“Is that what that was?” Vera asked, surprised. “I thought you were just being festive.”

  “Festive? In August?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows. I celebrate all religious festivals without prejudice.”

  “As long as they come with cake,” Betty added with a wide grin.

  “But that’s not the point,” Vera continued. “We found something last night at Crafting with Cocktails. Something you need to see. Now.”

  “It’s alright, Kate. Go find out what they’re going on about.” Gordon waved me toward the studio door. “I’m just going to familiarize myself with this camera for a bit.”

  We exited out the closed studio door, the red light still brightly warning everyone that work was in progress.

  “Festive, my foot,” I grumbled as we sat down around a table.

  “Okay, Vera. What’s going on?”

  She reached into a reusable grocery bag and pulled out a stack of photos. “This is what’s going on.” She placed the images on the table, equidistant between the three of us, tapping the top one with a knobby forefinger. “We found this last night.”

  “We were looking for, " Betty said, “some party photos. We needed party photos for the Centennial display we’re making for the library.”

  She was lying; that was as obvious as the nose on her face. In fact, the whole squad of them was lying about Crafting with Cocktails.

  Sure, Centennial display for the library. I’ll bite.

  “Okay, so you found a photo. Not that shocking since that’s what you ladies have been busy doing. That and consuming alcoholic beverages.”

  “But this isn’t just any photo, Kate. Look.”

  Vera stabbed her forefinger, on the top photo again. I pulled it closer to examine it.

  It was a crowd scene from Harrow Village. Perhaps a July 1st Canada Day party, with red maple leaf bunting draped around the exterior of the Lind Hotel. People congregated on the sidewalk, the hotel patio crammed with tourists enjoying an alfresco lunch.

  “It’s Canada Day, I guess. A party in Harrow Village?”

  “Yes, that’s where our annual Canada Day parade finishes up. Everyone gets something to eat at the Lind or brings a picnic to the Village Green.”

  “Okay. When was this taken?”

  “1996.”

  “How can you be so sure, Vera?”

  “Bob didn’t paint the patio floor another color until the spring of ‘97. This was the last shade before he chose that hideous eggplant. It’s July of ‘96.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look there, in the corner. Just at the edge of the hotel. Right in that gap leading to the back entrance.” Vera imperiously tapped the photo again.

  I leaned closer, this time picking it up. Yes, she was right. Two people stood in the corner of the frame: a man and a young woman. It looked like he had just pulled her into the privacy of the gap, his arms draped possessively around her waist. She was smiling up at him. Her thick golden hair was falling forward, concealing a portion of her face.

  Golden hair.

  “That’s Rosalie!”

  Betty nodded. “Yes, it is. I pulled it from the stack to show Vera. I thought it was just a sweet photo of a young couple in love.”

  “Well,” Vera corrected briskly, “at least one of them was young.”

  “Who is he then?” I asked.

  “Frederic Stern.”

  “The pulp and paper billionaire?”

  “Yes. The significantly older, married, pulp and paper billionaire.”

  “I read in the Vancouver Sun that his youngest daughter is being married this Fall,” Betty said, “to the son of that television conglomerate owner, Simmons, or something like that.”

  “How appropriate. Old money marrying new money.”

  “His eldest isn’t that much younger than Rose,” Vera continued with distaste. “You’d think men would realize that running after young girls only makes them look sad and foolish.”

  “It’s in their DNA,” Betty offered. “The need to procreate with the most viable females available.”

  “Betty, you sound like Richard Attenborough,” I laughed. “Like Frederic Stern is a rare buffalo breed in some nature program.”

  Betty smiled and shrugged. “In some ways, he is.”

  “Yes,” Vera added, “but buffalos don’t have the smackeroos to wine and dine their conquests and then take them on luxurious shopping trips.”

  “So that means Frederic Stern is the mystery lover.”

  “Yes,” Vera said. “that’s what it looks like.”

  “Okay,” I placed the photo back down on the table. “It’s interesting to have that little mystery about her sugar daddy solved, but what do you want me to do? The case is closed. Selesia is under arrest for Rosalie’s murder. It’s finished.”

  I pushed the thought of Scott’s doubts to the back of my mind.

  “Not exactly,” Vera spoke slowly, allowing each vowel to lengthen.

  “Not exactly how?”

  Betty and Vera looked at one another. Betty spoke first. “Well, what if we found someone else with a significant motive for Rose’s murder? Someone the police haven’t considered yet.”

  “Okay. Who? Frederic Stern? But why?”

  Betty glanced down at the photo. “Vera believes Rose was about 15 in this picture.”

  I looked at it again. It was hard to tell. “Okay.”

  “Only fifteen. Standing there with her incredibly wealthy, older,” Betty paused and enunciated the last word, “lover.”

  I felt a hot flush of anger rush to my cheeks. Fifteen? Below the age of consent? That meant this was.…

  “Statutory rape,” I murmured aloud.

  “Yes,” Vera agreed. “If this got out, it wouldn’t just ruin him professionally and personally. He could end up doing some serious jail time.”

  “But why would it become an issue now?” I hesitated and then answered my own question. “Rosalie’s autobiography. He didn’t know whether she’d included anything about their relationship in her manuscript.”

  Vera and Betty nodded in smug unison. “Yes, but there’s more. When Gwen saw this photo, she knew she couldn’t hide the station benefactor’s identity any longer.”

  I didn’t even pause to think. “It’s Frederic Stern, isn’t it? That’s why he threatened to shut us down! He couldn’t take the risk of someone connecting his name with Rosalie’s. Either in the past or in the present.”

  “Yes,” Vera replied. “And I think that’s a pretty good motive for murder, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I glanced down at my watch. It said 10:25. When was the next seaplane to Vancouver? 11:30. If I hurried, I could just make it.

  I grabbed the photo and shoved it into my hoodie pocket. “Vera, can you check on Jupiter for me? Let him out and give him some kibble at around five? The house key is under the white painted stone by the front door.”

  “Where are you going?” Betty asked as I prepared to dash back into the studio to apologize to Gordon for the abrupt end to his training session.

  “Coal Harbor. Vancouver. I need to speak with Frederic Stern.”

  * * *

  When I pulled up, the Salish Air seaplane was already at the dock of the aerodrome at Coho Bay marina. A frantic telephone call to their Vancouver airport base had let me book the last seat. I grabbed my bag, tossed in a couple of granola bars to tide me over, and jumped out onto the gravel parking lot. The last figure handed his small overnight bag to the pilot to stow before he climbed awkwardly up the steps and into the cramped interior.

  “Dave!” I shouted, “I’m coming, too.”

  Dave frequently flew the route from Wynter Island to the mainland. Although pricey, the seaplane was the quickest and easiest way to get to the city. From take-off to landing, it took approximately 45 minutes. I would arrive in downtown Vancouver with plenty of time to hunt down Mr. Frederic Stern.

  “Yeah, I got the text from Robert at the office. You’re cutting it pretty close with this one,” he said as I skidded to a stop beside him on the mildew-stained wooden dock.

  “I know, but I made it.”

  “No bags?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’m coming home, on the eight o’clock this evening.”

  “Oh, a fast trip then. Doing some shopping?”

  He slammed the metal cargo door closed as I shifted my bag on my shoulder and stepped up on the small metal tread hanging off the left pontoon.

  “Kind of,” I answered. “A very particular kind of shopping.”

  I tucked my head to squeeze in through the back door. The DeHavilland Beaver sat six, with one passenger lucky enough to get the shotgun position beside the pilot. But it was a cramped six. A chance to get cozy with your fellow islanders.

  “Kate? You’re going into the city?”

  I recognized the voice instantly. I forced a smile on my face and lifted my head. Ian was sitting next to the last empty seat, looking crisp and handsome in his neatly pressed RCMP uniform. After half an hour in these cramped conditions, he wouldn’t look nearly as tidy when we landed in Vancouver.

  “Hi, Ian. What a surprise!” I plunked down beside him and buckled my seatbelt. “You’re going to Vancouver, not Victoria?”

  “Yes, some police business downtown tomorrow, and then I’m going to take a couple of days to visit with my family.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “And you? I noticed you didn’t have any bags. Or,” he glanced quickly up and down at my disheveled red hoodie and jeans, “um, a change of clothes. An unexpected trip?”

  Dave had clambered into the pilot’s seat, adjusting his headphones and buckling himself in. “Yeah, she cut it pretty close this time,” he commented. “Got the last seat with only 15 minutes to spare.”

  Ian’s black eyebrows arched in surprise, and I was afraid, suspicion. “So a very unexpected trip then.”

  “Yes.” I tried to quickly come up with some acceptable reason for my last-minute trip. “Shopping. The Bay is having a big sale today.”

  “Really? I didn’t take you for a shopaholic.”

  “Oh no,” My mouth was beginning to run away with itself, but I couldn’t stop it. “I love a good sale! Shopping? Fantastic!”

  I slapped my lips closed and glanced up at his questioning hazel eyes. Nope, he wasn’t buying any of this.

  “What’s going on, Kate?”

  “Going on? Nothing. Nothing is going on…”

  “Kate?” he cut me off. “We are going to be stuck together for the next forty-five minutes, with barely an inch to spare between us. Do you honestly believe you’re going to be able to maintain this act for that long?”

  I sighed. “No.”

  “Me neither. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In the brief silence, before the propeller engine started up, I told Ian about the photo of Frederic Stern and a young Rosalie canoodling in the shelter of the Lind Hotel.

  When the plane engine sputtered to life, the roar made talking impossible. We switched to writing details in the Notes app on my phone, swapping the cell back and forth between us like a shuttlecock. By the time we glided onto the harbor with the skyscrapers of Vancouver looking down on us, Ian knew precisely why I had dashed to get on this flight. He had also informed me, with a solemn expression that would brook no disagreement, that he would be tagging along on my visit with Frederic Stern.

  The Stern and Sons building, a twenty-story cement and glass monolith, was only a five-minute walk from the dock. The central rotating door spat dark-suited business persons out onto the rush of West Hastings St. Once inside, the space opened into a multi-level atrium with a twenty-foot statue of a bronze fir tree occupying pride of place.

  “I think they’re in the forestry business,” I murmured in an aside to Ian, who was already drawing curious stares. He cut a dramatic figure walking across the lobby, his tall, slim build carrying his wrinkled uniform with authoritative aplomb.

  “Yes, I think so,” he murmured as I stepped up to the main desk.

  A young woman, black hair coiled neatly behind her head in a low-slung bun, smiled perfunctorily at me. She gave Ian an extra second of attention.

  “Good afternoon. What can I help you with?”

  ‘‘We’re here to speak with Frederic Stern,” I said.

  She glanced at her computer screen. “Your name, please?”

  “Kate Thomas. I’m afraid we don’t have an appointment.”

  The smile turned slightly condescending. “Mr. Stern is a very busy man. I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment. Perhaps you could call his assistant? I have the number here if you need it.”

  Ian leaned closer to the receptionist. “Ms. Thomas, in her street clothes.” They both gave my hoodie and jeans a quick up and down glance, “may give you the impression that this is a social call. It is not.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket, brandishing his RCMP ID. “I’m sure Mr. Stern can find a few moments to talk with us.”

  The condescension slipped from her face to reveal a wary concern. “Of course,” she leaned forward to read his name off the card, “Staff Sargent Singh. Please have a seat. Someone will be down to speak with you in a moment.”

  Remarkably quickly, a young man dressed in a blue three-piece suit walked across the marble floor to where we were sitting.

  “Staff Sargent Singh and…?”

  “Kate Thomas.”

  “Lovely. Please follow me.”

  He led us to an elevator, gesturing us inside before pushing the number for the top floor.

  “Mr. Stern can give you fifteen minutes, but that’s all. He has several important meetings today.”

  We stepped off the elevator into the hush of a wood-paneled office. The young man knocked on a closed door, and a deep voice called us in.

  Frederic Stern sat behind a massive mahogany desk, its intricately carved edges and frontispiece a marvel of Victorian craftsmanship.

  It must have been his grandfather’s. A family heirloom.

  “Hello,” he said in a warm baritone.

  He looked distinguished in an American capitalist kind of way, backed by a wall of windows showcasing a spectacular view of the North Shore mountains across Burrard Inlet. His grey hair was thick, brushing back off his forehead in a smooth wave. His face was shaved with sparkling precision, almost as if his personal barber had just left the room. I could smell the subtle, tangy aroma of expensive men’s cologne. His grey suit jacket, lined with black pin-striped silk, hung open over his crisp white oxford shirt.

  Thomas Pink, I’m sure.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stern. My name is Kate Thomas, and this is Staff Sargent Singh of the RCMP.”

  “So I was told. And your reason for being here with Staff Sargent Singh is…?”

  Before I could say anything, Ian spoke. “Ms. Thomas has been assisting the RCMP with our investigation.”

  His greying eyebrows lifted a millimeter. “Investigation? Investigation into what?”

  “The death of Rosalie Morgann.”

  He showed no emotion, the slight tensing of the lines bracketing his mouth the only sign of concern.

  “Mr. Stern,” I started, “I’m the manager of CWYN, the community television station on Wynter Island.”

  He relaxed slightly. “Okay.”

  “You know CWYN, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said but offered nothing further.

  “I know Gwen Wynter contacted you a couple of years ago and convinced you to donate to the non-profit she was starting. You provided funds for the creation and the upkeep of the station.”

  He said nothing.

  “That was extremely generous of you.”

  He raised his hands in a loose gesture of acceptance of my compliment.

  “I believe your family has a long history with the island. They’ve owned a summer home there for quite some time. And you’ve spent a lot of summers on the island?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Boy, he isn’t giving me anything. I’m going to have to pull it out of him bit by bit.

  “We have a photo of one of those summers.” I pulled out the snapshot and placed it on the desk before him. “We think this was the summer of 1996. A Canada Day party at Harrow Village.”

  He picked up the photo and glanced at it before placing it back down on his desk. “If you say so.”

  I tapped where he and Rosalie could be seen kissing in the gap beside the hotel. “And this is you with your arms around a woman named Rose Morgan. A very young Rose Morgan. She would go on to become the well-known Hollywood actress Rosalie Morgann.”

  The smile straightened out into a solid line of disapproval. “What are you trying to say, Ms. Thomas?”

  I took a deep breath. “You were in a romantic relationship with Rose Morgan. In fact, you are the so-called ‘mystery lover’ the islanders talk about, the man who paid for lavish trips and secret romantic rendezvous with her.”

  He glanced down at the photo again for several moments. “If that is true—and I am not saying it is—wouldn’t that be something between myself and Miss Morgan? It’s not a matter for the police.”

  “It becomes a matter for the police when someone is murdered,” Ian said. “Especially someone writing an autobiography that may detail their relationship with a certain wealthy businessman.”

  “A wealthy, married businessman,” I added.

  His smile shifted from warmth to an icy condescension. “Infidelity is not illegal. Or at least it wasn’t the last time I checked.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “but it can create a lot of messy headlines, can’t it? You threatened to pull CWYN’s funding if we didn’t tamp down the press attention regarding the station and Rosalie’s death. And you have a big family event this Fall: your daughter’s wedding to the heir of the Simmons television empire. It would be a shame to have that marred by some nasty personal stories in the press.”

  “That is why morals clauses exist, Ms. Thomas. To protect the reputation of associated businesses or individuals.”

  “Well, you certainly seem to have been worried about the effect Rosalie might have on your business.”