Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (2 page)

“Wooowee!” Spider.

“Hard day in the library, Sue?” Tom.

“Susanna.”

“Susie Susanna?”

They sparred and teased till the beer and her drink came. Tom brought it over for her—was he working tonight, or just helping out? Giggles from Spider and Raina. Why had she come? Right then she didn't want to be here any more. She finished her martini in two swallows. Enough for tonight.

“Like I said before. Wooooooweee!”

She stood. “I'm taking off.”

“Yeah, better get home before the booze hits.” Tom mocked a leer, or maybe he meant it. “You want I should drive you home, just in case?”

“See you around, guys.” She ignored Tom, at the bar handed Thor her credit card, got her chit and headed out as she'd come in. The sky had darkened, a few stars, no moon. She felt a breeze on her bare shoulders and pulled her stole tighter. Right behind her and the two other cars in the lot, a big sedan, blocking them all. Damn! Stupid ass, who'd do anything so dumb? She walked over to the driver's side and tried to look in. Too dark. A movement behind her. What—! She tried to turn but someone grabbed her upper arm and pulled her stole even tighter. A sack of some sickly sweet smell came down over her head. She fought but the hand and stole didn't loosen. She had to get the sack off fast, jerked her shoulders and head sharply back and forth, then suddenly the effort became overwhelming and the smell went up her nose and down her throat and she knew when she'd wanted a little peril to come to San Juan she hadn't meant to herself . . . 

KYRA RACHEL HAD
been focusing on the door to the sporting goods store for twenty minutes. Her stare, barely short of hypnotic, was making her nape and the back of her head ache. She sensed the phone vibrate and pulled it from her windbreaker pocket. “Rachel,” she answered,
sotto voce
.

“Is this Islands Investigations International?”

“Yes.” Whispering.

“My name is Peter Langley. I'm a professor at Morsely University on San Juan Island. I'd like to hire your firm.”

“What's your problem?” Eyes not moving from the door, voice softer still.

“Possible plagiarism. It's a bit messy. Can I talk to you about it?”

“Maybe my partner can handle it. Noel Franklin. Triple I's email address is on our web page.”

“Oh. Yes. I'll get to it right away.”

“Sorry, have to go.” Kyra shoved her phone back in her pocket; the object of her surveillance was leaving the store. Carrying a tennis racket! Cane over his arm like Fred Astaire, not the look of a fifty-two-year-old man allegedly suffering whiplash. The most common, and boring, kind of insurance case. She snapped three fast photos.

She envied Noel some nice plagiarism. Right up his alley, too; he'd told stories about newspaper word-and-idea thefts from his previous career: investigative journalism.

Fred Wisely sidestepped into his low-slung blue Toyota FT 86 Concept like a flashy teenager. Got that on camera, too. She started her Tracker's engine, pulled out three cars behind and drove to the Bellis Fair Mall exit.

Ah! Wisely, fast dart up to the curb. She passed, noting Wise Guy's sprightly gait into a florist shop—flowers to celebrate the insurance money? I think not! Should be Weasley, not Wisely. She parked ahead of his car. She pulled out her phone and tapped in Noel's landline number. He always shut off his mobile at home.

But, up in Nanaimo, British Columbia, the line rang busy. Five minutes later, still busy. And no Wisely. How long does it take to choose flowers? He didn't even take his cane this time. Get off the phone, Noel!

Wiseguy Weasley, grinning, appeared with a bouquet of tropical blooms, jaunted down the street and slid into his car. Quick shots over her shoulder. Kyra watched the rearview mirror and, when he was past her, pulled out. She trailed him home to his bungalow on Lake Samish, and wished him a terrible evening. His terrible day would be coming soon.

She called Noel again—busy, what the hell was he doing?—parked the Tracker in her condo's underground lot, rode the elevator up five flights, and let herself in. A long bath would be grand. She opened her computer and transferred the photos of Wisely the Weasel. She uploaded, checked the pictures, and sent them to Puget Sound Life, 99 percent certain Wisely hadn't really been hurt in the smash-up. Watch him another day to make sure? Maybe he was taking painkillers that allowed him to prance about. Better to be thorough. Six or eight more photos would clinch the case, one way or the other.

A glance at the clock, 5:25, late enough. She poured a vodka-tonic. She redialed Noel. “Hi. You were on the phone a while.” She sipped.

“Oh. Yeah. I was talking to Lucille.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I told her I don't want to shoot anymore.”

“But we agreed—”

“I hate shooting. If it didn't make sense for Triple I to have a gun on each side of the border, I wouldn't have gone this far.”

“Was it something Lucille said? Or did?”

“No. It's just me.”

“Did you use her handgun? Did she teach you anything?”

“Yes. Just nothing I like.” Noel sighed. “She said get a nine millimeter Beretta. I said I would but I don't want more lessons. She said we could kayak together. Another useful skill for a private investigator.” He laughed, ruefully.

“But you got the Beretta. You agreed.”

“Yeah, and now I'm disagreeing. At least on who gets to use it.”

Kyra and Noel had met Lucille Maple, a seventy-four-year-old reporter for the Gabriola
Gab
with a deplorable writing style, while working on Gabriola. Kyra had said, “Private investigators need handguns. Talk to Lucille.” Turned out Lucille was a Senior Champion trapshooter. She'd picked Noel up at the ferry twice a week and brought him to a low level of competence. He'd acquired the pistol and a lockbox for ammunition and didn't like any of it, not at all.

In Bellingham, Kyra kept a Smith and Wesson Airlite. The gun, weighing twelve ounces, barrel length under two inches, fit comfortably in her purse. With Noel's Beretta in Nanaimo, they wouldn't have to cart a gun across the border.

Noel just hoped they never had to use either. Kayaking would be more fun. Maybe. At least less noisy.

“We'll talk about guns later.” She sipped her drink. “Did you read our email?”

“No.”

“We 've got a possible new case.”

“Yeah?”

“I had a call from a prof on San Juan Island. There's a university there, Morsely, Mosely, something like that.”

“San Juan? That's the island you get to off Sidney, isn't it?”

“I think so but I haven't looked. I've been in the bloody car all day.”

“What's his problem?”

“Says he has a maybe-plagiarism case. He's supposed to have emailed us about it. I'm still stuck in whiplash-land. I said you'd call him. If it sounds urgent, you want to come on down? Plagiarism doesn't require guns.” She sipped her drink.

“How's the whiplash going?”

“Guy has a cane he's been leaning on, today he hooked it over his arm, later he left it in the car. I think he thinks he's celebrating, but it ain't gonna happen.” She chuckled. “I should be free of it soon. Maybe you can get the new case started?”

“Yeah. I'll let you know. What's his name?”

Kyra thought hard. “Don't remember. Lincoln? London? Read his email.”

“Okay. Talk soon.”

“Bye.” She put the phone down and finished her drink. Noel must know we have to have a chat. Maybe several chats. As many as it takes to convince him.

Time for a bath. Two bedrooms, one and two-thirds bathrooms in the condo, which still felt new even after six months. In her bedroom she kicked off her loafers, pulled down her jeans, dragged the black turtleneck over her head, discarded underwear in the laundry basket. A few steps to the bathroom and she turned on the light and taps. She felt a bit beaten from sitting in the car so long and looked in the mirror. She ran her hand through her dark brown curls and decided she'd still do—no lines on her neck yet, no sagging breasts. Not bad for thirty-eight. She washed her hair and rinsed it while the tub filled, then turned off the taps and lay back.

Seven weeks since the accident. Why did she call it that? The guy had meant to take them out—he'd swiped them into the trees. She shuddered. Bathwater slopped over the rim. Crash! and she'd miscarried. Until then she hadn't known she wanted a baby so much. And still did. Now she wanted Noel for its father, no sex just sperm, he wouldn't have to be its parent if he didn't want—

She'd presented all this to him six weeks ago, quite reasonably, she still thought. Yet his “No way!” still reverberated. San Juan Island would be a good place to tackle the topic again. If they took this case.

Plagiarism, Noel thought, as he checked Triple I's email. When he'd been at university, some students had bought papers, the stupidest a kid who gave the professor a paper on water imagery in Wordsworth's poetry, but the guy hadn't even checked its author—the prof's wife. Wonder what happened to the guy . . . 

Good to get to a case again. Dr. Peter Langley was the professor's name. The email included his landline numbers, home and office, and his cell phone number. But it did seem overkill to pay a private investigator, even if plagiarism was intellectual theft. He texted Kyra that he would go over tomorrow. By now she'd probably read Langley's email. And since San Juan was a US island, he'd have to leave the Beretta at home. What a shame.

The Internet told Noel that Morsely University on San Juan Island was a small, expensive, specialized university with most of the teaching online—students came in for two weeks at the start of each term, a few days at the end of term. San Juan was an hour plus by ferry from Sidney, north of Victoria on the Saanich Peninsula. Nanaimo, where Noel lived, was two hours up Vancouver Island. Did he need a reservation for the ferry and what time did it leave? Okay, 12:05
PM
, and a reservation was a good idea. He phoned Dr. Langley, no answer, then texted him to confirm his arrival the next afternoon. Texting was a new thing for him, Kyra dragging him into the present. Blackberry or iPhone? His nationalism chose the Blackberry. He didn't much enjoy it—his fingers were too big.

Later that evening Langley texted back: Call when you get in, I'll give you directions. Noel packed a bag, had a drink and slept well. In the morning he grabbed his bag and computer case, locked the condo and put his luggage on the back seat of his brand-new deep-blue Honda Civic; his previous Honda, just a year old, had been totaled by Kyra on Quadra Island. He headed down-island, over the twisting Malahat, bypassed Victoria and arrived at the Sidney terminal with nearly an hour to spare. Before entering the ferry parking lot, he tried phoning Langley. This time a machine told him Langley was in class. Noel paid and lined up, one of three cars in the row going to San Juan. In another segment of the lot, seven more rows—cars to be ferried to Anacortes, connecting from there to the Washington mainland by a bridge. Not many cars on this late August Wednesday. Strangely, a good number of walk-ons. Commuting regularly between Canada and the US? Between the lineups and the dock stood a model of a little boat labeled
FERRY BETWEEN FRIENDS
. Cute.

A yellow-jacketed ferry worker slid a yellow card under the Honda's windshield wiper. Noel presumed that meant they knew he was going to Friday Harbor. Noel got out to explore. Around the parking lot was a high wire fence; toward Sidney, a public boat launch. A path ran along the beachfront and crossed the area where cars drove onto the ferry. Along the path were two gates, one on the ferry side, the other on the parking lot side. Clever, thought Noel. When no one was getting on or off, the gates remained locked and the public could easily walk along the path.

He returned to the car and pulled out his book, first volume of Mark Twain's autobiography. Fifteen minutes before departure, another yellow-coated ferry worker told him to drive aboard. He did, locked the Honda and went up to the lounge. It looked similar to the BC short-route ferries yet different—for one thing, the seats were more comfortable. He discovered a duty-free shop. Of course: he was traveling between nations. He bought a liter of vodka for twenty-one dollars. Kyra would like that.

A seventy-five-minute trip. He walked the length of the ferry. The prow and stern were shaped alike. So it could go in either direction? But suddenly, maybe a quarter mile from shore, the ferry slowed, and turned. Aha. It had been backing out. He studied the shorelines and saw clearly why Sidney's harbor was held in such repute—a perfect semicircle of land protected by windbreak islands.

He went back and forth between his book, staring at the shoreline and exploring the ferry, the
Chelan
. It was named, he learned, for the Chelan tribe, from
cotsill-ane
, meaning the deep water of Lake Chelan, the area in which they had lived. Eventually the ferry passed an open grassy island with a few trees and a herd of sheep. Different ecology: the Strait of Georgia islands were heavy with coniferous forests, occasional houses dotting rocky shores. Probably there'd been trees here too, but they'd been felled likely long ago, the land turned to pasture. He spotted a map on the wall and checked it. Shaw Island. So he should be able to see San Juan from the other side of the ferry. Yes.