by Lou Allin
“Jesus. I don’t have any idea. I got home and found her bleeding. Somebody had been in the yard. Maybe a break-in. Then I took the hills too fast.” She shivered in damp clothes in spite of the heater’s blasts. “I’m surprised to see you out. Doesn’t Shield ever cancel classes?”
“Wednesday is my big lab day in physical anthropology. I’m usually there from nine to six. When I saw the weather, I gave my last group a take-home assignment.” He paused. “I forgot to ask where you were taking her.”
“Petville on Garfield Road. Do you know it?”
“Shana, of course. She’s been treating my dog Blondi for years for a serious eye problem. Don’t worry, Belle. She’ll know what to do.”
The plows had just begun cleaning the main routes in town, so a few brave or foolish cars were already plying the slippery streets against radio advice. At the clinic, Shana answered the door in a sweat suit, dark circles under her eyes, and her raven hair, usually neatly arranged in a chignon, spilling over her face. Thin but incredibly strong for her fifty-five years, she touched Franz’s burden with a sympathetic murmur. “Took a bad hit, did you, girl? Hoist her up. But careful, careful,” she cautioned as she directed them to the examining room. “First I have to treat for shock.” She set up an IV quickly, rolling it into place, then reached for a muzzle. Belle tried to move it away. “For God’s sake, she wouldn’t hurt—”
Shana grabbed her arm firmly. “No, Belle. It’s just a precaution. You can see that she’s conscious, so I can’t inject pain killers until I rule out swelling of the brain. Freya might lash out in confusion, hurt herself or us.”
She slipped on the muzzle, and Freya’s eyes followed her, raising Belle’s hopes. “Now to debride the wound.” Shana flushed the injury with warm water, cut away the nearby hair, then dabbed on some peroxide. After taking the dog’s blood pressure, she flashed a light into Freya’s eyes and smiled broadly. All Belle could hear was the pounding of her own pulse as she waited for the vet’s opinion. “So far so good. You two wait in my suite and relax. Put the kettle on. I shouldn’t be long.”
An hour later, the x-ray indicated no broken bones, perhaps a slight concussion. “Lucky old hardhead. Just some bad bruises, maybe kicks. Of course we’ll keep her for a few days to make sure there’s no internal bleeding or other surprises. This mild sedative,” she explained as she gave the dog a shot, “should let her sleep for awhile.”
In Shana’s living area, mugs of strong tea, well-laced with honey, were passed around. “Drink it, Belle. You’ve had a shock, too. It’s herbal. Ginseng. I had a terrific sinus headache with the storm and went to bed early. Didn’t figure anyone would be in,” the vet said. Six cats of six colours and sizes prowled around, and a Jack Russell terrier showed interest in Franz’s crotch. Shana called the little fellow into her lap. “They’re not all mine. Just some patients who benefit more from being free in the house rather than in a cage. Frisco’s getting picked up tomorrow,” she added as she petted a miniature Doberman twining around her knees. “Love that short hair.”
“I’ll vacuum ten times a day to get Freya back,” Belle said, limp after the trauma. “I’m just glad you were here. When can she come home?”
“Give you a call,” Shana promised. “She’ll be running around depositing pounds of hair by tomorrow night. Oh, and Franz, how is Blondi? Is the Neocortif doing its job?”
“Seems to be. We keep her out of bright sun as much as possible, but the snow reflection is cruel. You know, I’m inventing a pair of dog sunglasses!”
“Now that’s an idea,” Shana responded with obvious interest. “Those Shepherds in avalanche rescue training need eye drops every two hours against the glare. Maybe you could patent your discovery.”
Franz dropped Belle off at Bruno’s Towing, where she was beginning to feel at home. Perhaps they were listed on the Toronto Stock Exchange; she might as well buy shares. “Sure you can make it alone? It’s stopped snowing, and they’ll get you out, but the road will still be bad. I could follow you back.” She gave him a thumbs-up sign, making a mental note to thank him with something more substantial. The driver, a friendly, red-faced man with a shredded cigar dangling from his lips and “Irv” painted on his door said, “Fasten your seat belt. We’re in for a bumpy night.” He didn’t look anything like Bette Davis. As they made their way out the road, plowed at last, Belle knew that the spot where she had bogged would join other sites of fabled blunders, pointed out to children as warnings against speed and carelessness.
How ignominious, she thought drowsily, to be cocooned in a perfectly gigantic truck that could haul anything out of anywhere. She was headed for a warm bath with a warm Scotch and warm food and Freya was fine and . . . She barely heard Irv attach a tow rope to the van at the swamp.
ELEVEN
Belle should have had enough sleep since she’d had fallen into bed directly after three whopping drinks and a can of tasty, never-fail Chef Boy-ar-Dee ravioli, her comfort food since the age of six. But when the phone rang, she answered with a tempered testiness.
“It’s Steve. I got your message. Against my better judgment, I trumped up some reasons to question Brooks. Seems he has an alibi, a poor one, but his wife and one of his sleazy friends will testify that he was home preparing his tax returns the night of Jim’s death. Feeble, but you can’t fight it.”
“Taxes, right. What a concept. Why don’t you take him in and grill him?” Belle rubbed at her eyes, gritty from sleep.
“You’ve been watching too many old movies. Anyway, we’ve had our eyes on him in our ongoing drug investigations, so leave him to us. Go sell some houses; I could use another lunch.”
“So he could have had a henchman.”
He snorted. “At least bring your crime slang up to speed. And in less than polite terms, Madame, butt out. Monroe’s autopsy showed nothing surprising. Jim got off the trail in the storm, went through the ice, and that’s all she wrote.”
“Now you’re talking country songs.” Belle snapped down her ace in the hole card. “What about my dog, then?”
“Freya? What about her?”
“Oh, no big deal. I just got home last night to find her whacked over the head. She’s at Shana’s. Should be all right.”
“You should have called me! Did you see anyone? What about the tracks? Was there a break-in?”
Belle nearly dropped the receiver. “I had to get to the vet! Sorry that I didn’t have time to check my entire acre with a magnifying glass after dark when I finally got home. And that was after I bottomed out in the swamp. No, Steve, nothing in the house was touched. I doubt that they even got in. As soon as they opened the door, out ran the dog and they clobbered her with a shovel. Looks like they heard the car and took off just before I turned down the driveway. I didn’t see them, so they probably came by snow machine. As for tracks, forget it with the new snow.”
His voice relaxed. “Hmmm. Sounds like a simple break and enter. It wouldn’t be the first time on your road. Dubois had two chain saws taken in February, and Landry lost his snowmobile last week. That’s the thirtieth one this month in the region. The insurance companies are crying.”
Keeping her probes about Brooks to herself, Belle hung up after agreeing to meet soon at a new Indian restaurant, the Bengali. It sounded a bit vegetarian, but anything magma hot was welcome.
Belle sliced a blueberry bagel and popped it into her beloved coolwall oversize toaster. With all the charitable largesse from Hélène’s breadmaker, English muffins and other large pastries, she needed an appliance that could toast anything. Bypassing Meg’s jam with a flash of guilt, she lathered on cream cheese and added a dot of marmalade, remembering her mother’s corny joke about a baby chicken talking about the orange that “marma laid.” The juicy blueberries reminded her of that four-week phenomenon, summer. How long before she and Freya would again revel in the hot sun, picking and eating those cobalt jewels? The dog loved to strip the branches, nose out the berries, cool and tart in the shade of pines
and birch, honey sweet and hot in the sun.
The sun through the windows was so bright, and the sky so achingly blue, the firs and cedars frozen in a picture of benign beauty, that she forgot how fierce the storm had been the night before. Time to clear all paths again, especially to the woodpile. Knowing that she would be working up a sweat, she threw on a medium weight jacket and went out to assemble an arsenal of shovels. If they knew anything about winter, Canadians knew its implements. First there was the broom for light attacks, especially on cars, then the snow scraper, good for the deck, several sizes of shovels for lifting deep snow, and the famous snow scoop, which floated massive chunks downhill. A growl, a scraping in the driveway and a few backfires sent her over to greet Ed. He leaned out of the cab of the plow truck, a 1957 Ford model with the bed rusted off and no windows. His dog sat beside him as supervisor, nosing a dab on the windshield. “Hi, pal. You must have come and fetched the truck last night,” she said, wondering if the presence of even a handicapped vehicle might have dissuaded the thieves.
“Yup, she needed an oil change and more anti-freeze, so I took her back to my garage when I heard the storm was on the way. Figgered we’d need the old gal in tip-top shape today.” He listened with interest as she told about the attempted break-in and the rescue. “Freya’s OK, though, eh?” he wanted to know. “I’ll have Hélène run you out some cabbage rolls. Look like you could use them. Oh, and you’ll have to show me where you got stuck in the swamp. Maybe I’ll put up a plaque.” With a wink, he turned the country station up to “deafen” and began his artful rearrangement of the snow in her large parking area.
As she dropped some dried shrimp into the tank for the discus, Belle’s heart skipped several beats with horror. The goldfish were still in the van, forgotten in the rush of the night. “My apologies, little friends,” she muttered as she retrieved the colourful chunk and set it to thaw in a soup plate. “It was you or me.”
Belle wasn’t surprised to find no telephone listing for Franz on the island. Would he be offended if she dropped off some thank-you gifts? Perhaps she could pretend that she was “driving by” anyway since his property overlooked the North River entrance to the trails. A trip to town took her to the newest chichi chocolaterie, Lady G, for a pound of butter-smooth hazelnut truffles, an experience which the clerk assured her left sex far behind, and, even at $30.00, was a better investment. At the liquor store, she added a bottle of an old favourite, German May wine with woodruff. Roses would be a classic European gift, but how could she carry them on the snowmobile?
Belle returned home to gas up the machine. The sliders could wait. Although Franz’s Jimmy navigated the ice road from the marina along with other trucks headed for the fishing hut villages, the van’s shallow clearance was not suited to deep slush. As she took the cover off her snowmobile and broomed away the drifted snow, she noticed a small piece of torn red checkered wool under the track. Brooks wore a shirt like that, but so did every other male in Northern Ontario and half of the females, including herself. DNA tests for dead skin flakes? OJ overdose. Steve would laugh in her face.
After tucking the shred into her pocket and stashing the gifts, she started across to the island, which jutted like an upturned egg from the lake bed. Belle was intrigued to be visiting Franz’s home. In the summer, training her binoculars on it while pickerel fishing at the North River, she had made out a paradise of pink and purple phlox dripping from rock gardens, while bronze or slender blue irises waved in the soft wind over silver mounds of artemisia. As she drew near, all was blanketed by snow. The main building, a two-storey log cabin, had three wings, melded so well it was hard to determine the history of the additions. Over the island loomed a large wind generator, its wings patiently humming.
She neared the docking area where the Jimmy was packed with garbage bags likely destined for the dump. Two tarped snowmobiles sat alongside. When a black and tan female shepherd trotted down the steps warily, Belle did a double-take at its Flash Gordon headgear. The animal gave warning barks but responded to a deep voice from the cabin door. “Blondi, hör auf mit dem Bellen! Das ist eine Freundin.” A wagging tail propelled the dog toward Belle, head low in deference while Franz came down the stairs to remove the dog’s strange headgear. Blondi’s eyes seemed full and dark, but Franz’s were sad and thoughtful as he rubbed the dog’s ears. “It’s Panus, an auto-immune disorder. She sees well enough to get around. Can’t be cured, but maybe slowed long enough so she can live out her life with normal activity.” He presented the glasses to Belle. “What do you think? I worked on these all fall. Sun hurts her desperately, though she lives to be outside.”
Squinting through the glasses and fingering the triple straps cleverly arranged to retrofit the apparatus to an animal, Belle said, “It works! So how come your side lost the war?” She stroked Blondi’s massive head, so much like Freya’s. “Dogs don’t need perfect vision. Smell and hearing are their greatest powers.”
“Are you on your way to the north trails? It’s good fortune to see you again so soon. You must come in.”
With a low bow, Belle offered her booty. “I come bearing gifts to my true knight of the road.” As she looked up, a shadow passed one of the windows.
Trying to suppress a shiver since he had left his coat behind, Franz acknowledged her tribute with a snap of his boot heels. “Knight? Ein Ritter! But of course, Fräulein. We have few visitors, but we haven’t forgotten our hospitality. I think Mother has a fresh apple strudel.”
As they climbed, Belle admired the sets of tiered stairs snaking upwards like an Escher perspective, glad that Franz had a firm grip on her arm. “The turns are more practical than you might think. Fewer stairs would be needed to go straight up, but the grade would be too steep. Still, it’s a task to keep them all clear,” he explained. Salt was forbidden because of the run-off to the flower beds and into the lake. Up close, the cabin complex which capped the rocky island blended early Canadian with classic Black Forest. Carved shutters decorated every window, empty flower boxes begged spring’s return, and cedar bird feeders on long poles poked through the snow, spilling brown seeds below, which attracted noisy chickadees tossing their food in delight. Opening the door, Franz called out loudly, “Mutti, we have a visitor.”
Inside, Heidi’s chalet had been reborn. Instead of drywall, tongue and groove boards lined the walls. And the woodwork continued in copious pine and oak cupboards, carved stairs with newel posts, and an ornate Victorian sideboard sprinkled with porcelain figures. Three doors led from the great room to bedrooms or a den, perhaps. Over an easy chair spread with what Belle’s Aunt Marian called an antimacassar, stood a large and unfamiliar tree. “How unusual, Franz. What is it?” she asked, touching its tender leaves with care.
“From the homeland. A linden, dwarfed to keep inside, safe from your Canadian winters. A German version of bonsai. You have heard of our famous street, Unter den Linden?”
“I’ve seen it in pictures.” Belle admired the delicate hues of a table of violets, artfully arranged to graduate from white to pink to dark purple. “And what heavy blooms in the middle of winter. Your mother must have a true green thumb. Violets are too tricky for me. My pathetic plants either dry up or rot.”
A spicy smell of baking met Belle’s nose as a Dresden statue of a woman glided in, blonde hair turned to silver. In her youth, perhaps, the Teutonic ideal of Leni Riefenstahl’s films, a terribly innocent beauty. There was a paleness to her skin, a translucency which suggested vulnerability under strength.
The woman extended her hand and held Belle’s warmly, as if welcoming feminine contact. Her gentle, reassuring voice made Belle instantly regret the tactless stereotype. “A visitor. We are honoured. Please call me Marta.” She smoothed the creases of a spotless dirndl apron, and a small, dry cough punctuated her conversation.
“This is Belle Palmer, Mutti, from the other side of our lake. I told you about the attack on her dog.”
Marta shook her head and gestured toward the wall
at several black and white pictures of German shepherds. “We love our dogs as our family. I was so glad that Franz could help you.” As she spoke, her light accent gave a rich European charm to the room.
“Look what Belle has brought us,” Franz said, unwrapping the gifts.
Marta clapped her hands in a gesture touching in its total spontaneity. “Schokolade und Wein. Danke.” She examined the bottle. “Woodruff. A delicate white flower. I have tried to grow it in my herb garden.”
Belle said, “I have a chive patch which thrives on neglect. That’s it. What are your specialties?”
“Natural medicines are my hobby,” she explained, a glow brightening her face. “You have probably seen the bitters, the essences at the health food store. My mother taught me the healing properties of common plants, but she taught me even better the deadly properties. Pokeweed, for example, the tender fresh shoots in the spring have a tonic effect, but any leaf, root or berry from older growth can cause death. Our ancestors learned to be very careful.”
Belle waved her arm at the violets. “And your flowers are so cheerful in the winter. I thought of bringing roses, but I didn’t think they’d weather the trip.”
“The roses are my greatest challenge. Of them all, it is the Maria Stern variety that pleases me the most. Her colour is like a ripe peach. And very hardy in winter. Sadly, some of the most lovely varieties I knew in the old country will not thrive.” For a moment her eyes glistened. “But you must have some coffee and strudel. Franz, bitte, hilf mir.”