Читать книгу Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 8

Meg’s jar of gooseberry jam on the kitchen table the next morning reminded Belle of Melanie’s invitation. She was curious about the girl Jim had taken into his heart and to his treasured places among the woods and streams.

Skipping breakfast and putting the jar out of sight, Belle was down the road by 7:15. The morning was cloudy and dark, the huge snowbanks an eerie source of reflected light. As Belle rounded a corner, her hands tightened on the wheel and she reached for the brake. A black, demonic shape seemed to be flying across the road four feet from the ground, its neon blue eyes trapped in her headlights. She heard no thump as the van moved slowly, now joined by a scrabbling form alongside, all jerky legs and lolling tongue. It was Buddy, a very fat young black Lab at his favourite game. Had he actually been flying or simply moving uphill from the vehicle in an optical illusion? She stopped, rolled down the window, and called him over. “Hi, Budman. Now get home, and I mean it.” There wasn’t a brain in the dog’s head, nor a mean bone in his body. His owners should take better care of him, she thought. Bored dogs made their own entertainment; sometimes it was costly, sometimes dangerous. One more bite at a wheel might be his last.

Tim Horton’s was Canada’s premier doughnut shop in a country with five times more per capita than Big Brother down south. No surprise that beleaguered Canuckleheads chose a quick sugar and caffeine fix to escape briefly from the arctic temperatures. Tim’s number 1000 had opened, and the prosperous chain was branching into sandwiches, soup, pies, cakes and cookies along with the reliable 25 different doughnut varieties available any hour of the day. Even the bathrooms would rate a nod from Martha Stewart. Belle sipped at her mug and checked the mutual fund reports in the Toronto Star, relieved not to have taken a flyer into the South American markets.

She lifted the paper periodically to check for Melanie, until she spotted a strange, medieval apparition in the crowd. A red wizard hat, made of soft fleece, cupped the head and ended with a tassel two feet down the back. Harry Potter’s choice was worn by a strawberry blonde woman, shoulders bowed over a pile of books. Belle motioned her over, noticing that her eyes were swollen and tired as if she had been up most of the night. The girl’s hand trembled as she took Belle’s, but her grip was firm.

“Melanie? You look like you could use a coffee.” In response to a nod, Belle brought back two mugs and matching giant carrot muffins and resisted the impulse to tuck a serviette under the quivering chin. Was the girl going to cry right there during rush hour?

Melanie brightened as she bit into the muffin. Tim Horton’s always had a comforting effect.” Thanks. I’m glad we could meet, and, you’re right, I haven’t thought much about food lately.” A generous dollop of cream went into the cup. “You look just like Jim said.” Her tone was innocent enough.

“Taken as a compliment,” Belle replied, watching the girl’s colour return. A few minutes of getting-to-know-you chat convinced Belle that Melanie could handle the unvarnished truth, so with an occasional glance of assessment, she proceeded with the story of her tragic discovery in the lake.

The girl was having none of it. “I don’t care what all of you saw, or think you saw. That was no accident,” Melanie said with a touch of bitterness and as dark a frown as youth and beauty would allow. “Anyone can tell you how well Jim knew those woods, every lake, tree and branch, down to the last mushroom. Besides, he had no time for bushwhacking. Exams were coming up, and he was part of the Stop the Park group, working on a project to document the diameter of those Granddaddy pines, he called them. Even had names for the biggest ones.” She stopped to brush back a tear, sniffing into a napkin and pausing to gather her arguments.

“He mentioned that project when he stopped by for breakfast the last time I saw him. And you’re right. The lake wasn’t on one of his usual routes.

“That’s why I called you. His parents told me that you didn’t believe the accident theory either,” the girl continued as Belle looked away helplessly. “Jim was the most cautious person in the world when it came to winter travel in the bush. Once he was standing on shore when a young boy broke through trying to cross an open patch. The machine flipped, and the boy was killed. First thing he told me when we went snowmobiling was never, never to break trail on a small lake, no matter how tempting.”

“I agree with everything you’re saying, but we don’t have all the facts yet. Have the Burians mentioned the autopsy?” Belle wondered.

“Apparently Dr. Monroe has already finished. Told Ben that he checked for alcohol, but we all know that Jim never drank more than one beer, and never when driving. It just doesn’t add up.”

Belle looked into the swirly pools of cream in her coffee as if divining the future. “I’m not a professional investigator, Melanie, just a lowly real estate hack. Sure, we can trade our doubts, but why don’t you go to the police? Steve Davis is a good man. Tell him I sent you.”

The girl took a deep breath and contracted her brows. “What’s the point? They’re not taking it seriously. Listen, can we ask around? I’ll take the campus, his friends, his teachers. Maybe together we can find out something. Jim did mention those planes near his hunt camp. The Burians said you had travelled the area north of the lake, and I know they wouldn’t mind if you went to his new camp to see if he left some papers or notes. I’m sure they’d loan me a sled, but I’m tied up during daylight hours with my clinicals at the hospital.”

“Last time I saw him, he was pretty upset about the drug traffic. If he found anyone using the bush for transfers, who knows what he might have done? As for records, Jim was pretty methodical. The camp might be worth a look.” Belle pulled out a small notebook and scrawled a few words, frowning at her efforts. “My writing is so bad that it has a shelf life of about ten hours. After that, it’s illegible. Anyway, I’ll be glad to do some fieldwork. Just don’t expect magic revelations. And don’t discount the accident idea completely. One bush pilot I knew for twenty years flew right into a mountain near the Sault ski hills one bright June afternoon. There were five witnesses, and even they didn’t believe what they saw. Nothing wrong with the plane either.”

They sipped their coffees for several minutes, the interview winding down as they both checked their watches politely. Then Belle spoke up suddenly. “Something I didn’t ask you, Melanie. The answer is probably obvious, but it is personal.”

“Jim was my personal life, Belle.” She looked dangerously close to tears again, but Belle pressed on.

“The ageless question. What about enemies?”

“Enemies? He never had a bad word for anyone. He was a kind and gentle man. I never heard him raise his voice. Oh, except when he got excited about the drug problem in schools.”

“Kind and gentle means nothing to some people. They regard it as weakness. Did anyone carry a grudge against him, a disagreement even in principle?”

The girl thrummed at the table with her fingers, a pink flush appearing on each check. “Well, there was Ian, my old boyfriend. Kind of embarrassing, though.”

“Just keep it under a hundred words. You don’t have to write for the tabloids. What was the story?”

Mel had been engaged to Ian MacKenzie in her sophomore year. He was in pre-law and heading for Osgoode Hall in Toronto. His irrational jealousy in combination with his heavy weekend drinking had spelled an end to the relationship.

Belle seemed surprised. Perhaps Melanie’s judgement was not as sound as she had thought. “Did he ever hit you?” she asked.

“Ha! I’d never have stood for that. But the verbal threats were frightening enough.”

“What kind of threats?”

“It happened after I began seeing Jim. In the halls, in the cafeteria, Ian never missed an opportunity to make an evil comment. Once he made a pretty ugly scene and called Jim awful names. Even gave him a shove. You know that kind of male posturing. I was proud when Jim put him down with a few choice words.”

“And lately?”

“No sign of him. I hear he’s been hitting the books to raise his grade point average.”

“So he’s still in town. One last question, Mel, a significant one. We need ‘means’ here. Does Ian have a snowmobile?”

Melanie grabbed Belle’s arm in her excitement. “My God, yes. A new one every year. His uncle owns the biggest dealership in North Bay.”

“Too good to be true, and it probably isn’t, if you can follow that. I’ll see, though. Give me his address.”

Melanie seemed more optimistic when Belle left her. She obviously had a rare combination of common sense and imagination, just like Jim. What a couple they would have . . . Belle shook herself out of Shakespearean tragedy mode as she crunched on a last maple dip and ordered a box of Timbits for the road.

Early that afternoon, the Bravo took her to the Burians’ lodge. No welcoming smoke poured from the main chimney this time. Ben gave her a long hug at the door, the wool from his hand-knit sweater brushing her cheek. “Warmer outside than in today. Sorry we can’t offer you anything,” he said.

“Are you packing up?”

He touched the cold stove with a sad sigh. “Yes, that’s why no fire. Going back to town soon as Ma sorts the food. Don’t have the heart to stay. Might even sell, anybody’s foolish enough to try to run this dog-eared place. You can list it for us.”

Belle met the old man’s crinkled eyes and let him talk. “The viewing is this afternoon.” He snorted into a handkerchief and apologized. “Halverson’s. Will you be there?”

Belle felt as chilled as the dead stove. “Of course. And you probably know that Melanie called me. We had a long talk. I promised her I’d look around the camp.”

“Don’t know what you’ll find of help, but I guess we owe it to Jim to try. Ted and I gave it a once-over, but it was too much for us to handle right off. Broke me down, that picture of Melanie and all his keepsakes. She was almost like a . . .” His reedy voice broke. “Just met the girl last winter, but it seemed like we’d been a family forever. She was so good for him. Gave him confidence. ’Course he was always handsome to us, but Mel was the best medicine.” His voice trailed off.

Belle looked outside and left him with his thoughts. Then she resumed. “Listen, Ben, there’s something else. What did Jim say about suspicious plane landings?”

Searching his mind, he flicked a lighter on and off, as if he wanted more than anything to start that stove again. “Well, sure, when you’re up in the bush, quiet as it is, you notice everything, specially if it’s out of order, odd, if you understand me. Small planes at night. Landing, too, from the sounds and tracks he saw on Obabika. Told me he was gonna have a word with you about it, you knowin’ that policeman.”

“Where else?”

“On Stillwell and Marmot, too. Come and go in ten minutes. Risky stuff in the dark. Fellow here last winter flipped the plane when his wing touched down. Had to lift the whole damn mess off by ’copter. Wasn’t good for nothing but scrap.”

“When you were at the new hunt camp, was anything out of place?”

Ben looked out the window to a squirrel digging a pine cone from its store under a stump. “Built it all himself. Axe, hammer and chainsaw. No, nothing was out of place, not that I’d notice. Not much there, anyways, a bit of food, furniture, some of his school stuff. I wish to God he hadn’t tried to make it back that night in the storm. Stupid waste.” He went to a shelf and picked up a folded topo map.

“See, here’s the one. Not so far from that damn lake where he . . . Look, Belle.” He set his jaw and passed his hand over his brow. “How in hell did he get off the main trail when he could have found his way home blindfolded?”

“I see what you mean.” Belle ran her finger over the route. “It’s as if he headed home, then made a left turn miles before he should have. And then drove on and on, even though he was obviously going the wrong way, finally making another wrong turn. Mistakes that a panicky beginner would make, not a pro like Jim.” She checked her watch. “One thing more. How do I get in?”

“Sometimes he didn’t even lock the camp, but I’ll tell you where the key is anyway. Under the big splitting log.”

“Thanks, Ben.” As she searched his gray face, today so suddenly an old man, she forced herself to ask about the event she would have preferred to have avoided. “What time at Halverson’s?”

“Five o’clock. We made it later so’s Jim’s friends . . .” he wiped at his eyes, “could come after classes. Melanie put the word out around the university. Suggested that we start a scholarship fund in the Forestry Program. I would never have thought of that. And she’s been a help to Meg.” Outside, his wife stood wrapped in a heavy parka, still scanning the silent lake, sparkling silver between the granite hills. It was a postcard, but the wrong one for the moment. Did she still expect to hear a familiar roar come echoing down the paths, to see Jim race in, bringing her a handsome lake trout or a brace of partridge?

By the time Belle reached home, her engine had been coughing and jerking for ten minutes, and she had been chanting, “Please, please, please. I don’t want to have to walk. New plug’s on the way.” The motor gave a final lurch and expired half-way to the backyard. When she unwrapped the new plug, however, with hands stiffened in the windchill, she managed to drop it on the cylinder head and crack the ceramic base. Just one more addition to a wonderful day. Still, the old faithful had made it home. That’s what counted.

Later that afternoon, she stuffed herself into a black linen suit, a sop to civilization she had picked up at Eaton’s downtown just before the venerable Canadian institution went belly up. There was only one problem. In the supercold, the van should have been plugged in so that the block heater would keep the oil warm. You don’t want to go to the viewing and you did this deliberately, she chided herself, as the van door creaked in arthritic pain. She plopped heavily onto the seat, which greeted her with the hardness of the Cambrian Shield. Gingerly she fingered the ignition of the hybrid engine. It ground, ground and then flooded, eliciting curses to every Northern god. No good to wait it out. Fuel-injection did not operate like that.

Bruno’s Towing promised to come with the advisement that the jaunt to the boonies would cost an easy hundred. When a man arrived a hour later, she climbed grumpily into the truck and asked him to drop her at Halverson’s, before towing the van to Cambrian Ford. Cheaper than a cab, and she was already paying royally, she rationalized with an internal growl.

Halverson’s Funeral Home had been an institution since World War One. One of the first brick buildings, it had given permanence and charm to the downtown clapboard in the boom days of the mining city. Over the years it had inhaled competing businesses to gain a near monopoly except for the suburban burial societies. Everyone who was anyone ended his career at Halverson’s. It was an expected tradition.

Walking slowly to the door, Belle had to urge herself forward. Her family had hated these ceremonies, preferring simple cremation. Open caskets were the norm in Northern Ontario, maybe a European custom which arrived with the many Greek, Italian or Ukrainian immigrants. Inside the quiet, formal foyer, a middle-aged lady in tasteful shades of gray at a reception desk lifted her pince-nez delicately to consult her program: “The Burian Party, yes, just down to the end of the hall, if you please.”

From the hallway, she saw other “parties” gathered to whisper in the adjoining rooms. Music drifted by, very soft and understated, a touch of Pachelbel in the night, or was it Mozart? Belle shuddered, willing herself against all odds to relax. A delicate lily of the valley scent wafted along the corridor mixed with the more cloying perfumes of older matrons. Suddenly, she remembered a story her prim and proper mother had told her. Inching along in a receiving line at her school superintendent’s funeral, she had anxiously searched for appropriately consoling words. When she had reached the widow, Terry Palmer had leaned forward, gently taken the woman’s hand, and murmured, “Thanks for a lovely day.”

Finally, Belle entered a divided room with a sitting area of padded chairs and sofas in Laura Ashley chintz. Homey and reassuring. Turning reluctantly, she saw the casket, taupe with brass fittings, accessorized with palms, candelabra and lavender glads. Several floral arrangements flanked the bier, a white and red rose selection particularly resplendent. What a monumental waste of money when Jim would have preferred the subtle beauty of wildflowers or the spicy resin of pine branches. She walked over to pay her respects, forced her gaze up. And by God, Jim did look good. Healthy, even. And that glowing skin tone. If there were an art to find the mind’s construction in the face, Myron Halverson was a genius. The innocence and goodness that framed Jim’s life could be read here by the blindest sceptic. She knelt on the velvet prie-dieu, murmured a small non-denominational prayer and stood awkwardly, wondering if anyone was noticing the tremor in her hands. Why did funerals make people feel like actors wandering without scripts? What words could form in a moment beyond the limits of speech?

The Burians were seated in the corner, Meg twisting a handkerchief, Ben thin and stiff in his black suit, and Ted leaning next to his mother, blinking away tears and loosening his collar. Belle was surprised to see old Tracker, grieving in the honest, canine way, ears back, head on her paws, her liquid eyes trusting that Jim would return. “Thanks for coming, Belle,” Meg said. “You were such a good friend of Jim’s.” Belle embraced the older woman tenderly, strangely protective about mothers since her own had died.

“He had so many friends,” Belle said, summoning up platitudes and hating herself for the failure of eloquence.

But the Burians were lost in a family tableau missing a central figure. “Yes,” Ben said, his eyes shining. “They’re all here from the university. And Tracker, too, his special pal. Halverson said it would be OK.” There would be no burial, just a crypt until the May thaw, common practice in the North. Graveyards were lonely places from December to April, only the tips of the highest monuments spearing the white desolation.

Belle slipped aside to sign the guestbook as a frail woman with henna hair and a purse affecting her balance tottered with a cane towards the Burians. In one corner, some professorial types, three-piece suits and beards, nodded sombrely. She caught a few words, “foolish . . . never should have” and bit back the temptation to offer her opinion. What did these ivory tower characters know about the bush and its rules? They might as well live in Toronto, driving their Range Rovers to work. Mel sat at the other end of the room, next to a man in what looked like an actual mourning suit, a fashion more read about than seen. Handsome and compelling, perhaps European, he put his arm around the girl briefly. Melanie shook her head as an answer, looked up, and gestured to Belle.

“Belle, you know Franz Schilling?” she asked

He extended his hand and bowed his head in a courtly manner. For a moment Belle thought he was going to kiss hers, as he raised it slightly and seemed to align his heels. “Hello, Belle. Melanie told me what a comfort you have been. It is very tragic to meet under these circumstances.” What else could be said?

They made the usual lump-in-throat exchanges, and then Melanie added, “Franz is in charge of the Stop the Park rally.”

Franz smiled and then spoke quietly, his gaze fixed on Belle. Though his hair was silver-blond and groomed to perfection, his darker eyebrows had a hypnotic effect. “And our efforts should have an effect. If only Jim could be there to march with us. What a tragedy his accident was.”

The women’s eyes met. “Perhaps not, Professor. Some things are not what they seem,” Belle said.

He arched an eyebrow and looked over at the casket. “Melanie has told me her doubts, and yes, I found it hard to believe, knowing how careful Jim was as a researcher. But still, I remember the night. Very bad. If he had wanted so much to get home and missed a turn in the blizzard . . .” His voice trailed to a whisper.

“Yes,” Belle answered. “His parents told me how important the Sunday family supper was for him. He always arrived in time, no matter what he’d been doing.” Memories of those evenings shared with Jim were too much for Melanie, who started to cry softly.

“I’ll bring you some water,” Franz said with a slight bow and left for a moment. The girl turned to Belle, struggling for control.

“Have you found anything yet?”

“We can’t really talk here. And I’m getting claustrophobic. I can hardly breathe.” Belle passed her hand over her clammy brow. “Why don’t we meet at the Konditorei in about an hour.”

After making a unobtrusive exit from Halverson’s, Belle was amazed that she felt like eating as soon as the fresh air hit her. Death could be a great appetite builder, a life-affirming ritual rivalled only by sex, a less convenient option.

An hour later, Melanie eased into the other side of the booth, removing her parka and gloves, her face flushed from the cold. “Were you able to get to the camp yet?”

“Not yet. My machine needs a new plug. Don’t get your hopes up. Ben says there’s nothing much there.”

“But Jim did all his work at the cabin. Said he needed the quiet for concentration and inspiration. Perhaps there’s a map showing clusters of the old pines. Maybe that’s where he met or saw someone. You could look for clues,”

“Clues. Come on, Mel. Don’t be naïve. The only sensible possibility seems to be that he stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. He suspected drug drops, and you know how he felt about drugs. But to meet someone on the spur of the moment? And how would the killer make it look like an accident? Or get him to that lake? It wasn’t a landing spot like the ones he mentioned.”

“Talk to Franz about the planes. He told me he had seen the same thing, thought he had, anyway.”

“Why? Where does he live?” Belle asked.

“On an island near the marina on Wapiti. You must have passed it. Quite a log cabin complex, from what I’ve heard.”

Belle searched her memory. “There are a number of camps on islands, but I think I know the one you mean.” Then remembering Franz’s courtly solicitude at Halverson’s, she asked, “Are you two good friends?”

“Franz and I met when I took his physical anthropology course first semester. Of course all the girls were in love with him, but he was always correct and professional, and besides, you know how strict universities are with these sexual harassment cases. Anyway, a couple of people saw him out to dinner with one of the art teachers.”

Belle teased the girl. “He’s quite appealing. Reminds me of Christopher Plummer in The Sound of Music.”

Melanie laughed hesitantly, as the shift in topics relaxed her. “Come on, Belle. He’s not that old.” She seemed in the mood to talk, friendly, interested, an ideal nurturer with her pleasant manner and frank eye contact. “Jim mentioned that you were from Toronto, Belle. How did you happen to come north?” she asked.

Sudburians were always flattered that in defiance of the moonscape publicity, anyone would join their community. As their bumper stickers proclaimed, “Proud to be a Northerner,” they welcomed newcomers with a frontier sincerity. “I’ve been here for over twenty years, Melanie. My family lived in Toronto, but I spent every summer with my uncle at his camp on Lake Penage. After majoring in English, I went to Teachers’ College.”

Melanie looked surprised. “English? But you’re not a teacher now. What happened?”

“Ha. I respected literature too much to try to pound it into bonehead teenagers. This revelation came when I was practice teaching tenth graders. That’s a wicked age, let me tell you. Just as I read the line in ‘Kubla Khan’ about ‘Alph, the sacred river,’ the class broke up. Who would name a river ‘Alf’? The kids laughed so hard that the principal left his office and poked his head through the door. That day I hopped a bus for the North, where I’d wanted to live since I was a kid. Uncle Harold put me through a crash course at Nickel City College, offered me a partnership in his realty business and helped me establish a client base. Then he made sure I got my appraiser’s license. It’s a steadier income. Best of both worlds.”

“Sounds like a great guy.”

“Yes, I miss him. Made it to eighty on three packs of unfiltered Camels a day. Now I run the place myself with one other woman.”

“Jim told me about your house. You must be doing well on your own.”

Belle laughed. “If you saw my bank balance, you wouldn’t think so. And speaking of balances, I’ve got a mammoth account payable coming at the garage. Can you give me a lift?”

Melanie drove Belle to collect her van, which was thankfully ready to go, for a mere $200.00 to cover oil and filter and plug change and the extortionary tow from Bruno. “Coulda done it yourself, lady, and saved yerself big bucks,” the mechanic said.

“Oh, just chip the oil out of the pan at twenty below. With a blowtorch?”

Belle tooled out of the garage in a pique; her new gold card Visa bill would have to be sent parcel post. Tuning in the news, she was just in time for the obituaries. A thirty-oneyear-old had died when his Corvette had hit a rock cut on Highway 144 to Timmins, a deadly combination. She tugged her seat belt to double-check. A person spent the first four decades going to weddings and the next four going to funerals. And everyone wanted to die young as late as possible.

Brushing her teeth before retiring, she checked the mirror: the elder elf look, red peppery gray hair, but good skin and clear eyes. What was the use of make-up and fifty-dollar designer haircuts if you had to smash and smear them with toques, face masks and scarves? Living in a city was one thing; living in the bush was another; living in Sudbury fell somewhere in the middle, and maintaining a civilized veneer through a six-month winter of waterline-bursting temperatures or daily avalanches was a fool’s labour.

Belle climbed gingerly into her water bed and lined up five cigarettes and the latest Robert B. Parker. She tucked a cigarette into her Adolphe Menjou holder, a delicate filigreed gem from the MGM Studios Memorabilia Shop at Disney World in Orlando. Her father had bought it for her when they had made the rounds of the theme parks after her mother’s death. Had he been the oldest person to take the “Back to the Future” virtual reality ride? She could still remember taking his hand, cool and gnarly, as the Delorean rocketed them in dizzying speed toward the mouth of a tyrannosaurus. “Close your eyes,” she had said.