Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (13 page)

During visits to Quadra Austin entertained the same people, Steve with his Dutch accent who kept taking pictures of everybody, Shu-li; an Asian woman with a Canadian accent. And a looker, like to look her all over one day.

Sometimes when Austin arrived Randy needed to fetch him from the airport. This time Austin had rented a car, driven himself over. But Randy had been ordered to go out and shop. Austin had sent the grocery list in advance, two hundred dollars' worth of groceries, twice that for booze. Randy didn't need a list; he knew what Austin liked for himself and for his guests. Sometimes he'd buy some delicacy he knew Austin and his guests would enjoy. Now there was beer in the fridge, whisky in the cabinet, wine in the closet. “What's up for this visit, then?”

“Shu-li's arriving today, I'll pick her up. You meet Steve at the airport, one o'clock tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Why can't Steve get a floatplane to Quadra? Randy kept his face impassive. He admired Austin. Mostly. Less when he breezed onto Quadra and gave orders: meet, fetch, carry, shop, drive. More when he and Austin could talk about how the world worked, how to understand those living on the island, how to make use of them. Best when he and Austin understood each other without spelling things out. Some workers took the commands they were given and followed them—this happened occasionally to Randy, like now upon Austin's arrival. But Randy worked best when he could help Austin out without being asked, when Randy understood what Austin needed even before Austin realized what he wanted. That was satisfying.

“Place looks great, Randy.”

“Good.” They surveyed the vista, from perennial beds near the house and paths around it, the gazebo by the small grassy plot with chairs and table in front, down the swoop of carefully thinned Douglas firs to the bay. To the right and the left the land rose higher, ending at cliffs sixty feet above the ocean. “I cut the grass yesterday.” Randy's little nemesis, the patch of lawn with chairs and table to lug about and reposition each time he cut it.

Austin breathed the sweet, dewy air and took a sip of coffee. “Good to be back on Quadra. No place like it.”

Something else Austin often said on arrival. And with this Randy completely agreed. He'd moved here four years ago, after a career of unfinished degrees and dumped jobs. He'd grown up in Prince George, dropped out of school in the spring of grade twelve; his girl had jilted him—obviously not
his
girl—and his heart was broken. He'd worked in the bush logging pine-beetle-infested trees, then at the mill. Laid off, he qualified as a mature student for the new university and almost got his high school equivalency. Half a dozen more menial jobs, then off to Fort McMurray and the tar sands. Liked the money but nothing else and so to Calgary and construction. Good money there too, and women and booze. And coke. Year and a half, there went the money. And his nose, sinuses, esophagus. Nothing left of those days except a framed picture of him, Randolph Dubronsky: Employee of the Month. Randy took off with everything he owned in his Ford 250 and pulled into a deserted campground in Yoho. He spent two weeks coming clean; when he'd stopped jittering and howling he loaded up and headed west. Someone in a gas station in Osoyoos mentioned Quadra Island. Randy just kept driving.

“Did you get fresh lemon grass and the other stuff on Shu-li's list?”

“Yeah.” Thank god he didn't have to cook it. Shu-li liked to. He sipped his coffee and involuntarily looked over toward the lush cucumber vines crawling up the trellis behind the flowerbed. He'd planted cucumber seeds beside the mint when he'd noted, last year, that Austin had taken to drinking Pimms with cucumber and mint. He kept the plants well watered and they'd rewarded him with fast growth. Some sweet peas had benefited too. He'd had to prop those up, bit of a drag. Watering gardens in summer, even on a big island like Quadra, had to be kept to a minimum. So far Austin hadn't noticed he could have this afternoon's Pimms with his own cucumber slice and mint.

Randy thought Austin felt easy with him; he'd found Randy through a bulletin board notice: “House-sit, Pet-sit, Jack of all Trades, Do Anything, Leave number at store, Will phone. Refs.” The refs, faked, had been more than adequate so Randy was installed in Austin's cabin with a stipend for caretaking.

Randy leaned on the railing and looked at the view. He did enjoy it. The tide was in, lapping softly at the rocks. Sky reflection on water-covered weeds, bottom-feeders, scuttlers, the general nastiness of underwater life and death. He had the same view from his cabin, which was a major reason he'd taken the job and why he put up with Austin's requests.

“Sure is nice, isn't it?” Austin finished his coffee. “Winter days in Ottawa, thirty below with the snow blasting, I think of this.”

Randy set his empty cup on the railing. “Why don't you move here permanently?”

“Can't yet. Some day.”

Why not, Randy thought, but he didn't probe. He'd learn when he needed to know.

“I hear the Coopers have hired a couple of detectives,” Randy said.

“Detectives? What for?”

“The guys at the pub figure to find out who beat up Derek.”

Austin tapped his fingertips on his coffee cup and stared into the far distance. Perhaps at the passing sailboat.

Going at a fair whip, Randy thought. Not anchoring in this bay. “Better get to it.”

Austin watched Randy head off to the front of the house and disappear around the corner. He would wait to plan the meeting with Shu-li and Steve. Harold Arensen wandering about in Austin's mind too often transformed his mood from temperate to manic, so he worked hard to keep Harold away. But the purpose of these meetings was their plan to destroy Harold. So there'd be no avoiding him. Still, Austin needn't begin to let Harold into his thinking till they were all together.

•  •  •

Kyra sat next to Noel, the map in her lap. A left at West Road, past the village, up Heriot Bay Road to a tangle of small roads, and in a few minutes they drove under an arch that announced:
BRISTOL GREENS
. At eye level another sign said:
CLOSED
.

“You don't get much business being closed,” Kyra sniffed.

“It's not nine o'clock yet.”

The driveway was dirt, slightly rutted. Noel slowed. To the right a modular home fronted by a cedar deck held three folding chairs. To the left, a pickup and a mid-sized white van. Beyond the house opaque plastic-covered greenhouses stretched in two sun-reflecting rows. Beyond them grew tall firs, cedars, broadleaf maples. The Honda crawled along. They looked about for signs of human activity.

“That door's open.” Kyra pointed to the fourth greenhouse on the left.

Noel stopped. At the slam of their doors a head appeared through the doorway. Under a ball cap bearing the words “Bristol Greens” were light blue eyes, a narrow nose and a three-day fuzz beard. A pleasant young face.

“Hi, you Sam?” called Kyra.

“Yeah.”

They walked toward Sam. “We're friends of the Coopers.” She held out a card. “May we come in?”

“Better I come out.” Sam pulled the door to behind him. “The fewer people in with the tomatoes, the better they like it.” He smiled and took her card.

“Oh, yes,” Noel said, remembering a case with a greenhouse that had the same stricture. “Noel Franklin. My partner, Kyra Rachel. We're asking around about the assault on Derek Cooper. Have a minute?”

“Sure. I'll get my coffee.” He disappeared, reappeared with a travel mug. “We can sit over there.” He pointed to a bench and a strapped deck chair between two greenhouses. His T-shirt sleeves, folded up, revealed developed biceps crossed with veins and sinews. On the left, two small tattoos, a blue rose and a purple daffodil.

“Derek's a really good guy.” Sam took off his cap and scratched at his scalp under a red-blond crew cut. “Breaks me up to see him so out of it.” His voice sounded strained. He put his hat back on.

“Yeah, people seem to like him,” Kyra said. “Any thought of who might have done it?”

“I've been over it and over it. All I can think is some guy just wanted to bash somebody and Derek was in the wrong place.”

“Some guy?”

“Maybe.”

“You know if he ticked anybody off recently?”

“Nope.”

“How about that new girlfriend, was she with somebody before Derek?”

“Cindy? Jeeze, I wouldn't know, she's over in Campbell River.”

“You met her?”

“Yeah, coupla times. Derek brought her over.”

Noel asked, “What do you think of her?”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno her well. Pretty. Smitten with Derek.”

“Derek broke off with an old girlfriend to date Cindy.”

“Bertina.” Sam smiled into his coffee mug. “She's great.”

“Was she angry?”

“Like, would she try to hurt Derek? No way. Bertina's the gentlest kid.”

This wasn't getting anywhere. “What do you grow here?” Kyra asked. “Tomatoes?”

“Yeah. And sweet peppers, all colors, jalapenos and Scotch bonnets. Lettuces, arugula, some flowers. All organic. We supply a lot of the Big Island now and just signed a deal with Whistler. The Olympics, we lucked out. And,” Sam rolled his shoulders making his biceps flex and the flowers dance, “we've got a federal contract for medical marijuana. Now that's a lot of work.”

“Different from the tomatoes and jalapenos?”

“Each plant makes its own demands but for the feds you got to do it their way. You have to follow nutrient formulae, different for different species.”

“Who do you supply?” Noel asked.

“Compassion clubs. We take it to a distributor in Campbell River. He takes it to the clubs.”

“Does that bring in much money?” Kyra asked. “Sorry to be nosy, but it's an occupational hazard.” She smiled at him.

“It's okay. Thing is, it's steady income. My dad and I are partners, and I've got a share in the mortgage too, so it really helps.”

“So your heart's in the business?”

“Yeah, my heart, my hands, nearly all my time. But I love it. Wouldn't do anything else.”

Noel asked, “You wouldn't, uh, cut a little bud and deal privately?”

Sam jerked up straight, slopping some coffee. “Are you kidding? Think I want to jeopardize this contract?!” He glared at her.

“Just exploring.”

Sam calmed a bit. “Besides, medical growers are all bonded and we have to account for each plant, and besides again, the local Mounties know us.”

“Apologies,” said Noel. Sam's righteous indignation sounded authentic.

Kyra looked around. “Is your dad available?”

“He's shopping.”

“What's his name?”

“Brant Bristol.”

Noel stood. The day was heating up. “Thanks, Sam. You think of anything, give me or Kyra a call.”

“It's a damn crime.”

Kyra stood too. “I'll look for Bristol Greens in stores.”

“Thanks.”

Back on the road Kyra said, “I've never known a case with so many nice guys. Where the fuck are the villains?”

“Yeah, a black hat would be refreshing. You believe him about the dope?”

“You mean impossible to rip off fed meds? No idea, but he made a good case.”

“Using the medical stuff to camouflage his own?”

She thought. “It's possible.”

“Even nice guys like a bit of weed.”

They drove back, quietly mulling. As they neared the Cooper land, Noel said, “Shall we stop at the B&B and tell Barb we're likely staying till Friday?”

“Likely?”

“Unless we figure this out before then.” After a moment he added, “You know, you could stay here and probe some more.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“I really better get Alana back to Qualicum. I could be back late Sunday.”

“Hmm.” Kyra considered that. “Let's see what happens tomorrow before I decide.

“I'd have to rent a car.”

“No problem.”

“Except we're not being paid on this one.”

“I'll rent it for you.”

“Be careful you don't run through all of Brendan's money.”

Not possible, thought Noel. Brendan, a stockbroker, had left Noel well cushioned. And with Brendan gone—dead, dammit!—Noel had found a new broker. Who had advised Noel to put the largest part of his inheritance into bonds. Best financial advice Noel had ever received, even including Brendan's. Wonder where Brendan would have been on the present recession? A few months ago Noel had checked into those equities he'd banked out. If he'd have held on to them he'd now be worth sixty-five percent less. To Kyra he said, “I always try to be careful.”

At the B&B they told Barb that Noel would be staying until Friday morning, Kyra maybe longer. Noel would be coming back.

On to pick up Alana. In the drive, Jason's Corolla was gone. Linda's Mazda sat there. They found Shane at the kitchen counter hunched over a bowl of fruit-topped cereal. His short brown hair was water-slicked back. He wore a black T-shirt, white jeans and white running shoes. Noel said to him, “Morning, Shane. Breakfast of champions?”

Shane gave Noel a you're-weird-man squint. “Breakfast, yeah.”

“Seen Alana?”

“Taking a shower.”

Kyra said, “I'll go see how she's doing.” She left the room.

“So. What's on for you today, Shane?”

“Practice.”

“Same every day?”

“Yep.” Shane took a small bite of cereal.

Blood from pebbles time. “Any theories about what happened to Derek?”

Shane shoveled cereal into his mouth.

“Shane?”

“Why should I have any theories?”

“Anybody can have theories.”

Silence from Shane.

“As Derek's brother, you might have clearer theories than other people.”