Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  “Any clues on the attack? Tracks, perhaps?”

  “Not a chance in the snow. Just a fumbled burglary. We’ve had enough of them on the road. Or . . .” She drew out the last word like a long pull of toffee.

  “Well?”

  “Or maybe I’ve been asking too many bothersome questions about the drug traffic. I did go out to Brooks’ place, the Beaverdam, and looked around in a half-baked fashion. I’m sure he noticed that I was snooping.”

  “After you mentioned drugs, I made some connections.” He picked up a pile of student papers. “It’s everywhere. Look here.” He passed her a handwritten essay.

  Belle squinted as she read and gave a derisory whistle. “My God, it’s totally incoherent and all over the page, too. Did the writer get a bad mushroom? Surely you don’t have to put up with this?”

  “The university has to be very careful, Belle. I don’t dare accuse the student of taking drugs. Unless he causes a row in class, he’s not considered a problem.” He paused at her expression. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Most of our students wouldn’t touch the stuff. Then again, last Christmas two freshmen were arrested bringing back cocaine from the islands. Donkeys, are they called?” His eyebrows rose cautiously over the sense of his usage.

  Belle laughed. “Don’t talk the talk, my man. It’s mules you mean.”

  He looked embarrassed, then coughed. “Yes, well, they seem like asses to me, if you’ll pardon the pun. Poor fools were promised a free trip and a few thousand dollars to hide the bags inside a jar of cored pineapple. Pretty stupid, eh?”

  Belle couldn’t help grinning. “Would have made an unbelievable upside down cake. But to trade stories, what about the three guys who swallowed condoms of coke before boarding a plane from Acapulco to Toronto. Forgot their Boy Scout knot lessons, because they all collapsed at takeoff.”

  He flicked his hand over a bust of Shakespeare. “Classical poetic justice, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You mean like ‘hoist with your own petard’? My favourite kind of story. The biter bit and all that.”

  “Shakespeare is so popular in Germany that we would claim him as our own if we could.”

  A knock at the door introduced a huge native man with thick braids down his back. He wore a heavy hand-knit wool sweater under his parka and untied construction boots like many students. “Nearly ready, Franz?” he asked, glancing over at Belle with a shy smile.

  “Come and meet Belle Palmer. She lives on Wapiti and knows the park area well.” The man’s large hand wrapped around Belle’s like a warm heating pad. “William Redwing. He teaches Ojibwa in our new First Nations Studies Program. In the summer he takes groups low impact camping.”

  William’s eyes crinkled. “My people have been doing it for thousands of years without leaving any footprints. How much more low impact can you go?”

  “It just makes me sick to see what people leave around at campsites. Styrofoam plates and broken beer bottles,” Belle said. “And how can archaeological sites be protected?”

  “Exactly. That is our fear. We have verified that a burial ground dating from the mid-eighteenth century lies within the boundaries. Will somebody dig it up as an exhibit? Why not display Sir John A. Macdonald or René Lévesque? These artifacts record our history. Look at this beauty,” he added as he lifted a dark gray rock from Franz’s shelf.

  “A tool?” asked Belle. The object was about eight inches long, sloped and chipped at one end.

  “Hand axe is our guess,” William explained. “Somewhere around 1500 A.D. Franz and I found it on the North River, just below the small falls. Under the pines the ground is as soft as a cushion.”

  “I know that spot well,” Belle said, closing her eyes in reflection. “The flat outcrop comes down to the water for bathing, and the blueberries make great cobbler if you have bannock mix.”

  “A good campsite, a good tool, they don’t change over the centuries,” William added, turning the rock slowly. “Such a practical feel. See how it fits the thumb perfectly? Could have been used for skinning.”

  “I’m really worried about the pictographs at the narrows. They’re fading with each year,” Belle continued.

  “It’s sad, but little can protect that fragile art short of erecting a dome to prevent weather damage like with the Peterborough petroglyphs. If you want to see an unspoiled site, Belle, go to Elliot Lake,” William said. “Now that the mines have closed, there is water access to a very holy place, an overhang on Quirke Lake. The elders took the young warriors there on their way berry-hunting and left them on the ledge for their dream time. Several days later the elders returned with their fruit to hear the stories, see the pictures and welcome the new men into the tribe.”

  Belle admired a birchbark box on Franz’s shelf, its intricate pattern woven with porcupine quills. “What meticulous quillwork. I’ve often been tempted to buy smaller pieces at the craft stores north of the Sault. Out of my price range, unfortunately.”

  “I can tell you that the labour is considerable, and what tiny portion goes to the artist is a moot point,” William said. “As children, my sister and I were in charge of finding quills. ‘Road kill!’ she’d yell, and off we would run. Then my grandmother sipped tea under a kerosene lamp until dawn sorting the quills into sizes and colours. Some birch baskets can boil water.” His confident expression challenged her.

  “Now you’re kidding. That’s impossible,” Belle said.

  William explained the careful seaming, the folds and fastening to prevent leaks. “Suspend the pot over smouldering coals, and allow no contact with a flame. Be patient, and tea can be brewed.”

  Belle cocked her head at Franz, who agreed. “But it’s scientific, Belle. The water cools the bark from inside. And remember that water boils at 100° C, about half the ignition temperature for paper.”

  At the noon chime, Franz picked up his papers and put his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Let me get a few people down the hall. William, you collect the troops. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Last minute details. Make yourself at home, Belle.”

  She dropped her pile of reviews onto the desk and plopped into an old oak armchair, vintage university. Shelves of books lined the walls, mainly anthropological. Indians of Early Ontario, North American Aboriginals, Man Corn: Cannibalism and Violence in the Prehistoric American Southwest. Franz had chosen the right specialty at the right time. New government money was flowing to Native Studies programs: law, social work, history and mythology. A dusty 286 computer sat on a smaller desk, complete with a cheap dot matrix printer. Lucky man if he had free Internet access, she thought. Blondi’s colour photo had a place of honour, her younger eyes clear and deep. Otherwise all was typical professorial clutter and piles of student efforts.

  When Franz returned, she grabbed her papers. On the way to the rally, they detoured to Belle’s van to deposit her things. Several hundred people were gathered in front of the university. Young and old, miners and doctors, waitresses and bookkeepers, and students and teachers joined hands to preserve the wilderness for different reasons: clean water, quiet, respect for wildlife or the priceless value of history. A few nervous campus police stood around, passing an occasional remark to each other and cultivating serious expressions. Signs read “Save the Big Trees”, “New Park. Not!”, “Keep Wapiti Free” and in front of a group quietly drumming, “Sacred Trust: the Pictographs”. The smell of burning sweetgrass brought summer to the air. Melanie waved and hoisted her placard: “Trees Not Tourists”.

  “Take one, Belle. We have plenty.”

  The earnest spectacle reminded Belle of her University of Toronto days, when students had taken umbrage that an anti-Vietnamese war speaker had not been allowed on campus. Back then, the students had spent twenty-four hours sitting in at the Administration Building, quietly studying and sharing tuna sandwiches. She recalled her ancient professor of economics growling as he tapped past on his Malacca cane, “Terrible. Very, very American. You should be ashamed.” But there had been n
o tear gas, no murder like at Kent State.

  “Should have made my own placard, I guess. Something about cutting down the last tree and putting it in a tree museum,” Belle commented to Melanie, who looked confused. “Joni Mitchell. A bit too early for you,” Belle added.

  “Sure, I know Joni. My mother has her albums,” the girl replied spritely. Suddenly Belle felt as ancient as the venerable trees they were protecting.

  Franz lifted a bull horn and gestured for quiet. “If you don’t know me, my name is Franz Schilling. I’m a professor at Shield, and I’d like to thank you on behalf of the Stop the Park committee for coming to support this watershed issue for the Sudbury area.” A cheer went up. “As you know, the decision will be made this month on whether to open a new provincial park on the north side of Lake Wapiti, near fragile pictographs, sacred graveyards and the last refuge for wildlife like the lynx and the peregrine falcon. But the developers wait at the gates, imagining rich profits: lodges, motels, restaurants, condos. Will our heritage be turned into a theme park?” Boos erupted, which he stopped with his hand. “I admit that jobs will come with the tourists. But at what terrible price? Look at the dunes area at the Pinery Provincial Park near Sarnia. An entire ecosystem of beach areas with precious plant life is under constant threat from campers. And east of Superior at Pukasawa Park, rare arctic plant life, Northern Twayblade and Franklin’s Ladyslipper, have nearly disappeared and the sacred rock pits, four hundred years old, have been levelled. Our precious Killarney, that emerald necklace of lakes, cannot support fish. You need a number to canoe the system, and the tourists and cottagers from Southern Ontario are pushing sanitary facilities to the limits. Now is our last opportunity to convince the Ministry of their terrible lack of foresight.” People began clapping. The First Nations drummers started up like a faithful heartbeat.

  Franz looked at Melanie as he put away his notes. “There’s someone else we need to do this for, someone who can’t be here today but stands with us in spirit.” He lowered his voice before the stillness of the crowd. “Jim Burian was documenting risks to the trees north of the lake. He was a forestry student at Shield before his tragic accident a few weeks ago. So let’s say a silent prayer and dedicate our march to him.” He paused and people bowed their heads while even the drums stopped and left an eloquent silence over the scene. Belle felt a lump rise to her throat and pulled her parka tight around her neck.

  Then Franz raised his hands and gestured to his left. “Del here has the petition, if you haven’t signed it already.” A tall woman in a bright pink snowmobile suit waved a sheaf of computer paper. “Follow us to the Ministry downtown where we’ll present it, along with our final report, to Ann Dawes, who has kindly come up from Queen’s Park. Remember to keep to the sidewalks and obey the traffic signals. We have promised that there will be no trouble. We’re environmentalists, not rioters.”

  A voice rang out. “Not if the park opens, Dr. Schilling.”

  He shook his head. “A wise government must listen to reason. Let’s go, people!”

  With a single energy, the crowd flowed away from the university and down onto Ramsey Lake Road. Cars gave cheery toots and drivers waved. Strikes were common in the union town, and the “them against us” philosophy hit a familiar chord. Right on Paris Street and on downtown they marched, singing, “This land is your land, this land is my land, from Bonavista to Vancouver Island.” An hour later, as the crowd regathered in the handsome courtyard of the provincial buildings, Franz presented the petition. Melanie’s eyes were bright and wet. “I wish Jim could have been here.”

  “So do I, Mel. But I think we did him proud today,” Belle said, putting her arm around the girl.

  After a rather wary Ms. Dawes had accepted the petition and backed quietly into the government building as if not daring to turn, people began to disperse. A few pickup trucks ferried groups of five or six to the university, with the police ignoring the obvious seat belt violations. Belle found Franz to congratulate him.

  “I think it went well, too. Thank God there weren’t any incidents. We don’t need any bad publicity at this point,” he said. “Of course it will be a few months before the final decision. The wait won’t be easy. Thanks for marching with us, Belle.”

  Belle tapped Franz’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about the park and about Jim’s contribution. Really, I don’t know where else to go with this. Is there any possibility, is there any reason that his reports might have earned him some enemies, people who stood to make money on the development he was trying to stop?”

  Franz gave her a politely sceptical look. “Well, I’m not minimizing his documentation, or anybody else’s. It was all integral, Jim’s trees, William’s sites, the whole ecosystem, not to mention the overriding threat to water quality. One is not more important than the other, but together we hoped that these factors would make a powerful argument. I wish it were a thread to follow, Belle, but I think not.” He waved over a small van for them.

  Belle said goodbye to Melanie at the university parking lot. On the short drive to the Petville clinic, the radio warned people that the smaller lakes and rivers were thawing. Another snowmobile driver had gone down on a tributary of Lake Penage. On the happier side, the rally had inspired a phone-in poll that showed 65 percent of listeners disagreed with plans for the new park. Radio polls might not have much influence, but public support should help their cause.

  At Shana’s, Freya was pacing behind the counter, nails ticking on the linoleum, and she barked excitedly as Belle caught her eye. She galloped through the waiting room, galvanizing the clients and their tinier charges. Shana was panting as heavily as the dog. “Am I glad you’re here. She’s driving me nuts! Every sound HAS to be your car.”

  “Thanks, Shana. What do I owe you?”

  Her friend sighed, but business was business, no professional courtesy between realtors and vets. “Oh, with the X-rays, that’s the expensive part, let’s say an even hundred.”

  Considering the days of boarding and the tests, it was a shameless undercharge. “You won’t retire in New Mexico that way, Shana, but you have our thanks,” Belle said and flipped her thinning VISA card onto the counter, first holding it up to the light. Was it becoming transparent?

  Shana had another thought as she passed over the receipt. “Before I forget, her stools are a bit hard. Age gets to us all. I suggest a tablespoon of Metamucil each day with a tablespoon of canola oil.”

  Belle gave her an incredulous look, and they both burst out laughing. The dog flounced out of the room after Belle and stood nose to the van door, taking no chances. This was the way home, and she was not going to be left behind; on camping trips, she often climbed into the canoe even on dry land. Freya planted a few nose prints on the glass before curling up on a rug in the back. Having forgotten to plan dinner, Belle bought a pizza (Chicago style, wow!), a jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a woody tomato from Israel, wondering if it were better to have peace and blizzards or meaty tomatoes and car bombs.

  At home she stuffed herself while the Nostalgia Channel pumped out Mata Hari, a masterful propaganda vehicle featuring Garbo as the legendary World War One spy Gertrude Zelle. Lionel Barrymore strutted as the manly Shubin against the effete but more effective posings of Ramon Novarro. Hadn’t Ramon been found dead in auto-erotic strangulation? Many critics accused Garbo of sleepwalking through a familiar role, yet her farewell to the blind Novarro before going in quiet dignity to her execution had the timbre of a Casals cello concerto.

  THIRTEEN

  Just as well I didn’t visit Jim’s camp immediately, Belle thought as she looked out at the thermometer; I know what the Burians meant about not being able to face his belongings again. Now, with some mental distance, maybe I can handle it. The temperature was a fair -17°, about zero F and better yet, the wind was down. For once, Freya didn’t pester her. The dog was so overjoyed to be home that she parked herself contentedly in her easy chair, oblivious for once to the snowmobile preparations. Trips to
the vet seemed to traumatize shepherds, such territorial homebodies. “Who hurt you? If only you could talk, old girl,” she said, rubbing the characteristic nose bump that made the breed look extra fierce when their lips curled in a snarl. A mumble, then a grumble came from the chair, and the dog tucked her nose under her tail, closing her eyes. Belle laughed. “Sure, talk a language I can understand. I could use a clue, you know.”

  Several groups of machines streamed by as she stepped onto the cedar deck, bearing a cup of seed for the bird feeder. The familiar four-part whistle piercing the woods signalled that the sparrows had returned, but the robber baron squirrels loved to lift the roof on the little cedar house and spoon into dinner. Belle scanned the ice. Fewer huts each week; the season would soon end with the thaw awaited by fish-bellywhite Sudburians dusting off their BBQs and dieting to squeeze into their shorts. The beginning of April was about the limit for ice fishing, even on the large lake.

  Ben’s quarter section topo map pinpointed the cabin’s location near Larder Lake, about ten miles from the Burian Lodge. As she passed the remains of the first village, Belle swore softly at the garbage, pink fibreglass insulation, wood scraps, metal pieces and the occasional broken window. Why couldn’t the huts be licensed and monitored as on Lakes Nipissing and Simcoe? People made a bathroom and a dump out of her drinking water. The DesRosiers were back out in lawn chairs to catch the last weeks of fishing. “How’s it going?” Belle asked, pulling up. As tanned as if she had spent a month on the sands of Montego Bay, Hélène passed her a hunk of herb bread mounded with cream cheese.

  “Some good. I had three fine trout this morning,” the woman answered with a sly grin, opening a cardboard box to show her prize. Ed kept quiet until his wife gave him an elbow. “Old man too lazy to jig the bait. He just leaves it in and loafs.”

  Belle licked the crumbs from her fingers and made a remark about male and female attitudes toward a more intimate activity before driving off in good humour. It might take a good hour to reach Larder Lake. How rich in land Canadians were, she thought as she covered the miles without seeing another person. Crown property held many small cabins like Jim’s scattered over unlimited territory. For a small lease and minimal taxes, anybody could have a place to hang a toque if he didn’t mind the inaccessibility and lack of hydro. She cleared Wapiti, slipped up the Dunes to the trails, eying Schilling’s island on the way. Now it seemed so familiar. Smoke rose cheerfully from the stone fireplace as it likely had for nearly two hundred years. Was Marta popping another tempting strudel into the oven?