Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Read online

  The Hermitage Las Vegas. On the screen, an image of a large hotel fronted with palm trees.

  Picture yourself at The Hermitage!

  Our three thousand room casino hotel

  provides every entertainment!

  Fun for the entire family!

  Noel skimmed. Three thousand rooms with slot machine and bar in every room. Two hundred-fifty blackjack tables, as many poker tables, more roulette wheels. Amazing.

  Eight lounges!

  Headline acts!

  Koalas!

  Koalas? Noel clicked the hypertext highlight.

  The Hermitage is undertaking a

  world-first environmental project.

  We will house ten magnificent koalas in

  a fully controlled enclosure.

  Here the koalas will live in their

  natural habitat, a grove of Australian

  eucalyptus trees.

  The koala is an endangered species and its

  environment is rapidly shrinking.

  Then why not plant more trees in Australia and leave the koalas there? Wait, hadn’t he read about Siberian tigers in another casino? What, each casino has its own animal?

  Back to the main page. He followed a link to Art.

  The Hermitage is renowned for its broad collection

  of European Art.

  Each of twenty-one Master Rooms is decorated

  around the theme of a unique and singular artwork.

  Five more Master Rooms will be available in time

  for Christmas.

  The Hermitage takes pride in presenting to Master

  Room guests paintings in the styles of the Old

  European Masters.

  There it was. Then a synoptic treatise on styles, stuff Noel knew. Then:

  Plan to visit The Hermitage in December!

  A special display of newly acquired examples of Schools

  of Bruschelli, Zurbarán, Correggio, Multscher.

  Also an exquisite example of the later Bruegel School,

  with brushstrokes by Pieter the Younger himself!

  Five. All maybe bought from Marchand. A nice bundle of cash.

  A floor plan of a suite: bedroom, large bathroom, sitting room and balcony. A balcony in Las Vegas? Yes, enclosed with heat-blocking glass, overlooking a blooming desert garden. Hypertext. Noel clicked. The garden featured thirteen species of endangered Sonora cacti.

  Back to the home page. Prices, reservations, e-mail address, restaurants, history. Ahh!

  The state-of-architectural-art Hermitage is both heated

  and cooled by 1,005 solar panels on its acre of roof and

  by underground earth exchange systems.

  This plus a desert garden? He made a note: Environmentally aware? Perverse. Fascinating.

  Financing for construction of The Hermitage was overseen by the Fifth Bank of Nevada and Latuis Interest Corporation through a series of back-ended debentures. Fifth of Nevada wanted him to open an account and take advantage of a cheap loan to buy a car. With $7.8 billion in assets it had been listed as a bank since the Silver Rush days. Noel saved the names of its President, V-P and Directors.

  Latuis Interest Corporation, labelled simply LIC, was a development corporation. Noel read the website twice, trying to figure out what LIC developed.

  LIC works to encourage the evolution of

  developments that excite the LIC assessors after

  a development profile.

  Jargon or bullshit? He sipped coffee and scrolled down. LIC had recently assessed developments in the West Indies. Sun and sand for the developers. E-mail address. End of website. Latuis Interest was a private corporation, no need to disclose the names of its head guys.

  He mulled. He returned to The Hermitage and checked links he hadn’t tried before. Found: CEO Peter Rabinovich. Not highlighted. He clicked anyway. Nothing.

  In Google, Noel typed Peter Rabinovich. Damn, hundreds of possibilities. A writer hawking his books of flower poetry. A sixteenth-century trader someone had done a thesis on and wanted wider recognition for. A man who spearheaded a move to condemn Ukrainians for their treatment of gypsies. A dozen more. Noel checked them all; likely irrelevant. Then, a maybe: a business journal announcing the winner of an environmental award.

  Peter Rabinovich through his company Latuis

  Interest Corporation has constructed the

  most ecologically friendly Hotel-Casino-Resort

  complex in the Las Vegas desert. His complex has

  only used–

  blabbety-blah concrete, blabbety windows, blah.

  An enclosed grove of eucalyptus trees fosters the

  breeding of koalas. The handsome marsupials,

  together with millions of dollars worth of original

  European art, draw thousands to play the games of

  chance Nevada’s history has so proudly built upon

  since the original Silver Rush.

  Rabinovich arrived in the United States in 1996.

  Born in a small town near the Caspian Sea in the

  then-USSR, he suffered greatly at the hands of

  the KGB, spent time in Europe, then briefly made

  Israel his home before coming to the US Questioned

  about his time in Israel, Rabinovich, winner of

  the 2005 Gladstone Environmental Award, said,

  Weakling Socialists. I’ve come to a country I can be

  free in.

  The Award Committee was unanimous in its choice

  of Peter Rabinovich.

  This was followed by two photos of Rabinovich, a handsome slender man, head completely bald as if shaven, strong dark eyebrows, a large nose and thick lips, wearing a pinstripe suit. Noel saved this, backed it up, and saved The Hermitage information as well. What the hell’s going on? An award for building a concrete edifice to house thousands of rich tourists in a desert ecology? People who shower twice a day and run the tap while they’re brushing their teeth? Old art in fancy rooms. Bought from Marchand? This guy has clout. Wonder how many corpses are buried in his back yard?

  A partnership with Kyra?

  • • •

  Kyra had lain awake for nearly an hour, listening to the rain. Phone Eaglenest Gallery or arrive unannounced? Tam had invited her. Well, for next week after the show opened. A minor detail.

  Tam had seen her in both the combinations she could muster. Schmidt. The jeans would have to do. The silk blouse would be okay. What with the rain, good thing she’d brought her Gore-Tex. She heard the knock. “I’m awake.”

  “Coffee?” Noel spoke through the door.

  “Love some.”

  “Back in a minute.” He was, and knocked again. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” She sat up, pulled the duvet to her armpits and took the proffered coffee.

  He straddled his desk chair. She had draped the shirt she’d worn over its back. Now he stroked it. “This was Brendan’s. He bought it for that conference. THE conference.”

  “Oh Noel, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Please keep it.” He smiled. “It looks good on you. I’d rather it was being worn. I can’t.”

  She stroked his hand. When he left she stroked the shirt. Then she showered. In the living room she glanced out the window. It was clearing. “Can I take your car to Gabriola?”

  “To check out those paintings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, take the car. I’ll work on the Net.”

  She poured milk on a bowl of cornflakes and blackberries and shoveled them down. He buttered his toast and told her what he’d learned: Rabinovich, the paintings, LIC.

  “Well done, head Triple-I researcher.”

  “We’re nowhere close on that.”

  She grinned, and squeezed his elbow. “So. What about Lyle? He likes you.”

  “Yeah. He kissed me. Twice.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t kis
s him back.”

  “No good?”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “You’ve got to start living again.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “Some day. I’ll let you know. And you let me know too.”

  “Deal.” She got up.

  “Kyra?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “No, doesn’t matter.” She cocked her head at him, but he said nothing. He watched her close the bathroom door. He wasn’t ready to tell her about the obituary.

  By the time she’d brushed her teeth the ferry had turned into the harbor. She put on her jacket, found her purse, dropped her phone and camera in, and slipped her boots on. Went back to the kitchen, grabbed the car keys. “See you soon!”

  Noel waved over his head, then half-turned. “Find out what the paintings sold for.”

  “I’ll try.” At the door she noted the rug at its angle, shook her head, went out and slammed the door. It bounced open. She closed it slowly and it clicked shut.

  She drove the Honda into the ferry lot and followed the line of cars on board. Not many going to Gabriola on a Sunday morning, about thirty cyclists in brightly colored jackets and thigh-tight shorts. She remembered Tam Gill’s cycling shorts.

  The ferry chugged away from the quay. She got out of the car and strode to the front. Clouds scudded across increasing patches of blue. A warming sun and small breezes conspired to caress her. She stared over to the mainland. The mountains north of Vancouver stood grey and white against new blue sky. The back of her neck tingled with pleasure and she sighed in conscious delight. She leaned against the rail. The pressure against her breasts left her a bit dizzy. Fine day to be alive. She let the sun soak into her skin from forehead to cleavage.

  The ferry slowed and drew into its berth, a narrow slot, a perfect fit. A pleasant day on an island, maybe lunch on Tam Gill’s deck. She got into the car. Okay, be clear here. Tam Gill is a gorgeous guy. But don’t play games. Check out those paintings. Besides, he might still be in Nanaimo.

  The ramp came down. She drove off behind the bright gaggle of cyclists and two dozen cars. And Noel’s speedometer matched the 30 KPH sign up the hill. Past the mirror at the narrow corner, out along Descanso Bay and the pretty houses by the water, on to Eaglenest Gallery.

  She parked on the edge of the driveway by the path to Tam’s cabin. Both vans sat in front of the main house. No BMW. She grasped her purse, climbed out, walked down the path, up the steps to the high deck and knocked on the frame of the screen door.

  It took a minute before Tam emerged, from the bathroom judging by the towel he was drying his hands with. His face registered surprise and irritation. He opened the door, now smiling quizzically. “What’re you doing here?” A dab of purple paint on his temple.

  “Surprise! I came for a preview of the art show.” She allowed him her winsome smile.

  “We don’t give previews.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you phone?”

  “It wouldn’t have been a surprise. I had a sudden impulse.”

  “A sudden impulse? When you need to wait for a ferry?” His tone was querulous.

  Kyra laughed. “The impulse was sudden, the trip took some time. Do I just stand here?”

  Slowly Tam opened the screen door. Kyra stepped in. “Are the pictures hung yet?”

  “Of course.” He was wearing the same shorts and shirt as yesterday. An automatic closing device hissed as the door scraped into place.

  “That’s good.” Kyra pointed to a painting of flowers in an orange vase on top of an anvil leaning against the wall. Beside the canvas lay an orange vase with different flowers standing on an anvil. “I like that a lot.”

  “The painting, the vase or the anvil?”

  “All three together, actually. Will you show me the paintings in the gallery?”

  “Artemus does not allow previews.” He pulled himself to a semblance of graciousness. Then he smiled, and half-lidded his eyes. “It’ll cost you, you know.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? How much?” She tried to breathe against a sudden tightening as her stomach responded to the angle of his head, his hands on his hips.

  “One yes.” He leaned toward her.

  She put her hand on his arm, a small stroke, then spun away. “We’ll see.” She held open the door. They walked along the path and crossed the grass to the Gallery. He put his arm around her shoulder, his fingers pressing her upper arm. Her skin tingled.

  • • •

  Rose closed the inner greenhouse door behind her and recalled Artemus’ comment at breakfast: “Are you going to hire another gardener?”

  “I imagine so,” she’d said.

  “The garden needs work before the show.”

  In truth, she didn’t much care. She hadn’t replaced Roy. All summer she’d concerned herself less with the garden than she had in previous years. The flowers, grasses and shrubs increasingly bored her. What evolved inside the greenhouse, that alone mattered.

  Rain overnight. At least she should go outside and appraise the garden.

  • • •

  Tam unlocked the door to the Gallery and flicked on a row of halogen lights. A dim square space, each side maybe twenty feet long. No windows here, Kyra saw, even on the ocean side. On the wall across from her hung two paintings about two feet high by three wide. Each of the other walls held one apiece. They all gloomed dark. She walked over to the pair. The one on the right was done in shades of black, some browns mixed in, The Catacombs of Rome as envisioned by the school of Bruschelli. The other, The Jaws of Hell, Zurbarán school, showed a scarlet devil literally defecating the damned into the gaping mouth of a scaly bile-green dragonlike creature. A third in an ornate frame over to the right was a picture of dark-purple angels rising into clouds glowing with a dim sun-heightened orange light. “A School of Correggio,” Tam said, smiling at the painting with great pride. The fourth, beside the door, the largest, depicted a rough peasant scene in which nobody looked particularly happy. “From the later Bruegel School, possibly close to the start of Pieter the Younger’s career, early seventeenth century. I’m very pleased with it. It came, can you imagine, from a hundred k outside Vilnius. In Lithuania. Don’t ask me how it got there.”

  “Mmm. Where do the others come from?”

  He took her hand. “Oh, all over the place. Romania and Poland and Hungry. Found one in Macedonia once. In the old days.” He led her to the last and brightest, a Madonna and child.

  Kyra’s hand squeezed a little pressure back. She made herself concentrate on Mary’s tiny face. The Jesus-baby’s visage belonged to a miniature and very sinister old man, and featured a leer remarkably close to that of the red devil on the wall across. A joke on God-the-Father? Like the Sienese school-of she’d seen in the WWU Gallery. She thought, I’m not going to remember all this stuff. She took back her hand.

  “Attributed to the Swabian school of Hans Multscher.” He stared at the painting.

  “Do you have pamphlets for the show?”

  “Of course.”

  Kyra smiled warmly. “Could I look at one?”

  “I suppose it’s okay. I’ll go find them.” He went out.

  Quickly she brought out her camera and opened the shutter wide. She knew better than to use a flash. She clicked fast, circling the room, one-two-three-four-five. And again, closer in. A third round—

  “Hey, cut it out!”

  “What?”

  “Those aren’t public till the show!”

  “Huh?” She covered the shutter, dropped the camera into her purse and faced him, faux-naive. “Why not?”

  “For god’s sake, Kyra—”

  “What?”

  Tam was mad. “You can’t use those till after Thanksgiving.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  Tam threw his arms up as in disgust. Then suddenly he smiled. “No, you really don’t get it. Just promise me. Keep those private till after the long weekend.”
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br />   “I will, I’m sorry,” she offered, and felt a shock as his palm rested on the skin of her nape. For a second her body stiffened, then relaxed in his direction. She made herself say, “I hope they’re valuable. They aren’t beautiful.”

  He nodded, a serious movement, and held her eyes with his. “But they sold well.” His thumb and index finger stroked the back of her neck.

  Small warm pressure. “Mmm,” she said. “For a whole lot of money?” In the voice of one who really didn’t get it. “Oh, did you find the pamphlet?”

  “Couldn’t locate any.” He opened the door. “Shall we go back to my studio?”

  He seemed eager to get her out of here. “Okay.” Push him on prices later.

  Tam locked the Gallery door. They walked across the circular drive past the Honda and down the path to Tam’s cabin. He told her how The Jaws of Hell had been traced for its history, to the extent that it could be determined. She let him talk.

  • • •

  The kitchen garden did need attention. The corn had finished over a month ago and the stalks should have been shredded. The cabbages looked limp, as if the rain reminded them they were parched. Oh well, cabbage was not Rose’s favorite vegetable. She wheeled to the flower gardens. She deadheaded the last of the stargazer lilies. Work to be done everywhere. The Michaelmas daisies should be staked. Okay, Artemus did have cause to fuss.

  • • •

  Kyra tried to concentrate. The information kept flowing. That was good. The paintings were ugly. She’d hate to have to live with any of them, even in a hotel room. She held in control the part of her that wanted to ease Tam in among the trees and pull his clothes off. They walked in silence. Sweat dripped warm from her armpits down her side. She felt damp all over. Oh dear.