Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  Back onto Marion, the last lake. Three miles until the final portage to Wapiti. Her vision blurring from tears, the white and green and black of the scenery jerked along like a silent film. Half-way across she stopped to clear her faceshield and glanced around, confused by a profound silence. Franz was fewer than one hundred yards back, braced against his machine, taking careful aim with the rifle. Even if he missed her, he had the rest of the lake to catch up. And with his speed, he would close in, until even the pistol would suffice. Belle aimed for a wet spot, throwing spray up on both sides, her only protection from the powerful sight of the rifle. Then she heard a shot. But was it a shot? So muffled, thundering in all directions. And with the curious geographical acoustics, it echoed again and again as the hills replayed the ugly sound. Belle kept ducking in reflex, amazed to feel no pain, to see no fabric and blood and bone tear away. Then she charged up the trail, spurred by the line from Now, Voyager. “Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.”

  The blessed sight of the Dunes set Belle cheering until she fogged the facemask and tossed it onto the ice. In one long heartbeat she sailed onto Wapiti, waving off the flying sand, huddling behind the windscreen to prevent frostbite on her exposed face. When she had ridden the remaining few miles to the familiar escarpment near her camp, she peered back cautiously. No one followed.

  Blasting through the door, she ran through the house to bury her face in Freya’s smelly ruff. “So you are still sulking and didn’t even give me a welcome. This time I don’t care.” With the dog following her around sniffing both Blondi and jerky, Belle grabbed her single-barrelled shotgun from the hall closet and loaded it for bear, or something more dangerous. Only then did she call for help.

  Her binoculars, trained on the lake while she waited, revealed no riders. Steve drove into the yard with Al Morantz, and soon after, an O.P.P. helicopter landed in the yard and took them to Marion Lake in minutes. With its wap-wap-wapping drowning her words, she struggled to describe what had happened. Far below a tiny figure stretched like a broken marionette, the ice sprinkled with pink. With an eye to safety, the nervous pilot set down on a level, sun-drenched blueberry field, the scraggy shrubs poking through the snow.

  They plowed behind Al through the slush at the edge of the lake to reach the body. Steve spoke quietly. “I never met the guy, but murder didn’t seem his style. I mean, a professor? And where were the connections? The accident was textbook, and the drugs angle had us running in other directions.”

  Morantz moved closer and stooped down; for a moment Belle wondered if he were going to turn Franz over. She hoped not. “That barrel you plugged really did a number on him. I’d say a piece of metal cut the main artery. Wonder that he has any blood left. Fast way to go. Couple of minutes, max,” he said, scribbling a few notes.

  “Stop. Please don’t go on.” Belle turned from the scene to study the puffy cumulus clouds moving across the sun, sending shadows onto the lake. Mel was right. Everyone could use a protective aura now and then. “What’s happened to our medical system when someone commits murder to assure his sister of treatment?”

  Steve looked at her in disbelief. “What kind of a crazy spin are you putting on this? It was more than that. He hated Jim, killed him for the feeblest of reasons. And let’s not start analyzing his relationship with his sister.”

  Belle flexed her wrist, shivering as she sipped a cup of coffee from his thermos. “You’re right. And I hate him for taking my friend. It was just so clear that he loved Eva with a passion that nobody could understand.”

  Steve shot her a sceptical look. “So much the better for that. Say, you don’t think the old woman helped, do you?”

  Who would tell Marta about her son, knock on the door of that fairy tale world on the magic island, illusion though it might have been? For such a short time, Belle had enjoyed it too. “One glance will tell you about her bad heart. Franz wouldn’t have risked using her . . . or telling her. He didn’t need to. Time and chance put him together with Jim the night of the storm.”

  Like Marley’s ghost dressed by Alec Tilley, Dr. Monroe arrived in the next helicopter with two stretcher bearers trotting at his heels. He seemed perturbed that he hadn’t brought boots and was soaking his Mephistos. “Of all people, Miss Palmer,” he announced as he set down his bag and touched a well-manicured finger to his lips. “How curious to find you involved in another death on the ice.”

  “I’m thinking of writing a book,” she said pleasantly. Then she touched Steve’s arm. “We have to get Blondi.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  To the relief of all shovellers and scrapers and frostbitten faces, May trailed forth its leafy lacework at last. Marta had sold the island to a rich Torontonian who owned a chain of video stores and wanted a rustic and private retreat; her plans were to live in an apartment in Kingston to be nearer to Eva until the girl could leave the hospital. News of Franz’s death had slowed her recovery. They might join an uncle with a small farm in the Annapolis Valley. Belle would always remember the grace and dignity in those lost, sweet moments over strudel and coffee.

  Relating these details, Steve lolled on the deck in a dusty lawn chair dragged from the boathouse-cum-garage. He had refused a beer and was nursing a coffee. “Call me a bad Canadian, but I can’t drink beer until July. Anyway, steam keeps the bugs away.” With a benign smile, he urged a blackfly out of his mug. “They pollinate the blueberries.” Belle scratched suspiciously at her arm while he continued. “The department flew me to New York to confirm Franz’s story. I’ve never seen a girl like Eva. Innocence headed for tragedy. Time has stood still for her. She seemed to understand what had happened, even asked questions about whether her brother had suffered, and of course, about Blondi.”

  “I don’t know how she can reconcile with her mother. They’re saint and sinner in each other’s eyes. Yet who else do they have? Franz was so gifted, so courtly. A prince in another time and place,” Belle mused sadly. “If Eva had been stronger, if the blizzard hadn’t delivered Jim to that cabin while Franz was away . . .”

  “A prince of darkness perhaps. Would you stop defending the man? Don’t act like he was forced to kill. Who knows what Jim made of the gold drop anyway? Probably nothing. That was all self-serving speculation. The good professor intended to dump you down a mine shaft!”

  “Yes, and I saw his beast, Steve, all our beasts. The banality of evil. More tired and desperate than cunning. Driven by doing what he thought best for his sister. And when that was threatened—”

  “Spoken by a woman saved by a hunk of dried meat.”

  She had to laugh. “If you taste it sometime, you’ll know why it worked. But give Blondi credit.” He nodded in approval, and she added, “Something told Blondi that Franz was wrong to order her against me. A good dog resists evil. And maybe she can help her owners find a new life.”

  They watched in companionable silence as two merganser ducks flapped across the waterfront in a mating ritual. “They nest somewhere along my shore, maybe in those heavy firs. I think it’s the same pair every year, but who knows? Anyway, speaking of nests, how’s your chick? Any improvement on the fathering scene?”

  With undisguised delight, Steve rummaged in his Sudbury Wolves jacket for a fat pack of pictures. “Got a few hours?” The snaps covered all the parental bases: daughter waving a piece of toast, bouncing a ball, even splashing in a bubble bath. “Know what? That stupid jerk at the photo store gave me a funny look about that last one. Kiddie porn. It’s getting ridiculous.” In a final picture he actually held Heather, her face a curious mixture of strangeness and resignation.

  “This the shot just before she burst out in tears?” Belle asked.

  “Not quite. But I did what you said with Janet, that PDA.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “What kind of a permissive high school did you go to? Public display of affection. Hand-holding, arm around her shoulders, little kiss now and then. Kid watched me like a baby hawk, but for sure she seems to trus
t me more. Pictures don’t lie.”

  “Hey, I had a thought. Would Heather like to meet my dog? Could be an icebreaker. They use pets at the nursing home to coax residents out of their shells. I’ll bring her over some night and babysit so you can see a show or go to dinner.” He beamed, clearly elated at the prospect of a private evening with his wife. Belle went inside to fetch a couple of carrot muffins spread with butter and Meg’s gooseberry jam. “I know this is going to be good, and I’ve waited too long.”

  Later that afternoon, Belle found Freya snoozing on the floor of the computer room. “Too chubby to squeeze into your chair, old girl?” she snorted. “Aren’t we all. ‘Menopause Manor’ my sign out front should read. Except that I didn’t give you a chance to have one. Maybe the vet can make arrangements for me. Let’s do some chores. Get the old blood boiling before the buggies drain it off.”

  A week of spectacular Florida weather (23° C!) had melted the snow in all but the deepest woods. Belle had ferried Hannibal and Big Mac in a giant canning pot to their new home at Science North where a two-hundred gallon tank and plenty of admirers awaited them.

  Meanwhile, Sudburians were dancing in the streets, or the equivalent, packing up kids and gear for Victoria Day at the cottage. The sodden ground, festooned with smut and dead leaves, looked as exhausted as everyone else. Time to scratch its back with a rake, her least favourite activity. From far above came familiar squawks. Belle shielded her eyes to scan the sky, watching a tiny vee move closer, keeping time with its vocal metronome. The geese were back, maybe fifty birds aiming due north across Wapiti to their breeding grounds on Hudson Bay.

  Freya dashed hopefully but without success after a squirrel, which had the gall to dart up a cedar and scold mercilessly. The triangular flower garden, many weeks’ labour in cutting railroad ties with a chain saw and driving in spikes with a fifteen-pound mallet, waited for her approval of a small shoot in the fresh earth. A bleeding heart? She gave it a gentle tweak. Something was alive! The expensive fringy parrot tulip and double daffodil bulbs she had planted in October? Or was this the narcissus? A garden diary might be just the ticket for the amnesia of a seven-month winter. Maybe even a wildflower diary like Jim’s. Tomorrow Belle would take the dog to the swollen stream down the road to see if she could spot a marsh marigold.

  Belle relaxed on the deck, trying to remember where she had left her bug dope. She opened the Sudbury Star to check the local news. The fickle gods had approved the damn park after all. It was slated to open next summer, once access roads had been bulldozed and the shelters, washrooms and dumps constructed. Next stop, Disney World North? Was it Victor Hugo who said that not all the armies on earth could stop an idea whose time had come?

  Three o’clock. Belle had almost forgotten. She drove to Rainbow Country, greeting the sun-worshippers as she took the stairs two at a time. Someone was missing. Dapper Billy Kidd, a feature sitting in a lawn chair from May to October between his daily walks. “Where’s Mr. Kidd?” she asked Cherie. Her eyes moistening, the nurse pointed at the name board where a black space remained beside room 210. “I guess you hadn’t heard. He fell last week. Broke his hip. At that age, they don’t last long with a serious injury.”

  Do all you can do, thought Belle, as she wheeled her father to the van, presenting him with a small Canadian flag like the one she carried. In another year he could reclaim his citizenship. “I have a surprise, Father. Somebody famous is coming through the old burg today, and no, it’s not the Queen.” She parked on a hill overlooking the hastily refurbished arena, trundling the old man out of the car to a vantage spot behind a chain link fence. He crinkled up his face in mild irritation. “Who the hell are you talking about? I have to go to the bathroom!”

  “There he is!” she said as a trim figure walked over a decorative drawbridge leading to a commemorative plate glinting in the sun. His retinue mumbled into their radios and surveyed the underbrush for terrorists poking out of the poplars. “The Prime Minister!” Belle announced. And they waved their little flags and cheered. It was a glorious day.

  HÉLÈNE’S HERKY JERKY

  1. Combine:

  2/3 cup Worcestershire sauce

  2/3 cup soy sauce

  1 teaspoon black pepper

  1 teaspoon garlic powder

  1 teaspoon onion powder

  2 tablespoons green jalapeno sauce

  1 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)

  2. Slice 3 lbs. beef (top round) or moose meat into 1/4 inch-thick strips. The thinner, the better. Frozen meat cuts more easily.

  3. Marinate meat overnight in fridge.

  4. Place drained meat strips on oven rack. For extra heat, sprinkle with one teaspoon of hot red pepper flakes. If you don’t have an auto-clean function, put down plenty of aluminum foil. Cook 6 to 8 hours at 150°F, removing smaller pieces first. They get crisper the longer they bake.

  5. Store finished jerky in air-tight plastic bags or similar container.

  PROLOGUE

  The small room was quiet, a glass prism in the window shooting rainbows onto the simple pine floor. On the wall, a picture of a smiling, round-faced man beamed approval. Below him a cot with a rough grey blanket, a young boy hunched beside it. He was worrying a hole in the arm of his sweater, passing his fingers in and out, unravelling the wool. “Don’t do that,” the voice said, well-modulated, comforting at other times, in other places. “Stand straight. What do I teach you?”

  A sniffle, nose swiped with a sleeve. “Never mind. Come closer.” Outside, far away, a bell tolled. “Had we but world enough . . .”

  A small sob. Then a shudder, quickly mastered. A straightening of limbs and clothing, and a sigh. Out of a pocket came a flash of silver. “Do you know what this is?”

  “A whistle?”

  “Clever lad. But a special toy for our new game. When I blow it twice before supper, you are to come here. Immediately.” Steel arrows nailed the boy’s eyes as he backed away. “Do you understand?”

  In the palpable silence, the hole grew larger, more ragged, like a scream for help.

  ONE

  Who cares if they pollinate the blueberries?” Belle Palmer mumbled to herself as she raked at the bloody crusts behind her ears. You could eat only so much pie. Damn blackflies. Would some genius ever invent repellent that wasn’t an oily, sticky solvent for plastic? Cheer up, they’ll be gone in a month, ushering in mosquitos, cluster flies, horse flies, moose flies, deer flies and pernicious no-seeums, which require a tent screen finer than silk. Welcome to Northern Ontario, where bugs are an equal opportunity employer: O positive is as full-bodied as A or B.

  Belle usually avoided the woods until the hotter weather switched off the worst biters, but her German shepherd Freya was eager for a trek. The dog brought up the rear, browsing every ten feet for an educated sniff at her p-mail. Was it like reading a book? Tracing Braille? Red squirrels, the stunted northern variety, chittered teasingly from the cedars; foxes had scheduled night manoeuvers, littering the path with grouse feathers; and under the bracken, a rabbit hopped to safety, newly metamorphosed from white to brown in seasonal camouflage. Under the arms of a massive yellow birch, Belle spied a tiny, freeze-dried wintergreen fruit, popped it into her mouth and enjoyed a teaberry gum moment. She realized that she had stopped singing, a strategic mistake in bruin territory, especially when they were foraging frantically for tender grass, grubs, and roots before the berries arrived.

  Suddenly her third-class human nose wrinkled. What a stink! Yet not cloyingly sweet like carrion. Rancid, sharp, even burnt. The dog had picked it up and veered off past hills of white trilliums and delicate ferns, leading her deep into the bush to a scene from an absurdist movie. Tied into the brushy alders were a dozen doughnuts—grape jelly, under examination—and stale. A lemon pie, ravaged by joyous ants, rested on top of a table rock. Miss Havisham’s wedding feast? Moving toward a glittery hanging object, Belle skidded to her knees, breaking her fall against a rotten log shining in the sun. Soaked with used
fry oil, a generous gallon. The glitter came from a cheap plastic timer set with fishing line, Salvador Dali’s surrealistic contribution. No salt lick this, no appleyard for moose or deer, but an ursine smorgasbord. In its big-city wisdom, the Ontario government had cancelled the spring bear hunt. Someone was poaching.

  Belle narrowed her eyes in disgust and rubbed her hands on the grass with dubious success at removing the tacky mess. The hunt itself posed no problem. Ontario had 75,000 of the critters, and rising. If a bowhunter or stalker offered fair odds, let them fill a freezer. Bear meat could be delicious in stews and savory sausages. It was the baiting that bothered her, ticket to the fifth circle of hell if she’d been devising poetic punishments for the afterlife. Rich Americans from Michigan, New York and Ohio tooled Lincoln Town Cars up to the distant lodges north of Sudbury and waved ever-inflating dollars. The scenario was simple. Set out tempting pastries, garbage or even rotten meat, then climb into a tree perch, rough boards or fancy metal frames out of the Cabela outfitter’s catalogue. Despite the morning frost, a pleasant wait with a few sandwiches, munchies, renowned Canuck beer or a mickey of rye, and presto, Bruno with insouciant pie face became an instant rug.

  There was another motive more sinister than trophies—the burgeoning demand for ancient Chinese medicines based on animal parts, especially in Vancouver, where Hong Kong barons were enlarging their power base. Squeaky clean Canada’s shameful cousin to the rhino horn or ivory trade. And now that the loonie dollar coin had a new bimetal big brother (the twoonie, toonie, tunie?) featuring a polar bear, all the more ironic.