Читать книгу Blackflies Are Murder - Lou Allin - Страница 8

Driving by Anni’s house a few days later, Belle craned her neck to spot the woman’s rusty little Geo, but it was gone. Anni was a woman of her word, no-nonsense, expedient. If she said she was going to demolish the site, she would. Might be a good idea to give her a call soon.

Belle’s four-by-four van, a compromise between comfort, space and the practical needs of a Northerner, passed along the Airport Road, the puffs of the 1250 foot Superstack in the distance, emblem of the International Nickel Company, aka INCO, the once-dominant employer. Supposedly the friendly giant cleansed the exhaust of 90% of pollutants and was monitored like a preemie, though intermittently it gave a dyspeptic burp that hit the papers. A molten bombshell from space nearly two billion years ago had crowned Sudbury with a thirty-mile ring of ore deposits, a blessing and a curse. The region was finally recovering from the systematic rape of resources that had left a war zone around the Nickel Capital. First, its timbers had been shipped to Chicago after the Great Fire of 1871. Then open pit smelting had destroyed secondary vegetation and leached soil from the hills. No wonder astronauts had come to the blackened moonscape to train. Fortunately the last decades had seen a massive liming and seeding campaign. Acid-tolerant pines and rye grass were covering the scars, and trout, pickerel and pike were biting again as the lakes recovered.

En route to her office downtown, Belle stopped at the latest addition to their food chain, a bagel shop. She scanned the counter, barely mastering the canine urge to drool. Fifteen kinds, including sourdough, cheese and bacon, and a dubious chocolate chip. A cooler offered cream cheese in tempting flavours: dill, olive, peach and smoked salmon. For less than five dollars, she snatched an assortment.

Palmer Realty occupied a large mock-Victorian house on a quiet street with mammoth cottonwoods, a fast-growing and resilient tree. Twenty years ago in Toronto, Belle had left a punishing career as an English teacher before a love of literature became an apology, and with only a suitcase and her Compleat Shakespeare, had boarded a bus to join her Uncle Harold in his business. With 160,000 people in the newly amalgamated region, not to mention cottage buyers from the south, all hungering for a spot on one of the ninety lakes, he had established a lucrative and satisfied clientele. Until his death at eighty, he had strolled through the door every morning, unfiltered Camel cigarette in his mouth, red bow tie bobbling over his Adam’s apple. Every now and then she expected him to reappear, quizzing her on every pond, puddle and pool. Anyone with the confidence to wear a bow tie might come back from the dead.

“Can lattes be far behind?” she asked Miriam MacDonald, rustling the bag. Her mistress of all trades, former itinerant bookkeeper, brushed back a lock of frizzy iron gray hair, surveyed one, smelled it, poked it and finally gave a tentative nibble. “A real bagel like on TV? No more gnawing like a beaver on those frozen hockey pucks from Toronto?” She rummaged through the bag. “And peach cream cheese? Today I work for nothing.” A sigh broke from her lips. “Hell, I do that anyway, and I need a holiday.”

“Victoria Day’s around the corner. Anything new and exciting?” Belle made a face as she refilled Miriam’s cup and poured herself a coffee. “Don’t you hate that phrase?”

The fax machine ironed out a message. Miriam yanked it off, eyes widening in comic disbelief. “What’s this? Do we have any waterfront under fifty thousand? Must have lake large enough for a jet boat, year-round road access, modern cottage with septic, boathouse, sauna, dock, all within an hour of town.” She mimed a dealer tossing out cards. “This guy’d get better odds playing the slots at Sudbury Downs.”

Belle flashed her an encouraging smile. “Everything sells at the right price. What about the Darwin property? Has the old coot come down as we suggested?” The crafty owner had given an imitation pine facelift to the leaning shack, but she suspected lurking problems, a buried heating oil tank for the “septic,” dry rot in the boathouse. Unless the buyer wanted to use the outhouse (Class 5 sanitation system), he’d need a field bed at a cost of perhaps ten thousand. A realtor wore two hats, one for the buyer and one for the seller. It was her job to be optimistic yet realistic, since legal troubles came from hiding information.

“Hanging tough,” Miriam said, scanning the bulletin board, snatching off a note and tapping her favourite repository of Frenglish slang. “Tabernac on toast!. This call came yesterday as I left. A Mr. Sullivan seemed very interested in that property near you. He noticed the ad in The Sudbury Star. I made you a date. Three sharp.”

Miriam licked a pencil point and drew dollar signs on the prospectus, passing it over. “Do you think he has the money? He’ll be paying for the acreage more than the small house.”

Belle didn’t have to open the folder. She had walked to all four corners checking survey stakes. Smack at the end of her road past the schoolbus turnaround. Five glorious acres backing onto Crown land. A boathouse, drive-in shed and 800 square-foot cottage. Oil furnace. Decent siding and insulation. Plow truck and small tractor. Its salient point was privacy, nestled into birch, poplar and maple forest. The property had belonged to Jason Brown. A year ago, the old man had suffered a stroke and been taken to Rainbow Country Nursing Home, where Belle’s father lived. Unable or unwilling to speak, Jason was as communicative as a rutabaga. He had taken good care of his home, but last time she had visited, a piece of siding was blowing off, and the boathouse needed fresh paint.

At three o’clock precisely, the door opened. Silvery hair brushed to a sheen, a Burberry topcoat over his arm, the man wore a light beige three-piece suit, maroon puff in the pocket, matching striped tie. Very Toronto Bay Street broker, if it hadn’t been for the carefully trimmed white beard. “I’m Charles Sullivan. I’ve come about the Edgewater Road property.”

Belle introduced herself and presented the file, which he scanned with interest. His hands were immaculately manicured, and a light scent of bay rum reminded her of Uncle Harold.

“I’ve retired,” he added, “and always dreamed of living on a quiet lake. If there are a few problems to fix, all the better. I’m pretty handy with a hammer and saw, and I like to keep busy.”

Belle found his courtly manner refreshingly old-fashioned. He listened with an intelligence signalling a profession. Doctor? Lawyer? Clergyman? It seemed presumptuous to ask. Not a patrician eyebrow rose at the price, and when she suggested a visit, he followed her from town in his white Ford Taurus, fresh from a car wash.

Half an hour later, at the junction of Edgewater Road, Belle signalled for a stop at the assembly of Canada Post mailboxes. After getting out of the van, she called over her shoulder as she opened her pigeonnier. “Believe it or not, we lobbied long and hard for this small privilege. The alternative was to collect our mail in Garson, the little suburb we passed through.” As she sifted the letters, she discovered one for Anni, 1703 instead of her 1903, and placed it on the dashboard.

With Creedence Clearwater Revival banging out “Down on the Corner,” Belle drove past the swamp where moose crossed the road for a dawn slurp and three deer, a rarer sight, had danced a midnight ballet one moonlit night. Dreaming of her flaming youth over the words “Look at all the happy creatures dancing on the lawn,” she swerved to avoid an oncoming green Escort gobbling more than its share of gravel. Patsy Sommers, one neighbour short on manners. Behind her, Sullivan stayed well to the right. She hoped that the incident wouldn’t discourage him. Nothing like a fender-bender introduction to rural living.

A mile beyond her house, they passed the school bus turnaround and stopped by a farm-style gate. The property had the bonus of chain-link fencing along its road boundary to foil snowmobilers or people pulling boat trailers looking for lake access, she explained, opening the padlock. “Pretty safe out here,” she said. “Occasionally the snowbirds lose portable temptations like chain saws, shotguns or stereo equipment.”

They parked in the large lot at the end of the lane, where red osiers sported their umbilical flowers. She pointed out raspberry bushes, the new canes green promise. “These make great jam. Wild ones always taste better than commercial berries. People say Mr. Brown was famous for his wine, too,” she said.

“Is that so? I used to be a dab hand with that art myself.” He looked up as a small dark red-barked tree with a host of white blossoms showered them like bride and groom. “Pale pink like lemonade, but proofing out at over 20%, especially if aged in old rum barrels.”

Belle laughed and warmed to his enthusiasm, not to mention her rising hopes for the sale. “Might call it ‘firewater.’ Medicinal purposes only, eh?”

“Nature knows best.”

The little house needed a good airing. It was musty, the heavy curtains pulled tight to discourage nosy intruders. Originally a one-room post-and-beam camp, when a foundation had been added, the upstairs had been divided into a living area, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom with shower. Belle opened a window to let in fresh air. A collection of castoffs, the furniture mixed decades like an eclectic museum. Massive Forties overstuffed chairs merged with the drab Fifties nubbly couch in a vomitous colour and the Sixties black and white television. “Silverware and dishes in your choice of patterns,” she said with a laugh as they passed through the kitchen. In the bedroom, they paused to consider a swaybacked mattress on a metal frame. Belle shook her head. “Multiple lumps or a sag that you fight all night seems part of cottage life.” Downstairs, the oil furnace gave the cinder block basement a definite wang, but Sullivan didn’t comment, nodding as she showed him the new jet pump. “The house is well-insulated,” she added. “Pink batts in the crawl space and blown-in fibre in the walls.”

Was the man interested? He hadn’t spoken more than a “um-hum” since they had come inside. When they returned to the yard, she asked, “Have you lived in the country?”

He hesitated, then looked at her pleasantly. “Not for years. Ottawa’s been my home.”

“If you’re used to city life, what I’m getting at is this. Everything looks so benign in the summer. But we get plenty of snow. Eleven feet this year. Not much thawing, either, like the chinooks out west. The road is plowed, better be with the taxes we grouse about, but you’ll have to clear your drive with Brown’s old truck or arrange for a contract. Ed DesRosiers’s very reliable. I use him myself, and often I’m away by seven.”

He waved his hand in polite dismissal. “The Capital City gets a lion’s share, and I think I’d like plowing. Make technology do the dirty work. It seems productive and relaxing. Enjoy tinkering with cantankerous motors, too.”

That sounded better. Belle took a deep breath. After expenses, namely Miriam, the six-percent commission would pay for a new refrigerator, maybe a down payment on a van. And it really was a splendid place, much larger and far more private than hers.

He retrieved a small leather notebook from his coat pocket and jotted notes with a gold Cross pen. “Septic OK? And how about the drinking water? Is there a well?”

“Whoa! You’re no amateur.” Belle pointed to a grassy knoll. “Field bed’s back there. Natural drainage slope, so you don’t have the worry of a lift chamber. Most of us have our tanks pumped every two years to be on the safe side. A grant’s available, too. And as for the water . . .” Spread out like a melted Prussian blue crayon was Lake Wapiti, an eight-by-eight mile meteor crater, deeper than the Underworld itself and as frigid as the other place was sizzling. “There’s the best well in the world. Brown has a heated waterline like mine. A bit of colour in spring run-off, but you can get filters at Canadian Tire if you’re squeamish about algae or sediment. Even a reverse-osmosis system is available now. Big bucks, though.”

What they found next in the large shed made Sullivan clap his hands. “He left all his tools? They’re worth a fortune.” He studied the table saw, chop saw, lathe, router, shop vacuum, grinder and rows of assorted jars of nails and screws neatly affixed to the wall. A pegboard with hooks held graduated series of screwdrivers and wrenches.

“He’s in a nursing home. The relatives down south took only the bass boat. Cottages are usually sold all-inclusive,” she said as if bestowing a personal gift. “Never know what you’ll find. Maybe five sets of rusty bedsprings. Maybe buried treasure. His nephew told me that Brown had hinted at some secret hideyhole. Family joke, I guess.”

The central part of the property was cleared, which allowed the breezes to blow off the bugs, with a few well-placed large oaks and maples saved for shade. At one side, flanked by dwarf plum and apple trees, a weedy garden sprouted asparagus feathers and the broad rhubarb leaves of the ubiquitous Canadian staple. “Hurts to see a garden gone to seed,” Belle said. “Before he started going downhill, this used to be the best on the road, especially the tomatoes. Once he even grew a prize-winning pumpkin. Milk-fed, but don’t ask me how.”

Sullivan knelt stiffly and sifted the soil with his hands. “Fine stuff. Just the right mix of organic material, clay and sand. Must have taken him many years, hauling in the soil.”

Belle broke off a thumb-thick asparagus spear to munch on. “Don’t tell me you garden, too?”

Pulling out a plantain weed, he tossed it aside. “Oh, I’m hoping to have time for many hobbies now.”

Belle led him to the dock, bolstered by a formidable rock wall for ice and wave protection. Far across the water, flanking the North River, the hills leapfrogged each other in layers of teal and black under shadows of scudding clouds. A loon called to its mate, ululating and then diving, only to surface a hundred feet away. “Marvellous swimmers,” he said.

“Can’t ever guess where they’re going to rise. One thing’s sure, it proves that there are plenty of fish in Wapiti. Are you an angler, Mr. Sullivan?”

He beamed like an uncle. “Call me Charles. I’m a catch-and-release man, in it for the fight. Will confess something, though. I do eat the perch.”

Belle bent down and peered into the clear depths. “Perch? Are they worth the trouble? They’re so small and bony.”

“That’s true. Most folks don’t bother. Consider them trashy, to use their word. Five or six make a pretty good feed, and I don’t mind the cleaning.” He stepped forward and tossed a twig into the water, following its drift with a trained eye. “My Lord, just look at the little devils down there. Wish I had my tackle,” he said, grinning broadly. “Tell you what. I’ll catch a pailful and invite you for dinner.”

Belle’s heart rang like the drawer of an old-fashioned cash register, and she wondered if dollar signs had snapped into her saucery eyes. “Do you mean that . . .”

“That’s right, my dear lady. I like it. I’ll take it. Not even going to insult you and our Mr. Brown by dickering. Not my style.”

Wondering if he had forgotten the steep price, she tried to cement the bargain. “I know it seems high, but you do have 650 feet frontage. You could split off a lot, sacrifice a little privacy, and realize sixty or seventy thousand at the right time.”

He closed his eyes, folded hands behind his back and took a deep breath. Belle could smell the clean tang of the water as the wind ruffled their hair. “Why spoil paradise?” he asked.

It was after six by the time she left Charles surveying his kingdom. “Yesssssss!” Belle said, clenching her fist. Satisfied buyer, satisfied seller. Whether or not Brown ever connected with reality, she had obtained a fair price which might buy him some comforts. As the van rounded a corner, the letter to Anni dropped from the dash onto her lap. Better take it on down. Besides, she wanted an update on the mind games with the hunters. Women, take back the woods!

The rusty Geo sat in Anni’s driveway like a wounded veteran, a faded Support the Right to Arm Bears sticker on its rear windshield and its muffler dangling an inch from the ground. How the woman kept the beast chugging was a miracle, but money was short for a widow. She lived frugally, her greatest asset the property itself. Parking on the neatly swept gravel, Belle marvelled at the perennial garden surrounding the modest frame house. A pastel rainbow of graduated tulips and hosts of sunny daffodils lent Wordsworthian splendour to the tidy beds. She raised an eyebrow to notice that Anni’s Oriental lilies were already a foot tall. Her own bulbs had become a late spring snack for some discriminating vermin. Around the corner dashed the dogs, yapping and jumping. Belle gave a surreptitious knee to the unruly golden trying to romance her leg. The door opened, and Anni appeared in jeans and a patched corduroy shirt, holding a book and probably wondering about the unusual social call.

“I have a letter for you. Wrong box again.” Belle passed her the envelope with a Government of Canada return address.

Anni swept her arm graciously. “Well, then you deserve a reward. Come in and talk over a crone’s tipple. I usually eat later in the summer.”

The few times Belle had been inside, some new puzzle decorated the wall, this time an eye-crossing Jackson Pollock full of paint blots and streaks. Anni had explained that the concept of “dissected maps” had developed in late eighteenth-century England as a teaching tool. Her husband Cece had started her on the hobby, bringing back specimens from his world travels as a metallurgical engineer. One Japanese wooden puzzle hung vertically without glue, sold with tweezers and magnifying glass to assemble twenty-five pieces per square inch. To add to the museum flavour, purple velvet plants trailed their vines, winding among Boston ferns and an assortment of prickly cacti including an Old Man variety sporting a gray wig. In a brass container in the corner stood Anni’s walking stick and an umbrella. The polished wood floors shone like honey. No traces of dog claws, though, with the mutts likely relegated to the basement at night.

Belle stopped to inspect a curious landscape peopled by small figures making their way from the Barren Land of Ignorance to the Hill of Science, detoured by the Mansion of Appetite, the Wood of Error and the Fields of Fiction. “Anni, is this new? Give me a room in the Mansion of Appetite.”

Her friend set her reading glasses aside, pleased at the observation. “A Pilgrim’s Progress variation, circa 1800. Probably no one bothers with that in school anymore, but it’s always been a comfort to me. Couldn’t resist buying the little treasure.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if life were that simple? Good, evil, black, white. Mind your manners and advance to the next square.”

Sitting on the chintz sofa, her hands folded as she stared at the envelope, Anni turned pensive. “We never know where some paths may lead us. At any rate, I did the deed,” she said with a grave tone. “All of that abomination is gone.”

“Did anyone see you?” Belle asked, choosing a rocker.

“I don’t think so.”

“So nothing has happened? No phone calls or other dirty work?”

“For precautions, I left town that night to stay with an old friend in Muskoka for several days. Since I’ve been back, I haven’t heard any shots, or seen anyone who didn’t belong on the road.” Sighing, she rose and went to the credenza, reaching for a cut glass decanter and pouring small glasses of sherry with a shaky hand. Several drops spilled, but Anni didn’t seem to notice.

“So what’s wrong? They learned their lesson,” Belle said, accepting the drink.

Anni gestured at a picture of a grinning young man on her mantel. It was her nephew, whom she mentioned occasionally, always with a curious mixture of love and exasperation. “Another wild scheme of Zack’s.”

“Again? Not another budgie sitting service or balloon delivery from Batman. Or is he opening a chip stand across from McDonald’s? Too bad he missed the pet rock craze. Can you imagine the raw material around here?”

The Gatling gun humour had misfired. Anni blinked her cinnamon brown eyes, shadowed with concern. “He has an idea for a used book store, compact discs, too. Maybe computer games. It’s true that he’s my only relative and welcome to his legacy. God knows he’s given me a hand with the spring and fall chores and made sure I got good care when I broke my arm last year, but I’m not made of money. Why can’t he find a rich wife or rob a bank?” She managed a weak smile.

Belle sipped at the sherry, a tiny dose of Bristol Cream, but “cherce” as Spencer Tracy would say of his Kate. “Small businesses are risky,” she said. “Half of the new ones go belly-up every year.”

“I know. Lack of planning, faulty demographics, too much staff or overhead, heavy competition. And some, like men’s clothing, are extremely perilous.” She realigned a ruby glass paperweight on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “Listen to me lecturing like Zack. Says he’s read enough books and made all the right mistakes to succeed. The infallible logic of the young, bless them. They’ll learn as we did.” Her eyes grew moist as she looked away.

Belle wondered if he had considered the obvious. “Tell you what’s big in this aging town. Home care. Assistive devices, help with daily chores. Special clothing, too, now there’s a gold mine. Silvert’s comes up from Toronto several times a year to make the rounds of the nursing homes. Surely he could beat their prices. I paid sixty dollars for my father’s ordinary sweatsuit with Velcro fastenings.”

Finally, Anni laughed. “That’s the last venture Zack would try. Except for me, and he tells me I’m really twenty-five, he can’t handle old people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, face the concept, I guess. When his mother, my sister Nell, had to be put into a nursing home because of Alzheimer’s, he became so depressed that he had to take tranquillizers every visit. Says he’ll kill himself before he reaches that stage. Early dementia runs in families.” Her voice trailed off.

“I can understand. First time through the door at Rainbow Country, my legs turned to rubber. You and I can’t imagine living in helplessness.” Belle shrugged and made a palms-up gesture. “But for some, a word or a wave brightens their day. Not that I’m bucking for sainthood, but I can’t just skulk in and out with his lunch. These people I see every week. They deserve acknowledgement.”

Anni’s slender fingers curled around each other as if to husband strength against a growing vulnerability. Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen. “I’ve . . . been forgetting things lately. The odd bill, the time I left the dogs out all night, and I’m forever losing my keys. I made the mistake of telling Zack, and you should have seen his face.”

Belle gave a light laugh of reassurance, took off her glasses and twisted the titanium frames, which sprang back obligingly. “I’m always losing these, or sitting on them. Happens to everyone. You’re safe as long as you remember that you wear them.”

“I hope you’re right. Anyway, enough family problems. Thanks for listening and for bringing the cheque. I’ve been a bit short this month.” Anni tossed back the last of her glass gamely, but the droop of her shoulders told a different story. “I’m not sure how long I can keep the Geo going. Rollins Automotive said that it needed a valve job and a new ‘tranny,’ I think the word was.”

Swallowing, Belle tried to keep a neutral face. Big time expensive, but why worry the woman more? As they walked outside, her eye was attracted to a contorted woody shrub. “What is that bizarre plant?” she asked.

Her friend hummed a tune. “A clue? You’re the film buff.”

“The puzzle lady. It’s familiar, but so far away. Another era. ‘You are my dearie . . . da da da. Sweet as sugar candy’ and something, something brandy.” She snapped her fingers. “Greer Garson in Random Harvest. She did a little dance. Cute kilt. So what’s the connection?”

“You know your movies, but not your music halls. The Scottish entertainer she was imitating. Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, it’s called. Common name: hazel.”

“Will it grow here?”

“Zone Five.”

“Risky. I lost my lavender last year in that -35° stretch.”

“We’ll see. It’s in a sunny spot, and the bay is sheltered. In a few years I’ll whittle a stick for you.”

Belle drove home with a nagging concern for her friend. Dementia, what a cruel spectre for someone with a healthy body. Belle’s father had been so vigorous, at eighty-one keeping pace with her all over Epcot Centre. Then, a few months later, he had needed full-time care.