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

painter.”
    â€œSort of. It’s how we attribute anonymous paintings to the area or artist their styles most closely resemble. Since Eastern Europe opened up there’s a lot of stuff out there that hasn’t seen the light of day in sixty-seventy years. Also paintings that were hidden from or stolen by the Nazis are being rediscovered. Well,” he reconsidered, “a lot in the early nineties, less now. We buy paintings like these, show, and sell them.”
    â€œI’d like to see some.”
    â€œThe Gallery’s having a show Thanksgiving weekend. You live in Nanaimo?”
    â€œBellingham.”
    â€œThe University Gallery there’s got a fine example of the Sienese School. Fourteenth century.”
    â€œOh,” Kyra said. His tone was kindly. Her voice sounded dumb.
    â€œAre you going home soon?”
    â€œPardon?” She gave herself a mental shake.
    Patiently he repeated his question. She nodded. “Well if you’re here around Thanksgiving, come by. Our Thanksgiving, not the American one.” Tam drained his tea and stood. “I’ll show you what we have.” He shook her hand. “Nice meeting you.” He put on his bike helmet.
    â€œNice meeting you,” she said. Dumb and fatuous, both.
    â€œMaybe we’ll meet again.” Still smiling, he lowered his eyelids in apparent invitation as he straddled his bicycle and wheeled away with a wave.
    Kyra started to leave, then got out her notebook. Tam Gill , she wrote— She glanced at her watch. Nearly 11:30! She bolted to her car. Next ferry to Gabriola left in minutes. The time on the meter had expired. No ticket, but a uniformed parking-checker half a block down was fining away.
    â€¢ • •
    Kyra should be taking on Lucille Maple. Nice insightful chat between two women of the world, he’d said to her. And she said, You want to deal with Tam Gill instead? Maple lived in a rambling rancher off South Road back from the water just east of Brickyard Beach. No large trees but many tended garden beds. Each segment held one kind of flower only—blue buttony ones here, fading reddish somethings there, feathery climbing things at the side of the house. Each bed, Noel noted as he turned off the engine, set off by a border of shells, old butter clams in various sizes.
    Beside the carport, a kayak. In the carport, that had to be a TR6. On thick grass to the left a green table, a closed sun umbrella listing in its hole, and matching plastic chairs.
    Noel had telephoned. Now a woman opened the front door as he walked up her flagstone path. “Step on the stones!” A brisk contralto. “That’s grass seed between them!”
    Noel, usually a reserved man, found his legs bopping along the flagstones as if his feet were playing hopscotch. And—where’d that come from?!—a pirouette, Noel a giraffe in ballet shoes. In order, he realized as he reached the stoop, to make Lucille Maple laugh. Why? Because her article was so ridiculous?
    She laughed. “That was silly.” She pulled her face into a line of composure. “Just what kind of detective are you?”
    Missing no beats, Noel said, “An effective detective.”
    She tried to keep her face straight but another laugh escaped. “Oh stop.”
    â€œActually, I’m just a researcher. For example, why grass seed in September? Isn’t it too late for seeds to germinate? And once the rain comes, won’t it rot?”
    â€œI’m ever hopeful,” Ms. Maple said. “Gardens grow years after they were planted and stuff that was composted sprouts.”
    They grinned, each recognizing the other: failures in elementary gardening.
    Noel followed her into a cool, bright, long hall. Shoes off? She had shoes on. She led him to a neat Edwardian sitting room on the left. Through glass doors Noel noted a desk, a computer, a chaos of paper.
    â€œSit down. We will not talk about