Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto Read Free Book Online

his shirt pocket.
    â€œLet’s go meet your wife.”
    â€œOf course. And as we’re working together, please call me Artemus. This way.”
    Okay, Kyra realized, they were linked. Time to ask some obvious questions. “Just out of curiosity, Artemus, where were you the evening before your wife found Roy’s body?”
    â€œWhat? You think that I might have— You’re being ridiculous.”
    â€œWhich doesn’t answer my question.”
    â€œDo I have an alibi? I was right here. In my office, reading files. Ask Rose.”
    â€œI will. Was she here as well?”
    â€œOf course. And I find you insulting.”
    â€œThink of it as doing our best for you. Not insulting, just thorough.”
    Marchand glared at Kyra, then nodded. “Okay.” He led Kyra and Noel out the front door and around the house to a pergola-covered asphalt path that ran from a side door to the greenhouse. Thick wisteria drooped from the pergola slats. As they passed the two white vans, Kyra noted each passenger door said, Eaglenest Gallery. A white and blue handicapped symbol hung in the front window of the second van. They reached the greenhouse, heavy opaque plastic stretched over curved metal ribs.
    â€œMy wife designed it,” Marchand said. “Many of her tools too. Because of her disability, you know.” He knocked on the wooden door. Silence. He knocked again. He opened the door a few centimetres. His body blocked their view. “Darling?”
    The inside smelled humid as well as hot. Marchand pushed the door open a little wider and called, “Are you there?” Kyra and Noel saw splashes of color.
    A woman’s head at the far end turned to face them. It moved smoothly their way between the rows of flowers. Noel spotted a raised bed of carnations.
    â€œClose the door, dear,” she called. “I’ll come out.”
    Marchand pulled the door closed. “Ah, there’s a danger of bringing contaminants in. On one’s clothes. She doesn’t let other people in there.”
    Noel and Kyra backed away.
    â€œShe’s protective of her flowers,” Marchand continued. “She wins prizes everywhere. She’s named lots of new hybrids and two are named after her.”
    The door opened and the woman, head now attached to a body in a wheelchair, exited. She stopped, reached behind and pulled the door closed. Greying black hair in a chignon, high eyebrows over dark eyes, lips tight beneath narrow nostrils: a handsome face. She wore a faded T-shirt that read, Picture Yourself At The Hermitage, and a denim skirt to her ankles.
    Tragic accident, Noel remembered. Disability, Marchand had said. She looked athletic. Mediterranean blood? East Indian? The chair would have done Rick Hanson proud. From each side hung panniers.
    A metal apparatus protruded from the right-hand bag.
    â€œAnd who are these?” She addressed Marchand.
    â€œOh, the investigators I told you—”
    â€œMy husband is being too careful.” Her eyes flicked from Noel to Kyra, back again. “We don’t need your services, excellent as I’m sure they are. The RCMP will manage.”
    â€œRose,” Marchand said. “We have to consider the Gallery’s reputation.”
    Noel turned to Marchand. “Yes, I understand you had some trouble a couple of years ago. That forged picture at the Salmon Arm Gallery?”
    Marchand looked startled. “How do you know about that?”
    â€œResearch.”
    â€œThat was a blow. I do know my art—just as my wife knows her flowers.” Noel noted the plea—warning?—Marchand sent her. “I donated that picture in good faith.”
    â€œDo you need me further?” Mrs. Marchand turned her wheelchair to the greenhouse.
    â€œI’m Kyra Rachel. My partner, Noel Franklin. We’d like a few minutes of your time.”
    Marchand said, “Oh, sorry. My wife. Rose Gill. That’s her