Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto

a drink, “what do we know? And what do we need to find out?”
    â€œOkay. Roy Dempster is dead. Looks like a blow to the back of the head. He was found lying on his stomach.” Kyra sipped more beer.
    â€œDo we accept he was killed?”
    She shrugged. “Maple’s column said so. Marchand thinks so.”
    â€œSo we start with that assumption.”
    â€œLet’s brainstorm. Start with extremes. Every idea is equally valid.”
    â€œYeah. Focus afterward.”
    â€œOkay. He had an epileptic attack, bashed his head, flipped onto his stomach and died.”
    â€œOh sure.”
    â€œDon’t eliminate anything before considering it.”
    â€œWe’d have to find out if he had fits.”
    â€œOkay. He was a pothead, now reformed. A member of the Something Bearers.”
    â€œBearers of the Eternal Faith.”
    Kyra said, “Not suicide. You don’t kill yourself with a blow to the back of the head. What if Marchand himself bashed Dempster, created the uproar, then hired us as a cover?”
    â€œExcept why? Anyway, he didn’t strike me as a murderer.”
    â€œHow many murderers do you know?”
    â€œWho knows who’s a murderer.” Noel thought for a moment. “Okay, what do we know about motives?”
    â€œBlackmail? Jealousy? Maybe Dempster was having an affair with Rose. In the greenhouse. He lifts her from the wheelchair and lays her on the flowerbeds.” Kyra grinned. “Why is she in a wheelchair anyhow?”
    â€œI think I heard at Lyle’s opening she had a swimming accident.” Noel sipped, and thought. “The newspaper column hints at some sinister connection between Marchand and Dempster. Would people take that paper seriously?”
    â€œMaybe. It’s Marchand’s second mess-up in the last few years, remember. Tell me more about that fake picture he sold.”
    â€œHe didn’t sell it.” Noel picked up one printout. “This is from Exhibitors’ Art On-Line. The article implies it was an honest mistake. Written as a cautionary tale. A charitable donation, and he got a tax break. That’s what made it complicated. You sell a forgery, it’s a crime against the buyer. But if you take a tax break it’s a crime against the government. Marchand paid $152,000 for the painting, so in fact he was the one who lost out.” He read to the bottom. “A School of Hals. Supposedly painted by one of Hals’ students, somebody Spätzler.”
    â€œI am impressed by the speed of your research,” Kyra said, half wry, half amazed.
    Noel heard both halves. “Good.” He read the rest of the printout. “Yeah, I see.” He glanced over to Kyra. “It sort of pushes what fake is—the painting’s been bought and sold as legit three times since it first got catalogued in 1876. But there’s some new test for figuring the age of pigments and the best guess is Marchand’s fake was painted in the 1860s. It’s been a successful counterfeit for a long time.”
    â€œWho’d you say Marchand gave it to?”
    â€œA private gallery.”
    â€œHmm.” Kyra sipped. “Oh great, thanks,” she smiled at the buxom crewcut server who put down their order of nachos loaded with cheese, jalapeños and olives.
    â€œOkay. What else do we know?”
    Kyra shoved two nachos into her mouth, chewed, swallowed. “We know Rose Marchand, or Gill, has a greenhouse. And it’s easily contaminated.”
    â€œWould Dempster go inside?”
    â€œWe don’t know. Or where he died, or was killed. And what Rose’s brother knows. And the Mounties are still investigating. We need some hard information. Can we talk with your friend Albert?” Another nacho.
    â€œI think so.” Noel reached for the plate. “What else?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œOkay then, tactics.”
    â€œWe ask some people a few questions.