by Lou Allin
Belle looked around furtively. “I’m going to check the barn. You two keep an eye out.”
She slipped into the weathered frame building while Hélène and Ed talked outside. In the back, under tarps as Derek had discovered, was a steroid brigade of powerful gleaming new sleds. Suddenly a whistle caught Belle’s ear and she slipped out a back door, just as a lean man in work clothes, a heavy red-checked shirt and insulated vest came towards them from the lodge. He was carrying an ice auger. “Help you folks with something? Need to rent a machine? Come in from one of the huts?” He motioned to the ice village off the point half a mile and lit a cigarette as the collies nipping at his heels exchanged canine courtesies with Freya and Rusty.
He gazed with interest at Belle’s tracks alongside the barn. “You don’t want to be walking off the paths. There’s all sorts of machinery and old metal parts under the snow.”
Belle answered with a sheepish smile, though she felt her pulse throb against her neck. “I was looking for that big yellow birch. Carved my name on it when my uncle brought me up here as a kid. You must be Dan. I’m Belle Palmer, and this is Ed and Hélène DesRosiers.” The men shook hands.
“I couldn’t help admiring the job you’ve done with this place. Looks like a million,” Belle added.
He drew slowly on his cigarette, then flipped it into the snow and grinned broadly, the proud proprietor. “Well, not really. Needed some fixing up for a long time. You folks from around here?”
“We live down the lake. Out this morning to exercise the dogs. Saw you had some rentals and wanted to tell our friends in town. How do you like the Cats?” Ed asked, winking at Belle as Brooks turned away to cough.
The lodge owner waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, picked them up at auction down south. Nothing special. Good enough for the tourists, though, if you take my meaning. Don’t want to give them anything too new or fancy or it’ll be junk quick enough.”
“What do you charge?” grinned Ed.
He snorted. “Well, you know city folks. Sounds like a lot to them, seventy-five an hour. But five hunnert wouldn’t pay if they can’t handle ’em. How many times I’ve had to go carve those suckers outta the slush. Not supposed to go into the bush neither. Two Toronto fellas ridin’ double on the cheap broke down north of the lake last year. -25° that day. And they’s none of them had the sense ta carry even a match. Some old trapper saved their dumb hides. Make ’em take survival gear now, tarp, lighter, extra gas.”
Ed gave a hearty laugh. “Have to show them how to use it!”
Hélène had been checking her watch. She pulled on Ed’s jacket. “Come on. Someone has to get to town for groceries.” They left Brooks patting his dogs and casting an eye over his property.
While they rested at the half-way point, Belle pushed up her visor. “Somehow I don’t think he bought the story about the yellow birch,” she said.
“Maybe not, but you can bet he’ll get rid of those beauties you saw in the barn. Big business now. Star said yesterday there’s been over 230 stolen each of the last three years. Ship ’em off fast, though. Can’t ride a hot machine anywhere on the trail plan where there are wardens to check your permit. And a Mach Z’d stick out like a sore thumb,” Ed said, gunning his motor with his own digit.
That afternoon Belle called Mike Minor, the health inspector for the region, who stamped approval on every new septic bed. “Mike, I need some information about aerobic systems, like at the Beaverdam,” she said.
“Anaerobic, you mean,” he responded with a laugh. “What do you need to know?”
“How big a system would Brooks need with all those cabins? What would it cost, including backfill?”
“Pay attention now. I might ask questions later,” he replied. “I certified the whole shebang just before the winter. Must have struck it rich with the Super Seven lottery. Cost of the fill means nothing. Hauling it in by barge is the problem. ’Course, he has a Bobcat backhoe, so he does his own work. Still, you’re talking forty grand minimum with the ten cabins.”
“Where do you think he came by that money these days? Cashed in some insurance?”
“A lottery ticket’s his only insurance. I’ve had my eyes on violations ever since he took over from Pete and let the place go to hell. Nearly shut him down five times. Sharp-eyed boaters reported raw sewage was pouring into the lake one Labour Day weekend. An accident, of course. Nothing would surprise me about that fellow, but he’ll be as hard to catch as a century sturgeon. What are you getting at?”
“Not sure yet, Mike, but we’ll have a smasher when I get in a supply of Wild Turkey for you.”
Fresh with the information about Brooks, Belle tried calling Steve, but his answering machine took his place. She left a brief message, glad to avoid another lecture.
Come to think of it, Belle recalled, the lodge owner did look like a sturgeon, lean and mean and shrewd and primitive. Likely to bite off innocent toes dangling from a dock.
EIGHT
Belle slept late, squirrelled away under a goosedown duvet, having slapped off her radio wake-up station when it blasted out a song about Bubba shooting a jukebox. The warm undulations of the waterbed, so forgiving of bones and sinews and muscles, undermined good intentions about early rising. I spend too much time in bed, she decided, trying to rouse herself with thoughts of a postcard sunrise and the Toronto Stock Market quotes.
Out of luck on the first count at least, the warmer temperatures having painted a steel-blue sky, overcast with a threat of snow. What had happened to the greenhouse effect? It had been the coldest winter in 140 years, the paper said. The frost had reached an incredible eight feet into the ground; so many town water mains had ruptured that people were being asked to run one tap at a pencil width until the end of April! Steam jet outfits were making three hundred dollars a trip, blasting frozen septic lines. Belle thought ruefully of her perennials under their blanket of snow. Would she ever touch the bronze irises again, the Oriental lilies, the Jacob’s ladder, monkshood, peonies? Had she been crazy to plant a kiwi in Northern Ontario, though the forever optimistic spring catalogue had dubbed it hardy through Siberian zone 3?
She shivered as she inserted her feet into a pair of sheepskin-lined house slippers and put on her fleece robe. Downstairs, only a bed of coals remained in the stove. She went onto the deck and down the stairs to a wood supply under a tarp, bringing back two pieces of maple.
From the feeder tank in the basement, she collected six victims in a juice pitcher and bore them upstairs. First she tossed Big Mac a handful of chopped sole. His twenty inches of lithe gray muscle vacuumed the tank, gulping large frozen chunks with a piscine sang-froid. The “dickeybird” discus, soft blue and brown stripes and delicate mouths (tossed out of the piranha family for good behaviour) picked demurely at a few shreds. Then when Mac slowed down, Belle dumped some flakes and the live sacrifice. The goldfish, shocked by the warmer water, dropped to pant on the bottom, hiding confidently beside Mac’s battleship bulk, which they interpreted as cover. He merely opened his mouth and swallowed them along with a few small rocks, bits of scales spewing out along with the pebbles. What was keeping Hannibal? Finally the needlefish’s radar located a moving target. His tiny propellers fanning, he zeroed his torpedo body, long ball-tipped snout pointed at his prey. Then with a z-kink from the Permian programme in his old reptilian brain, he zapped forward, snatching the fish in the middle, working it gently to slide head first down his gullet. “Good for you,” Belle said with a maternal nod.
So much for finding any leads at the Beaverdam, Belle thought. Maybe a chat with the local coroner would be more fruitful. She paged through the phone book to find Dr. Patrick Monroe’s practice. A personal visit would tell more in body language than in words, not that she expected a doctor would take a phone call anyway. The Ontario Health Insurance Plan had delisted that luxury.
Downtown Sudbury hadn’t changed much in the years since Belle had arrived. Businesses had suffered in the boom-bust mining town, and mult
iplying suburban malls had dealt the downtown area a further blow. Why pay parking fees only to run a gauntlet of winos and annoying teenage panhandlers in their shiny Doc Martens? Even the icon Canadian Tire had moved to the south end. Aside from a theatre, the YMCA complex, a chain store or two and some established shops with a loyal clientele, only a new seniors’ apartment along with the city and provincial government building porkbarrels kept the core on artificial respiration. And not all the fancy brick sidewalks or tree plantings could revitalize it. The only good news lately was the rumour about a giant call centre taking over the old Eaton’s complex.
Parking at one of the meters, she dropped in a loonie, narrowing her eyes as a young man sidled up. He wore a heavy hydro parka and carried a worn plastic bag. A red toque covered his head, mashing his long hair well down his neck. Stubble covered his chin as he gave her a lopsided grin, exposing a dark tooth. “Spare a dollar-fifteen?”
A dollar-fifteen. That was a novel approach, she thought. “Sure, but that won’t buy a beer,” she said.
“Huh, I want a coffee, that’s all. It’s cold.” He blew out his breath for effect, and Belle retreated a step.
“Well, that sounds reasonable. Tell you what. I’m going down the street to pick up some heavy cartons at the bookstore. Give me a hand, and the money’s yours.”
He leaned against the meter, placing it under his arm like a crutch. “Ah, get away with you.”
“I’m serious. Do you want the job or not?”
“Get away with you,” he repeated in a cheerful tone that implied that he found her as much a character as he was and turned to consider the saner prospects leaving the bank teller machine down the street.
The Maley Building, circa 1922, tall for its time at five storeys and once a decent professional address, reeked of musty paper, cigar smoke and antiseptic as Belle walked down the dark hall to an old-fashioned frosted door which bore Monroe’s name, General Practitioner. In the tiny waiting room sat, or rather perched, a gigantic woman, shifting buttocks in polite discomfort, while she read from Max Haines’ Doctors Who Kill. She smiled a Rita MacNeil greeting, and Belle nodded back, looking in vain for a secretary. Shrugging, she picked up an ancient Newsweek with Reagan, the Great Communicator, on the cover. The world had turned over many spins since then, and his descent into Alzheimer’s was depressing for someone with an aging father, so she opted for a pamphlet on smoking. Maybe it was time to convert to the patch. Her arm itched already.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the flipping of pages and Rita’s laboured breathing. Finally, a young man in work clothes emerged from the inside office with a limp characteristic of industrial back injuries, lit up a cigarette and walked out whistling “Country Roads”. When the door opened again, an attractive man in his late fifties, silver hair carefully brushed, a pressed lab coat and Windsor knot in his red striped tie over a pale blue oxford shirt, announced, “Judith Ann Harrison.” Rita beamed and twiddled a goodbye.
By five o’clock, the office had cleared. “I don’t have an appointment, Doctor. My business is personal. Could you spare five minutes?” she asked at his puzzled stare.
“Medicine is always personal. If I can help you, my dear,” he eyed her appraisingly, “come into my office.”
Seated in the chair in front of his desk, Belle could see framed certificates on the wall attesting to his degrees. Golf trophies and tournament photographs lined the shelves behind him. There was a moment of silence while he looked at her expectantly. “I understand that you acted as the coroner in the Burian drowning,” she said abruptly.
He stiffened and shifted to a cold, official tone. “We don’t have a full-time coroner. I was on call that month. Is this a police matter? You didn’t show me any identification.”
Belle gave him a worried smile that spelled naïveté. “I’m a realtor, Doctor, not even a private investigator. But I was Jim Burian’s friend, and I was the one who found his body. I still see his face in my dreams. And that hand.” Her voice trembled and she looked at the floor, a human version of Rusty’s deferential belly presentation.
Monroe sat back in his chair, his voice mellowing sympathetically. “Well, now I understand. That must have been quite a shock. The hand protruding from the ice was unusual. Apparently a branch worked under the coat. Shallow lake full of deadwood, the officers said. Now, normally a body floats head down, bent over from the waist.” He passed her a box of tissues, which she accepted with a grateful nod. Then he flexed his hands, patrician fingers curving gently around a Mont Blanc pen. “As for what I found, there’s a copy of my report at the police department. These deaths are tragic but getting all too common with the popularity of snowmobiles. And 90 percent of the accidents occur to young men between 18 and 30. A dangerous cocktail of alcohol, drugs and hormones.”
“I knew Jim since he was a kid. And that rationale just doesn’t fit. Jim never drank when he drove, not car, snow machine or boat. Drugs would be out of the question. Most of all, he was cautious and experienced. Riding was second nature to him, never had even a minor accident.”
“Nonetheless . . .” He lowered his gaze in professional resignation.
“What can you tell me? It would be more helpful than reading the report since I could ask questions.”
He sighed but seemed flattered to display his expertise. “Drowned, of course. Water in the lungs clearly showed that. But even without that, it might have been what we call a dry drowning, especially with the shock of the cold.”
Belle leaned forward on her chair. “A dry drowning! You mean it wasn’t an accident?”
“No, my dear. I don’t mean that. A dry drowning is simply the term for what happens in a sudden laryngospasm. The esophagus shuts off, you see.” He made a coup de gorge gesture, shooting his gold cufflinks.
“Now I understand. Forgive my ignorance. Is this common?”
“Not really. Fewer than 15 percent of drownings. The autopsy would reveal no physical evidence, nothing more than a lack of water in the lungs. ‘Suffocation’ is a more exact term here, suffocation caused by shock.”
“Sounds grim.” She shuddered. “What else did you notice?”
He plumped up at the compliment and went to his files, returning with a manila folder. “You’re so persistent, Miss or is it Mrs. Palmer, that I might as well be exact.” He put on a pair of oval tortoise-shell reading glasses and selected a sheet. “Ummmm. Let me simplify the technical language. No sign of any contusions or bruising. No drugs or alcohol, as you tell me.”
“I guess it’s hard to determine the time of death.”
“I should say so. With the body preserved in such cold water, we have to weigh other factors. When had he last been seen? What were the temperature and conditions for refreezing the ice? The best guess is that he died within twelve hours of your finding him. The officers said that the lake had refrozen several inches. Swamp lakes with their vegetation and gasses are always warmer, always dangerous. Then again, if only he had been going slower or faster.”
“Yes, he might have stopped, or more speed might have carried him over. I’ve seen those silly summer runs over water, too. But Jim’s Ovation was so underpowered that he would never have counted on speed to get him out of trouble. I own the next size down, and believe me, it’s fine for plugging along, nothing more. He had no reason to be within miles of that lake. And even so, not even to try to struggle to safety? A strong young man like that?”
“There was a storm, I understand. A moment of confusion. A big price.” Monroe grew philosophic. “He was fifty feet from shore, wearing a heavy suit and full-face helmet, which evidently he was unable to remove. Shock hits like a hammer. In a matter of seconds the whole nervous system, breathing, everything, is nearly paralyzed. Maybe if he’d had one of those flotation suits . . .”
Belle gave him a sad nod. “Wish I could afford one.” She’d had personal experience with cold water shock thanks to a stupid experiment. One early May when a few shards of ice still drifte
d on Wapiti, she had climbed out onto the rock wall to break her record for first dip of the year. The water felt numbingly tolerable up to the knees, but when she dropped to her neck, her breathing failed. With a supreme effort of will against paralyzed lungs, Belle had crawled back to the rocks and collapsed, gasping with relief.
“And the stomach contents? They always ask that on TV.” Belle was warming to her role.
Composed as he was, this made Monroe smother a laugh, a smile teasing his handsome mouth. “You are so very scientific. His stomach was empty, which was odd since I did find shreds of fish and vegetables between his back teeth.” His voice grew pensive and she leaned forward. “It didn’t seem significant at the time. I thought that perhaps he had vomited. Perhaps he had been ill earlier, or the shock from the accident.” He drew circles on a notepad. “The flu, a fever, that might account for some disorientation, but after all, we don’t conduct autopsies searching for the common cold.” He sighed and consulted his watch, a splendid Rolex. “I expect one late patient. But I could meet you for a drink at the Camelback Road, say, if you have any other questions. They make a superb vodka martini.” He removed the glasses and leaned closer, raising an expressive eyebrow which reminded her of Francis X. Bushman in the original Ben Hur. Charming, knowledgeable and the slightest bit dangerous. Always more interesting than the nice ones.