Читать книгу Memories are Murder - Lou Allin - Страница 8

Arriving the next evening for dinner, Gary presented her with a book. “I remembered you loved films. Didn’t your dad take us to that screening room once? I wish my father had been a film booker,” he said with a nuance of a smile on his expressive lips. A slight gap between his two front teeth had added a very human feature to the little idol she’d raised.

She looked at the cover, recognizing Buddy Rogers and Richard Arlen in a pensive but provocative pose in the 1927 Wings. According to the blurb, this “acclaimed history of homosexuals in film” documented over three hundred movies spanning eighty years. She leafed through it. “Wow. Edward Everett Horton as the poet-reporter in The Front Page. Bert Lahr as the cowardly lion? Are they serious? And all the way back to the silents, even before the Hays Office regulations. Incredible.”

Freya showed much interest in the new arrival, and the feeling was mutual, as Gary scratched her ears. Somehow Belle wondered if he was measuring the dog’s head for the boil pot, as he’d done before, assembling squirrel and raccoon skeletons in high school. They’d met as partners in biology, when they’d had to dissect a crawfish.

“Moose, deer and bear, sure, but I’ve never seen an elk,” she said as they forked into one of her no-fail casseroles, made with lean ground beef, macaroni, tomato soup, red peppers and cheddar. Mâché salad with homemade blue cheese dressing rounded out the menu, along with blackberries topped with sweetened mascarpone.

Gary pointed out the window, where a party barge was making for home, chugging along with its pontoons parting the rising waves. Raindrops had begun splashing the panes. “Lake Wapiti, isn’t it? ‘Wapiti’ is the native name for elk. Another coincidence.” As he blotted his mouth with the linen serviette, he told her that the elk (Cervus elaphus) were native to Ontario, but extirpated by the late 1800s due to hunting and loss of habitat. The Thirties and Forties had seen efforts to restore them, but the unfounded theory that they were passing liver flukes to cattle had initiated a hunt that decimated the fragile herd.

“What do they eat? Do they compete with moose?” The extra glasses of the Sicilian nero red that was a bargain at ten dollars were winging her into a time warp with this ghost from her past. A generation had been born and raised to adulthood since last they’d met. If they’d had a child together . . . The spectre brought visions of prodigies, not that she’d been interested in motherhood. It would have been handy to have a teenager to shovel snow. She smiled to herself as he plunged on with his lecture. Her toes were tingling, or was it her imagination? She put down the glass and thought about coffee. Strong coffee.

“Not exactly. They’re both grazers and browsers, but when the going gets tough in winter, moose head for dense coniferous stands and feed on balsam fir and eastern hemlock. Elk prefer cedar habitat along shorelines, pawing up buried grasses in early winter. A perfect compromise. Nature has a way of sorting things out, if we’d just let it.”

Their own story in fewer than twenty-five words. “I’ve heard moose in mating season. Do elk sound similar?”

He arranged his lithe fingers, tossed his head back, and gave a fair imitation of a “bugle,” which caused Freya to rise and come to his aid. Laughing, he ruffled her fur and accepted a kiss.

“Very different from the birch-bark-cone moose call.” She poured the rest of the wine into his glass, sad to see it go, but glad that she wouldn’t be running her mouth without inhibition. She was beginning to remember the feelings she had entertained for this man. Far more powerful than muscle memory. “What exactly is your project?”

“I’m based around the old Burwash area. Bump Lake. Sometimes I take the canoe into the more remote lakes. Cow/calf survival is my focus this time around.” He had also published monographs on parasitology and foraging trajectories.

With cottages her speciality and over a thousand lakes in the region, Belle was familiar with every puddle and pond. Yet some areas were less habitable than others. “Burwash? Isn’t that where a prison used to be? Or a correctional facility, whatever they’re called?”

“So I hear. Nothing’s left of the town. The jail’s just a shell, not that I went near it.”

“When did these elk arrive?”

“We did a pilot release here in 1998, and a few years later for a total of one hundred and seventy-two animals. A couple of hundred more in Bancroft, Lake of the Woods, and the Lake Huron North Shore. Moderate success, about four hundred and fifty in Ontario at last count. Ecotourism based on elk is a great possibility, too.”

“Where do the animals come from?”

He drained his glass with an approving smile. “Elk Island National Park near Edmonton. They have a rigorous disease-management program, and their reproduction rate is solid.”

Belle stifled a laugh. “The Sudbury Star ran a story about those vaginal transmitters for pregnant cows. Ouch.”

He tipped back in his chair with an embarrassed look. “They were supposed to help us track newborns, but the idea flopped. Small wonder.”

Then he glanced at his watch with a sigh. A serious expression came over his face, and he smoothed his goatee. “Something else you should know. You’ll meet Mutt later this week.”

“Do you have a dog, too? No problem, as long as it doesn’t dig in the gardens or scratch that pristine wood floor. Maybe we can hit the trails together. Freya can use the socializing.”

“My . . .” He paused and gave her a wink. Laugh-lines around his eyes made him a man of self-confidence, far different from the serious boy with a secret. “. . . partner.”

She should have known that he was no monk. Unlike her, he had a sex life. Being jealous of his soulmate seemed beyond silliness. “So he’s coming up? Tell me more about Mutt. That can’t be his real name.”

“Malcolm Malloy. He’s a murder-mystery author. Writes a series about Lucy Doyle, one of Canada’s first female reporters. His books are set in Toronto in the Twenties.”

“I’d love to read them, but I’m still focussed on the mutt part.”

Gary laughed, deep and rich, with a spirit she’d never heard in the old days. “Mutt likes surprises. How about an open invitation for martinis? Bombay Sapphire suit you? Like them dirty? That’s with a tablespoon of olive juice.”

Would she have dreamed all those years ago that they’d be up in Sudbury having a conversation about elks and cocktails? It was comical. It was wonderful. With the final sigh she’d ever give about the colour of his eyes, Belle said, “Smashing.”

Later that night, she pulled a worn, cracked-leather five-year diary from her bookcase. She’d kept one from the age of ten until she’d left university. A spyhole into the teenager she’d been. When was their first date? Once she’d memorized them like holy days. She leafed back through the middle entries for senior year, then stopped and smiled at the lurid lavender ink she’d chosen when she’d learned about Mary Astor’s purple diary covering her affair with John Barrymore. March 6th. “HE ASKED ME OUT, SUGAR!” Then the writing got small and blurry. She grabbed her reading glasses: “In Eng, came up + bent down, saying, ‘May I see you after class?’ Then after, he said, ‘I hope you’re not busy Fri. Would you like to see a show?’ WOULD I! I’d see a cremation with him. Doubling with Janet and John.” Who were they? She couldn’t remember their last names. And since when did she ever say “sugar”? She sounded like a deep-fried Southern . . . belle.

Later that week, she fielded a call at the office.

So far, Yoyo was working out well, except for her clothes and the occasional grammar error. She’d taken the coughing hint about the perfume, but Belle wondered how to broach the subject of those scooping necklines and clinging tops. Hot and humid summer weather would make the problem worse. Between the shrink-wrapped skirts and the décolletage lay mere inches. The spike heels beckoned and promised minimal flight. Nothing had changed since Betty Grable’s pin-up poster to raise GI morale, among other things.

A hesitant male voice said, “My name is . . . Malcolm Malloy. I’m trying to reach Gary Myers. Your card was on the table, so I hoped that you might know where he is.”

Belle shifted out of realtor mode as she introduced herself, wondering what this man might look like. How old was he? “Not since Monday, when I arranged for the house rental.”

A worried sigh came over the line. “I just drove in from Hamilton. Found the key under a rock by the door like he told me. A note on the fridge said he’d be back from field camp by ten.”

“Did you try his cell phone?”

Malcolm, or rather Mutt, gave a snort. “He always forgets to top up. Don’t know why he doesn’t get a regular plan. Just cheap, I guess.”

“Runs in my blood, too.” A dose of Northern hospitality was in order. “I’m sure he’s delayed. It is a couple of hours to Burwash. Cottage country traffic gets wicked on Fridays.” She didn’t mention that the infamous route was a killer highway with enough rock cuts to demolish two hockey teams per year. Her van sported a bumper sticker reading “Four-Lane 69”. “You probably know that Gary and I were friends in high school.”

“Oh, that Belle Palmer.”

Suddenly she felt vulnerable. What had Gary said about her? Mocked their relationship? She remained silent, chewing her lip. Meeting Mutt now didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“He said that you were the smartest girl in your class. Had him tongue-tied on every date.” Mutt gave a hearty laugh. “You literally made him sweat.”

She had waged quite a campaign. Staked out his house, followed him to the show, collected grade-school pictures from his collaborating friends. She even knew his locker combination and took an occasional peek. Now they’d call it stalking. Belle joined in the spirit, reading the unspoken undercurrent. “Guess I was a handful.”

Yoyo returned from Muirhead’s with a bag of stationery supplies and gave her a wave.

“I’m leaving early today to meet a client on the way home. How about taking a walk with me around four? I’ll point out all the good trails. If Gary’s back, all the better.” As she told him where she lived, she had second thoughts. Gary was the nature lover. Perhaps Mutt didn’t care for hiking.

Late that afternoon, Freya set up a roo-roo that heralded someone in the drive. A knock sounded at her door. When Belle opened it, elbowing the dog aside, she saw the vision of Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff, high brow, sculpted lips, flashing raven hair. His chinos and striped rugby shirt were neatly pressed, and his white sneakers immaculate. So “Mutt” was a joke, like a heavy person called Tiny.

“No car?”

“I just walked down. Got to stretch out after that drive.”

“And Gary’s not back?”

Shaking his head, he turned to stare at the glorious wraparound deck over the walkout basement, one side jutting forward in a tongue, two sets of stairs with platforms. “I like your Escher effect. What a view—180 degrees.”

The lake was glassy, and they both swiped at their necks. “Wind’s down. Bad news in early June.” She explained that the freshly hatched blackfly swarm was too ravenous on the trails back of the house. “They were kissing me last week, but by now they’ve learned their survival lessons and are going for the jugular.”

Belle flipped down the third row of seats to make room for Freya in the back of the van. Then they drove down Edgewater Road, headed north and pulled off on Station Road. In the bush were the remains of an abandoned mile of the old asphalt highway to Skead. It had served as an unofficial drag strip, with spray-painted starts and stops, but now the poplar and birch saplings encroached on the sides. “It’s less dense here,” she said. “We can hook onto a bush road and do a loop.”

From her pocket, she pulled a bottle of industrial-strength bug dope. God only knew its long-range neurological effects, but nothing else worked. “This oily junk melts plastic. I hate it,” she said.

“My parents have a cottage near Bracebridge, so I’ve been through the drill. It’s a Canadian ritual. Don’t leave home without it.” He took a squirt, rubbed his hands together and patted his face as if applying aftershave.

“I’ll take the risk for now,” she said, tucking it away in her pocket.

On the scrubby trees that lined the road, miniature leaves were emerging. Mutt admired a bush with a delicate set of red seed keys dangling like a necklace.

“Swamp maple,” Belle said. “One of five species in the area.” She pointed out a birch conk, then a yellow shelf fungus. “Chicken of the woods. Supposed to be quite choice.”

“Reminds me of shiitake. Have you ever tried it?”

“Some of my Italian friends comb the woods for mushrooms. Familiar though I am with many types, I don’t have the nerve to risk a wrong choice.” Sounded like much of her life.

Streaks of golden and green moss were making inroads on the old highway. They stopped to tune their ears to the location of a hairy woodpecker tapping for dinner. “So how long will you be here, Mutt?” she asked, feeling his odd name growing more familiar.

“The whole summer. I’m a writer, if Gary hasn’t told you. Been having a bit of a block with the third book. It’s common enough. A change of scene seemed perfect for a kick-start.” With his clean-shaven baby face, he looked barely twenty, though she’d never ask. A gentle tracery around his hazel eyes bumped her estimate to thirty-plus. Gary wasn’t a cradle robber, but she preferred companions her age. Who wanted a blank stare after mentioning a favourite musical group or pivotal historical event? Then again, with her classic film addiction, she should date octogenarians who remembered Joan Crawford as a jazz baby, not Baby Jane’s sister.

Freya bounded ahead, flushing a grouse from the grassy borders. The bird’s nearby mate followed to the safety of a stunted oak. Scrabbling on the asphalt trimmed the dog’s nails, a chore saved. Then they rounded a corner. “Watch the glass!” Mutt yelled.

Belle grabbed the dog’s chain collar and steered her around a shattered windowpane. At the side of the road was a huge, fresh mound of construction material. Someone had been renovating and was too lazy and cheap to visit the town dump, even for a nominal fee. As Mutt watched, her keen eye tallied the totals. One truckload. Ripped up carpet, ten paint cans, guts of an old washing machine, scrap wood panelling, leftover pink fibreglass insulation floating on the breeze, and on top, a carton for a fifty-inch TV. For good measure, six bald tires lay in a ziggurat framed by an army of soft drink bottles. Green packing peanuts littered the landscape like toxic snow. The man who whispered “plastics” in Dustin Hoffman’s ear in The Graduate was a seer. The world was drowning in its own garbage. An island miles long had formed in the ocean. “Damn. This has me seeing red. Why do people have to foul their own nest?” she asked, pounding her fist into her palm.

“It’s disgusting, but what can you do about it? Check for tire treads?” He put his hands on his hips and bent over, Sherlock-style.

She waded into the field of scratchy blueberry bushes and leathery Labrador tea. “The smell’s not bad. Let me peek into those nice black garbage bags.”

He shuddered. “Be careful. There could be nails, or even needles.”

“Medical waste? This isn’t downtown Vancouver.”

With delicate hands, she opened the bag and began sorting the trash, while Mutt watched her with a grimace on his face. At last she found a grocery store receipt from Garson. “A-ha. Last week. That’s why it’s so fresh.”

Mutt looked at the list. “Likes turkey, chocolate milk, Cheetos?”

Belle waved a debit card receipt. “Pure gold. I’m going to call this in to CrimeStoppers. Maybe they can trace the number.”

As they headed for the van, she added, “This hasn’t given you a very good impression. When the heat starts up in late June, the bugs will level off. Then I’ll show both of you some great places.” Mutt laughed as she dug a blackfly out of her ear, wiping the red smear on one sleeve.

“Down south we take visitors to restaurants, art museums, plays. I suspect here it’s a favourite swamp.”

“You got it, city boy. I have one for every occasion.” She was beginning to like him. Her road needed its batteries recharged with new faces.

Near morning, Belle was dreaming of her last date with Gary. He had arrived in a white tux, wearing a carnation dyed to match her lace-and-satin Alice-blue dress with a strapless bodice and a hem just above the knees. An expert seamstress, her mother Terry had kept the extra cloth pressed in a drawer until the day she’d died. Gary presented the customary orchid corsage and pinned it to her with surprising dexterity, almost as if he had been practising. As he bent closer, she could smell the citrus of his 4711 aftershave. They walked down the stairs to his father’s black Reliant, where another couple waited, laughing in the back seat. Then a phone rang. And rang. Why didn’t someone answer their cell? She began to paw through the layers of sleep, remembering that even the car phone hadn’t been common then. Sitting up in a fog, Belle craned her neck to peer at the green digital display. 4:35. She growled an answer into the receiver. A wrong number, or a crisis with her father?

“It’s Mutt. I didn’t know . . . who else to call. Gary’s dead.”