Always Kiss the Corpse (24 page)

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It had only been forty-eight hours, Wednesday evening, since anyone had been here, but the charming little house felt unlived-in and unloved. Houses do that quickly, Noel thought and wondered about his condo in Nanaimo. “Anybody notified the owner that his tenant died?”

Ursula looked at Brady, who shrugged. “I think the State Patrol would have, they usually take the bull by the horns. I'll get the sheriff to check on Monday.”

“The owner's away, you said?”

The two cats wound themselves plaintively around their ankles. The food dishes sat empty, the litter box full. At least the aquarium fish coped by themselves. Mostly. Brady found fish food on a kitchen shelf.

Ursula said, “Yeah. On a year's leave, doing good deeds in Rwanda.”

“Hard to get hold of?” asked Kyra.

“Don't know.” Ursula, to the excitement of the cats, opened the cupboard under the sink. “Okay guys, I'm hurrying. Out of my way, Sapphire.” This to the gray one. “Tawny, you too.” She pulled out the food, started to close the door, opened it again. “Holy shit! Look!”

Tucked in behind where the bag of food had been lay two syringes in sterile plastic, and rubber tubing.

“Those weren't there on Wednesday,” declared Ursula.

The cats wound in and out of legs, pleading starvation.

Kyra stood. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Any dope with them?”

“No.” Ursula stared into the cupboard. “Somebody's been here.”

“Who?” Brady's voice had gone thin.

A question no one could answer.

The cats' meows were increasingly assertive. Ursula unrolled the bag and poured food into their dishes. Complaining stopped, crunching began.

Noel took the photo album from his shoulder bag and put it in the left-hand desk drawer where they'd found it. That felt better. He rejoined the others in the kitchen.

“Someone making the case for Sandra as a heavy-duty user?” Brady's lips had thinned to a stern line. “I don't buy it.”

“Yeah,” said Kyra. “Pretty dubious.”

Brady shook some food into the aquarium. Four small bright fish with orange and white stripes, lines of black and orange heads, whirled on the surface. “We can take the cats home, but what about the fish?”

“Technically it's up to Sandro's mother,” Kyra said.

Ursula looked at her. “Back to the will problem?”

Noel clicked his tongue. “That can take forever. Know a fish lover who'd take them?”

“I'll ask,” Ursula said.

Noel sat down at the computer and flicked it on. As it loaded he noted a sticky tab on the side of the monitor: Diana, and a phone number. “Ursula? Who's Diana?”

“Diana? Diana who?”

“I don't know. Just Diana.”

“Sandro's ex-wife was Diana. She's remarried, I think. Husband's name is— Wait, I'll remember.”

Noel copied the phone number and waited for the icons to show.

“What're you doing?” asked Kyra.

“Seeing what's on here.”

Ursula took the litter tray outside and emptied it into a compost bin beside the carport. Brady searched for a cat carrier.

Noel tried to connect to the Internet. Password? Only a moment's thought: Sandra. People are so obvious. Bookmarked were a series of sites highlighting the words transgendered and transgendering. He copied web addresses for later searching. On the hard drive under My Documents, a directory called “Trans-g,” a sub-directory, “Letters,” with a number of sub-sub-directories; those containing the largest number of files were labeled “Nikki,” “Chelsea” and “Martine.” He thought about privacy, then glanced through them. Helpful and supportive; were he in Sandro/Sandra's position, Noel would appreciate e-mails of this tone. Nikki lived in San Francisco, Martine in Omaha, and—Ha! Chelsea in Seattle, including, in her third letter, a phone number.

If an Andrei Vasiliadis meeting was on, they could talk to Chelsea tomorrow; two birds. He'd phone her later. Or? Okay, go outside for privacy, use his cellphone. He wrote down Chelsea's number and turned the computer off. He located a side door into the carport. Pouring again. He dialed Chelsea's number.

Someone picked up. “Hello?” Dulcet contralto tones.

“Chelsea?” Noel asked. Affirmative. “I'm a detective, Noel Franklin, Islands Investigations International.”

“Yes?” More wary.

“I'm investigating the death of someone you may know, Sandro Vasiliadis, and—”

“What!?”

“Sandro Vasiliadis.”

“Yes, I heard. But you say he's dead?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“But when? How? What happened?”

“We're not actually sure. My partner and I wonder if one of us may talk with you tomorrow?” A sudden formality to his grammar. Was Chelsea herself/himself transgendered? Was Noel not completely comfortable in this area? Do birds fly?

“Certainly. Come by. About eleven? But how dreadful!”

“It is,” said Noel. “His friends here are deeply distressed.”
Distressed
. What a word. Were Sandro and Chelsea lovers? He had to start thinking about Sandro as Sandra. Hard.

“I'm completely—completely shaken,” said Chelsea. “Thank you for telling me.” She gave him the address.

Back in the house he said to Brady, “Sandro's car's in the State Patrol compound. Where's that?”

“Oak Harbor.”

Kyra, who'd joined them, asked, “Was there anything in the car?”

“I can't look at the file till Monday morning.” Brady had had enough.

So, come to think of it, had Noel. Onward to dinner.

Ursula wrestled Sapphire and Tawny into a traveling cage Brady had found; the cats protested fiercely. She turned out the lights and locked the door, then slid onto the Tracker's back seat. Brady passed her the cage, got in, and they balanced the traveling cats across their laps.

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Vasily had seen the man come out to use his cell just in time, a close call. He'd heard him talking to someone named Chelsea, an appointment tomorrow. Too many detectives and queers around. And all just walking into Sandro's house? Miss Brady, he'd get her later. Leave, make tracks, all four of you!

Finally the Tracker started up and faded down the driveway. Silence descended. Vasily tried the door from the carport in case the man hadn't locked it; no such luck. Around to the front, jimmy the easiest window. None were easy. The tool shed. A chisel and hammer. Armed, back to the verandah. Three judicious blows to the chisel butt and the window slid open. He worked himself through. Then he wandered from room to room, looked through closets. Whole bunch of women's clothes, god. Medicine cabinet, shelves. Desk. Photo album—

Shit. Disgusting. Sandro with a beard, and pretty soon without, and with breasts needing a bra. Jeeesus, how the hell did they make that happen? Vasily set the album down. At the open window he breathed in deep. Holy fuck, what the hell was he supposed to do with this? Show it to Andrei? It'd kill him. Little faggot Sandro. Must've jerked off to pictures of himself.

Vasily let himself out the carport door. That burn barrel around back— He stripped out the photos, set them alight and dropped them in the barrel. Thin smoke twisted up and hung in the moist air. There. For the family. Just what Andrei would have done. But no need for Andrei to know. The last photo smoldered. He bundled all the female clothing into trash bags he found in a kitchen drawer. Better report, see what Andrei thought he should do. He got out his cellphone.

FOURTEEN

“Howler monkeys okay, but howler cats?” Noel spoke above the wailing from the back seat.

“There, there, cats,” soothed Brady. “Shut up.”

Heavy rain had returned. Noel asked, “Ursula, do you know what happens when one dies of a heroin overdose?”

“You mean, did Sandra suffer?” Brady asked.

“I mean more, what's the clinical process?”

Ursula folded her hands under her part of the cat cage. “We see ODs at the hospital every so often. And a few years ago my neighbor called me over when her boyfriend OD'd.” Brady stroked Ursula's arm. “All opiates kill by depressing respiration. Heroin cuts down the number of messages the brain sends to the muscles in the chest. Breathing becomes slower and slower, then you get the Cheyne-Stokes effect—”

“Refresh me on that,” Noel said.

“Irregular breathing, a rising crescendo of shallow breaths, followed by an extremely long pause when you can think the person's already died, then a sharp uptake of breath again.”

“Yeah, now I remember. What else happens?”

“Cyanosis—a blue tinge starting at the extremities, low blood pressure, slowing heartbeat, apnea—”

“Is that part of the Cheyne-Stokes breathing or a longer pause?”

“Longer pauses in the Cheyne-Stokes pattern. With heroin you have tiny pinpoint pupils. Then when you're near death your pupils expand. And when you're dead your pupils get really large.”

For a moment all were silent. Even the cats, briefly. Suddenly Ursula said, “McRae!”

Why such excitement? Noel turned. “Sorry?”

“Diana McRae. Sandro's ex-wife's remarried name. And their daughter is Carla.”

“Ah.” Noel wrote both names beside Diana's phone number.

Kyra mused, “How, where and why would Sandro have got heroin, that's the question.”

“The sheriff claims there are no addicts in Coupeville,” Noel added.

“He's wishing.” Brady laughed. “There probably aren't many suppliers though, they'd be in Oak Harbor. The minute a new one surfaces here he locks him up or runs him out of town.”

The cats found second wind and headed up the scale again.

Brady said, “I'll report the planted syringes tomorrow.”

“To the sheriff?” assumed Noel.

“Wouldn't be his jurisdiction. State Patrol.”

“Oh yeah,” Noel muttered. The ubiquitous Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the occasional urban force were easier to figure out than the many divisions of American policing.

“Who, how and why put the syringes under the sink?” mulled Kyra some more.

“If they'd been there on Wednesday,” Ursula said, “I might be one percent convinced Sandra did. But they weren't, so I'm a hundred-ten percent convinced she didn't.”

“On the nose,” said Brady.

“Tell me something,” Kyra said suddenly. “Did Sandro want to be Sandra with a woman or with a man? A lesbian or a het?”

“We never got that far.” Brady laughed “We were too busy with underwear.”

“First she wanted to be Sandra,” said Ursula.

“Kyra.” Noel touched her arm. “Let's stay focused on his—her death.”

A few miles of silence. Kyra stopped at the Coupeville light. “How do I get to your place?”

“Turn right. Down to the shore.”

Except for some misty streetlights the evening was dark. A car came toward them, and another. Most people were home, tucked in for the night. Which is where Kyra wanted to be. They needed an early start tomorrow. “Is there a reasonable hotel or bed and breakfast?”

Brady said, “There's one where my parents stay. Oh, our place is left in two blocks.”

“The Inn,” said Ursula. “It's close.” She laughed. “Everything in Coupeville's only a few blocks. We'd invite you to stay with us but our place is really small.”

“That's fine.” Noel wanted only to put his feet up and have a drink, then a good meal. Five more minutes with these cats—

The Coupeville Inn, a two-storey gray clapboard heritage building, its front cheerily lit. Kyra slowed, then turned and headed to Ursula and Brady's. Through the rain the house did look tiny.

Back at the Inn, Kyra parked. Noel found the manager, so militarily upright and wizened he could have fought in the War of 1812. A cigarette dangled from his lips and yes, he had a suite. “Don't rent by the hour,” he said, cigarette bobbing.

Noel glared. “My business partner and I need to be in Coupeville overnight.” His voice had sunk to baritone.

“Oh well, business.” The manager waved him off as if dismissing a whole regiment.

Kyra arrived with the bags. Some finicky key-jiggling and the room's heritage lock opened. A quaint rabbit warren. Living room with pullout sofa. Large windows, the view black, flanked a gas fireplace. A bedroom and kitchen, bathroom and squished separate lav.

Noel sank onto the sofa, toed off his loafers and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Ahh,” he sighed. “One more cat yowl and I'd have given them a vocalcordectomy.”

Kyra prowled. “You want the bedroom?”

“No, you take it, I'm okay here.” He got up and flicked a switch he'd deduced controlled the gas fire. It did.

Kyra set her bag on the bed, drew out a bottle and headed for the kitchen. Clatter, clatter, and she handed Noel a vodka on ice. And one in hand for her.

“With your usual foresight.” He smiled and toasted.

“You have a clever partner.” She kicked off her shoes and flopped into a chair, curled her feet under her. “Okay, nothing's fitting. No mud on his shoes so likely he was carried there.”

“Right. And the syringes. And how could he walk there with all that shit in him?””

“Brady and Ursula's doubts get more solid.”

Noel sipped, and studied the flames. The simulation of burning logs in gas fireplaces was becoming realistic. “We need a major What Do We Know. After we solve the dinner problem.”

“We're a block from where we had lunch.”

“It's pouring. Let's hire a cook.”

“This is not a real hotel.” She waved her arm. “No restaurant.”

“Takeout? Delivery? Go out?”

Kyra got up and prowled. Rotary dial phone on top of a phone book: mildly heritage. “By the address, across from Toby's there's a gourmet-sounding seafood place.”