EIGHTEEN
THE FERRY PULLED out. They walked up to the front. Kyra stared down at the passing water. “Okay. We know Rose has a double greenhouse. In front, flowers for the garden. In back, a kind of lab with a bunch of near-black chrysanthemums. And seed-pod things with a lot of goo in them.”
“And she’s damned secretive about the process. She’s playing with flower pigments. Well, one flower anyway. Maybe she wants to make all kinds of black flowers?”
Kyra leaned her forearms on the railing. “But why grow black flowers?”
“To prove it can be done? For the genera books?”
The ferry’s engines grew from heavy hum to roar. “I guess you have to be esoteric these days to get famous.” A hundred feet ahead a cormorant cut across the ferry’s path.
“Does she want fame?”
“Maybe more like—importance?” Kyra considered this, suddenly visualized Tam, his face, neck. “Now Tam, I think he’d like a little fame. Except maybe his work’s only good. Not great.”
“You don’t have to do great work to get famous. Just different enough work for some influential art critic to say you’re great.”
“Hasn’t happened to Tam.” The T on the tip of her tongue felt good. Stop it!
“Think he’s still trying?”
She mulled that for a moment. “Yes, I think so.”
“How?”
“A painting he’s working on.” She remembered reds, and yellows. But something felt off.
“Could he be playing around with some pigment his sister’s invented?”
“Could be.”
“Okay then,” Noel said, “we’re back to forgery?”
“Everyone says it’s impossible. And those paintings are authenticated.”
“Yeah, that problem again. Okay, let’s leave it for now. Where does Rabinovich fit in?”
“He’s the outsider who buys the paintings.”
An errant log bobbed by. Noel said, “Maybe Tam’s using some color nobody’s seen before.”
“Maybe I could wheedle that information out of him.”
“Stop it!” He was angry again.
“Oh, come on.” Literally flirting with danger. She liked the idea.
“Don’t get close to him again. He could be dangerous. Remember those photos.”
“That’s just supposition. And hardly dangerous.” She turned to Noel. “Look, somebody’s got to work the field. You don’t want to. That leaves me. And I can handle myself.”
“Not with Tam Gill.” Damn her anyway.
“How do you know? You’ve never even met him.” Could she? Yes. On the case, and in the bed. She stared out at flat, heavy water. What was this with Noel? Jealousy? Paternalism? She shouldered her purse, swirled around, and worked her way to the washroom. She sat glumly on the toilet and muttered “Fuck” fifty times. She wished she had a cigarette. Oh fuck to that too. Or— Maybe Noel really is worried about me. The ferry’s quieting engines told her to get up.
Noel sat behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.
Kyra glared straight ahead. Tam actually could’ve messed up the film. Shit.
“So,” Noel said. “Supper?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then you’re sick. Or really pissed off at me.”
“I’m not— Okay. Shit, Noel, yes I am truly pissed at how much you worry about me.”
“Sorry you are. But not sorry to hear it. How about this. Let’s not be pissed off.” She’d actually said pissed, and shit, not her stupid schmidt. “Let’s start over. Supper?”
“I suppose.” She smiled. She wasn’t pissed off any more. “Where?”
“Want to float while eating?”
“Sounds good.” What a relief to say piss and fuck again.
“First we drop off today’s film.” The ferry docked. They left the car at Noel’s, crossed the street to the mall, and left the film. Then they walked to the wharf north of Cameron Island and the twenty-foot passenger ferry, the Protection Connection. A ten-minute ride mostly settled her and brought them to Protection Island and a floating pub, anchored along the seaward ramp of the ferry wharf. They went in. Quiet, half a dozen other guests. They ordered drinks, and fish and chips. They sipped, watched sailboats and cabin cruisers pass by, felt the gentle bob of the wharf from their wake, watched the sun’s descent.
All too lovely and romantic, thought Noel. No, think positive, you’ve got Kyra to talk to. But he sensed an absence in her too, a missing edge. He wished she hadn’t forced him to make that appointment with Lyle tomorrow. Especially after hearing about Jerry’s meeting with him. All the more after her snippy comment about his unwillingness to work the field. He could if he had to. He just didn’t enjoy it. He wondered if the guy who’d broken into his condo had enjoyed it.
Brendan had liked this place, Kyra knew. She listened as Noel talked. What if Tam sat across from her? Goddamn she had it bad. She could feel Noel’s mind and conversation coming from somewhere else. Just like her own. Great view of Nanaimo harbor, the city and the mountain. Why was the person who attracted her always the wrong person? At least Noel was someone she could relax with.
They headed back to the little ferry. “You going to tell Lyle about our chat with Bannister?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Just figure it out before meeting him.”
“Mmmm,” said Noel. Bossy again.
At the apartment all seemed normal. The lock didn’t look tampered with, but it hadn’t last night either. Kyra said she needed a fast walk. She’d be back in an hour.
“Then we’ll call Lucas,” Noel said.
“Why don’t you while I’m walking. You mind?”
“Happy to. I like your father.” She left. He opened his laptop to the paintings’ descriptions and called. After some pleasantries he said, “The paintings Eaglenest is showing, there’re five of them and—”
“Five?” erupted from the phone.
“A lot?”
“A lot!”
“Look, if I describe them, can you ballpark a sales price?”
“I can try. But mostly it depends on how much someone wants them.”
“The first one’s a school of Correggio.” They worked through Noel’s list. Minimal information, but Lucas figured them all to be in the mid to high six figures.
When they finished, Lucas asked, “How does Kyra seem to you these days?”
“She seems well. Perky. A bit bossy.”
“Oh dear yes. I think she needs to be in control these days. She needs a stable situation, and a sense of direction.”
Noel laughed. “So do we all.”
They talked for a few more minutes, and said goodbye. Noel tore a clean page from his notebook, copied out the names and Lucas’ estimates, placed it on Kyra’s bed. Done with her for tonight.
• • •
Kyra walked along the sea wall staring at yachts and yawls, cabin craft and dinghies. Across the water, a few lights from Gabriola. Where Tam lived. Tam who might or might not be a suspect in Roy’s death. The case wasn’t her problem any more. But about Tam’s paintings—New uses of pigments, of color? She decided, took the phone from her purse, and pressed the numbers.
Tam answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
No machine! “Hi. It’s Kyra.”
“Oh, hi.”
“I just want to apologize for dropping in at an inconvenient time.”
“That’s okay. I was surprised.”
“I have to be over on Gabriola again tomorrow.”
“Ah.”
“I should be free after lunch. Will you be around?”
“No. That is, yes but later. Should be back about four-fifteen.”
“May I come by?”
“That’d be nice.”
“See you after four.” She set the phone down. Her hand had gone damp. Damn. Tam Gill. Something about her last time there itched. Something about colors. What colors? She felt tingly warm and let herself smile.
In the morning, over breakfast, they talked. Noel had forgotten, he’d need the Honda to get to lunch with Lyle. She called for a rental car. She dressed for the occasion, Brendan’s slate-blue shirt, her taupe jacket, and tailored slacks. Right for her interrogation of Marchand. And too bad for Tam that he’d seen her clothes. Anyway, with him she wouldn’t be dressed for all that long. She shoved her feet into her boots and bagged her runners.
“Give a call from Gabriola.”
She promised to. She picked up her rental, a red Taurus, and caught the 11:40 ferry. Only ten minutes late coming in. She’d arrive in perfect time at the Gallery.
• • •
It had been the best of mornings for Artemus Marchand. At 8:15 the last detail for the show slipped cleanly in place. Virtually nothing could go wrong, not at this point. That detail, Gordon Thompson from the Globe and Mail saying he’d be at the opening, was a breakthrough, a fully national contingent of reviewers. Islanders would read about the importance of the Gallery in every major daily and hear about it on the CBC. As well as in the Gabriola Gab, couldn’t get rid of Lucille. But all that other stuff from her would be gone and forgotten.
The only remaining irritant, that damned detective. Should never have given her half an hour, five minutes was too much. Yes, asking Lyle to recommend an investigator had been foolish. Glad he’d not told Rosie the woman was returning. Rosie was in the greenhouse. He’d said, Surely everything is ready. The plants keep growing, she’d said.
Artemus sat at his desk. He aligned the pile of Foundation files. He’d been so engaged in preparations for the show he’d not yet sifted through them. Out of curiosity he pulled one from the middle. Stephane Mfane, Mali. Project: Harnessing solar power to drive mill wheels for grinding maize. A possibility, thought Artemus. The kind of project he liked.
The Foundation had been Rosie’s idea. A clever woman, and he loved her for this too. But she merely gushed with ideas; he was the one to make it all work. Re-ruralization was essential. When he and Rosie had gone to São Paolo for the International Pigment Association Conference they’d seen for the first time the underside of urban sprawl: a countryside devoid of young people. Plenty of babies, lots of old people. Few in their teens, their twenties. Rosie had been eloquent. Find ways to get the young out of the cities, back onto the land. And don’t give people our technology, give them the tools to make the technology they need for solving their own farming problems. Re-ruralize to survive. Artemus, though, was the one who found the wherewithal.
Now the Foundation gave out fifteen yearly grants of around five thousand each, and two for fifty thousand. Since the program’s inception the annual big ones had been a follow-up to a successful initial grant. So many good projects. Luckily he could keep it going. Income from the sale of schools-of paintings went directly to the endowment.
A bell rang. Artemus waited forty seconds, then headed downstairs and opened the door. Kyra Rachel. “Please come in.” He led her to the living room. “I’m just on the phone. I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” said Kyra.
Through the kitchen, back up the stairs. At his desk he opened a second file. Roberto Santangelo, Colombia. Project unclear, something to do with rice mutations growing in very little water. Not much chance for this one, he didn’t like sending money to Colombia, too unstable. Never knew if you were dealing with the cocaine trade, FARC, or the government. Still, Rosie should read the file.
• • •
Noel checked his mail, two flyers and a bill. Nothing untoward there. He checked his tires. Fine. He drove south on the highway. How to handle the conversation with Lyle. Now the idea of lunch left him a bit queasy. Maybe soften Lyle up a little before getting into what Lyle and Jerry were talking about. He turned off toward Cedar and ten minutes later headed down the long drive to the Crow and Gate, an English pub complete with duck pond. He parked, glad he’d arrived here alone. Hey, this was a kind of fieldwork.
Lyle was waiting inside at a table by the window, handsome in open plaid shirt and slacks, grey pullover thrown over his shoulders, its arms knotted in front. He stood as Noel approached and gave him a small hug. Noel returned the hug in smaller fashion.
“So how’s it going, buddy?”
“Pretty well.”
“Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
They headed for the bar to order—steak and kidney pie for Lyle, crab cakes for Noel. Each brought back a pint of pale ale. Lyle asked, “So what’s happening?”
Well, his book was coming along, Kyra sent regards, no they hadn’t talked about incorporating the agency yet—
“That should be the first thing. Get it all set up legally.”
“We aren’t there yet.”
“Sure, fine by me.”
They sipped. Noel said, “Better choice of beer here than at Charlie’s Oven.”
“Hey, you got a problem with the Oven?”
“Too faggy.”
Lyle chuckled.
“You go there a lot, right?” Noel raised his eyebrows and mock-quoted: “Lyle Sempken makes the Oven scene with Jerry Bannister.”
Lyle’s face greyed. “What’re you talking about, buster?”
“Oh nothing much.” Buster? “But if Jerry’s grubby bawd appeals to you—”
Lyle’s smile seemed forced. “Jealous?”
“Lordy-lord. Hardly.”
“I was interviewing him. See if he’d be a suitable subject.”
“For loveliest fella of the year.” Noel sipped.
“If you have to know, it’s for a series of paintings with unattractive human beings as their focus.”
“And you met at the Oven. Did he know what he was, literally, walking into?”
“Yep. Or he thought he did. I wanted to see how uptight he’d be in a strange situation. Like, some day in my studio undressed. Turns out he’s a pretty easy-going guy. Specially when he’s stoned.” Lyle laughed, lighter now that he’d explained himself. “But if I use him, I’ll have to fumigate afterwards.”
“Yeah, he’s a charmer.”
Lyle took a long swallow of beer. “How do you know him?”
“Friend of Roy Dempster.”
“Right. You all done now on the Gallery case?” A waitress arrived with their orders.
“Yep.” They fell to. Good crab cakes, Noel thought.
“You said you had some sort of problem?”
“I’d like to sound you out on this. Since you know Marchand so well.”
“Shoot.”
“It could be connected to the Gallery. I’m having trouble figuring out where to begin.”
Lyle smiled. “In situations like this I always say, Begin at the beginning—”
“Good.” Noel nodded. He forked up more of his crab cake, chewed, swallowed, washed it all down with a little beer. “It started about a month and half ago. About three in the morning, the phone would ring. I hate calls like that, never good news. But with these there’d be no one there. Or rather, someone who just breathed.”
“Hey, creepy. Did it scare you?”
“At first. Then I let the machine pick up. But I’d still get the breathing in the morning.”
“Shit, terrible. Still going on?”
“Not in the last few days. But then somebody slashed all four of my tires.”
“Pretty dramatic.” Lyle sipped beer. “You figure there’s a connection to the breather?”
“Yeah. I got the tires replaced and the next night I got the call again, only this time the breather said, ‘Nice new tires.’”
“Yep, that’s a connection. What did you do?”
“Not a lot I could do. I’ve got a Mountie friend and I told him about it.”
“Aha.” A renewed
grin. “The constabulary on the scene.”
“Glad you’re enjoying all this, Lyle.” Why wasn’t Lyle taking the story seriously? He wants to be a friend, you open up to him, he finds you merely amusing. “Forget it.”
“Sorry, buddy. But it’s a hell of a story.”
Noel studied Lyle’s expression. Contrite? “Then I pick up my mail and there’s a letter. I open it and it’s a fake newspaper tear sheet. My obituary.”
“‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’ Mark Twain.”
“Okay, never mind.”
“Hey, buddy.” Lyle put his hand over Noel’s. “I’m not making light. Just that nothing like that ever happens to me, it’s hard to know how to react.”
Noel removed his hand and used it to raise the mug. “It goes on.”
Lyle’s brow furrowed. “There’s more?”
Noel nodded. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you about the Gallery.”
“You think Marchand is involved with your phone calls and tires? Look, I know Artemus and, to put it mildly, writing fake obituaries isn’t his kind of thing.”
“Except a couple of evenings ago I got back to my condo after supper and somebody’d been there.”
Lyle squinted. “How could you tell?”
“Little things. Brendan’s picture lying on its face. A rug shifted. But mostly, when I checked my computer, somebody’d messed up one of the directories. Only one. All the files I had for our Dempster investigation.”
“Now that’s scary.” Lyle stared at Noel. “Amazing.”
“But I don’t see Artemus breaking in either, and his wife even less so. Kyra’s interviewed Tam Gill and can’t see him doing it. But the Dempster file was fucked with. I have to wonder if Eaglenest is connected.” He leaned forward. “Any ideas?”
Lyle scowled. “It doesn’t make sense. Did you know anyone at Eaglenest six weeks ago?”
“Marchand, from your opening.”
“Did you have a disagreement?”
“Nope. We exchanged maybe half a dozen words.”
Lyle shook his head again. “It’s weird.”
“It’s like I’m being played with. Stalked.”
“Hey, buddy, I know it’s scary. But at least nobody’s tried anything physical on you.”
Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Page 23
