Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  • • •

  RCMP Constable Charlotte Fredricks, posted at Silva Bay Marina, reported no large shipment loaded, no bales or crates, not on the boat wharf nor at the seaplane dock. Corporal Jim Yardley received similar negative responses from both the water taxi and Page’s Marina. Inspector Albert Matthew fully expected the suspect to leave the island on the ferry, but he covered all the bases.

  • • •

  They waited till the locksmith left, and went for late lunch at the seaplane pub. Then they strolled for more than an hour along the harbor walkway to the Departure Bay ferry and back. They didn’t talk much, which was fine. Many large boats in the marinas. Noel kept the Lyle-Jerry-Roy relationship hidden from conscious thought, Kyra felt the Gill-Marchand-Rabinovich quandary go quiet. After four when they got back. “Meet you upstairs,” Kyra said. “I’ll go get the photos.”

  Climbing the stairs Noel was hit by a moment of concern. He checked his new lock. All fine. He unlocked. The rug lay at its correct slant. In the bedroom Brendan’s photo stood as before. He turned on his computer. No problems. Okay, Sultan Suppliers. An old firm, recently bought by an art supplies conglomerate, Artifacts International. They mass-produce copies of ethnic art, special prices for museum gift shops. And ornate frames. Two more minutes of probing, and there it was: Artifacts International, owned by Latuis Interest Corp.

  Kyra came in, back with her pictures of Tam’s basement: the partial forgery, the old frames with slot-out backs. In triplicate.

  “First rate.” Noel told her about Sultan.

  “So neat.” She sat on the couch. “Think we should contact the Marchand-Gills, reassure them that we’re keeping our side of the bargain?”

  “Or let them sweat.”

  They sat in silence, weighing the options, till Kyra spoke up. “I say we call.”

  Noel gave a long sigh, and nodded. “You talk.”

  She went to the phone. “Hey, you’ve got a couple of messages.”

  “Play them, okay?”

  Kyra pressed play. “Noel, it’s Lucille. I’m royally pissed off at you.

  What’s going on with the Dempster murder? Is Rose Gill involved? I need information. Crime makes a better story than this piece on alternative justice I would have to fall back on. My bones are down to their last ounce of patience. Get on the horn and call me back!”

  “Oh damn! I completely forgot.”

  The next message played. A few seconds of silence, then a distorted whisper: “ . . . remember the Buckland fiasco, be cool . . .” Another second, then the disconnect.

  They stared at each other. Noel said, “Shit.”

  Kyra took him by the elbow and edged him down on the couch. “Tell me.”

  “Not Gill’s style of intimidation. Two different people making threats.”

  “Has to be.”

  “Right.” An empty part in him was filling with anger. “So do I wait for his next call? Or another obit? Or worse?”

  She got up and poured him a Scotch. And one for herself. “To hell with him.”

  He topped his off with water. “Do I have a choice?” He glanced at Kyra’s photos of Tam’s cellar. “Couldn’t be someone from Eaglenest. How would they know about Buckland?”

  “Anybody could check you out. Lots of publicity when you wrote that series. Didn’t Marchand know you’d been a reporter?”

  Noel shrugged, sipped the Scotch. “Could it have been Marchand, disguising his voice?”

  “Didn’t sound like Marchand. Or Tam.”

  Noel flipped through the photos. “What do they have to protect?” He stared at a picture of Tam’s easel. “They’re pretty much like any entrepreneurs. Artemus buys for less and sells for more, Tam works for him and paints on the side, Rose develops a product to market. They have a Foundation that supports small sustainable projects. It gives them tax breaks.”

  “You make it sound like a mom and pop shop.” She laughed without humor. “What about the poppies. Rose develops small quantities, opium-wise. Really strong stuff?”

  He got up. “Let’s go back to their threat.” He paced. “Try it differently. One,” ticking off his index finger, “we have no proof for anything. Small amounts of opium maybe in frames for The Hermitage. Two,” middle finger, “Tam paints in many styles, including Old Masters, but if he doesn’t sign them are they technically forgeries? Three,” ring finger, “maybe Artemus has actually bought some art from Europe that has been authenticated. Four, they’ve somehow figured a way to get Gill’s paintings through the authentication process. Five,” the thumb, “the stuff Marchand sells to The Hermitage might or might not include a Gill.” He turned, pacing hard. “Six,” the other index, “Peter Rabinovich, a friend of the family, is their best customer and owns a luxury casino-hotel in Vegas. Six and a half,” Noel stuck up his left thumb knuckle, “likely, and we can only guess, he has control of more things than we’ve ever thought of.” He came to rest by the window. “Such as picture frame companies.”

  “And seven.” Kyra took over, “We’ve fulfilled our obligation to our client and the rest is none of our business.”

  Noel whirled about. “Oh yes it is. Seven, eight, nine and ten, those are big threats. Threatening us is bad, threatening people we love is diabolical. They control us with threats.”

  “Go on.”

  “We have two options.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “We let them know we’ll abide by their demands, hope Tam and Co. honor the bargain, report to Lucas that we couldn’t learn anything more, get on with our lives. Or—we defuse the threat.”

  “Let’s take a step back. What if Rose isn’t selling drugs. What it she gives them away. Where’s the criminal offense?”

  “Producing opium. Even in tiny amounts. It’s like a pot plant on the window ledge. They’re both illegal.”

  “It’s a law you broke, too. For Brendan.”

  “Yeah but come on, the police are looking for heroin from Thailand, Colombian coke. Terrorists making bombs. Half a dozen vials of opium from Gabriola? Technically illegal, but get serious. Hey. Did you return the rental car?”

  “Oh shit!” She leapt up, looked at her watch. “Too late. I’m into a full third day.”

  • • •

  Rose wheeled her way up the ramp to Tam’s deck. Tam opened a beer for her, and one for himself. “More than twenty-four hours.”

  Rose said, “You should make sure she’s agreed to be silent.”

  “Let’s not provoke them. Easier to talk in a couple of days.”

  Rose said nothing.

  “What’s with Artemus?”

  “His usual self.”

  Tam raised his beer. “To the silence of detectives.”

  “Two days.” She sipped.

  • • •

  Okay, Noel thought, how do we break the control of Tam’s threat? Superior force wouldn’t do it, not from say the Mounties, bring them in and the threat becomes reality. Force from us? Go in with pistols blazing? Not likely.

  And the other thing, Lyle and Jerry. Either or both as murderers? A circumstance that grew out of control? Noel couldn’t see Lyle losing control. Could Lyle hurt someone with cold-blooded intent? Unlikely. Jerry could lose control. Sue had reported the argument between Jerry and Roy. If, say, Jerry and Lyle were in the grow-op together, and Jerry had accidentally killed Roy, and gone to Lyle for help, then Lyle was involved. After the fact. So, talk to Jerry? Put it to him, see how he responds? Except if I’ve guessed right, Jerry’s lack of control could make me suddenly as dead as Roy. Bad idea. Lay it out to Lyle? Make a deal with Albert, get Lyle to turn Jerry in, give evidence against Jerry. A suspended sentence for Lyle? Do I care enough for Lyle, to help him like this?

  Lyle, involved in murder? One way to find out.

  Why can’t I leave it alone. To find a little justice for Roy? Unlikely.

  Noel called Albert. The machine. No sense leaving a message. Kyra was off food shopping. They were eating in tonight. A note: Gone to have a chat with Ly
le. Back soon. N.

  Down the stairs, into the garage. Tires okay. He drove out, headed south. It’d be dark in an hour. How to start this conversation? No, let it happen in the doing.

  He stopped the car in front of Lyle’s house. Up to the latticed porch. He rang the bell. “Swanee River.” He sighed.

  The door opened. “Noel. What a surprise.”

  “Hello, Lyle.”

  “And what brings you by this evening?”

  “To talk to you. May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Lyle stepped back and Noel entered. Lyle led him along the hall. Noel noted a study on this side, a bedroom on that. They entered the largest room, to the right of the kitchen, the living room.

  “Have a seat.” Lyle gestured at a fat brown leather chair.

  It matched the sofa against the far wall. Two other plush patterned chairs about the room, both away from the wall as if in obeisance to the heavy sofa. A glassed-in fireplace. Half a dozen paintings, three of which Noel recognized as Lyle’s. A thick green carpet. “Thanks.”

  Noel sat.

  “A drink?”

  “Okay.”

  They agreed on Scotch, neat. Lyle poured and handed Noel one of two heavy cut-crystal glasses. “To what do I owe the honor, and so on?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “So you said.” He grinned. “Should I put on the soft music?”

  “A serious talk.”

  “What? More tires slashed? More phone calls? I hope not something worse.”

  “No, luckily.” Mention today’s call? Remembering it had suddenly put Noel on edge.

  “No obituaries? No more computer attacks? Hard to believe, Noel.”

  “That the guy’s leaving me alone?”

  “That someone would mess up your computer. I find that implausible.”

  Something weird about Lyle. Could work out okay, though. “Why implausible?”

  “No no, not important, you came to talk.” He sipped. “About another of your problems.”

  “Actually no. I came to talk about you.” Noel sipped in return. “Your problem.”

  “About me? What an intriguing subject.”

  Noel leaned forward. “Actually to help you, if I can.”

  “Help me with—?”

  “With the trouble you’re in.”

  “Trouble?” Lyle raised his eyebrows.

  “It has to do with Jerry Bannister.”

  Lyle grimaced. “I’ve decided not to paint him. He’s impossible to be with.”

  “But he’s your pot-growing buddy, isn’t he.”

  A strain now on Lyle’s face. “Bannister?”

  Noel nodded. “In the grow-op. And possibly also in Roy’s death.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Noel shook his head. “No, sensible. And I can call a Mountie friend, get him to make a deal with you.”

  “A deal?”

  “I think you’re an accomplice, you could be charged with murder. You have to tell the RCMP what happened, how Roy died, what Jerry Bannister’s role in this is.”

  While Noel spoke, Lyle stared into his glass. Now he stood. “Let me see if I understand what you’re saying here. I made a deal with Bannister to grow pot?”

  “Right. You smoke the best dope. Best is what you grow yourself. You offered me some at my place, remember? And you provided Brendan with some good stuff.”

  Lyle nodded. “Brendan. Yes. But Brendan was a friend. A very very dear friend.”

  Dear? “Look, you were in this with Bannister, and he killed Roy. Likely by accident.”

  “This is crazy.” Lyle paced to the window. “How can you think I’d get involved in growing pot, let alone murder?”

  “I think it was an accident. Maybe you weren’t even there.”

  “Of course I wasn’t there.” Lyle marched to the fireplace. “There was no there for me not to be at.” Back to the window. “Grow pot with that pig Bannister? For shitsake.” He finished the Scotch. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  He’ll react soon. “I’m right. Admit it.”

  “Come on,” pacing again, “I could no more” striding behind the chairs “have been involved in murder than—”

  The last words Noel heard because a crystal whisky glass smashed into his head just behind the right temple.

  • • •

  Kyra put down the groceries. She was hungry. How could she be hungry after a late lunch? No sign of Noel. His phone caught her eye. He has to change his phone number. She went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, applied new lipstick.

  The door to his room stood ajar. She glanced in. Nope. In the living room? No. She checked the little balcony. She called, “Noel? Noel!” Inside Noel’s head, the pain pounded hard. I’m alive, he thought. He tried to touch the place of the pain but his hand had gone wrong, he couldn’t move it. The other hand? No. But he felt something with his right hand, with his left too. Then he realized, each hand felt the other. In fact couldn’t move from the other. Where was he? He’d gone to see Lyle. He said, “Lyle?” but it came out, “Mmmnbb” because tape covered his mouth, tearing at his lips and cheek.

  He was lying on the floor. On his back. Under him, a carpet. He rolled to an elbow, tried to push himself to standing. His feet were connected to each other. He slumped down.

  Lyle said, “Good morning. Or rather, good night.”

  Noel said, “Mmuuyuu dnnnn,” which should have been, What’re you doing?

  “Why did you have to be such a fool, Noel?” Lyle sounded nothing like the Lyle who’d cheerily designed a business for Kyra and him.

  Noel mmyed.

  “This isn’t good.” His tone was flat.

  “Nnnnnn—”

  “Are you religious, Noel? Funny, all the time I’ve known you and I don’t have a clue. Do you believe in an afterlife? Where you’ll see Brendan again? If you believe, grunt once. If not, twice.”

  Noel grunted twice.

  “That’s good. Because if you did meet Brendan again, I’d be jealous.

  Extremely.” He bent down, staring at Noel’s face. “Again.”

  Noel closed his eyes. Oh shit.

  “You never knew about Brendan and me. Just before you arrived on the scene. Brendan never spoke of previous intimates. And who else could tell you? Me?” He laughed.

  Triple shit.

  “Here’s a choice. Die knowing why you’ll die, or die in ignorance.

  Which would you prefer?”

  Die? Die?

  “If you want to know, grunt once. If not, twice.”

  Keep him talking, keep him talking. Noel grunted once.

  “Good. Don’t go away, I’ll just get myself another Scotch. Sorry I can’t offer you one. I’ll only be a moment, I have to get a new glass.” He laughed lightly. “Since you broke my first.”

  Noel worked the tape around his wrists. No give. And his feet were wrapped so tightly they’d gone numb. Multiple shit. Why hadn’t he told Albert’s machine where he’d gone, what he was doing. He closed his eyes against a surge of panic.

  Lyle’s voice, quietly menacing: “Now, the famous five journalistic questions. You surely remember them. From your one-time profession. Until you decided you didn’t want to be a public person any longer, until your press friends turned on you, exposed you. All those mistakes, how dumb. What was the name of that woman? Oh yes. Buckland. Tanja Buckland. So dumb.” He sighed. “Are you wondering, how do I know these things? I like to know my subjects thoroughly.” He shook his head. “Too bad Brendan didn’t see how stupid you were. Are.”

  Unbelievable. Who is this Lyle? Changed so completely so fast?

  “The five questions. First, how. How it will be done. In this manner.” Noel felt a cold tickle on his nose. He opened his eyes. The tip of a broad-bladed knife. “It’s served many purposes. Fileting fish, though it’s a little large. Hacking chickens apart. It hasn’t entered human flesh. At least not to my knowledge. Ooh—now that’s wrong, I cut myself once slicing an onio
n. Wrong tool for the job.”

  A moment of silence. Then: “Superior Scotch. You I served a common blend. Why waste this lovely Glenmorangie.” Silence. “Next, where. Let’s do where and when together, shall we? Not here, not now, it’d be a mistake, blood stains on my carpet. Don’t you agree? When it’s dark, we’ll go for a ride. Where? To, let’s say, the Third Nanaimo Lake. Oh, in your car, naturally. It wouldn’t do to leave my tire tracks up there. Nice new tires, Noel. Then I’ll bring your car back. Where? To your garage. It’ll be lots easier to get into this time. From the hot tub roof took some daring. And agility too, I might add. You do have an automatic door opener, don’t you?”

  Noel thought: would Kyra find his note?

  “And then why. I think that’s out of order. Silly journalistic order. But good in order for me. Why? Because you destroyed something perfectly wonderful, Noel. What? Why, Brendan and me. There has never been a better couple. Never! We were close, intensely close. Hard to achieve such singularity of ideal and purpose between two people. And you destroyed it. One week, all it took you. Which shows your power. Your casual power.” Silence. “So good, this Scotch. Ah, you may ask, why did I wait till now? You can’t guess. No, you’re not swift. Except in your stealth in stealing a man’s lover. So I’ll tell you. Because I loved Brendan. I still love Brendan. I wouldn’t have hurt him. Not for the world. To harm you while he lived would be to hurt Brendan. I couldn’t do that.”

  He’s nuts. Out of his fucking head. Would Kyra find this place? Noel hadn’t left an address. She’d find it in the phone book! Get here, Kyra—Shit! Lyle’s number isn’t listed.

  “And finally, who. We both know the answer to that. You and me. I and only I could do this. It would have worked out more painfully for you if you hadn’t shown up here, I’ll give you that. You were going to hurt in three ways, Noel. You’ve felt the beginning pain of each. What three, you ask. I’ll tell you. But wait, a little light, so I can watch your face.” A standing lamp came on. “First, psychologically. Your panic from my calls, my breath in your ear. Clever of you to ignore them at night. But you couldn’t escape your answering machine, could you. Thank you for suggesting lunch at the Crow and Gate, by the way. And now you see why I insisted on paying. You gave me such pleasure. Of course the obituary was mine, and the tires. But I’ve already mentioned the tires.” Silence. “And devious of you to increase my challenge. Messing with your computer? It never happened. Not what I like to do. All right then, I got to you psychologically.” He knelt beside Noel and whispered into his face: “Admit it. Grunt once if I got to you psychologically.”