by Lou Allin
Happy to be free, Freya chased a tennis ball around the parking area, dropping it into the snowbank at intervals and pawing it out in self-amusement. Meanwhile, her shoulders to the wind, Belle flung handfuls of grit from her bucket onto the icy drive.
A Thai dinner went into the microwave. Not bad for four dollars, but lemongrass mated evilly with chilies, reminiscent of bath powder. The oaky tang of Australian semillon helped cut the edge. Until just a few years ago, steak, pasta or Chinese had dominated the local culinary scene, but recently gourmet coffee, goat cheese and radicchio had made an appearance, and the largest supermarket, a giant which provided maps and carts the size of Alberta, had even installed an olive bar with eight varieties plus artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes.
Freya got four cups of “Mature Dog” Purina, high in fibre. “I must be cruel, only to be kind,” Belle whispered as the last cup dinged into the bowl. “You know you lard it on over the winter, and I don’t want to be responsible for hip dysplasia.” The dog seemed to be counting, patiently expecting the usual five. Only when Belle turned did she grudgingly bury her nose in the bowl.
Belle took her decaf to the computer room. On the classic film forum, Dietrich’s daughter’s biography was raising hackles, her graphic descriptions of the old woman’s final deterioration condemned as “ghoulish.” Someone else wondered what had ever happened to Zasu Pitts and was surprised to find that the silent star had enjoyed a television career in My Little Margie, her zany lopsided grin ever marketable. One of these days I really should stop lurking, Belle said to herself, and get involved in this so-called information highway.
Mutual funds had the next round of home pages. As a recent ruthless capitalist in charge of her father’s mutual funds, Belle combed the financial quotations, urging the TSE to retake its position above the DOW. “Try our International Money Market Fund,” a local funds manager in a wheelchair, the very soul of trustworthiness, had advised, shoving a colourful brochure across the desk.
“At 3 percent this year? Sounds like a loser. Why should I invest in this?”
He had beamed and puffed on an imaginary cigar like a tycoon. “As a hedge, what else? Diversify. The Danish krone has appreciated by 29 percent this year.” Was he really licking his lips? “You see, if the dollar drops big-time, you’ll make plenty! An ill wind that doesn’t blow some good and all that.” That had been the last straw, to invest in the financial collapse of the country. The bank probably had a fund that would rocket only if Quebec separated, or British Columbia joined the U.S.
Slipping a tape into the VCR, Belle kicked back in the blue velvet recliner with a glass of Rebel Yell, bought at discount at the liquor store. That intriguing corn tang of a sunny Tennessee hayfield might someday burrow into the hearts of the rye lovers, but it was an acquired taste. Susan Lenox, Her Fall and Rise came on with a clean-shaven Gable as an engineer and Garbo on the run from a leering Alan Hale. How could anyone communicate so well using just the clavicles?
As she switched off the lights in the television room, a gentle hooting of barred owls greeted her from the backyard. She had heard their calls her first spring night in the house and had named the property after them, as a varnished sign at the driveway proclaimed: The Parliament of Owls. They returned in March to lay their eggs, risking sudden spring storms that could freeze them on their nests. Nature’s amorality cut deep for animals as well as people.
FIVE
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, a
nd 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.