Читать книгу Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 25

To the relief of all shovellers and scrapers and frostbitten faces, May trailed forth its leafy lacework at last. Marta had sold the island to a rich Torontonian who owned a chain of video stores and wanted a rustic and private retreat; her plans were to live in an apartment in Kingston to be nearer to Eva until the girl could leave the hospital. News of Franz’s death had slowed her recovery. They might join an uncle with a small farm in the Annapolis Valley. Belle would always remember the grace and dignity in those lost, sweet moments over strudel and coffee.

Relating these details, Steve lolled on the deck in a dusty lawn chair dragged from the boathouse-cum-garage. He had refused a beer and was nursing a coffee. “Call me a bad Canadian, but I can’t drink beer until July. Anyway, steam keeps the bugs away.” With a benign smile, he urged a blackfly out of his mug. “They pollinate the blueberries.” Belle scratched suspiciously at her arm while he continued. “The department flew me to New York to confirm Franz’s story. I’ve never seen a girl like Eva. Innocence headed for tragedy. Time has stood still for her. She seemed to understand what had happened, even asked questions about whether her brother had suffered, and of course, about Blondi.”

“I don’t know how she can reconcile with her mother. They’re saint and sinner in each other’s eyes. Yet who else do they have? Franz was so gifted, so courtly. A prince in another time and place,” Belle mused sadly. “If Eva had been stronger, if the blizzard hadn’t delivered Jim to that cabin while Franz was away . . .”

“A prince of darkness perhaps. Would you stop defending the man? Don’t act like he was forced to kill. Who knows what Jim made of the gold drop anyway? Probably nothing. That was all self-serving speculation. The good professor intended to dump you down a mine shaft!”

“Yes, and I saw his beast, Steve, all our beasts. The banality of evil. More tired and desperate than cunning. Driven by doing what he thought best for his sister. And when that was threatened—”

“Spoken by a woman saved by a hunk of dried meat.”

She had to laugh. “If you taste it sometime, you’ll know why it worked. But give Blondi credit.” He nodded in approval, and she added, “Something told Blondi that Franz was wrong to order her against me. A good dog resists evil. And maybe she can help her owners find a new life.”

They watched in companionable silence as two merganser ducks flapped across the waterfront in a mating ritual. “They nest somewhere along my shore, maybe in those heavy firs. I think it’s the same pair every year, but who knows? Anyway, speaking of nests, how’s your chick? Any improvement on the fathering scene?”

With undisguised delight, Steve rummaged in his Sudbury Wolves jacket for a fat pack of pictures. “Got a few hours?” The snaps covered all the parental bases: daughter waving a piece of toast, bouncing a ball, even splashing in a bubble bath. “Know what? That stupid jerk at the photo store gave me a funny look about that last one. Kiddie porn. It’s getting ridiculous.” In a final picture he actually held Heather, her face a curious mixture of strangeness and resignation.

“This the shot just before she burst out in tears?” Belle asked.

“Not quite. But I did what you said with Janet, that PDA.”

“Pardon me?”

“What kind of a permissive high school did you go to? Public display of affection. Hand-holding, arm around her shoulders, little kiss now and then. Kid watched me like a baby hawk, but for sure she seems to trust me more. Pictures don’t lie.”

“Hey, I had a thought. Would Heather like to meet my dog? Could be an icebreaker. They use pets at the nursing home to coax residents out of their shells. I’ll bring her over some night and babysit so you can see a show or go to dinner.” He beamed, clearly elated at the prospect of a private evening with his wife. Belle went inside to fetch a couple of carrot muffins spread with butter and Meg’s gooseberry jam. “I know this is going to be good, and I’ve waited too long.”

Later that afternoon, Belle found Freya snoozing on the floor of the computer room. “Too chubby to squeeze into your chair, old girl?” she snorted. “Aren’t we all. ‘Menopause Manor’ my sign out front should read. Except that I didn’t give you a chance to have one. Maybe the vet can make arrangements for me. Let’s do some chores. Get the old blood boiling before the buggies drain it off.”

A week of spectacular Florida weather (23° C!) had melted the snow in all but the deepest woods. Belle had ferried Hannibal and Big Mac in a giant canning pot to their new home at Science North where a two-hundred gallon tank and plenty of admirers awaited them.

Meanwhile, Sudburians were dancing in the streets, or the equivalent, packing up kids and gear for Victoria Day at the cottage. The sodden ground, festooned with smut and dead leaves, looked as exhausted as everyone else. Time to scratch its back with a rake, her least favourite activity. From far above came familiar squawks. Belle shielded her eyes to scan the sky, watching a tiny vee move closer, keeping time with its vocal metronome. The geese were back, maybe fifty birds aiming due north across Wapiti to their breeding grounds on Hudson Bay.

Freya dashed hopefully but without success after a squirrel, which had the gall to dart up a cedar and scold mercilessly. The triangular flower garden, many weeks’ labour in cutting railroad ties with a chain saw and driving in spikes with a fifteen-pound mallet, waited for her approval of a small shoot in the fresh earth. A bleeding heart? She gave it a gentle tweak. Something was alive! The expensive fringy parrot tulip and double daffodil bulbs she had planted in October? Or was this the narcissus? A garden diary might be just the ticket for the amnesia of a seven-month winter. Maybe even a wildflower diary like Jim’s. Tomorrow Belle would take the dog to the swollen stream down the road to see if she could spot a marsh marigold.

Belle relaxed on the deck, trying to remember where she had left her bug dope. She opened the Sudbury Star to check the local news. The fickle gods had approved the damn park after all. It was slated to open next summer, once access roads had been bulldozed and the shelters, washrooms and dumps constructed. Next stop, Disney World North? Was it Victor Hugo who said that not all the armies on earth could stop an idea whose time had come?

Three o’clock. Belle had almost forgotten. She drove to Rainbow Country, greeting the sun-worshippers as she took the stairs two at a time. Someone was missing. Dapper Billy Kidd, a feature sitting in a lawn chair from May to October between his daily walks. “Where’s Mr. Kidd?” she asked Cherie. Her eyes moistening, the nurse pointed at the name board where a black space remained beside room 210. “I guess you hadn’t heard. He fell last week. Broke his hip. At that age, they don’t last long with a serious injury.”

Do all you can do, thought Belle, as she wheeled her father to the van, presenting him with a small Canadian flag like the one she carried. In another year he could reclaim his citizenship. “I have a surprise, Father. Somebody famous is coming through the old burg today, and no, it’s not the Queen.” She parked on a hill overlooking the hastily refurbished arena, trundling the old man out of the car to a vantage spot behind a chain link fence. He crinkled up his face in mild irritation. “Who the hell are you talking about? I have to go to the bathroom!”

“There he is!” she said as a trim figure walked over a decorative drawbridge leading to a commemorative plate glinting in the sun. His retinue mumbled into their radios and surveyed the underbrush for terrorists poking out of the poplars. “The Prime Minister!” Belle announced. And they waved their little flags and cheered. It was a glorious day.