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

Who first?”
    Noel checked his notebook. “Local Mounties.” He looked at her. She nodded. “And Danny Bourassa. Lucille Maple of the egregious column. And Tam Gill, I guess. The painter-sister Charlotte whatsis. And that Jerry something. Then Albert back in Nanaimo.”
    They finished their beers and food, and checked out the bathrooms. Noel caught his face in the mirror, a face he thought he knew well. Adequately formed, in balance, but nothing exceptional about it. He remembered Brendan telling him that he had a great face, that he loved Noel’s face, across the table, as they drove down new roads, beside his own on the pillow. For a moment an image of Brendan’s face came, not as in the portrait in their bedroom but as it had drained and yellowed over the last year, so slowly Noel had seen no change from day to day, so quickly as to horrify them both when a photo or a friend provided a point of reference. Noel ran cold water, rubbed it into his face and didn’t glance up to the mirror again.
    By the time he returned, Kyra had found addresses and phone numbers for Danny Bourassa, Charlotte Plotnikoff and the Mounties, the latter’s building close to the ferry. They retraced South Road up-island.
    In the Mounties’ parking lot a young woman officer told them Corporal Jim Yardley, in charge of the Dempster case, was gone for the day, he’d be on again in the morning. Noel checked his watch. Right, nobody commits a crime on Gabriola after 4:33 pm.
    Back in the Tracker, Kyra called Charlotte Plotnikoff on her cell-phone. The machine asked her to leave a message. She didn’t. At Danny Bourassa’s home a woman answered, “No but I expect him just after five.” Kyra said they’d like to talk with Mr. Bourassa about his friend Roy Dempster. The woman hesitated, then gave Kyra directions and identified herself as Patty.
    They drove over to North Road and came across a small shopping center, Folklife Village. “I need to buy film,” Kyra said. She turned into the parking lot.
    Noel turned back to the printout. “This place was part of Expo 86 in Vancouver. They dismantled it there and recycled it here.”
    Kyra scanned the little horseshoe mall. Wooden sidewalks all around, covered on the left and right sides. The cedar-sided buildings with large display windows housed a food market, pharmacy, clothing store, art gallery, café advertising jazz on Saturdays, hardware store, small library, wine store, DVD rental, and a realtor. “Not bad for an island mall.” She bought her film at the pharmacy and rejoined Noel.
    â€œCheck out the local denizens.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLike at that Eaglenest show I went to. Take a look.”
    Kyra glanced about. The men: jeans or tan chinos, and T-shirts or sweatshirts, work boots or Birkenstocks, more chins unshaven than razed. The women: jeans or blue or brown chinos, and T-shirts, one tank top, running shoes or Birkenstocks. On men and women, lots of long hair on many tied back and, more often than not, smiles or grins. The young, though, looked like teenagers anywhere, sloppy boys’ pants and bare young midriffs. “Gotcha,” Kyra said.
    â€œAnd the clothes don’t say who’s on welfare and who owns a yacht.”
    Along North Road, then down a hill to a subdivision called Whalebone. The streets had names like Moby Dick’s Way, Quequeg Place, Captain Ahab’s Terrace. “Turn right,” said Noel.
    They stopped in front of a green clapboard house. A large dog, part shepherd, mostly many other breeds, growled as they approached. “Nice mutt,” Noel muttered. The dog’s rumblings broke into a series of deep barks.
    A woman wearing a yellow turtleneck and jeans appeared at the door. “Stop that, Princess!” Princess slunk around the corner of the house. “She’s really very gentle. I’m Patty.”
    They introduced themselves.