Читать книгу Memories are Murder - Lou Allin - Страница 9

Belle brushed the corners of her eyes, still groggy and barely coherent, preferring childhood memories to an ugly reality. “What are you talking about? An auto accident?”

His voice fell to a whisper, and she turned up the volume on the handset. “No. The OPP called here.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t an accident.” The Ontario Provincial Police had jurisdiction over traffic outside of the Region of Greater Sudbury.

He cleared his throat, then resumed, strain apparent in the deliberate way he marshalled information. “It happened yesterday afternoon, probably about the same time we were talking. An air-ambulance helicopter was taking a kid to Toronto, flying over Bump Lake. Gary had an informal base camp there. A cooler. A little tent. Sleeping bag if he needed to stay over. They saw his canoe floating free and dropped for a closer look, then called it in. Thank God the boat was red, or it might have been hidden in the reeds. His . . . body wasn’t far away. The OPP found his wallet and university information. It took a while to track down his chairman. He gave them the new number, and they called to see if anyone else was at the address.”

These procedural details didn’t interest her. “I’m not clear on what happened. His canoe was adrift in a quiet lake? How did he drown?”

A bitter bark of a laugh surprised her. “It’s a cliché, isn’t it? Guy stands up in a boat to take a leak, overbalances, hits his head and farewell. Gary was a hell of a good swimmer, for all that mattered. We used to hit the pool at the gym every week. Olympic size. He could do laps until the place closed.”

“Was he wearing a life jacket?” she asked, knowing the answer. Few canoeists bothered with the bulky creatures unless they were travelling in white water or with children.

“Are you kidding? He told me that Bump Lake’s about as dangerous as a bathtub.”

So fast in and out of her life after so many years of absence. Was there a message here? “Is there anything I can do? What arrangements do you have to make? Where is he, uh, the—” Somehow she couldn’t imagine Gary as an it, a collection of periodic-table elements worth four dollars with inflation.

“I’m supposed to go in for the identification. The medical examiner, some doctor on rotation, will take a look at him. Then cremation, I guess. We never talked about our own plans, but for sure he hated funerals. Until the recent drug cocktails, nearly every month a friend of ours was dying of HIV/AIDS. I’ll take the ashes to one of our favourite spots on Lake Ontario, or maybe the Botanical Park in Hamilton. He loved that place.” At that, his voice broke, and she could hear quiet sobs.

“I’m so sorry about Gary. Keep me posted, Mutt.” Not long ago, she had placed her mother’s long-husbanded ashes around the rose bushes. It would be a banner year for blossoms.

Now wide awake, Belle left Freya sleeping on her sheepskin and went downstairs to boost the coffee maker, timed for 5:45. What was that old medieval verse from her lit survey? “Timor mortis conturbat me”? The fear of death confounds me. Gary’s last breath had stopped long before Miriam’s designated eighty years for a Canadian male. It was hardly fair, but she should be learning a lesson.

Taking her steaming mug to the living room, she sat in the blue velvet recliner and watched the apricot glimmers of dawn set fire to the leaden sky. A small compensation for rising early. To the northwest at the Wapiti Indian reserve, the same early flicker greeted her as it had done for years, neighbours yet strangers. Like Gary and her. Scarcely had their friendship ignited than it had guttered like a surfeited candle.

Dressing hastily in cream pants, loafers and a blue cotton sweater, she headed for the van. As she took off down the road, she saw a Prius in the Lavoie driveway. Mutt’s? She hoped he was getting some well-deserved sleep, perhaps only out of exhaustion. The first two months’ rent was paid. Would he be staying for the summer, or was that a grotesque idea?

At seven, she parked in the office lot and walked to the nearby Tim Hortons. She ordered a large coffee along with a ham-and-cheese scone, a filling bargain at less than two dollars. More customers swelled the lines, retirees prepared to nurse a cup for an hour, gossiping with chums, or working folk who blew by in minutes. “Help who’s next?” one of the counter staff asked, an efficient question which put polite Canadians on their honour not to jump the queue.

“You’re up early,” said a voice in a grey coat. Bearing his own cup plus a virtuous bran muffin without butter, Steve Davis parked his six-six frame in the opposite seat. They’d met when he’d been a young cop moonlighting on security work for Uncle Harold. Now he was a senior detective. The long-abandoned blue uniform had done more for his smooth bronze complexion and jet-black hair, courtesy of an Ojibwa background with a dram of Scot added a century ago.

“Someone died unexpectedly. Guess I wanted to get to work and stop thinking about it.” She explained the accident, wasting few words. Details were unknown at this point. She attempted a stoic shrug but felt her shoulders sag.

“Happens.” He leaned back in his seat and fixed his dark pupils on her as one expressive eyebrow rose in a question. At his temples, grey was making inroads as fast as it was leavening her red hair. “An old boyfriend of yours, you say? Never heard you mention him.”

Belle gave a wry laugh. As she shared the sorrow with her good friend, the irony of the little saga made grief secondary to reflection. “He wasn’t one of my success stories. Now I understand why. All that time out of my life and thoughts, and then he reappeared as a reinvented person. But one that I liked much better.” She explained her new perspective.

He spread his large hands, strong but gentle enough to cuddle his young daughter Heather, half-Italian and half-Cree, adopted a few years ago. “Hey, I’m with wise old Pierre. What any adult does with another in a bedroom isn’t the state’s concern. And as for the new marriage laws, who cares? Move on, world.”

Belle stirred her coffee and finished the scone, the buttered fragments dry in her mouth. She wasn’t solid enough this morning to ask him about Janet and their shaky marriage. Floundering on shoals on a monthly basis, it righted itself like an old galleon and sailed off. But a crease etched itself into his broad forehead. She met his eyes and let silence lead him.

“I might as well tell you. Now that Heather’s nearly seven, Janet wants to adopt again to give her a sibling. We had some good luck with that agency in the Sault, so we’ll see.”

“How do you feel about that?” Safe enough question.

“Heather’s been a miracle. Should we hope for two?” He sloughed off the concern with masculine brio. “The dynamics don’t bother me. We might need a larger house, though. I’ll let you know. Of course, I expect a discount.”

Normally, the prospect of a sale cheered her, so she forced a smile at one corner of her mouth, wondering if he was joking about the commission. “Anything for the trade, Steve.” Then, seeing that she still had a few minutes, she explained about Jack’s accident. “You wouldn’t believe my temporary secretary. Yoyo Hourtovenko. I’m not making up the name.”

“Uh-hum.” His strong jaw curved as he took a swig of coffee. “So Yoyo’s out.”

Belle digested the three words. Out. Was he confusing the situation with Gary’s sexuality? “What do you mean?”

“I’m surprised you took her on. Or maybe not. Let me guess. Got her cheap, right?”

Belle spluttered, as too large a sip of coffee made her windpipe ache. “Well, I . . .” What was he implying?

“Yolanda was sent to the Vanier Pen in Milton for forging checks to feed her gambling addiction.”

Belle stood up, knocking her paper cup and spilling a pool onto the table. She grabbed a serviette from the overstuffed chrome dispenser, pulling out a half-dozen to her embarrassment. “Gambling? You mean the slots? Sudbury Downs?” A sudden frisson of fear charged through her body, and her knees grew weak. Yesterday she’d given Yoyo the company chequebook and told her to pay the utility bills and the bi-yearly taxes. How could Miriam have done this to her, and what was the plan now?

“Slots, horses, blackjack, the lady’s into everything.”

She arrived at the office in marathon time, jayjogging across Paris Street. Yoyo’s blue Ford Probe was in the lot, a rusty hole in one door, the trunk bearing wrinkles of an ancient accident and red cellophane mending the taillight. As Belle slammed through the door, Yoyo looked up from her computer. To Belle’s horror, the outlines of a card game appeared on the screen. Gambling on the Internet? People lost their houses that way. For a moment she froze and rubbed her temple as Yoyo smiled and pushed forward a small plastic bag. On a boom box at her feet, a frantic song was playing.

“You’re later than usual today. Isn’t this humidity awful? I brought you some of my homemade dog bikkies. Baron’s favourite.” She opened the bag and proudly held up a brown heart-shaped cookie.

“We need to talk. What’s on your screen? And what’s that music?”

Yoyo turned it down to sotto voce and smacked a wad of gum. Spearmint tickled Belle’s nose like a mocking retort. “Putamayo. Cape Verde songs. That’s near Africa. They cheer me up. What groups do you—”

Belle waved her hand as if brushing a swarm of flies. “Never mind. I know all about your gambling habit. A friend of mine told . . .”

At that moment, into the office came a couple in their early fifties. Belle and Yoyo exchanged glances. “Are you open? We saw someone come in,” the man said.

“Welcome.” Belle ushered them to her side of the room and seated them in comfortable chairs, offering coffee. She leaned forward on her desk and gave a penetrating stare as Yoyo clicked off and began sorting mail.

Belle took the information from the Suvaks, who wanted to sell their Mallard’s Landing house to move into a smaller place now that the last teenager had left for college. While they were filling out forms, she noticed Yoyo rise to greet a man dressed in an Armani suit and silk tie. With his brown hair slicked back New York-style, he seemed quite interested in her anatomy.

“I’ll be with you momentarily,” Belle called, acknowledging his presence with a wave.

“No problem, Ms Palmer.” Yoyo grabbed a binder of listings. “Follow me, sir. It’s way more comfortable in the back.”

The small office was getting crowded, but entertaining customers in the rear? Belle ground her molars as she jotted prospects for the Suvaks. When she finished and saw the couple out, she found Yoyo and her client sipping Perrier in the lounge, knee to knee on the couch. The binder was open to one of Belle’s most problematical properties, the Adams horror. No road access. One had to park then climb up and over a rock outcrop the size of a whale.

The man rose and shook hands. “Yoyo told me about this fabulous camp on Digger Lake. I’m very interested. Can we go out this Friday, say around four?”

When he left, she followed Yoyo back to her desk. The woman was smiling like the Mona Lisa on Prozac. “That was good. How did you sell him on the camp?”

“The trout stream over the hill. He loves fishing. My granddad used to go to Digger all the time.”

“This isn’t a reprieve. We need to resume our talk. The subject is your gambling, common knowledge to everyone in town except for one.” She stabbed at her chest with an index finger.

Yoyo’s chin quivered. “I did my time. And I’m on medication. Compulsive gambling is a disease. You wouldn’t fire someone with—”

Belle put up a hand in protest. “If the meds are working, what were those cards I saw?”

Yoyo hit a few keys. “Solitaire. Comes with Windows. Totally innocent.” She put a hand on her belly, which reminded Belle of the elephant in the corner.

“And that’s another problem. How . . . pregnant are you? Forgive my asking.” Pregnant is pregnant. Why did she phrase it that way?

“Only five months. Long time to go.” She blinked, and Belle could swear that her soft, round eyes were filling. “Please, I need this job. My mother’s—”

“Consider yourself on probation, and not because I’m soft. It would be too difficult to replace you for such a short period. And about that medication. Are you sure it’s safe for—”

Yoyo nodded. “Not to worry. It’s only St. John’s Wort.”

With Gary’s death and this revelation about Yoyo, Belle had forgotten about reporting the Skead dumpsite. She dialled CrimeStoppers and to her consternation was routed to Toronto. How efficient was it to describe a bush road to someone four hundred kilometres away who would boomerang the information back to the Sudbury police? “Can you find out anything from the debit slip?” she asked.

“I only record the case, ma’am.” The dispatcher also suggested that she take pictures of the site if possible.

Early the next morning, Belle finally reached Miriam at Jack’s apartment. Apparently he was leaving the hospital tomorrow. “Cantankerous as ever. That’s my boy. So how’s Yoyo working out? A gem or what? Didn’t I tell you—”

“About her gambling addiction?” Belle repeated what Steve had told her.

A worrisome silence made her squirm. Had she gone too far? Miriam’s voice sounded hurt. “It must be a strain being as perfect as you are. Most of us make a mistake now and then. Like human beings, you see? She paid back every cent. Yoyo was one of those rare birds who actually made a profit.”

“And you omitted the fact that she’s pregnant.”

Miriam cleared her throat. “Plenty of time before she’s due. Have a heart for a fellow female. She’s walked a tough road lately.”

“What’s tough about getting pregnant? I hear it only involves lying down.”

“Miss Cynical, listen. A year ago, Yoyo fell in love with her social worker at Vanier, Tom Hourtovenko. When she got out, they married, moved into his apartment. Needless to say, the family resented her. Bunch of hoity-toities who show up at charity events but neglect their own backyard. Tom died in a multi-vehicle auto accident on Highway 400 last winter. Ice fog.”

Belle lowered her voice. “That is bad.” And to think that Yoyo never mentioned any of this. She had a new respect for the woman.

“It gets worse. He hadn’t changed his will or insurance. Just careless. The family turned its back on her. She was left without a cent.”

“What about the baby?”

“Yoyo is a proud girl. She never told them.”

Belle nodded her head, a small door opening in her heart. “Sounds ruthless, all right. I don’t blame her for writing them off.”

“She is doing the job, isn’t she? Results are what count.”

“To be honest, she’s got talent. I think she’s unloaded the Adams camp.”

Miriam gave a low whistle of admiration. “That is a miracle. I’m starting to worry that you’ll replace me.”

“No fear. Every other firm in town would give you a raise.” She paused. “Something else has happened.” She told Miriam about Gary.

“God, I saw the story in the Timmins Daily Press. Friend of mine’s dad died the same way. Sometimes I’m glad we have to stoop to pee, even if we do hit our shoes.” A silence fell. “Sorry. I’m not exactly commiserating. But you never mentioned him. And it’s unlike you to carry a torch and not tell.”

“The torch never caught fire. I got my wish. Went to the grad dance with the valedictorian, and I have the pictures to prove it.”

“Really? Love to see them sometime.”

As the CrimeStoppers agent suggested, she drove to Station Road and revisited the ugly place. While she snapped Polaroid shots of the soggy carpeting and panelling, her reoffended sensibilities gave her another idea for faster action. She headed down the road into Skead. At the turn of the century, it had been a lumbering town, thousands of tons of sawdust at the bottom of Kolari Bay still burbling at the site of the old sawmill. Now it was a peaceful enclave on the lake where a few hundred people lived in a permanent vacation half an hour from Sudbury.

Inside a clear plastic cover, she tacked three pictures to the wooden bulletin board the local seniors had constructed at the mailbox kiosk, then added a handprinted sign: Know anyone renovating with this decor? To be on the safe side, she gave only her cell phone number. Skead was a very small community, and word would travel fast. She had confidence that public sentiment was on her side. People would welcome the opportunity to police their streets for the greater good. Spotting a collection of business cards on the side, she added hers.

As noon approached, she was late for lunch with her father. After calling in the order, she decamped from the office and hurried over to Garson.

At the Big Nickel, a small restaurant that changed hands every other year, in competition with taverns and pizza delivery, their meals were ready. Her milk and a tuna sandwich on rye, his chopped chicken, mashies, peas and gravy. Cherry pie to follow. Since a near-fatal choking incident, he was on the gummer’s special, but he never complained.

Balancing the clamshell boxes, she made her way up the wheelchair-accessible ramp of Rainbow Country, the two-storey building run by the Finnish community as a stopgap before finishing their Minnow Lake complex for the aging. Shabby around the edges, but whistle-clean, it was cosier than the generic high rises that warehoused the elderly. She’d been lucky to whisk him back from Florida with minimal immigration problems, a bit of fact-fudging aside. At American nursing home prices, his mutual funds would have evaporated like the Jays’ chances at a pennant, and the logistics of travelling across a continent to check on him made her shiver.

She picked up silverware and linens in the kitchen, then passed the nurses’ station. Cherie was on guard, a curly blonde sparkplug who never missed flagging the slightest change in her charges. “George’s skin is getting worse. Our doctor hasn’t a clue. I know you took him to Vonnie, the skin specialist, only last month.”

Belle paused, nuances of worry on her forehead. “He said it was bullous dermatitis. Nothing serious.”

The nurse snorted in contempt. “Another kind of bull. That’s Latin for blisters. A description, not a diagnosis.”

“Ouch. Guess I shouldn’t have taken Spanish.” Belle nodded, appreciating the woman’s sharp eye. “Even my father said the man was senile. Vonnie must be in his eighties.”

“We need every specialist we have up here, but sometime I wonder.” She turned as a frail man in a walker lurched by, his bum crack exposed by pants that hung on him like a scarecrow. “Here, Jim. Let me tuck you in, my man.”

In the bright, private room with easy-care linoleum, Belle found her father in his gerry chair, the jailer designed to keep him from falling but also from walking, since he wouldn’t cooperate with physio attempts. She doubted whether the trade-off was worth it, but he enjoyed his television, magazines and newspapers, and especially his food. Every meal her mother had placed before him had been the “best”. He wore a clean blue sweatsuit and Labatt’s slippers on his feet, an ironic touch. He was a teetotalling Methodist, but Belle and her mother had made up for that with their mutual predilection for scotch straight up.

He brushed a shaky hand through his thick mane of white hair, cheeks pink with a fresh shave. Staff knew when the family would be visiting and made the extra effort. He tapped his watch as if to coax the hours to pass more quickly. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune defined his evenings. “Late. I thought you weren’t coming.”

She arranged the bib and food. “Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor earthquakes nor tsunamis can stop me.”

As he dug in with a will, she winced at the large black blisters branding his mottled hands. Suppressing an urge to roll up his pant leg to check further, she turned instead to her sandwich, making sure he stopped now and then to drink water.

When he had finished ten minutes later, she let him attack the pie, carefully mashed. “Remember Gary Myers?”

“Of course. Of course. One of those blond German lads you favoured. Were you trying to recruit your own Wehrmacht?”

She smiled at the quirkiness of his memory. Sometimes sharp, recalling Dunkirk with his Churchill imitation, dull some mornings when he forgot having breakfast and wanted another. Who had been her troopers? Wertman. Gall. Erhart. Stretching from Grade One to university. Was she a Teutonic magnet or vice versa? Then she explained what had happened.

“We never know when the grim reaper is going to come calling. Only the good die young, your sainted mother aside. Gary, now. I could see you wondered about that boy. Why he never came around again.” He tapped his temple. “But parents know.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You never mentioned it.”

“None of my business. My cousin Ab’s daughter, Tracy the vet, she lives in Lethbridge with a female dentist.” He waved his hand. “Asked Ab about it. That’s what he said. None of his beeswax.”

Belle sat back in wonderment at a curiously twenty-first-century attitude for a man alive during the Twenties. “Tracy? I guess that wasn’t a topic for discussion while I was growing up.”

He gave a low whistle. “As a kid, you sure were confused about The Children’s Hour. Your mother was at Massey Hall the night it showed at the screening, so you had to come.” He had been a booker for Odeon Pictures in Toronto, and they’d seen four new releases every week together once she reached Grade One. “You cried because Shirley MacLaine was so sad.”

The large clock on the wall was sending her a message. She turned with reluctance to a more alarming subject. “Cherie says your blisters are getting worse. Let’s see.” She rolled up his pants and nearly gasped in horror. Huge, watery black sacs covered his lower legs.

“They don’t hurt. Not one bit.”

“A saving grace.” She tried not to shudder. Was he merely being brave, or was some more pernicious condition festering, like diabetes?

Making a note to tell the nurse to have the doctor check her father on the weekly visit, she left the nursing home. Something was very wrong here. For once she wished she lived down south with a lion’s share of specialists . . . or in the States, with money up front and no waiting.