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

need to talk to the Mounties before we go much further.” She started the engine. “Compost and Born Again Virgins!” She backed onto the road.
    â€œAmazing how much people talk,” Noel said. “I’d’ve figured islanders would be more closed-mouthed to off-islanders.”
    â€œExcept most people love talking about themselves.”
    â€œâ€˜I am the most fascinating person I know. Want me to tell you all about me?’”
    â€œAnd most people like being asked their opinions.”
    â€œLet’s go see where Roy lived.”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œSure. Check the ferry schedule.”
    â€œWe’ve got forty minutes.” He wanted to be on that ferry. He wanted to have dealt with his tires.
    â€œToo bad the sister’s not home.”
    â€œIt’s okay, I’m peopled out for today. We can see her tomorrow.”
    â€œFind Berry Point Road.”
    They passed a garden store, a road called Tin Can Alley, the fire hall, an elementary school, then drove through Gabriola’s downtown: small white mall on the right, Folklife Village on the left, and quickly by a gas station.
    â€œTurn right down the hill,” Noel said.
    A curvy road cut through Douglas fir, maples, and arbutus. Houses nestled comfortably on their lots. Around a bend, a block of shops.
    â€œWe’ve segued onto Berry Point Road,” Noel announced.
    Past a beach with majestic mountains across the Strait of Georgia. Then Seagirt: a badly marked road. Beyond it, a white house, a brown house with no pink trim, more driveways, and the start of a hill. Berry Point curved around a bay to the left. “We’ve gone too far,” Kyra said. “Let’s try those driveways.”
    â€œLet’s not intrude.”
    â€œWe’ll make like we’re turning around.” She pulled into the first driveway, and rounded a curve. “Bingo! You can’t miss it. Hah!” The house was small and old, stained brown with fading pink trim. Kyra stopped the car.
    â€œWhat if he has a housemate?” Noel whispered.
    â€œNobody said.” Kyra got out. Trees had hidden the house from the road. The grounds looked neat, as did the weeded deer-fenced vegetable garden—a few last tomatoes and some bolting vegetables.
    Kyra walked up two steps to a front deck and knocked on the pink door, Noel following. No answer. She cupped her hands to her temples and stared into a kitchen.
    â€œKyra—”
    High gloss clutter-free counters, empty dishrack, bare wood table. A folded dish towel hung from the stove handle. She moved to the window left of the door. Noel glanced through the window she’d just vacated. She surveyed the living room. Mustard-colored sofa, armchair with hassock, straight chair. TV. Wood stove. Well kept, Kyra thought. On a stand in the far right corner were four birds—are those Roy’s carvings, she wondered? She returned to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. “I thought people on islands never locked their doors.”
    â€œThere’s evidence inside. The Mounties would have locked it.”
    â€œEvidence is why I want in.”
    Noel again followed, exasperated and admiring at the same time. Years ago, as an investigative reporter, he’d have acted like this. He was out of practice.
    Across the back, Kyra shifted past the door to the last window. “A bedroom. Double bed, chest of drawers.”
    Noel stared in. A spartan room. “Let’s get out of here.” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes till the ferry.”

FIVE
    ON THANKSGIVING WEEKEND, Rose Gill Marchand would unveil her triumph at the Annual Fair in the Agricultural Hall. But her creations were born for a world far from home. Her floricultural transformations had brought the botanical journals’ high priesthood to Gabriola to exclaim, to interview, and to write about each new success. This time her mastery would be broadcast beyond the