Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (2 page)

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I need your help. It's my groundskeeper, Roy Dempster. The Gallery's groundskeeper. The Eaglenest Gallery. He's dead.”

That's how Noel knew the name, from the Gallery. On Gabriola. He'd been there with Brendan.

“My wife found Roy's body. I'm concerned about the Gallery's reputation. And about Roy. Though it's too late for him.”

“You need my help?”

“You come highly recommended. I'd like you to make it clear to everyone that Roy didn't die on Gallery grounds.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Bye.”

“Wait. Please. Is this the Noel Franklin who used to write investigative columns for the
Sun
?”

“Used to is right.”

“I'm told you're discreet and thorough.” Marchand's voice quavered. “That's what I need. Roy may have been murdered. Or maybe not.”

The conversation was beyond Noel. “What on earth do you think I can do?”

“Would you come over to the island? I'll explain everything.”

“If it's maybe murder, aren't the Mounties handling it?”

“There's a column in our newspaper— I'm deeply concerned. I've got to stop the gossip. You can read it for yourself. Give me your fax number. I'll send it over.”

“Listen, I don't investigate anything any more. Okay?”

Silence. Then, “Very well. Sorry I bothered you.” The line went dead.

• • •

Tam Gill tucked the brown-paper-wrapped painting under his arm. A. would be in his office, and big sister Rosie in her greenhouse. Such creatures of habit.

He walked down the steps from his cabin, passed through the little copse of fir and high salal, and strode across summer-burnt grass to the big house. He inhaled slowly, deeply. Fresh September air, tang of sun-warmed cedars and fir, bit of salt from the chuck. Great. Bucharest had been all bus and ancient-taxi exhaust.

He let himself into the house and climbed up to A.'s second-floor office. A., always with the period after, was how Tam thought of his brother-in-law, Artemus too big a mouthful, Art wrong, and certainly not Artie. Tam knocked lightly on the closed door.

“Come in.”

He opened the door. Sunshine flooded the office and glittered off the whitecaps in Northumberland Strait. In the distance lay Nanaimo's sprawl with Mount Benson beyond, a green guardian. An empty easel stood beside the black-and-silver-striped sofa.

Artemus glanced up from a pile of files on his open roll-top desk. He studied Tam's tawny long-planed face, so similar to Rose's. Except for his short curly hair and of course the mustache. “You seem okay. Rosie said you looked like hell last night.”

“Hello to you too,” Tam laughed. “Sleep and a shower helped. Jet lag's as bad as a hangover.”

“Twelve hours?”

“Fourteen. Feels like twice that.” Tam set the package on the coffee table.

“No trouble at customs?”

“No. But it still pisses me off, the security guys making me take my shoes off. Passed them through the X-ray separately.” He shrugged. “Me and everybody else.”

Artemus remained silent, possibly imagining a grim-faced airport guard. “Okay. Ready?”

“Yep.” Tam undid the string and pulled the paper off the painting. “Got the tape in?”

“Yep. Rab really enjoys these little backgrounders.” Artemus combed his thick silver hair with his fingers, then reached into a desk pigeonhole, found a remote and flicked it toward the sound system on the far wall. A tiny whirring hum as a tape began to record. “Go ahead.”

The painting, an oil nearly a metre high and two-thirds as wide, featured three pink and orange angels, fingers angling toward a point just off the canvas, set against ruddy sun-smeared clouds in a lowering sky. The thick, battered frame had lost most of the original gilding. He carried the painting to the easel. “It is, as Dorstel reported, a School of Correggio.”

“God bless Dorstel.” Artemus studied the oil painting. “Very very nice.”

“Almost certainly from the Parma period, possibly done by Lanfranco himself. Right where Enfrescu said it was, a small town southeast of Bucharest. About a hundred fifty k over a road from hell. My rental never heard of shocks.”

“What was the name of the town?”

“Polorescou. You won't find it on the map. The painting was hanging way back around a dark corner. If the shop sells anything else this month it'd be a miracle.”

“You sure it's from Correggio's school?”

“See the way that right one's finger's pointing? Some say he copied it from Leonardo. Also, Correggio worked on that kind of illusion, like it was actually all happening up in the sky. Well, after Mantegna developed the technique. Likely one of the sketches for the Dome of Parma Cathedral.”

“That'd make it, what? 1520s?”

“Yeah. He had a commission in 1526 for an Assumption of the Virgin. See that figure, foreshortened? I'd say he sketched a few like this, then his students filled them in. The pigmentation isn't the Master's but the positioning of the figures sure is.” Tam shook his head in admiration. “Correggio really is undervalued.”

“Barnabé did the authentication?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Artemus gazed at the angels. “Well done, Tam. Thank you.” He stopped the recording.

Tam sat on the sofa and propped his runners on the coffee table. “It cost us 4,200 new leis.”

Artemus reached for a small calculator. “Still about three leis to a dollar?”

Tam nodded.

Artemus tapped some numbers. “You paid $1,400 US—”

“Plus change. But as usual, over half the cost was for the beautiful thick frame.”

They laughed.

“What do you figure it'll go for, half a million?”

“American,” Artemus said.

Tam crossed his arms behind his head. “Will you put it in the Thanksgiving show before Rab takes it?”

Artemus' smile turned smug. “The community does enjoy the shows, don't you think?” A faux-naive question. “The Eaglenest Gallery Schools-of Open House.” He savored the words. “Our sixth annual. Then on to Vancouver. You'll hang them.”

“Of course. But I was thinking, getting them down to Rab—you're not worried about the border?”

“Relax. Paintings don't wear shoes.” He laughed.

“Tell me something, A.” Tam spoke quietly. “Do you—trust Rab?”

“Trust? Of course I do. What do you mean?”

“Not sure. Just that, sometimes he, well, scares me.”

“Don't be silly. He's a friend. Completely trustworthy. Ask Rose.”

“Yeah, okay.” Tam swung his feet onto the floor and stood up. “What's in the fridge?”

“I made
coq au vin
yesterday. There're leftovers.”

“Great.” Tam headed for the door, reached for the knob. “Anything new on Roy's death?”

“No.” Artemus looked out the window. “Except Maple's written an article about the body being found here.” He turned to face Tam. “I'm taking matters into my own hands.” He rubbed them together. “I'm hiring an investigator.”

Tam's eyes narrowed. “What for?”

“To protect the Gallery's reputation.”

“Did you discuss this with Rose?” He stepped back from the door.

“No need. The Gallery's reputation isn't her department.”

“For shitsake, A.—”

“Roy's death has nothing to do with us,” Artemus proclaimed.

“Who thinks it does?”

Artemus went to his desk, opened a folder and handed Tam a clipping. “Here.”

Tam took it, a column from the
Gabriola Gab
.

Artemus thought, damn that
Sun
investigator, refusing just like that. He wondered if Lyle could recommend someone else.

NOEL AND KYRA hugged. “The ferry okay?”

“Yeah. Peaceful.”

“And the drive up from Bellingham? How was the border?”

“No trouble. But going south looked horrific. A mile back from the Peace Arch.”

“Give yourself time on the way home.”

“Dang right I will.” She folded her arms “Now. Choices. Walk or drive to the Acme?”

“No lunch out, Kyra. I've got cold cuts, salmon and lettuce and cheeses. Some pretty good bread, too.”

She could push him. But he had to want to go for lunch. Just as he had to want, from deep inside, to control his life again. She shrugged. “Okay. I'll set the table. On the balcony?”

“Please.”

Sitting at Noel's glass and wrought-iron deck table they munched on salmon sandwiches and drank apple juice. “You didn't catch this salmon, did you?”

“At the fish counter.”

“When were you last fishing?”

“Not since Brendan. He hated fishing.”

A shame, Noel used to love it. Yep, he needed a little tough affection. “You want to go again?”

He glanced over to the ferry dock. “Not for a while.” He wasn't in the mood for much, not even dealing with the balcony plants. Brendan, a few months before he got sick, had developed an enthusiasm for container gardening. The balcony had been rich with roses, clematis, nasturtiums, anemones, and a dwarf Japanese maple. Under Noel's less than tender care, they looked scraggly. But he couldn't actively make them die. Maybe winter would kill them.

Kyra raised her apple juice. “To Brendan.”

“To Brendan.”

They sat, silent, Noel staring across the harbor, Kyra studying Noel's narrow face. Grief, she supposed, had etched more lines there. Could his fine hair have thinned further over the last months? “So. What's new here?”

He thought for a moment. “I finished all my thank-yous. For the condolence notes.”

“Well hallelujah. A weight off your brain.”

“Brendan knew way more people than I did. Do.”

“And what'll you do now with that exhausting job out of the way?”

“It really was, you know. All those nuances.”

“Sorry, Noel.” She patted his forearm. “And nothing else new?”

“Well, not really—” He stared at the last half of his sandwich.

“What?”

“No, no.”

“What's up.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Phone calls.”

“Someone calling you? Or you calling somebody?”

“Calls at 3:00 am. Half a dozen in the last five or six weeks.”

“From?”

“No idea. The phone rings, I pick it up, there's some exaggerated breathing, the line goes dead.” He shrugged. “After the fourth call I just let it ring. But I could hear somebody on the answering machine. Breathing, then the click.”

“Did you call the phone company, get them to trace the calls?”

“Yep. The breather used a throwaway cell phone.”

“What about the police? Did you report the calls?”

“Just to Albert.”

She'd heard Noel talk about Albert Matthew, Nanaimo RCMP, but had never met him. “What'd he say?”

“It's no real threat. Harassment, yes. He said the best way of dealing with the calls is to ignore them. Told me to turn the phone ringer to off, leave my watch on top of the machine to remind me to turn it on in the morning.” He smiled. “It works. But I still get the recordings.”

“You could change your phone number, not list it—”

He shook his head. “For half a dozen calls? Not worth it. He'll get bored and stop.”

“Or she. When was the last call?”

“Couple of nights ago. The sun was high in the sky when I got to hear the breathing.”

“Waking up at three in the morning to breathe on the phone, now that's work.”

“Maybe he—or she—gets off on it.”

Kyra set down her sandwich. “And what else is new?”

“That's it.”

He asked about her life in Bellingham, the work, any new cases? Three quick ones since they'd last talked at length, all assignments from the insurance company. And what about the Sam front? No, she was done with him, over and out. Anyone new on the scene? She was living alone and enjoying it.

Noel rinsed plates and cutlery and slid them into the dishwasher. He laughed suddenly. “Oh, something sort of funny this morning. Funny now. Irritating when I got the call.”

“The breather?”

“No, a guy from Gabriola. He wanted me to investigate a death. Can you imagine?”

“Maybe if you told me more.” Noel described the conversation with Marchand.

There it was. A natural outlet. She said, “I think you have to call him back.”

“What for?”

“Tell him you'll look into it for him.”

“Why?”

“Because the idea feels right.” Because Brendan was dead but Noel remained. “Because you're good at it.”

“That was a previous life.”

“And what's your life now?”

“Just like a year ago, my book. I'll get back to it.”

A venture three years old and nothing to show. He had to get out, not sit in this condo staring at a blank page. “You need a project for now. And you can do this.”

“Kyra, I don't want to get involved in any investigation. Been there, caused too much harm.”

“That was completely out of your hands.”

“I wrote the series. I didn't understand the situation well enough. The woman was only peripherally involved and I made her central.”

“You corrected that.”

“Sure. After the damage was done. After she nearly killed herself. After her kids were hounded out of school. Nice correction.”

“But this time you're right in place.”

“They came down hard on me—the public, my colleagues. I don't want to be any kind of public figure again, not even a reporter with a byline.”

“You could use a pseudonym—”

He shook his head.

“Listen. If you take on this Gabriola case, three things. First of all, you don't have to write anything people will read.”