kyra. “Invite Rose in. You don’t have to give her tea.”
“I can invite her. She might come. But she won’t stay.” She paused. “Or invite her to somewhere else. What’s up, really?”
“It’s my associate Kyra. She’s got hold of a tail and thinks it has a dog attached.” Scowl from Kyra. “In half an hour I could prove her wrong.”
“Or right,” said Lucille. “Okay. I’ll think of something.”
“Good.” Noel, making it up as he went along: “Our consultant’s fee for this kind—”
“Oh fiddle, I’ve got two pensions. All I need is joy and information. I’ll have her out from two-thirty to three unless you hear from me within the hour.”
“Great.”
“The Rottingers next door south are away, their daughter’s just had a baby. A boy. Pull into their drive. Get onto Eaglenest land by a deer trail. It heads in next to a fir split by lightning.”
“Lucille, you’re terrific.”
“Then come by for tea. About four.”
“We’ll be on the 12:40 unless you tell us otherwise.” Noel hung up. They’d be early. Didn’t matter. “She got us, Kyra. Her price is tea.”
“Here.” Kyra held out the phone book and tapped a page. “Locksmith.”
Noel called a locksmith. Kyra called the ferry. Running twenty minutes late. No problem.
Kyra took advantage of the delay to head across to the mall for the photos, and to buy surgical gloves, carpentry masks, throwaway over-slippers and more film. She passed the condom display and on impulse stopped. Be prepared. Ribbed and peppermint scented? Good grief. She hung it back up, surveyed the rack and chose an old-fashioned plain lubricated pack.
“Uh, hello.”
Kyra whirled about. “Hello?”
“Remember me? Roy Dempster’s friend?”
Sue Smith. The BAV. At the condom rack? “Hello, Sue.”
“I was going to call your friend, uh—?”
“Yes. Noel.”
“’Cause he asked did I ever see Roy get anybody other than Tam angry.” She fell silent.
“Did you?”
“Not exactly. But yesterday Steve told me about his last conversation with Roy.”
Kyra waited. “Go on.”
Sue dropped her voice. “Roy told him he’d said harsh things to Jerry. But Roy wouldn’t say what. He didn’t want those words in his mouth again.”
“Did Steve—that’s Steve Bailey?” The clockmaker. “And Jerry is Bannister?
Sue nodded.
“Did Steve say what they argued about?”
“Well, yes.” She paused. “Roy wanted Jerry to change his ways. To transform himself.”
“Oh? From what to what?”
“Well—to stop being a queer.”
Jerry Bannister, the slob with all the centerfolds, queer? Hard to say the word in this liberated time. Gays could call each other queer, like blacks saying nigger to each other. Yes, Jerry could have taken offense. “Jerry’s gay?”
“I— I don’t think so.”
“But Roy did.”
“I guess. Otherwise why would he have been down on Jerry?”
“Okay. But why did Roy think Jerry was gay? Did Steve say?”
“Because Roy said he knew Jerry hung out with homos, he’d seen him with homos. And Steve said Jerry was really pissed. Jerry told Roy he didn’t know what he was talking about, and then Jerry threw Roy off of his land.”
“Hmm. Wonder where he’d seen Jerry hanging out.”
Sue stared at the ground. “Yeah. I wondered that myself.”
Kyra heard worry in Sue’s voice. “Sue. Did you wonder about anything else?”
Sue said nothing. Then she looked Kyra full in the face. “Yeah. I wondered about Roy.”
“You thought he might be gay himself.”
Sue nodded. “I’d been wondering for a while.”
“You dated him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah but, you know, I was already born again when we met up. So it wasn’t a problem.”
“But he asked you to marry him, right?”
“He did. But Patty said maybe he wanted to get married in case anybody ever thought he might be a homo.”
“Tell me about Jerry. You know him pretty well.”
“We go back aways.”
“Do you think he’s—like that?”
“Jerry came on to me. Couple of days ago.” Sue lowered her gaze again. “It was sorta my fault.”
“Oh?”
“See, I thought he’d maybe want to talk about Roy.”
“Like grieve?”
“Yeah. But he said, Roy’s dead, what are you doing for a man now? He grabbed me.” Sue crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not really, he was pretty stoned. Just—” She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”
“Yeah. Did Steve say anything else?”
Sue thought hard. “That’s about it.”
“And you? Are you okay?”
“You mean about Jerry? Sure. That wasn’t the first time. I can handle myself.”
Kyra glanced toward the cashiers. “And otherwise?”
“It’s hard, without Roy. Hard to continue my beliefs.”
Kyra nodded, in sympathy. “Be careful, Sue. And thanks for the info.” She headed for the checkout. She turned once. Sue was staring thoughtfully at choices among condoms.
• • •
Noel phoned Tam Gill’s number. The answering machine clicked on. Good, nobody home. Noel broke the connection.
Kyra came back, spitting muttered schmidts. She slammed the door, kicked off her runners, and set a bag onto the table.
“Schmidt what?” He caught the flipped photo pack from Kyra and took out the pictures. The top one was overexposed, the others overexposed or blank white. “What happened?”
“How should I know! The photo clerk said light must’ve got in the camera. Or the film was bad in the first place. Anyway, we got zip here.”
“You leave your camera anywhere?”
“It’s always in my purse.”
The moon must’ve been in a bad phase yesterday. For both Kyra’s camera and his computer. “In the end, we don’t need the pictures.” Though his curiosity was up. Then came a notion, hard, hurtful, but he asked anyway, “Look. When you were, uh, sleeping with Gill, were you awake all the time?”
“Huh?”
“Did you actually sleep?”
She thought back. “You’re saying, maybe he opened the camera and exposed the film?”
“I’m looking for possibilities.”
“Schmidt!”
He let her consider. He followed his own thoughts, a break-in—No. He tried to visualize the back of the greenhouse. Stay out of sight, get in, get away again. But it was crazy! And how could it be helpful in learning how Artemus found the paintings?
“He wouldn’t open my camera.”
“Did he know you took the pictures?”
“Yes. And he was, uh, displeased.”
“And he wouldn’t open your camera?”
Kyra shrugged, and told him about Jerry and Roy’s argument. Noel rang Steve Bailey’s number. “Hi, this is Noel Franklin.”
“Oh, hi. Still detecting?”
“Just tying up some ends. Do you know, did Roy have a big argument with Bannister?”
“Yeah, yeah, they argued.”
“About trying to make Jerry stop being gay?”
A few seconds of silence. Then, “Yeah. Partly. Except Jerry surely to God isn’t.”
“Partly. So there was another part? To their argument?” Noel waited.
A long silence. Then Stev
e said, “About pot. Roy’d gone three months without lighting up. He felt great, he said. And you know how Roy had to help other people.”
“So he tried to get Jerry to stop toking?”
“Yeah, that, and . . .”
An even longer silence. Noel gave Steve time.
“I think,” Steve spoke slowly, “Jerry had something going, a small patch somewhere. I think Roy wanted to destroy the plants.”
“Did Roy say that?”
“Well, not in so many words.”
“I wish you’d told us this earlier. Did you inform the police?”
“Jeeze, I didn’t think a little argument was that important.”
Noel heard: I didn’t want to get involved. “They’ll want to talk with you.”
“I guess. It can’t hurt Roy now, can it.”
“No.” He took a silent breath. “Look, about Roy accusing Jerry of being gay, did he—”
“Dumb mistake. Jerry talks to everybody, even to homos. Especially when he gets stoned. He says he gets stoned to make other people interesting.”
“So Roy maybe saw him in with some known gays.”
A momentary pause. “Probably did, yeah.”
“Why do you think that?”
Another pause. “’Cause Roy told me the same thing. Maybe a week before he died. He cared a lot for Jerry, didn’t want him to get all messed up. So he kept his eyes open. And he saw Jerry in one of them fag bars. But that don’t make Jerry a homo. I sometimes hang out with bikers, don’t make me a Hell’s Angel.”
“Where did Roy see Jerry? Here on the island?”
“No fag bars here. Over in Nanaimo.”
“Any idea where? Or who Jerry was with?”
“Nope. Only that the other guy was buying, and Jerry was drinking whiskey. Roy said he knew who the guy was. Roy said he didn’t even want to think about the guy, dressed all nice, what he wanted with a slob like Jerry.”
“Did Roy describe the guy?”
“Nope.”
“Well thanks. If you think of anything else, let me know.”
“Sure. Just . . . I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”
“You won’t.” He put the phone down and gave Kyra Steve’s side of the conversation.
She folded her arms tight. “Roy did like to mess with people.”
Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Page 21
