Читать книгу Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 11

Belle slept late, squirrelled away under a goosedown duvet, having slapped off her radio wake-up station when it blasted out a song about Bubba shooting a jukebox. The warm undulations of the waterbed, so forgiving of bones and sinews and muscles, undermined good intentions about early rising. I spend too much time in bed, she decided, trying to rouse herself with thoughts of a postcard sunrise and the Toronto Stock Market quotes.

Out of luck on the first count at least, the warmer temperatures having painted a steel-blue sky, overcast with a threat of snow. What had happened to the greenhouse effect? It had been the coldest winter in 140 years, the paper said. The frost had reached an incredible eight feet into the ground; so many town water mains had ruptured that people were being asked to run one tap at a pencil width until the end of April! Steam jet outfits were making three hundred dollars a trip, blasting frozen septic lines. Belle thought ruefully of her perennials under their blanket of snow. Would she ever touch the bronze irises again, the Oriental lilies, the Jacob’s ladder, monkshood, peonies? Had she been crazy to plant a kiwi in Northern Ontario, though the forever optimistic spring catalogue had dubbed it hardy through Siberian zone 3?

She shivered as she inserted her feet into a pair of sheepskin-lined house slippers and put on her fleece robe. Downstairs, only a bed of coals remained in the stove. She went onto the deck and down the stairs to a wood supply under a tarp, bringing back two pieces of maple.

From the feeder tank in the basement, she collected six victims in a juice pitcher and bore them upstairs. First she tossed Big Mac a handful of chopped sole. His twenty inches of lithe gray muscle vacuumed the tank, gulping large frozen chunks with a piscine sang-froid. The “dickeybird” discus, soft blue and brown stripes and delicate mouths (tossed out of the piranha family for good behaviour) picked demurely at a few shreds. Then when Mac slowed down, Belle dumped some flakes and the live sacrifice. The goldfish, shocked by the warmer water, dropped to pant on the bottom, hiding confidently beside Mac’s battleship bulk, which they interpreted as cover. He merely opened his mouth and swallowed them along with a few small rocks, bits of scales spewing out along with the pebbles. What was keeping Hannibal? Finally the needlefish’s radar located a moving target. His tiny propellers fanning, he zeroed his torpedo body, long ball-tipped snout pointed at his prey. Then with a z-kink from the Permian programme in his old reptilian brain, he zapped forward, snatching the fish in the middle, working it gently to slide head first down his gullet. “Good for you,” Belle said with a maternal nod.

So much for finding any leads at the Beaverdam, Belle thought. Maybe a chat with the local coroner would be more fruitful. She paged through the phone book to find Dr. Patrick Monroe’s practice. A personal visit would tell more in body language than in words, not that she expected a doctor would take a phone call anyway. The Ontario Health Insurance Plan had delisted that luxury.

Downtown Sudbury hadn’t changed much in the years since Belle had arrived. Businesses had suffered in the boom-bust mining town, and multiplying suburban malls had dealt the downtown area a further blow. Why pay parking fees only to run a gauntlet of winos and annoying teenage panhandlers in their shiny Doc Martens? Even the icon Canadian Tire had moved to the south end. Aside from a theatre, the YMCA complex, a chain store or two and some established shops with a loyal clientele, only a new seniors’ apartment along with the city and provincial government building porkbarrels kept the core on artificial respiration. And not all the fancy brick sidewalks or tree plantings could revitalize it. The only good news lately was the rumour about a giant call centre taking over the old Eaton’s complex.

Parking at one of the meters, she dropped in a loonie, narrowing her eyes as a young man sidled up. He wore a heavy hydro parka and carried a worn plastic bag. A red toque covered his head, mashing his long hair well down his neck. Stubble covered his chin as he gave her a lopsided grin, exposing a dark tooth. “Spare a dollar-fifteen?”

A dollar-fifteen. That was a novel approach, she thought. “Sure, but that won’t buy a beer,” she said.

“Huh, I want a coffee, that’s all. It’s cold.” He blew out his breath for effect, and Belle retreated a step.

“Well, that sounds reasonable. Tell you what. I’m going down the street to pick up some heavy cartons at the bookstore. Give me a hand, and the money’s yours.”

He leaned against the meter, placing it under his arm like a crutch. “Ah, get away with you.”

“I’m serious. Do you want the job or not?”

“Get away with you,” he repeated in a cheerful tone that implied that he found her as much a character as he was and turned to consider the saner prospects leaving the bank teller machine down the street.

The Maley Building, circa 1922, tall for its time at five storeys and once a decent professional address, reeked of musty paper, cigar smoke and antiseptic as Belle walked down the dark hall to an old-fashioned frosted door which bore Monroe’s name, General Practitioner. In the tiny waiting room sat, or rather perched, a gigantic woman, shifting buttocks in polite discomfort, while she read from Max Haines’ Doctors Who Kill. She smiled a Rita MacNeil greeting, and Belle nodded back, looking in vain for a secretary. Shrugging, she picked up an ancient Newsweek with Reagan, the Great Communicator, on the cover. The world had turned over many spins since then, and his descent into Alzheimer’s was depressing for someone with an aging father, so she opted for a pamphlet on smoking. Maybe it was time to convert to the patch. Her arm itched already.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the flipping of pages and Rita’s laboured breathing. Finally, a young man in work clothes emerged from the inside office with a limp characteristic of industrial back injuries, lit up a cigarette and walked out whistling “Country Roads”. When the door opened again, an attractive man in his late fifties, silver hair carefully brushed, a pressed lab coat and Windsor knot in his red striped tie over a pale blue oxford shirt, announced, “Judith Ann Harrison.” Rita beamed and twiddled a goodbye.

By five o’clock, the office had cleared. “I don’t have an appointment, Doctor. My business is personal. Could you spare five minutes?” she asked at his puzzled stare.

“Medicine is always personal. If I can help you, my dear,” he eyed her appraisingly, “come into my office.”

Seated in the chair in front of his desk, Belle could see framed certificates on the wall attesting to his degrees. Golf trophies and tournament photographs lined the shelves behind him. There was a moment of silence while he looked at her expectantly. “I understand that you acted as the coroner in the Burian drowning,” she said abruptly.

He stiffened and shifted to a cold, official tone. “We don’t have a full-time coroner. I was on call that month. Is this a police matter? You didn’t show me any identification.”

Belle gave him a worried smile that spelled naïveté. “I’m a realtor, Doctor, not even a private investigator. But I was Jim Burian’s friend, and I was the one who found his body. I still see his face in my dreams. And that hand.” Her voice trembled and she looked at the floor, a human version of Rusty’s deferential belly presentation.

Monroe sat back in his chair, his voice mellowing sympathetically. “Well, now I understand. That must have been quite a shock. The hand protruding from the ice was unusual. Apparently a branch worked under the coat. Shallow lake full of deadwood, the officers said. Now, normally a body floats head down, bent over from the waist.” He passed her a box of tissues, which she accepted with a grateful nod. Then he flexed his hands, patrician fingers curving gently around a Mont Blanc pen. “As for what I found, there’s a copy of my report at the police department. These deaths are tragic but getting all too common with the popularity of snowmobiles. And 90 percent of the accidents occur to young men between 18 and 30. A dangerous cocktail of alcohol, drugs and hormones.”

“I knew Jim since he was a kid. And that rationale just doesn’t fit. Jim never drank when he drove, not car, snow machine or boat. Drugs would be out of the question. Most of all, he was cautious and experienced. Riding was second nature to him, never had even a minor accident.”

“Nonetheless . . .” He lowered his gaze in professional resignation.

“What can you tell me? It would be more helpful than reading the report since I could ask questions.”

He sighed but seemed flattered to display his expertise. “Drowned, of course. Water in the lungs clearly showed that. But even without that, it might have been what we call a dry drowning, especially with the shock of the cold.”

Belle leaned forward on her chair. “A dry drowning! You mean it wasn’t an accident?”

“No, my dear. I don’t mean that. A dry drowning is simply the term for what happens in a sudden laryngospasm. The esophagus shuts off, you see.” He made a coup de gorge gesture, shooting his gold cufflinks.

“Now I understand. Forgive my ignorance. Is this common?”

“Not really. Fewer than 15 percent of drownings. The autopsy would reveal no physical evidence, nothing more than a lack of water in the lungs. ‘Suffocation’ is a more exact term here, suffocation caused by shock.”

“Sounds grim.” She shuddered. “What else did you notice?”

He plumped up at the compliment and went to his files, returning with a manila folder. “You’re so persistent, Miss or is it Mrs. Palmer, that I might as well be exact.” He put on a pair of oval tortoise-shell reading glasses and selected a sheet. “Ummmm. Let me simplify the technical language. No sign of any contusions or bruising. No drugs or alcohol, as you tell me.”

“I guess it’s hard to determine the time of death.”

“I should say so. With the body preserved in such cold water, we have to weigh other factors. When had he last been seen? What were the temperature and conditions for refreezing the ice? The best guess is that he died within twelve hours of your finding him. The officers said that the lake had refrozen several inches. Swamp lakes with their vegetation and gasses are always warmer, always dangerous. Then again, if only he had been going slower or faster.”

“Yes, he might have stopped, or more speed might have carried him over. I’ve seen those silly summer runs over water, too. But Jim’s Ovation was so underpowered that he would never have counted on speed to get him out of trouble. I own the next size down, and believe me, it’s fine for plugging along, nothing more. He had no reason to be within miles of that lake. And even so, not even to try to struggle to safety? A strong young man like that?”

“There was a storm, I understand. A moment of confusion. A big price.” Monroe grew philosophic. “He was fifty feet from shore, wearing a heavy suit and full-face helmet, which evidently he was unable to remove. Shock hits like a hammer. In a matter of seconds the whole nervous system, breathing, everything, is nearly paralyzed. Maybe if he’d had one of those flotation suits . . .”

Belle gave him a sad nod. “Wish I could afford one.” She’d had personal experience with cold water shock thanks to a stupid experiment. One early May when a few shards of ice still drifted on Wapiti, she had climbed out onto the rock wall to break her record for first dip of the year. The water felt numbingly tolerable up to the knees, but when she dropped to her neck, her breathing failed. With a supreme effort of will against paralyzed lungs, Belle had crawled back to the rocks and collapsed, gasping with relief.

“And the stomach contents? They always ask that on TV.” Belle was warming to her role.

Composed as he was, this made Monroe smother a laugh, a smile teasing his handsome mouth. “You are so very scientific. His stomach was empty, which was odd since I did find shreds of fish and vegetables between his back teeth.” His voice grew pensive and she leaned forward. “It didn’t seem significant at the time. I thought that perhaps he had vomited. Perhaps he had been ill earlier, or the shock from the accident.” He drew circles on a notepad. “The flu, a fever, that might account for some disorientation, but after all, we don’t conduct autopsies searching for the common cold.” He sighed and consulted his watch, a splendid Rolex. “I expect one late patient. But I could meet you for a drink at the Camelback Road, say, if you have any other questions. They make a superb vodka martini.” He removed the glasses and leaned closer, raising an expressive eyebrow which reminded her of Francis X. Bushman in the original Ben Hur. Charming, knowledgeable and the slightest bit dangerous. Always more interesting than the nice ones.

Belle extended her hand and enjoyed the warm smoothness of his skin when he pressed it a moment longer than necessary. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment in half an hour to show a house. You know real estate.” She flashed a bright and earnest smile. “You’ve been helpful in addressing my concerns. I just had to check. Jim was a good friend.”

She hummed tunelessly as she left the office and headed straight to the nearest Tim Horton’s for sustenance. “No, no, no, dear Doctor. I still don’t buy this convenient scenario. Even you were starting to question your findings. If those drunks who went down on Matagamasi last year had the wits to swim for it, a sober Jim would have tried and made it too. He knew how to build a fire, always had a lighter or wet-safe matches in his suit.”

Fresh-baked aromas wafted under her nose as she ordered her brew. Despite the imminence of dinner, she found herself pointing shamelessly at a giant croissant dripping with white chocolate and sprinkled with almonds. Detective work definitely sharpened the appetite.

She moved the sugar container pensively, as she alternately munched and sipped, pondering the unsettling details of the autopsy. Had Jim had the flu? Had he been on any medication? Sometimes cold pills caused drowsiness, especially combined with a fever.

The information she had so far left three probable causes for Jim’s death. An accident, a planned murder, or an opportunistic killing. But only a fool would count on meeting his victim in a blizzard. Even if Jim had been attacked, why weren’t there any traces of injuries? Why no signs of another sled? Maybe she was looking without seeing. Her mother’s time-honoured theory was that lost objects often were exactly where they were supposed to be, so what was she missing? Suddenly Belle noticed that she had poured half the sugar bowl into her coffee.

“Go for it, darlin’. Sweets for the sweet,” an oily voice drawled. Tony Telfer sat down without an invitation. In a bizarre combination of Yellowknife, Calgary and Toronto, he wore a snappy beaver hat and a pair of snakeskin boots with his woollen trenchcoat. A builder just on the lucky side of crooked, he was always trolling. Once the hook was taken, he coaxed the client into expensive features like designer closets, Jacuzzis and gigantic Malibu foyers. King of short-term corner-cutting, he substituted utility grade for number one wood, spruce for pine, half-inch for five-eighths-inch plywood, and supplied shingles which shed their grit faster than the perch of a hyperactive budgie.

“Moving any insulation these days, Tony?” asked Belle. His brother Charlie had made front page news a decade ago by constructing an entire subdivision with the same batts of insulation, ferrying it on to the next house after each inspection. By the time buyers turned on their thermostats in September, Good Time Charlie was long gone to warmer points unknown with a sizable profit from each home.

“Come on, Belle. Charlie’s the black sheep of the family.” He flashed an army of gleaming white caps from Sudbury’s best dentists.

“And you’re the wolf?” she laughed, snapping her teeth. “So how’s your business, to speak in the loosest possible terms?”

“Grrrrrreat. Tony the Tiger knows. Heard about that new park on Wapiti? I have an angel who’s going to put up a block of condos, no expenses spared. St. Pete style, only tasteful, you know? The old doll wants to remember hubby by bringing over all his relatives from the old country or something. I think my proverbial ship is coming in. There might be a little dinghy in it for you, Belle.” He drummed his fingers near her coffee cup as she smothered a laugh.

By now the courts should have frozen Julia Kraav’s assets. Tony had a big surprise coming, but Belle wouldn’t spoil his pleasure today. “You’ll never get the zoning, my friend. No way.”

“Oh no? Just watch me once the park goes in. It’s long overdue. That whole lake is crying out, ‘Tony, develop me, develop me.’ ” He chuckled wickedly, twirling an imaginary mustache like a Perils of Pauline villain. “And I’ll tell you something else, dearie. This is going to be so sweet that I think I’d kill anyone who got in my way. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Berlin of the twenties, Canada of the nineties. Money makes the world go around. That clinking, clanking sound. No matter where or when you lived, commerce trotted along like a hungry puppy which would grow up into the Hound of the Baskervilles. Belle left a fifty cent tip on the table and glanced over her shoulder as she left to see whether Tony grabbed it.

On her way to the DesRosiers, Belle picked up a bottle of Glenlivet as her contribution to the evening. A good guest always came with a thank-you present, her mother had said. Their ice hut had provided several small lake trout that week. She knocked and entered simultaneously, twirling the bottle on the kitchen table. “Crank up that hot fat. I feel a chill,” she said. A hiss of oil, and the race was on. The deep-fried fillets revved up her taste buds with their mustard and corn meal batter doused with New Orleans hot sauce. Hélène had shaved a cabbage for cole slaw and sliced potatoes. The fry-for-all was doing no favours for anyone, but who cared? Remembering Jim laughing as he grilled her a fresh pickerel over a crackling campfire, Belle savoured every bite. They’d all be thinking of that senseless death until the Scotch ran out.

Belle described her meeting with the good doctor. “Monroe looks like a charlatan.” She sprinkled vinegar over everything not moving. “Never missed a chance, though. Wanted to have a drink at the Camelback. No doubt rent a room nearby, too.”

Hélène agreed. “I’m no fan. He used to be our family doctor. I’ve known some gets tranquilizers like candy from him. My sister, for one, floats around in a blue fog when it’s that no-good husband she oughta get rid of. Darn near killed herself and her daughter hitting a slurry truck last year.”

“Thought we were here to cheer up. Where’s that dessert?” Ed poured another slug into his coffee royale while Hélène brought in the sugar pie. Belle moaned in anticipation. Was there any greater invitation to gratuitous gluttony than this sinful French Canadian concoction? As if the marathon meal hadn’t been enough, Hélène sent Belle home with a three-pound chunk of moose meat and a recipe for jerky. “Réjean, my cousin from up near Bisco, got lucky this year and remembered his old aunt. It’s been in the freezer since the season was over, but good for drying. Let me know if you like the garlic flavour. I got sweet and sour, too.”

When Belle got home, Freya seemed unusually yappy, as if something had disturbed her routine. To the Purina, Belle added milk. “You have the best diet of us all. Sometimes I think that I should try a bowl. Cheap, quick, maybe no worse than those vegetarian mushburgers I brought home last week.”

They moved into the video room, Belle into her recliner, Freya with three chile babies. A frustrated mother, the dog was forever assembling them, squeaking and licking the toys, and dragging them to bed.

TNT’s choice was The Great Lie with Bette Davis and Mary Astor, two classic bitches in the archetypal woman’s picture. Hollywood was ripe for a return to the heyday of strong female leads, Thelma and Louise having been at the cutting edge of nothing.

Before turning out the lights, Belle selected an exotic new cream: orange, lanolin and witch hazel. The costly treat had been initially disappointing, but out of cheapness she decided to give it another try. The lights went out to mutual sighs and scrabbles. She hoped the dog would not snore. Instead of sheep, Belle counted snowmobiles.

A few hours later, as the full moon poured through the bathroom window, the phone rang. She glanced blearily at the clock. 3:30. Picking up the receiver, she heard a click. And then silence. Freya sat up and shook her head as if to wake up, ears pricked for sounds. Nuisance callers. Belle unplugged the phone and looked out for a moment as the Northern Lights dazzled the lake like a hyperactive rainbow, drowning out Orion and Betelgeuse. In the uneasy dimension between disturbing dreams and a pleasant reality, Belle saw Freya chasing a rabbit across tracks in front of a never-ending train. She heard the muffled drone of snowmobiles outside which mimicked the roar of the engine in her dream. Freya barked once. “Calm down, girl. Wait for me.” And Belle fell asleep, the chimney smoke gently curling into the night.