Oh, Phil! Drunk already?

  “Well,” I realized I was speaking louder than usual and lowered my voice, “You didn’t look that great when you came to the station a few days ago.”

  He myopically reached for the bottle of rum and poured some into the water glass. “That ain’t any of your business.”

  “Well, actually, it is.” I weighed up the choice between standing or sitting on a delicate living room chair that looked like it might crumble beneath me. I pulled the chair back and sat down facing Phil. “What’s going on, Phil?”

  Belligerence wavered on his cratered, wrinkled face before he slipped back into melancholy. His eyes teared, and he took a quick drink of rum.

  “Rose is gone. Dead. They killed her.”

  “Who are they, Phil?”

  He gestured wildly towards the front window, almost knocking over his glass. “Them. All those prissy busybodies who had it in for Rose.”

  “You mean, the islanders?”

  “Yeah, all those women who gossiped about her when she was young. They hated that she’d come back home. Jealous is what they are, all of them. Jealous of her beauty.” He petted the back of his grizzled grey head. “Her hair was like gold. Did you ever see it?”

  I nodded my head. “Yes, I did, a couple of times. She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, Phil.”

  Phil’s lips stretched into a weak smile. “Yes, she was. My Rosie is what I used to call her.”

  I settled back in my chair, hearing an ominous creak as I did so. “How did you know her?”

  Another glug from his glass of rum. “I was best buddies with her dad, Frank. And her mom, Nancy. That’s where Rosie got her looks, you know. I courted Nancy, but she ended up choosing Frank.”

  A sadness crossed his face. Was this perhaps part of the reason for his breakdown? That he had lost her mother to another man and then lost Rose as well?

  “Nancy died in a car accident on the Pat Bay highway. Frank never recovered, so Rosie was left to look after herself.” A spark of anger flickered in his eyes. “They could have helped—all those bossy women who gossiped about her. But no, they were too busy with their own perfect lives. Nosy bitches, the lot of them.”

  It appeared Phil had been drinking from the same Kool-Aid that Jason had been imbibing.

  “Did you see her much? Once she returned to Wynter Island?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking? Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “No one, Phil. I just wondered if you’d had a chance to see her before she, ahh, passed.”

  His face relaxed, and he nodded his head once. “Yeah, she came to visit a few times.”

  “Was it just a social visit or…?”

  His face closed shut again. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  Before I could answer, footsteps clomped up Phil’s gravel front walk. Brad Sixto sauntered into the house, stopping as he spotted me sitting in a chair.

  “Oh, hi, Kate. Didn’t think I’d see you here today.”

  “Ditto, Brad.”

  Brad was a younger, softer version of his older brother, Will. They shared the same pale chestnut skin tone, not yet hardened into the walnut-like seams on Sam’s face. They both had the same lanky height and shoulder-length, stick-straight black hair. He was dressed in faded jeans and a leather jacket, owing to the chilliness of the weather. During the week, Brad attended a tribal school in Saanich, only returning home on the weekends. But it was now summer vacation, and Brad was at loose ends. Will had taken a job as a camp counselor at a summer camp. For the first time, Brad didn’t have his big brother around for companionship.

  I had heard the whispers about Brad Sixto. That he was running wild without the sensible counsel of his older brother. That maybe he was drinking or doing drugs. I didn’t know whether they were true or just the fevered fears of a predominantly non-native population.

  But what I couldn’t get over was that, in his loneliness, Brad had turned to Phil. Why, of all people, Phil? Desperation?

  “Phil, how you doing, man?”

  He walked over and gave Phil a quick handshake. Phil smiled in return, a natural reflexive reaction to Brad’s wide grin.

  “Middlin’, I’d say. But I’ve got company, as you can see.”

  I returned Brad’s smile. “I heard you’re going to be in twelfth grade this fall.”

  He nodded his head. “Yes, I am.”

  “Any idea what you might want to do? Any colleges look interesting?”

  As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I had made a mistake. The room temperature plummeted as Brad’s smile slipped from his face.

  “Why does everyone think you’ve gotta go to college?” Phil shouted before Brad could speak. “I never went to college and look what I made of myself.” He waved his hand around the small, filthy room.

  Not the best example, Phil.

  “You’re right. Not everyone has to go to college. There are excellent trade schools …”

  “I don’t want to go to any more school,” Brad said, his shoulders squaring with fierce determination. “I just want to get my high school diploma and get out of there.”

  “Leave the boy alone!” Phil barked, his voice getting quite agitated.

  “I’m sorry. I was just asking a question. I didn’t mean to upset everyone.”

  “It’s okay, Kate. Phil, calm down, or you’re going to have a heart attack.”

  Phil gave me one final glare. “These folks and their interfering ways,” he muttered.

  “I wasn’t trying to interfere, Phil.”

  “It’s alright, Kate. I’m dyslexic, so school has always been tough for me. Will is the star academic of the family, not me. He’s going to UBC for Computer Science this fall. Full ride scholarship.”

  His self-effacing grin couldn’t hide what I suspected was the hurt he felt at always being second best.

  “No, I didn’t know, Brad. You’re right. There are many different ways for young people to make their way in the world.”

  Brad’s eyes met Phil’s, but they both remained silent.

  “Not if you’re my mom. She has all these plans for what she wants me to do, where she wants me to go.”

  “Well, she’s your mom. That’s understandable.”

  “She thinks if I’m not in a special college for the learning disabled or a government-sponsored work training program, I will end up like Greg.”

  Greg. The name sent a jolt through my system. He had been a drug dealer on Wynter Island and involved in my ex-boyfriend’s death.

  “Just cause he’s native, the islanders think he’ll go off the rails and end up in prison or something,” Phil said.

  “So, to get away from her nagging, I come here to see Phil.”

  Once again, they glanced over at each other.

  Did I see that correctly? Did Phil just wink at Brad?

  “Well, I stopped by to make sure Phil can provide our salmon for next week’s Fish Bingo. And that he’s, um, ‘well’ enough to start work on ‘Fishing with Phil.’”

  Defiantly, Phil took a gulp of his rum. “I’ll get you your bloody fish. And I’ll also make it to the station to talk about the show. Or at least Brad will, ‘cause he’s gonna be my producer.”

  I must have looked doubtful, for Brad chuckled. “I’ll make sure he gets it done, Kate. Or I’ll get the fish for you myself.”

  Brad has changed, I realized as I headed back to my truck. A lot. This was not the sullen teenager I remembered. Something had given him a new sense of accomplishment, of power. A belief in himself and what he could accomplish. It was lovely to see but also surprising.

  What happened?

  Chapter Fifteen

  The toxicology report was released the next day. Well, released makes it sound like everybody knew. It was more like the police were notified of the results, and Ian informed me. I jokingly asked him if that meant I was now on the RCMP payroll. He told me not to push my luck.

  I didn’t kid him about it again.

  The next day was…rainy. People were beginning to whisper about the stability of the cliffside homes on Wynter and the other Gulf islands. With more rain and no sun to dry up the soil, there was the potential for severe landslides all along the coast. Million-dollar homes might slip right off their foundations and plummet into the Pacific.

  Since my morning was free, I piled Jupiter into the truck and headed to Vera’s farmhouse. Her house reminded me of a bit of butter-colored Victorian fancy plunked down in the middle of the Pacific Northwest rainforest. One of the original homeowners on the island must have had a soft spot for finials, pilasters, and various forms of molding, for they curved and sprouted all around Vera’s front porch.

  I couldn’t see Vera anywhere in her yard. I parked the truck and dashed with Jupiter to the front door. A few knocks drew an exasperated shout from inside.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming!” The door opened, and Vera owlishly looked out at us. Her outfit this morning was grey sweatpants and a very loud pink and purple striped top. “Oh, it’s you, Kate. C’mon in. Jupiter too. Shake yourself off in the front hall and join me in the kitchen.”

  She turned on her heel and headed towards the back of the house. We did as we were told: Jupiter, literally, me not so much, and followed her into the kitchen.

  I had never been inside Vera’s cottage before. I don’t know what I had been expecting. Perhaps an interior design that matched its fussy Victorian exterior? But there was a clean Scandinavian aesthetic throughout. A small IKEA couch and a comfy chair were the only pieces of furniture in the living room. No TV. No stereo. But there was music. I followed it back to the kitchen, where a song that sounded like Enya giving birth streamed out of an old beatbox on the kitchen table.

  Vera was seated at a small pine table, sorting through a bowl of dried flowers. She was portioning them into small, mesh bags. “It’s chamomile tea. I’ve run out, and since there’s little hope of a crop this year, I’ve resorted to making my own from bought flowers.” She shook her head in disgust. “Would you like a cup?”

  “Well,” I hesitated. How could I tell her that floral tea tasted to me like warm eau de toilette? “Umm.”

  “Coffee then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She scooped ground coffee into an Italian espresso pot and placed it on one of the glowing elements of her 1960s white stove.

  “So what has brought you here today, Kate?” Her husky, robust voice dipped in and out of its Germanic consonants. “It’s obviously not my chamomile tea.”

  “I’m sorry, Vera. Flower tea is just not my thing.”

  Her serious face split into a wide grin as one work-roughened hand reached over to pat mine. “That’s fine. I’m just teasing you.”

  “Good,” I sighed. “I’m here for your herbal expertise.”

  Her hand paused as she raised it from mine. “Herbal expertise? Is there something wrong? Are you sick?” She leaned down to look at where Jupiter had positioned himself under the table. “Is Jupiter alright?”

  “No, we’re fine. It’s more general herbal expertise.”

  “Oh, okay. What is it?”

  I hesitated. This was going to be tricky. How do you casually ask someone if they have any poison lying around the house? The same poison that has just killed a young woman?

  “Lily of the valley. You know it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, of course. Convallaria Majalis. Beautiful flower, lovely fragrance, but it can be deadly.”

  “Yes, I know. The coroner is pretty sure that is what killed Rose.”

  “She was poisoned? By Convallaria Majalis?” Vera’s stunned reaction slipped towards meditative thought. “Well, it’s a good choice, I suppose. Its toxin, convallotoxin, is quite similar to digitalis, found in foxglove. Has a similar effect. You know, Cardiac arrhythmia. It’s the cardiac glycosides.”

  “The what?”

  “It affects the heart, Kate, either in a good or bad way, depending on how it’s used.”

  “Have you used it?”

  Vera considered this for a moment. “Not in quite a while. I don’t even think I have any tincture anymore. It can help deal with irregular heartbeats in small doses, just as digitalis can. Also UTIs.”

  “But you don’t have any?” I pushed.

  “Well, not in my herbal apothecary. But I have lily of the valley growing in my garden.”

  “Why do you have it growing in your garden if it’s poisonous?”

  “For the same reason, I have foxglove and belladonna growing in my garden: they’re also poisonous. Yews, those shaped evergreen hedges you see in Stanley Park and around older homes in Vancouver? They are the deadliest tree known to man. Almost instantaneous death.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, because a little of something can be good for your health, while a lot of it can kill you. It’s the nature of pharmacology, either herbal or prescription.”

  “Okay, I’ve got to ask you this, Vera. What was your relationship like with Rosalie?”

  Vera leaned back in her chair and laughed so loud and long that she began to cough, her hacking shaking her thin frame. “Oh, Kate. I don’t know which is funnier: that you think I’m the murderer or that you think I might answer that question honestly if I was!”

  The espresso pot burbled on the stove, and Vera stood up to take it off the element and pour me a small cup of espresso.

  “Sugar?”

  I nodded, and she dumped a heaping teaspoon in before handing me the cup.

  “No, I was one of the few women on the island who didn’t have a personal issue with Rose.”

  “Why was that?” I sipped at the boiling hot liquid.

  “Because I was a child of the sixties. Drugs, free love, nudity, etc. That’s how I came to live on Wynter Island.”

  “I wondered how you’d ended up here.”

  “My then-husband and I left Germany in ‘67 to travel across Canada in a VW van. We heard about a groovy commune starting up on this idyllic West Coast island, so we decided to try it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, my marriage ended, and then the commune broke up. I decided to remain on Wynter Island and open the pharmacy.”

  “I see. Most everyone else left, though.”

  Vera nodded her head. “Yes, leaving me surrounded by a bunch of fishermen and farmers who didn’t know what to make of a flower child. Over time, they warmed up to me.”

  “But not to Rose.”

  “No. They couldn’t see that sex for Rose was merely another form of attention and affection. The women were scandalized because she didn’t bring the moral weight to it that they did. Scandalized with both her and their husbands.”

  “But not you.”

  “No, I didn’t care whom she slept with. But I wouldn’t say I liked how she used sex to hurt people. I didn’t like that at all. Even then, I could see that she was getting her revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “Revenge for the fact that she was invisible to all of them until she grew into a beauty.”

  “I see.”

  “So I had no motive to murder Rose,” she chuckled. “Unlike other women on this island.”

  “Like Doreen?”

  “Unh huh.”

  “Did Doreen have access to your garden?”

  Vera snorted. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking if I gave her some lily of the valley so that she could make Rose pay for the suicide of her friend?”

  I nodded.

  “No, Kate, I didn’t. Have you ever heard the saying: A friend will help you. A good friend will help you hide a body.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, as lovely as Doreen is—and we are quite good friends—I would not help her hide a body.”

  “But what about Gwen?”

  “That’s different. Gwen is like a sister to me. I would definitely help her hide a body.” She hesitated. “You’re not seriously thinking that Gwen had anything to do with Rose’s death?”

  “No, not really. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Gwen wouldn’t have any motive to hurt Rose. She and Sam left for UBC in the early seventies.”

  “Gwen never met her? At all?”

  Vera shook her head. “No. She and Sam left before Rose was born. They were madly in love back then. Did you know that?”

  “Sam told me. Something happened, and they broke up.”

  “Yes, Gwen started dating someone else in their third year of university. Broke Sam’s heart. And then, out of nowhere, she packed up and moved to Toronto to finish her degree. She never returned until about 15 years ago.”

  “Yes, I remember. After her father died.”

  “Yes. Rose was about 19 or so when she ran away. The late nineties. Long before Gwen came back to Wynter Island.”

  “Outside Gwen then, most islanders would have known Rosalie. Definitely, the old-timers would.”

  “What are you getting at, Kate?”

  “You heard what Gwen said at the emergency meeting.” I took another sip of my espresso. There was no reason to tell Vera what I had promised Shea. “We’ve got to find the killer. CWYN can’t lose its funding. If it does, we’re done.”

  “My money is on her fancy man.”

  Jupiter came out from beneath the table, looking for a treat. Vera leaned back to take a cracker out of a tin and handed it to him. “It’s not dog food, Jupiter. It’s human food, so you’d better be extra good.”

  Jupiter licked his lips and returned to his spot under the table.

  “You mean her ‘mystery lover’? The wealthy guy who was funding their little liaisons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he really exist, Vera? It sounds like something a teenage girl would make up to try and impress people.”

  “I don’t think so. Rose frequently caught the float plane out of town for the weekend, and there was no way she could have afforded that on her own. And think about it, Kate: Rose’s murder was public and dramatic, almost theatrical. That leads me to think of the heart, not the head. An emotionless murderer would have their victim die in their sleep, not live on air. Perhaps she broke his heart when she ran away to Hollywood?”

  “So the question then becomes: who is the mystery lover?”