Читать книгу Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 12

On Tuesday, the famous shrimp dinner day, Belle left herself plenty of time to reach the nursing home. When he had lived in Florida in his own house with his own dog and own cat, time had been a joke with her father: “I get up at ten to six every day, not a quarter to six, not five to six, but exactly ten to six.” Now lagging hours and minutes measured only intervals between mealtimes. Belle knew he didn’t realize her difficulties in maintaining a schedule given long distances and the vicissitudes of winter.

A mile past her house, a spectacle had occurred, a rural version of Canada’s Funniest Home Videos. The plow had sloughed off the road at a wickedly banked corner. Looking like a metal mantis conceived by an idiot, the gigantic apparatus was flailing its legs and flexing its lifts, trying to free itself, but only sinking perilously closer to the hydro pole. Belle held her breath at the possibility of the pole snapping like a matchstick, stranding most people in a cold, dark and waterless hell. The sheepish operator assured her that he had radioed for help.

Across the road from Carlo’s place, a large red fox, its tail bushy and bold, stood fearlessly watching her car. As she drew abreast, it bounded easily up the hill through heavy snow. Belle hoped that the creature had been supping on Carlo’s cats, a wish probably shared by all his neighbours. An electrical engineer from Brownsville, Texas, Carlo lived a hermit’s life in a ramshackle cottage. When the septic system clogged, and when pump repair and frozen waterline bills became too onerous, he did without plumbing, to the dismay of adjoining home owners. Once in a blizzard he had knocked timidly at Belle’s back door with a small bottle in his hand, seeking drinking water. Although he had a woodstove, he holed up in his triple-insulated bedroom with only a tiny space heater, he said. He bathed at work and ate out, yet he looked strangely debonair on the rare occasions he did appear in a three-piece suit and fedora, as if he had stepped out of a film noir.

A few years ago, somebody dumped two cats secretly into his trunk at a gas station in Point au Baril. This accidental conjoining had relieved his conscience from all responsibility, so he had let them multiply until they had decimated the bird and squirrel population for a mile in each direction. Feral survivalists, the Darwinian remainders terrorized little children in the summer and ransacked garbage more ruthlessly than the bears. With no vet care, they likely carried rabies as well. Wrenches sticking out of his overalls, Carlo was bending over the rusted helm of an ancient Mustang, one of the seven or eight in his personal inventory. An enterprising cannibal, he juggled batteries, tires, and licenses routinely to stay mobile. “How many cats left now, Carlo?” Belle asked as she stopped and rolled down the window.

A cloud of garlic, his universal panacea, drifted into the car. “Oh, come on, do not tell me you are still mad about that,” he grinned, wiping a greasy hand on his overalls, then pulling a comb from somewhere to rake his thick black hair. “Say, when can I come and rent a room with the most beautiful woman in Canada? Hot water would be fantastic, not to mention your company.” He gave a theatrical leer to emphasize their ongoing joke.

“Don’t be so cheap, Carlo. You make enough to equip your cottage quite nicely. You have another twenty years to retirement with Ontario Hydro. Why not enjoy them in the twentieth century?” She grinned. “And as for your social life, take out an ad. Men, especially ones with bucks, are at a premium, or didn’t you know?”

He cocked his head like a whimsical jay. “Perhaps they would be interested in me only for my cars. I’m going to Windsor to buy another Mustang. A red fastback 1970 V-8. You must come for a ride. You will look like a queen. And I will treat you to dinner at the airport.”

The airport? Carlo ate there regularly and chatted with the staff. “Seen any strange plane landings on the lake, Carlo? After dark?” she asked.

“That’s not allowed, you know.”

“Don’t be naïve. I’m talking about drug landings.”

“Oh ho!” he chuckled, sticking out his lower lip and paddling it thoughtfully. “It could be true. There is a lot of money to be made that way. I travel back to Texas three times a year to see my family. Lucky for me I am honest.” He patted his chest in appreciation of his ethics.

“What about suspicious characters at the airport? I know you’re one, but anybody new?”

He mugged shamelessly, clearly enjoying the spotlight. “I talk to everyone, the pilots, the mechanics, and especially the beautiful flight attendants. But there is one flyer I never trusted who comes through once in a while with a Beechcraft. Very unfriendly. He has been in the restaurant, but he refuses to enter into friendly conversation. I don’t like the looks of him.”

Wishing Carlo well, Belle drove off, keeping the window open to air out the garlic. Medical science might prove him right. Garlic cloves were being touted as cures for any ailment from colds to cancer.

Before that shrimp lunch with Father, she had allotted an hour to the unsavoury task of a chat with Ian MacKenzie, Melanie’s estranged boyfriend. According to her, he lived in a townhouse complex near the New Sudbury Shopping Centre. Perhaps he would be home, perhaps not. Perhaps he had a helpful roommate, perhaps not. So many unknowns. Belle was grateful not to be a genuine private investigator. Selling real estate put more kibble in the bowl. As she reached the first set of traffic lights which spelled city, she noticed that the town was in the grip of an icefog, a strange meteorological combination of cold, vehicle exhausts and moisture. Like a London pea-souper, but marginally healthier. A surreal gleam surrounded streetlights, and people drove with unusual caution, hoping the late morning winds would clear the air.

The covey of older townhouses, three stories and garage apiece, was beginning to fray at the edges. 1245 Nottingham had a skitter of snow in the driveway and no signs of feet or tires. She rang the bell. No answer, but a face peeked from the third floor. She rang again, and again. Finally the door opened, and a head peered around with half a body exposed, state-of-the-art biceps a definite plus. “Who are you, who were you, and who do you hope to be? I was working out.” His blonde crew cut was wholesome enough, but a sullen curl to his lip reminded Belle of a musclebound weasel.

“I’m Belle Palmer. Are you Ian MacKenzie?” she asked.

“We’re both doing well so far. What’s the story? Where are your brushes or encyclopedias?”

“I was a friend of Jim Burian’s, and I—” A slam of the door cut her sentence in two.

“I only want to ask a few questions,” she called against the traffic noise behind her.

“It must be our little Mel put you on to me. This is a joke, right? You can’t be a police investigator or you would have shown me your ID.” A loud cheer followed.

Belle took a stiffer tack. “There may be things the police don’t know yet, and you may find yourself involved. Make it easy for both of us.” There was definitely something in his defensiveness, she imagined as her heartbeat quickened. Perhaps it had been unwise to come alone.

The cheers turned to roars, and a thumping began. Was he pounding the wall in mirth or rage? Mel had said that he got violent. She hadn’t smelled liquor, though. Vodka?

“OK, OK, I confess. I did it. I creamed the little bastard with that pretty scar. He took my girl. I took him. ‘Mother of God, is this the end of Rico?’ ”

Hardly had Belle time to correct him with, “ ‘Mother of Mercy.’ The censors were picky that year,” when the door opened again. She locked eyes with a wild-eyed blond man, then looked at his clothes. Pyjama bottoms on . . . one leg, the other in a heavy plaster cast.

“Heeeeeeeere’s Ian!” he yelled. “And don’t ask, honey, ’cause I cracked the sucker in Mattawa the week before Jim bought it. Check the hospital if you don’t believe me, and now, if you’ll forgive me, my jammies are beginning to ice up.”

Well, at least he’s a film buff, Belle thought. I could write Investigations for Dummies. Despite his animosity to Jim, she couldn’t convince herself that it might be possible to drive a snow machine and orchestrate the accident. Ian was a jerkwater, to use her father’s old term, but he was off the list.

She started the van and navigated through the fog across town. The last fifteen years of massive early retirements in the nickel industry had left Sudbury with a critical shortage of geriatric care. One huge highrise nursing home overlooked the million dollar mansions on Lake Ramsey, its twin building stood in New Sudbury, but their waiting list was longer than the Monica Lewinsky impeachment proceedings. When her father had fallen ill in Florida, the only spot available was in Rainbow Country, a converted two storey apartment building. Rainbow was older, smaller and a little shop-worn, but it was immaculate and gave excellent care. She knew most of the staff by name, and they knew her. Every rash and cough was chronicled, and when necessary, nurses had called to report her father’s falls or the doctor’s advice. Best of all, given her father’s healthy appetite, the meals were tasty and generous. Quiches, stews, roast beef, even pie and ice cream appeared on the menu. In the winter, though, without the brief pink of the flowering crabs out front, the building was depressing. The Rainbow nurses and staff put up holiday decorations and dressed festively, but still . . . Belle had thought about ordering Final Exit, a self-help manual for suicide with dignity as an alternative should she ever see the end of independence.

Belle stopped across the street at the restaurant which they had frequented when he could still walk: Granny’s Kitchen. It was run by a voluble fat Italian woman who was her own best marketing device. Belle had appreciated the owner’s kindness and patience when listening to Father’s order (always the same), cleaning the littered floor or scouring the bathroom after his visit to the facilities. “How you doing, Maria?” she asked. “The usual: shrimp dinner, easy on the fries, hold the seafood sauce but lots of coleslaw; cherry pie and ice cream.” She gazed at the menu she knew by heart. “And a foot-long chili dog for me, I guess.” Meanwhile, she went next door to the confectionary for his National Enquirer, pausing at the bank machine to call up $100.00.

Loaded with bags of steaming styrofoam boxes, Belle climbed the ramp to the home and discarded her icy boots as a sign suggested. A tiny bichon frisé trotted up warily, pet of the activity director. “Hi, Puffball,” she said, giving his well-clipped white fur a pat. “Watch those feet.” Stray shoes shuffling his way had taught the dog to be wary of life at ground level. At the front desk, Cherie smiled at her. One of the friendliest nurses, this curly blonde powerplant never seemed tired.

“Lunch day? Aren’t you a sweetheart,” she said as she filed some charts.

“So how’s he doing?” Belle asked, a prayer on her lips.

Cherie shrugged a smile. “The same. Asking for you since breakfast. Knows when it’s Tuesday, but always thinks you won’t come.”

“And I’ve never missed in two years. Are his feet still swollen?”

“I’m afraid so. The doctor increased the Lasix dosage. Could be his heart. No other problems. He likes his food as well as ever. Do you want a follow-up call next visit?”

“Might be a good idea. Thanks, Cherie.” In search of a fork and bib, Belle toured the small dining room where several patients waited for lunch, exchanging a few words with Billy Kidd, a blind man dressed to dapper perfection, and waving at familiar ladies (always so many more ladies). The saddest group sat docile in gerry chairs, heads lolling. They were fed by the staff, one of the time-consuming attentions which accounted for the monstrous monthly sum per patient. Even so, over a ward fee of $900.00 to her father’s private rate of $1,700, the government added a similar contribution. Staggering numbers, but a friend of Belle’s had reported in tears that her father might have to pay $60,000 a year to put her mother in a nursing home in Vermont. Maybe overtaxed Canucks should “se taire,” or keep quiet.

Down the hall she could hear his television reporting the local news. Sudbury’s first murder of the year had occurred: a ninth grader had left her newborn in a cardboard box. She had wrapped the child in a flowered nightie and pinned on a note, “I love you, precious” when she placed the box beside a dumpster in a -25° night. “Precious” had been found by two schoolboys the next day. The mother waited under the protection of the Children’s Aid until a court decided if charges should be laid. Children having children, Belle sighed.

As she entered his room, her father pointed at her from his gerry chair. Its locking table prevented him from falling, a necessary but cruel protection against the danger of a broken hip, but he hated it. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. His thick white hair was fresh-cut and his clothes clean, matching blue shirt and practical navy work pants good for one thousand washes. She arranged the bib and set out his meal, filling a plastic glass with water from the narrow bathroom. The builders hadn’t anticipated the problems of the elderly. How the attendants manoeuvered him attested to their logistical wizardry with a Hoyer lift.

While he enjoyed his shrimp and she made messy inroads on the chili dog, Belle leafed through the Enquirer. Jackie O was still getting headlines even after answering the last trumpet. If it could happen to her . . . Belle probed behind her right ear where she had been having some discomfort. No lump yet. She checked discreetly to see how her father was faring since it wasn’t wise to chat with him while he ate. Coordinating breathing, chewing and swallowing became difficult after a series of small strokes; aspirated food was a geriatric nightmare. He cooperated with her, but with the nurses he was bossy and demanding, reverting to the “bad boy” of his childhood. However, he seemed more “with it” today. “Good shrimp. Good shrimp,” he nodded. “Pie and ice cream?” His eyes darted back and forth to the box on the dresser.

“Sure, as soon as you’re finished,” she agreed. Shortly after, she replaced the remains of the meal with the dessert. “Hey, you’re in luck. Cherry pie. Remember how Mother used to make it? What a dope I was to lose her pastry recipe.” Then she went to the dining room and returned with his tea.

“How are your feet?” She looked sadly at the swollen pair.

“OK, OK,” he insisted. “Can we go out for lunch next week?”

She didn’t like to believe that he would not walk again. Just getting him to medical tests was a bitter challenge, weather aside. A recent chest x-ray had been a logistical horror story, though he had tried his best. “Well, there’s still lots of snow left. And you would have to walk to the van.”

“I can walk. I’ve never let you down yet, have I?” he asked. And she felt her eyes tear and pretended to look out the window at a chickadee.

“No, you certainly haven’t.” She shifted topics. “Do you know that this has been the worst winter in the last century and a half? That means that no other Palmer ever in Canada has seen one as bad.” He liked to boast about his family emigrating from Yorkshire in 1840. In Toronto she had taken him to Prospect Cemetery to find the grave of his grandfather, a corporal in the New York 22nd Cavalry during the Civil War. Many Canadians had gone south to fight for glory or purpose or something absent in the peace-loving North. When her father had first arrived at the nursing home, he had had a black roommate, to whom he had proudly related his grandfather’s service.

“Oh, I saw Love on the Dole last night. Remember that one?” She knew he loved talking about his working days.

He brightened, sipping his tea, which she had cooled first with an ice cube from his bedside pitcher. “That’s an old one. Deborah Kerr. Before the war, right?” He scratched his head. “No, 1941. Brits were at war, maybe not the Yanks yet. I saw every picture ever made back then.” When the television news ended, Belle rounded up the detritus and left him anticipating his afternoon soaps and after-dinner favourites, Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. He had been interested to learn that Alex Trebek had come from Sudbury.

On her way out, she leaned over the high desk at the nursing station. “You know most of the doctors in town, Cherie. What can you tell me about Dr. Monroe?”

“Are you taking your father there?” She emphasized the last word with a gasp.

“No, it’s a business matter. I met him the other day and had a few questions.”

Cherie leaned over the desk and glanced around. “A woman in my nursing class dated him, if that’s a polite word. After they broke up, she had some pretty harsh words. Hypocrite, liar, that kind of tone. His qualifications maybe?” She paused and looked sceptical. “Could be spite, though. She went to Victoria after that. Wanted a change.” She snorted, pointing at the snowdrifts outside. “Guess she got it.”

“Wouldn’t his credentials have been checked?”

“In those days? He came here back when the place was desperate for doctors. You know the North. Always on the short end. Glad to get what we could.” She lowered her voice until Belle had to lean perilously. “But don’t mention this, will you? Not too ethical of me to blab.”

“Of course not. And thanks for keeping an eye on the old man.” Belle went out into the sunlight that had replaced the morning fog. Behind her in the nursing home, every day was the same, just like in her fish tank. They did their best, God bless them, she thought, getting into the van and turning on the radio as Oprah’s voice beamed out, greeting her fans in Northern Ontario in connection with a contest to win a trip to her show in Chicago. The country station plunged on. “Last time I saw him, he was Greyhound bound,” Dottie West sang as Belle blinked into the brightness.

As she returned home, the plow sat in the same spot. This time the driver had been joined by a front end loader large enough to shift the Skydome. Likely laughing at his friend’s poor driving, the loader man had ignored the banking and slipped off at the same spot. Megalon sent to rescue Godzilla and not a brain cell between them. Strolling neighbours were pointing and laughing, while the men hunched morosely in their cabs. What kind of unimaginable bigger brother would have to be summoned now? The churned-up land looked like Guadalcanal.