Always Kiss the Corpse (29 page)

SIXTEEN

Kyra began returning her phone calls. Sarah, the jugglers' meeting was set for two weeks Monday. Lucas, her father felt very well—his antique shop had just sold a finely carved early nineteenth-century walnut whatnot for a hefty sum. He reported her mother Trudy was back from eight months in Turkey—Canadian Literature, a huge new interest world-wide, put professors of English from Canada in high demand. Trudy would phone when she was unpacked and settled in with Fred, her Cadillac millionaire. Kyra sighed. Her divorced parents sometimes acted like children, hard to organize.

Then Jerome. Nelson the Dog snuffled in the background. Was Kyra free for dinner?

“Just a minute.” Kyra covered the mouthpiece. Noel had opened his laptop. Dinner with Jerome, away from her swirling thoughts about the case—away from Noel?—would be relaxing. She'd be able to think differently tomorrow. “Noel?”

He glanced her way.

“If I go out for dinner, will you be okay?”

He blinked.

“There's food in the freezer and leftovers from the potluck—” God, how low could she get? He was her guest. No. Her business partner. Jerome was her theoretical love interest and he'd been on hold for days. Her eyebrows questioned.

“Oh sure,” said Noel. “I'll do some research. And this place does have mod cons—bathtub and TV.” He smiled. “Go.”

She grinned back, and uncovered the phone. “Sure, dinner. Your place or out?”

Noel watched her head for her room. In fact he'd been hoping for a quiet evening with her. Till now, realizing she'd not be here, he'd not known how strong the hope had been. Okay, she needed a little time for her personal life, away from the case. Fair enough.

≈  ≈  ≈

Dumping Sandro's clothes in that empty lot's pile of trash had been important, every shred of evidence gone. Andrei was pleased. Well, as much as he could be. And no need to talk with Miss Brady Adam, she'd have the keep-your-mouth-shut and get-rid-of-the-detectives messages by now from her lezzie partner. He'd catch up with her later. On a more personal basis. He'd never done a lez before, least not as far as he knew. He kind of looked forward to it.

The most important thing yesterday was burning those pictures. Bad enough Andrei needed to hear the whole story, if he'd had to see Sandro's boobs too, well shit. Vasily had looked for negatives, for pictures not in the album, found nothing. Maybe Sandro himself had burned the others, only kept the ones he liked. A weird fuck, his cousin.

Andrei hadn't needed Vasily today so he'd spent most of his time with Cynthia, upstairs, downstairs, all around the town. She didn't give him a hard time when he'd announced, an hour and a half ago, that he couldn't stay till morning, he had to go to work. He showered, put on the black sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers from his shoulder case. Packed his shoes in a plastic bag and put them in the case, then folded his shirt, sweater, and slacks and dropped them in. Kissing Cynthia combined great memory and many promises. He put on his black leather jacket and drove away.

No rush getting to Whidbey, he didn't have an appointment. He smirked. He'd decided against the ferry, little chance of anybody seeing him but always best to think ahead, don't take chances. He drove five miles over the speed limit. And then he'd seen the sign, Bellingham, 46 miles. Decision made in an instant—plenty of time. The detectives lived in Bellingham.

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra showered and dressed. At six-thirty Jerome buzzed from downstairs. Noel was reading. She waved a kiss in his direction. He waved her goodbye without looking up from his book.

Jerome, double-parked, stood beside the passenger door. He kissed her on the cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She pecked him on the mouth. From the appreciation in his eyes, she figured she looked okay in the gray silk pantsuit Margery had made her buy before Christmas and also her silk blue and green batik scarf her mother had brought from Indonesia two years ago.

He looked good too—dark blue hand-knit Icelandic sweater under a short black jacket above dark trousers. Also a subtle aftershave. Or just him?

“Where are we going?” Kyra asked as she foiled his attempt to open the door for her, then wished she'd let him.

“I made reservations at Sanding's. It's not too discovered yet, even on Saturday.”

“Sounds great.” The car smelled of Nelson. Kyra's father, Lucas, was a long-time devotee of Nelson, the British admiral who'd defeated the French navy of Napoleon. Kyra had grown up on that Nelson's exploits and his gruesome end, killed in battle and transported home in a barrel of alcohol. The Admiral's exploits were rapidly being erased by those of Nelson the Dog.

Jerome put the car in gear and eased away.

“Why did you call Nelson Nelson?”

He looked a bit sheepish. “I had a neighbor once who was a Nelson.”

“I see.” She didn't, of course.

“He was loud and ignored boundaries. Like your friend Bettina at the potluck.”

“Hardly my friend.”

“But Nelson the neighbor was affable. He'd do anything to keep us happy. Except for what he didn't notice.”

“Violating boundaries.” She got it.

“Mm. So we, the other neighbors, excused a lot of his behavior. And his wife kept apologizing.”

Kyra laughed. “So you're cleanup detail. Wife to Nelson.”

Jerome laughed too. “Essentially.”

He parked close to the restaurant, and in the silence squeezed her hand. “No Nelson tonight. He's home with his rawhide chew bone.”

Kyra squeezed back.

Sanding's was decorated in maroon and green. The colors jolted Kyra. Why? Of course: Andrei Vasiliadis' office in Seattle.

Nearly full. Clever Jerome had made a reservation. And he looked quite handsome talking with the hostess, amazing that thinning hair could be so attractive. They were seated immediately. Jerome consulted with the waiter about wine. Wild coho steamed on sorrel seeds was on special, and
filet mignon au poivre
. Jerome took the first, Kyra the second. And a vodka martini to start? Why not. She sat back and basked. Nice to be taken care of.

“So. Is there a new case?”

Kyra laughed. “Same one. The day after the potluck we got hired by someone else.”

“Is that usual?”

“It can happen.”

“What now? With this case?”

Kyra leaned forward confidingly. “Maybe you can tell us something.” She dug in her bag for the slip of paper she'd written Sandro's medications on. “You know what these are?”

He took the paper, studied it. “Percocet is a powerful painkiller, the other's a sedative, Valium derivative actually.”

Kyra nodded.

“But this?” He read, “Hipoperc?” and handed the paper back. “Never heard of it. Who's it for?”

“Sorry, can't tell you. You understand.” She stuffed the paper into her purse.

“On second thought, give it back. There's someone I could ask. He knows a lot of specialized stuff.”

Kyra passed the paper over again. Jerome studied it, folded it, put it in his shirt pocket.

“Don't wash your shirt first thing tomorrow,” Kyra said.

≈  ≈  ≈

Noel poured himself a glass of red wine and opened the refrigerator. Familiar leftovers from the potluck. Which somehow didn't appeal. Might have if Kyra and he were eating together. No, Roquefort and bread and a little butter would do him nicely. And some pickles. And a little paté. He found a plate, a knife, sipped some wine— The downstairs entry phone buzzed. He went to the hall. “Yes?”

A deep voice said, “Is this Islands Investigations?”

“Yes.”

“It's the police, sir. We'd like to speak with you.”

“What it's about?”

“Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“Sure. Come on up.” He buzzed the door open and set the phone down. Wouldn't you know, just at dinnertime. He set himself a place at the table, put the paté back in the fridge. Wouldn't hurt the cheese to stay out. A knock on the door. He opened it. A large man in a black leather jacket stepped in, far too quickly. You didn't ask for identification, Franklin you ass—

“You're Noel Franklin?”

“May I see ID?”

“Is the dame around?”

“Your ID—”

“Shut up.”

“You're not police.” Oh, so astute.

“You alone?” The man shoved the door closed so it locked. He caught Noel by the shoulder and twisted him around. “Sit down.”

“Get out of here.” Noel pulled away, headed for the office, that phone—

The man grabbed Noel's elbow and pulled him back. “I said, sit!”

“Let go!” Noel stood motionless. Trouble trouble. The man, who looked like the guy Ursula, Cora and Rudy had described, the Vasiliadis enforcer, dropped Noel's arm. “Leave it.” He stood between Noel and any phone.

“What do you want?”

“Conversation.” He pinched his fingers under Noel's clavicle and guided him down the hall by his shoulder, checking Kyra's bedroom and the office. Noel couldn't breathe through the pain. Back in the living room, the man shoved Noel on to the sofa. “Sit, asshole!”

Noel sprawled, gasped, and rubbed his collarbone.

The man, a menace in black, towered over him. “Leave the Vasiliadis case alone, fucker, or you'll be looking for your balls.”

Noel, gulping breaths, rubbed his shoulder. He recognized this guy
: schoolyard bully
. No teacher to tell, no other kids to help.

“Hey, you hear me?” Black Jacket, still standing over him, raised his fist.

Noel wondered if his collarbone was cracked. He drew in enough breath to speak. “You want conversation? What about?”

“Let Sandro Vasiliadis rest in peace.”

Now the immense man grabbed Noel by his sweater and pulled him up. His face inches from Noel's, he said, “You're done with Sandro or you're hamburger, got it? The dame too. Got it?”

“Got it.”

With his right hand the man shoved Noel away, the left rose high and the flat of his palm swooped against the side of Noel's head, dropping him to the sofa again. The man leaned over Noel. “You're done. Both of you.” He faux-grinned at Noel. “I'll see myself out.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Jerome picked up his martini, reached over to Kyra's glass, and they clinked. “To you,” he said.

“And to you.” Their eyes met. Jerome smiled first, then Kyra.

“You didn't order the coho.”

“I love salmon,” she said. “And steak.”

“You don't get this wonderful wild salmon in Indiana where I grew up. You ever fish for salmon?”

The way he asked, it sounded as if more was implied. She laughed lightly. “Oh yes. It was Noel who taught me how.”

“Oh?”

“For years Noel's parents owned a cabin on Bowen Island. That's a short ferry ride from Vancouver.”

“Yes, I was there once.”

“My family took the summer place next door. And that first summer Noel took me fishing. I was ten, I'd never caught a salmon. He was eighteen and he knew where they ran.”

“Good to have a knowledgeable teacher,” Jerome said.

“I still remember my very first one, flopping in the bottom of the boat. Noel showed me how to club the fish, right between the eyes.” She put her finger in the middle of her forehead. “So it doesn't suffer. Then back at the cabin Noel made me gut the fish. I can still hear him saying, ‘Never keep more than you can use.'” She smiled in memory.

For a moment Jerome said nothing. Then: “Sounds like a powerful moment.”

“It really was.” Suddenly their dinners arrived, a large slab of peppercorned T-bone for Kyra, a glorious coho filet for Jerome. Plus, thought Kyra, handsome aroundments. And an assorted greens salad for two. “Salad saves us from ourselves.” She felt happy. She cut into her steak. Then she realized she'd been doing all the talking. Jerome was strangely quiet. But she continued to talk through the meal, mainly stories from the lives of the people at the potluck. He'd liked most of them, he said. Except that strange Bettina.

Meal over, he drove her to her condo. She thought: Isn't he attracted to me? She didn't want to make the first move. At her door he said, “Could we get together tomorrow? I have to paint my living room. I'd like your advice on colors.”

Colors! Mellow with steak, baked potato, good wine, and he wanted to know about colors?

She opened the door. “Sure. When?”

“Oh, mid-afternoon. If it's not raining, Nelson can stay outside. And I might have the answer to your pharmacological question.”

“Goodnight, and thanks for dinner.” Kyra kissed Jerome lightly on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.” She went in and closed the door. She didn't understand Jerome. “Hi Noel” she said quietly in case he'd gone to bed.

But she found him on the couch, his head propped against cushions, holding a bag of ice cubes to his face. “What happened to you?”

“Visit from the enforcer.”

“You're kidding! How did he get in?”

“Said he was the police about Vasiliadis. I just opened the door and in he leapt.”

“And he beat you up?”

“He whapped me in the face.” Noel lifted the ice cubes off his cheek so she could see. The mark was inflamed and swollen, but the skin was intact. He put the ice cubes back.

“I know what'll help.” From a cupboard Kyra took the single malt out of hiding, poured him three fingers and two for herself.

“That'll definitely help.” He tried to smile as he took the glass. “God—” He set his fingers lightly against the right side of his face. Another lefty, he thought.

“To you,” Kyra toasted. Then, “Leave your face alone.”

Noel put back the ice cubes, and sipped.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here. The two of us could've handled him.”

“He'd have slapped you around too.”