Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island Read Free

far.”
    â€œWas it something Lucille said? Or did?”
    â€œNo. It’s just me.”
    â€œDid you use her handgun? Did she teach you anything?”
    â€œYes. Just nothing I like.” Noel sighed. “She said get a nine millimeter Beretta. I said I would but I don’t want more lessons. She said we could kayak together. Another useful skill for a private investigator.” He laughed, ruefully.
    â€œBut you got the Beretta. You agreed.”
    â€œYeah, and now I’m disagreeing. At least on who gets to use it.”
    Kyra and Noel had met Lucille Maple, a seventy-four-year-old reporter for the Gabriola Gab with a deplorable writing style, while working on Gabriola. Kyra had said, “Private investigators need handguns. Talk to Lucille.” Turned out Lucille was a Senior Champion trapshooter. She’d picked Noel up at the ferry twice a week and brought him to a low level of competence. He’d acquired the pistol and a lockbox for ammunition and didn’t like any of it, not at all.
    In Bellingham, Kyra kept a Smith and Wesson Airlite. The gun, weighing twelve ounces, barrel length under two inches, fit comfortably in her purse. With Noel’s Beretta in Nanaimo, they wouldn’t have to cart a gun across the border.
    Noel just hoped they never had to use either. Kayaking would be more fun. Maybe. At least less noisy.
    â€œWe’ll talk about guns later.” She sipped her drink. “Did you read our email?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe ’ve got a possible new case.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI had a call from a prof on San Juan Island. There’s a university there, Morsely, Mosely, something like that.”
    â€œSan Juan? That’s the island you get to off Sidney, isn’t it?”
    â€œI think so but I haven’t looked. I’ve been in the bloody car all day.”
    â€œWhat’s his problem?”
    â€œSays he has a maybe-plagiarism case. He’s supposed to have emailed us about it. I’m still stuck in whiplash-land. I said you’d call him. If it sounds urgent, you want to come on down? Plagiarism doesn’t require guns.” She sipped her drink.
    â€œHow’s the whiplash going?”
    â€œGuy has a cane he’s been leaning on, today he hooked it over his arm, later he left it in the car. I think he thinks he’s celebrating, but it ain’t gonna happen.” She chuckled. “I should be free of it soon. Maybe you can get the new case started?”
    â€œYeah. I’ll let you know. What’s his name?”
    Kyra thought hard. “Don’t remember. Lincoln? London? Read his email.”
    â€œOkay. Talk soon.”
    â€œBye.” She put the phone down and finished her drink. Noel must know we have to have a chat. Maybe several chats. As many as it takes to convince him.
    Time for a bath. Two bedrooms, one and two-thirds bathrooms in the condo, which still felt new even after six months. In her bedroom she kicked off her loafers, pulled down her jeans, dragged the black turtleneck over her head, discarded underwear in the laundry basket. A few steps to the bathroom and she turned on the light and taps. She felt a bit beaten from sitting in the car so long and looked in the mirror. She ran her hand through her dark brown curls and decided she’d still do—no lines on her neck yet, no sagging breasts. Not bad for thirty-eight. She washed her hair and rinsed it while the tub filled, then turned off the taps and lay back.
    Seven weeks since the accident. Why did she call it that? The guy had meant to take them out—he’d swiped them into the trees. She shuddered. Bathwater slopped over the rim. Crash! and she’d miscarried. Until then she hadn’t known she wanted a baby so much. And still did. Now she wanted Noel for its father, no sex just sperm, he wouldn’t have to be its parent if he didn’t want—
    She’d presented all this to him six weeks