Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Read Online Free PDF Page B

last night.”
    â€œExcellent.” Artemus gloated. “A school of Correggio.” He rummaged through the freezer.
    Rose gazed up his back. Thick silver-grey hair rested on his blue shirt collar. Time for a haircut. “Tam tells me you want to hire a detective.” She kept her tone flat.
    Artemus took out a long package, and turned to face Rose. “It’s the Roy rumors.”
    â€œThe RCMP’s on the case.”
    â€œRosie, I can’t stand it. I go shopping, and people stare. ‘Hello, Artemus,’” he mimicked, “‘so sorry about Roy and how come at the Gallery, tsk, tsk—’ He put the package on the counter, turned again, a pleading look. “The rumors’ll hurt us if we don’t nip them in the bud. Like last time.”
    She tapped her long fingers on her wheelchair arms “A whole salmon is too much for just two of us, dear.” She watched as he placed the frozen fish back in the freezer. “No detective, Artemus. He’ll ask questions all over the place. There’s too much risk. Think of the Foundation. Think what that solar generator means to that Somali village.”
    â€œOh, Rosie, what could he possibly—”
    â€œRoy’s death is unfortunate, dear. But rumors pass.” Had two segments of Artemus’ mind somehow disconnected? “Forget about the detective. The Mounties can manage.”
    â€œI’ve already hired him, Rose.”
    â€œThen call him back and unhire him.”
    Artemus took a can from the cupboard and looked at it. “Bamboo shoots?”
    Rose shook her head.
    He put the can back in the cupboard. She was a tough woman, his Rose. But he would be cleverer. His call would come too late. “Okay.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, picked up the phone, poked in the numbers. “Artemus Marchand here. I won’t be needing your services so I’m canceling our appointment. Thank you.”
    â€œIf he shows up, dear, pay him for a day. How about tuna steak tonight?”

THREE
    TAKE A RIGHT in front of the parking lot, Marchand had told Noel. Kyra did. The Tracker turned up a steep slope. The road narrowed to a single lane. Kyra noted a mirror, a foot and a half in diameter, angled to show traffic coming around a blind curve. They reached the crest, dipped down and left the ferry commotion behind. “Okay,” she said, “what else did you find about the island?”
    â€œThat’s about it. Except for a bit that came up when I googled Marchand.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHe got into some trouble about four years ago. He bought a forgery and didn’t know it. A miniature School of Hals. Donated it to some gallery in Salmon Arm. The Feds were most unhappy.”
    â€œWhy donate a picture to a small-town gallery?”
    â€œFor the tax write-off, I assume.”
    â€œOh.” She waited. “And that’s it?”
    â€œHow much do you want for a couple of minutes’ research?”
    They drove along a little beach littered with sun-bleached tree trunks, escapees from passing log-booms. Across the bay Kyra saw their ferry. It suddenly seemed a friendly symbol of union, a moving bridge holding pieces of land together. Her father, in the days when they all spent summers on Bowen Island, saw ferries as unreliable modes of travel, precarious links to the mainland. But Kyra loved ferries. Their double meaning fascinated her, that they were at the same time a connection between island and mainland, and proof beyond doubt that an island is separate, different, special.
    Noel gave a self-conscious laugh. “You know, I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to be doing.”
    â€œNeither have I. Yet.”
    â€œBut you’ve done investigations of all sorts.”
    â€œAbout a dozen cases. One and a half sorts.”
    â€œThe dead body sort?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWith Marchand, when I’m fumbling around,