Читать книгу Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 18

The strengthening sun pierced the horizon like a jewel, dazzling Belle’s sleepy eyes with its renewing warmth. She spun the handle to open her window and inhaled the pure, liquid ether of the morning. Fearful groans, a basso profundo tympanic plumb from measureless fathoms, echoed across the lake’s impenetrable depths. The ice had risen. Freshets draining the back country were undermining its integrity, wrenching the earth free from the winter’s icy grip. Travel on the lake would still be safe for a wary week or so, but after that, the rotting ice mass would blacken into honeycombs and marry with the water, signalling time to watch for the blessed signs of spring.

As she was outside grabbing at some birch logs under the tarp, Belle heard the phone ring five times and then defer to the answering machine. How civilized to be freed from its imperative jingle, to enjoy a hot meal in leisure instead of being interrupted by a ten-minute long “two-minute” consumer questionnaire. The tape played a familiar voice speaking slowly and precisely, unintimidated by the technology. “Hello, Belle, it’s Franz. At a lake near my camp I found something interesting. It’s a clear indication that you were right about the drug drops. We can go out there this morning if you are free. I’ll be at my office for the next two hours. It’s now . . . eight o’clock.”

Belle called back immediately. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked. “Why don’t we meet at Connie’s?” It was a thriving truck stop on the Kingsway, a main artery through town.

Franz’s Jimmy pulled into Connie’s crowded lot at the same time as Belle’s van. As he held the restaurant door for her, the pleasant scent of a subtle European cologne, perhaps 4711, drifted past. With the smooth pink look of a shave on his cheeks, he placed a shearling coat on an extra chair and sat immaculate in pressed chinos and Pendleton wool shirt. Belle stroked the coat with envious sounds. “Yes, I bought it on a trip to the States last year,” he explained as they ordered the mucker’s special. Three eggs, five sausages, a pancake, homefries, toast and coffee.

A pair of ladies in fox and raccoon coats, dressed for a shopping spree, looked over in amusement. “Haven’t they ever seen a woman eat?” Belle sliced into the tender sausages and took a bite with a grateful, dreamy look. “Going to heaven to meet my mother and worth the price.” She crossed herself and thumped at her heart, placing a hand behind her ear. “Is that the sound of sludge forming? Well, what’s the news?”

Franz poured coffee from the urn left on the table in American pancake house style. “First, madame, hear the wonderful results of the rally. I have over 5,000 signatures on the petition, an excellent response from the area. But strong lobbyists on the other side will generate publicity, too; merchants, hotel, motel and restaurant operators who want the tourists.”

“I saw a full page ad placed by local businessmen in the Sudbury Star last night. What shameless propaganda. And of course Brooks is a star member. What did they call themselves? Parks for Progress?” She scowled and attacked her pancakes. “They’ll turn Wapiti into the Canadian National Exhibition fifty-two weeks a year. Condos are coming, did I tell you? A sleazy developer I know is oozing around after the zoning right now.”

Franz clenched a fist and abandoned his continental reserve for a quick pound on the table. “But that’s why this evidence is so important. If we can discredit just one of them, turn the direction of public opinion, we might keep our lake for a few more years.”

“Well, don’t leave me in suspenders, as Uncle Harold used to say. What on earth did you find?”

Franz said that he had been hearing more small planes at his camp near Cott Lake, where he had been preparing lectures and marking papers. The next morning, he searched the area and found the debris. “I left it in place so that you could understand the logistics. Cott’s too shallow for ice fishing and miles from the main trail. Very isolated. And my cabin is nearly invisible from the air with all the spruce and cedars. That could explain why they were so careless. From the tracks, I’d guess a machine met the plane.”

“The strikes against Brooks are adding up,” Belle said, ticking off points on her fingers. “First, expensive renovations on the lodge, not just a cheap facelift. Second, a stable of new machines, hardly rental jobs. Where did he get them if he’s been broke? Another possibility is that he’s operating a chop shop or feeding one. And third, I met one of his contacts at the Paramount the other night.” She had Franz laughing over the script.

“You met him there? Oh, Mata Hari, wasn’t that unwise? Do you list the martial arts among your many talents or did you carry a pistol?”

“Bah, I wasn’t going to go home with the man to watch David Letterman. Even gave a false name. He got a bit rough, but an officer I know came along in his patrol car.”

“Another knight entering the lists?”

Belle tapped his knuckles playfully. “Not where Jim’s death is concerned. Steve sure let me down there. But look, even if Jim had witnessed something, perhaps a transfer like you describe, how did someone arrange such a picture-perfect accident without leaving one bruise? It just sounds so coincidental. How could anyone even know who he was?” She frowned pensively as she mopped up the last of the eggs, then unwrapped the gold drop and presented it on top of a napkin. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s. One new clue. See what you think of this. I’ve been carrying it around like a talisman.”

The unflappable Franz raised his eyebrows for a nanosecond, his pupils widening. “And where did you get this small treasure?”

“Jim’s mother searched his pockets a few days ago when she did the wash, poor lady. What in God’s name is it?”

He moved it delicately between his fingers, shifting it to catch more light, as his expressive mouth formed a moue, more French than German. “Gold, by the appearance and silken feel. For a piece of jewelry, perhaps, though it is so small. A gift for Miss Melanie or maybe just a curio.”

“That’s what we thought. But it never hurts to double check. For a starting place, I have a friend in the jewelry business.” She retrieved the drop and let Franz whisk the cheque from her hand.

“I am too fast for you today. Your treat next time.” He checked his watch. “We had better be off. The ice has risen, but conditions will worsen as the day warms, especially with bright sun.” To save the long drive home for her gear and the Bravo, he suggested she park at the marina and ride with him over the ice road to his island. “I have an extra snowmobile,” he said, “an old Elan of my father’s. Low on suspension, but ticks like a sewing machine. He used to assure me that a Singer was under the hood. When I was a small boy, I believed him.”

By the time they reached the marina, lake traffic was headed the other way, people helping each other haul their huts off. “This is not my favourite time of year,” Franz complained as the Jimmy bumped along and he waved at a few drivers. “When the ice is breaking up, I have to stay in town for a week to ten days.” Belle wondered if he were hinting for an invitation. What an interesting guest he might be, though. There would be no end to the conversation. And he liked dogs. “Then at ice-out, I pick up my boat at the marina and so it goes until December.” Belle dreaded ice-out, too, prayed against a northeast wind which could skirt the rockwall and blow dangerous floes onto her dock, grinding the satellite dish and everything in its path like a juggernaut. Insurance companies did not cover these acts of God.

As they climbed the wooden stairs to the house, Marta greeted them, her creamy white hair thickly braided and wrinkles of concern lining her cameo profile in the harsh light of day. “Be careful,” she warned. “Franz told me where you are going. The ice is thinning everywhere. My son knows the safe places.” Inside, she gave Belle an extra suit, a pair of boots, and a thermos of coffee.

The old warhorse of the elder Schilling roared into life, shaking temperamentally and spewing out oily gray smoke. “Not very ecological, I suppose,” Franz said as he gallantly presented the keys to his own machine. Belle removed the custom cover like opening a birthday present and crooned, “Where have you been all my life? This was featured in the Ontario Snowmobiler magazine. A Grand Touring SE. What do they call it, Franz, the Mercedes-Benz of sleds? What a yuppie you are!” She brushed appreciative fingers over the thick seat padding and adjusted the oversized backrests. “How fast are we talking? What kind of track? And what other cute little bells and whistles? A CD, perhaps?”

Franz seemed embarrassed about her reference to his conspicuous consumerism. “It’s not really a racing machine; it’s designed for touring.”

“Oh, right, just for plain Jane cruising. A retirement model, no doubt. With 670cc? You could smoke my baby Bravo into cardiac arrest,” Belle moaned, testing the controls.

He sighed elaborately, but a nuance of a smile crept over his lips. “If you insist. She has extra wide and long track, much more suspension than the standard models. I need that for my bush trips,” he offered as a rationale in the face of her disbelieving sniff. “My back’s not what it used to be, so gas shocks, too. I think that’s all. Oh, thumb and handwarmers.”

“Not to mention reverse gear, you greedy man,” Belle snarled, toying with the complicated cockpit of controls.

“Of course, so enjoy it.” He thumped the hard, duct-taped seat of his father’s old machine. “Your pleasure is my introduction to a set of kidney pads.” A call brought Blondi from around the cabin, her tail wagging eagerly for an outing.

“Franz,” Belle objected, “she can’t run that far.”

“No fear. Just watch.” He attached a lightweight toboggan as the proud animal picked her way gingerly down the steps, carrying her famous sunglasses in her mouth. She climbed into the sled happily and settled down with a doggy sigh.

Franz attached the glasses. “She can run the last few miles for exercise. I always take her to the cabin as company, so the extra horsepower is helpful to pull the gear, you see,” he said with an “I told you so” look. When the Elan stalled, he began tugging his starter cord repeatedly, muttering what sounded like arcane Teutonic curses while Belle merely pushed a button and smiled smugly as her engine purred like a cat curled before a fire.

The last vestiges of the winter runs were disappearing. Marshalls from the Drift Busters were removing the red poles across Wapiti that marked the major trail. The year before, the trail had been marked by using discarded Christmas trees complete with shreds of tinsel, a curiously surreal diorama which elicited howls from the environmentalists. Approaching the Dunes, Belle lost all mature restraint and thumbed the gas full-throttle, a move which snapped her head back in shock and rearranged her spinal cord. What a race horse!

At the top of the Dunes, Franz caught up with her like a faithful Sancho Panza. The sight of him bouncing barely inches off the ice, his back probably screaming, drew her sympathy and amusement at the same time. He waggled his finger like a teacher, yelling over the motors. “I thought you would fall under her spell. Why don’t you get a new model? You would like it, you know.”

“No wonder so many riders exit the gene pool every year. Horsepower corrupts; absolute horsepower corrupts absolutely. But stop tempting me. Why buy a VSOP cognac when Ontario brandy will do?” She stood up like a jockey in a steeplechase and revved the engine. “I might be spoiled now, so thank God the season is nearly over.”

As he pointed out on the topo, Franz had chosen the safer land trail instead of the faster route across five lakes. Crossing the bridge over Thimble Creek, Belle stared into the rushing water shimmering with ice diamonds. This was still frozen on her last trip, she thought, but she’s coming up like gangbusters. Wapiti’s going to rise quickly. The Ministry of Natural Resources, keeper of the hydro dam keys, let the lake fall all winter and didn’t close the sluice gates until the ice had vanished, minimizing dock and boathouse destruction and allowing cottagers their rockwall repairs with a backhoe in the narrow window of opportunity.

After half an hour, Franz pointed to a small side trail and signalled Blondi to jump out. “My cabin is that way,” he said, “but here’s the trail I cut to Cott.” The sun was brilliant, and the winds seemed tropical. It had been seven months since Belle had enjoyed such warmth. Several minutes later, they drove into Cott, skirting the shore carefully. It was a swamp lake, soft and treacherous in spring. A plane landing would be impossible now with the thaw. Franz guided her to a thick spruce growth. “Look at what I found,” he said, rummaging under a bush and pulling out some plastic bags. “Broken open. And they just left it. Why not? One quick gust and gone . . .”

“With the wind.”

He tasted the residue with a wet finger. “Cocaine, if the usual mythology is true.”

Belle took the bag and dipped in, wincing at the bitterness. “Who says television doesn’t have educational merit? Hey, should we rinse our mouths with snow?” she asked. “Anything else?”

“Just these two bags. Oh, and cigarettes.” He passed her a half-full pack of Luckies, sodden with moisture. “American. I’ve never seen them for sale here. Too expensive.” They scuffed their way to the middle of the lake, noting the landing marks of the skis. Blurry steps packed the ice where a conversation might have occurred, and a snowmobile trail, covered by fresh snow, pointed to the end of the lake.

Belle punched his shoulder lightly in her excitement. “This could make the connection. At the very least, it proves that Jim’s theory was on the money. Steve should see this, with your permission,” Belle said, and packed the evidence into her pocket after Franz nodded. “A raid on Brooks could come soon, by the way.”

Some coffee warmed them while Franz tossed pine cones for Blondi to chase. “Come up next winter, and I promise to be a better host and show you around my camp. I have a few fine spearheads from a quartzite dig at Sheguiandah on Manitoulin. 7000-8000 B.C. Much sharper work than the hand axe you admired.”

“I’ll look forward to it, Franz. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight and tell me how you found them?”

He sighed reluctantly. “This is unfortunate timing. After my four o’clock class, Mother and I are off to Toronto to see Phantom of the Opera this weekend for her birthday.” Belle suggested an excellent Portuguese place on Bloor West, recommending the octopus. The dog resumed her place in the toboggan, and Franz followed Belle back to the island, lurchingly slow and steady on the old chestnut.

When Belle collected the van at the marina, it was barely three o’clock, so she stopped at the police building. Originally built as an armoury after World War One, it squatted downtown on its treeless square like an ancient toad. According to Steve, the staff hated the place; not only was it cold, uncomfortable and overcrowded, but security was a joke. Last year several prisoners had escaped, to be caught hours later playing PacMan at the bus depot. A classic tale of felonious stupidity, Steve had told her, like the guy who robbed a convenience store, then left his footprints in the snow right to his house.

At the main desk, a sergeant doing crossword puzzles pointed her to a sub-basement after asking a five-letter word for “criminal”. Water pipes covered in shredding asbestos led her down a dungeon hall, her steps echoing ahead in the gloom of a single, dangling fifteen-watt bulb. Steve stuck his face out of a door with a look of suspicion. “What brings you to my palace? A social call, I hope.”

“Where do you chain the man in the iron mask? And I thought asbestos had to be removed,” Belle responded, flopping into a comfortable brown leather chair cracked with age. She adjusted the stuffing to cover a spring and brushed white flakes from her shoulders.

“We’ve been lobbying for a new building for years. Just don’t do too good a job of it. Need a crime wave to raise our profile. A nice mass murderer or an arsonist. This year the money went to the Seniors’ Complex. So?” He looked at her quizzically.

“Presents. Franz Schilling and I found some drug traces in the bush today.” She placed the bags and cigarette pack on the desk, shifting a plastic plate with a crust of pizza.

Steve didn’t even examine it. Her news pressed his irritation button one time too often. “Are you still prowling around?” he yelled. “And disturbing evidence again?”

“Let me get to my point if you’re in that kind of a mood. We found this up at Cott Lake. It’s a miracle the stuff was still there. A brisk wind would have buried it. Come on, look at it. Don’t make me feel like a fool.”

“Wow, a cigarette pack! For me? I suppose you want us to check for DNA.”

“And the bags?”

After the usual rituals, he settled into serious mode, sighing and tapping a pencil onto a date on his calendar. “Congratulations. Every now and then a blind squirrel finds an acorn. We can’t cover thousands of kilometres of bush in the hopes of catching someone in the act. We have Brooks set up for Saturday night. Saturday, Belle, is that close enough for you?” He drew a stick man on his paper and confined him in a box. “If you want to watch the fun, and I know you will, be at the Beaverdam around eleven for the raid. But stay clear.”

“Yes, sir!” She offered a snappy salute and backed out of the office. Saturday Night Fever at last.

Belle arrived home about six o’clock to find the house inhospitably cold and unwelcoming. A rising wind had blown up and sucked the wood to ashes with the draft. Wood was a benevolent dictator to its grateful servant, usually good for ten hours or more before a temperature drop would trigger the propane furnace. She would have to restoke it for the night.

Belle refilled the stove with soft fat pine for quick coals, then took Freya for a short walk. At last the bitter temperatures were gone, even if most of the snow remained, as it likely would until May. Her boots crunched down the road, as she listened through the silence for sounds which carried miles in the clear air and insulating snow, the long, piercing whistle of a train headed south with lumber, or north with shiny automobiles for those who had cut that wood. She heard the familiar tinkle of Morris’s windchimes, a summer memory. Mo must have come out early to open up. Taking note of the cottages, she pictured their snowbird owners making a last forage to the cheap American supermarkets, or buying a breadmaker or air conditioner to offset costly supplemental health insurance premiums. Yet what were their electric bills when they had to leave the juice on all winter to protect the foundations against frost damage?

Back inside, Belle heaped maple and yellow birch over the new coals and heated tasty and filling Habitant pea soup as a accompaniment to a toasted cheese sandwich. As a treat for Freya, she opened a can of expensive dog stew, giant hunks of beef swimming in gravy. Then as Shana had suggested, she sprinkled on the Metamucil, dropped in a tablespoon of canola oil, and stirred the mess queasily. Freya materialized out of nowhere at the grind of the can opener, a thread of drool dropping from the corner of her smiling mouth. “Dig in, babe. It’s better than some people get.”

Tidying up her computer area after dinner, Belle rummaged through documents and notes from the office. But as she sorted them, strange papers caught her eye. Shield University memos addressed to Franz. One concerned a blood drive, and the other warned of a rise in parking rates. How embarrassing. She must have scooped them up that day in his office. No need to return them since the relevant dates had passed. The next sheet made her sit down in shock. It was a receipt for nearly six thousand dollars from the Forest Glen Wellness Center in Harrisville, New York. A private nursing home? Or were they all private in the States? She pulled out her atlas. Just over the border from Cornwall, maybe ten hours’ drive. Probably an old place in the Adirondacks.

Was it Eva? Was she in treatment for the nervous breakdown Rosanne had suggested? Was this any of Belle’s business? “Oh, here, Franz,” she could say. “Sorry I picked this up by mistake. Who’s the lucky patient?” Still, she was pricked by her usual rude curiosity. Perhaps there was an Internet contact in New York, someone who could do a bit of handy digging. The likely source for snooping came quickly to mind, the Dorothy L. Sayers mystery discussion group, three thousand strong. Though each person had a special nom de plume, she hadn’t chosen one (Miss Marple had been taken and she couldn’t remember Mary Astor’s role in The Maltese Falcon). “dorothyl@listserv.kent.edu” she typed. Her message was brief, even enigmatic, but DLrs loved that touch: “I am marooned in Ultima Thule and need an ally to sleuth around near Harrisville, New York. Is the game afoot?” In case the frosty lines might garble the connections as often happened in winter, she added her phone and FAX numbers.

Belle hopped into bed and tuned her radio to the last innings of the Jays against Oakland. Mr. Five Million had pitched flawlessly, retired twelve in a row, then pulled a groin muscle. Mr. Four Million had fanned four times and tossed his bat into the stands. So much for their top guns. Management would have to curry the Syracuse farm team with a fine tooth comb. The radio crackled in and out as usual, reception fading as far-off stations smeared the signal at critical “three and two” calls.

Then an infernal shriek drilled into her ears like the squeal of chalk on a blackboard. The mandatory smoke detector, only this time as often before, smoke was not the problem. Gnats, little spiders, dust, anything could give the fussy monster a tantrum. Belle climbed onto a chair and wiggled the box in quasi-scientific fashion, muttering and coaxing to some success. Then only minutes later, as the Jays scored twice, the screech sounded again. “You son of a . . . you’re not keeping me up all night,” Belle said as she located a screwdriver and disconnected the detector. In the morning she would give the rascal a thorough shaking or better yet, buy another.