Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  He waved his hand in polite dismissal. “The Capital City gets a lion’s share, and I think I’d like plowing. Make technology do the dirty work. It seems productive and relaxing. Enjoy tinkering with cantankerous motors, too.”

  That sounded better. Belle took a deep breath. After expenses, namely Miriam, the six-percent commission would pay for a new refrigerator, maybe a down payment on a van. And it really was a splendid place, much larger and far more private than hers.

  He retrieved a small leather notebook from his coat pocket and jotted notes with a gold Cross pen. “Septic OK? And how about the drinking water? Is there a well?”

  “Whoa! You’re no amateur.” Belle pointed to a grassy knoll. “Field bed’s back there. Natural drainage slope, so you don’t have the worry of a lift chamber. Most of us have our tanks pumped every two years to be on the safe side. A grant’s available, too. And as for the water . . .” Spread out like a melted Prussian blue crayon was Lake Wapiti, an eight-by-eight mile meteor crater, deeper than the Underworld itself and as frigid as the other place was sizzling. “There’s the best well in the world. Brown has a heated waterline like mine. A bit of colour in spring run-off, but you can get filters at Canadian Tire if you’re squeamish about algae or sediment. Even a reverse-osmosis system is available now. Big bucks, though.”

  What they found next in the large shed made Sullivan clap his hands. “He left all his tools? They’re worth a fortune.” He studied the table saw, chop saw, lathe, router, shop vacuum, grinder and rows of assorted jars of nails and screws neatly affixed to the wall. A pegboard with hooks held graduated series of screwdrivers and wrenches.

  “He’s in a nursing home. The relatives down south took only the bass boat. Cottages are usually sold all-inclusive,” she said as if bestowing a personal gift. “Never know what you’ll find. Maybe five sets of rusty bedsprings. Maybe buried treasure. His nephew told me that Brown had hinted at some secret hideyhole. Family joke, I guess.”

  The central part of the property was cleared, which allowed the breezes to blow off the bugs, with a few well-placed large oaks and maples saved for shade. At one side, flanked by dwarf plum and apple trees, a weedy garden sprouted asparagus feathers and the broad rhubarb leaves of the ubiquitous Canadian staple. “Hurts to see a garden gone to seed,” Belle said. “Before he started going downhill, this used to be the best on the road, especially the tomatoes. Once he even grew a prize-winning pumpkin. Milk-fed, but don’t ask me how.”

  Sullivan knelt stiffly and sifted the soil with his hands. “Fine stuff. Just the right mix of organic material, clay and sand. Must have taken him many years, hauling in the soil.”

  Belle broke off a thumb-thick asparagus spear to munch on. “Don’t tell me you garden, too?”

  Pulling out a plantain weed, he tossed it aside. “Oh, I’m hoping to have time for many hobbies now.”

  Belle led him to the dock, bolstered by a formidable rock wall for ice and wave protection. Far across the water, flanking the North River, the hills leapfrogged each other in layers of teal and black under shadows of scudding clouds. A loon called to its mate, ululating and then diving, only to surface a hundred feet away. “Marvellous swimmers,” he said.

  “Can’t ever guess where they’re going to rise. One thing’s sure, it proves that there are plenty of fish in Wapiti. Are you an angler, Mr. Sullivan?”

  He beamed like an uncle. “Call me Charles. I’m a catch-and-release man, in it for the fight. Will confess something, though. I do eat the perch.”

  Belle bent down and peered into the clear depths. “Perch? Are they worth the trouble? They’re so small and bony.”

  “That’s true. Most folks don’t bother. Consider them trashy, to use their word. Five or six make a pretty good feed, and I don’t mind the cleaning.” He stepped forward and tossed a twig into the water, following its drift with a trained eye. “My Lord, just look at the little devils down there. Wish I had my tackle,” he said, grinning broadly. “Tell you what. I’ll catch a pailful and invite you for dinner.”

  Belle’s heart rang like the drawer of an old-fashioned cash register, and she wondered if dollar signs had snapped into her saucery eyes. “Do you mean that . . .”

  “That’s right, my dear lady. I like it. I’ll take it. Not even going to insult you and our Mr. Brown by dickering. Not my style.”

  Wondering if he had forgotten the steep price, she tried to cement the bargain. “I know it seems high, but you do have 650 feet frontage. You could split off a lot, sacrifice a little privacy, and realize sixty or seventy thousand at the right time.”

  He closed his eyes, folded hands behind his back and took a deep breath. Belle could smell the clean tang of the water as the wind ruffled their hair. “Why spoil paradise?” he asked.

  It was after six by the time she left Charles surveying his kingdom. “Yesssssss!” Belle said, clenching her fist. Satisfied buyer, satisfied seller. Whether or not Brown ever connected with reality, she had obtained a fair price which might buy him some comforts. As the van rounded a corner, the letter to Anni dropped from the dash onto her lap. Better take it on down. Besides, she wanted an update on the mind games with the hunters. Women, take back the woods!

  The rusty Geo sat in Anni’s driveway like a wounded veteran, a faded Support the Right to Arm Bears sticker on its rear windshield and its muffler dangling an inch from the ground. How the woman kept the beast chugging was a miracle, but money was short for a widow. She lived frugally, her greatest asset the property itself. Parking on the neatly swept gravel, Belle marvelled at the perennial garden surrounding the modest frame house. A pastel rainbow of graduated tulips and hosts of sunny daffodils lent Wordsworthian splendour to the tidy beds. She raised an eyebrow to notice that Anni’s Oriental lilies were already a foot tall. Her own bulbs had become a late spring snack for some discriminating vermin. Around the corner dashed the dogs, yapping and jumping. Belle gave a surreptitious knee to the unruly golden trying to romance her leg. The door opened, and Anni appeared in jeans and a patched corduroy shirt, holding a book and probably wondering about the unusual social call.

  “I have a letter for you. Wrong box again.” Belle passed her the envelope with a Government of Canada return address.

  Anni swept her arm graciously. “Well, then you deserve a reward. Come in and talk over a crone’s tipple. I usually eat later in the summer.”

  The few times Belle had been inside, some new puzzle decorated the wall, this time an eye-crossing Jackson Pollock full of paint blots and streaks. Anni had explained that the concept of “dissected maps” had developed in late eighteenth-century England as a teaching tool. Her husband Cece had started her on the hobby, bringing back specimens from his world travels as a metallurgical engineer. One Japanese wooden puzzle hung vertically without glue, sold with tweezers and magnifying glass to assemble twenty-five pieces per square inch. To add to the museum flavour, purple velvet plants trailed their vines, winding among Boston ferns and an assortment of prickly cacti including an Old Man variety sporting a gray wig. In a brass container in the corner stood Anni’s walking stick and an umbrella. The polished wood floors shone like honey. No traces of dog claws, though, with the mutts likely relegated to the basement at night.

  Belle stopped to inspect a curious landscape peopled by small figures making their way from the Barren Land of Ignorance to the Hill of Science, detoured by the Mansion of Appetite, the Wood of Error and the Fields of Fiction. “Anni, is this new? Give me a room in the Mansion of Appetite.”

  Her friend set her reading glasses aside, pleased at the observation. “A Pilgrim’s Progress variation, circa 1800. Probably no one bothers with that in school anymore, but it’s always been a comfort to me. Couldn’t resist buying the little treasure.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great if life were that simple? Good, evil, black, white. Mind your manners and advance to the next square.”

  Sitting on the chintz sofa, her hands folded as she stared at the envelope, Anni turned
pensive. “We never know where some paths may lead us. At any rate, I did the deed,” she said with a grave tone. “All of that abomination is gone.”

  “Did anyone see you?” Belle asked, choosing a rocker.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So nothing has happened? No phone calls or other dirty work?”

  “For precautions, I left town that night to stay with an old friend in Muskoka for several days. Since I’ve been back, I haven’t heard any shots, or seen anyone who didn’t belong on the road.” Sighing, she rose and went to the credenza, reaching for a cut glass decanter and pouring small glasses of sherry with a shaky hand. Several drops spilled, but Anni didn’t seem to notice.

  “So what’s wrong? They learned their lesson,” Belle said, accepting the drink.

  Anni gestured at a picture of a grinning young man on her mantel. It was her nephew, whom she mentioned occasionally, always with a curious mixture of love and exasperation. “Another wild scheme of Zack’s.”

  “Again? Not another budgie sitting service or balloon delivery from Batman. Or is he opening a chip stand across from McDonald’s? Too bad he missed the pet rock craze. Can you imagine the raw material around here?”

  The Gatling gun humour had misfired. Anni blinked her cinnamon brown eyes, shadowed with concern. “He has an idea for a used book store, compact discs, too. Maybe computer games. It’s true that he’s my only relative and welcome to his legacy. God knows he’s given me a hand with the spring and fall chores and made sure I got good care when I broke my arm last year, but I’m not made of money. Why can’t he find a rich wife or rob a bank?” She managed a weak smile.

  Belle sipped at the sherry, a tiny dose of Bristol Cream, but “cherce” as Spencer Tracy would say of his Kate. “Small businesses are risky,” she said. “Half of the new ones go belly-up every year.”

  “I know. Lack of planning, faulty demographics, too much staff or overhead, heavy competition. And some, like men’s clothing, are extremely perilous.” She realigned a ruby glass paperweight on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “Listen to me lecturing like Zack. Says he’s read enough books and made all the right mistakes to succeed. The infallible logic of the young, bless them. They’ll learn as we did.” Her eyes grew moist as she looked away.

  Belle wondered if he had considered the obvious. “Tell you what’s big in this aging town. Home care. Assistive devices, help with daily chores. Special clothing, too, now there’s a gold mine. Silvert’s comes up from Toronto several times a year to make the rounds of the nursing homes. Surely he could beat their prices. I paid sixty dollars for my father’s ordinary sweatsuit with Velcro fastenings.”

  Finally, Anni laughed. “That’s the last venture Zack would try. Except for me, and he tells me I’m really twenty-five, he can’t handle old people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, face the concept, I guess. When his mother, my sister Nell, had to be put into a nursing home because of Alzheimer’s, he became so depressed that he had to take tranquillizers every visit. Says he’ll kill himself before he reaches that stage. Early dementia runs in families.” Her voice trailed off.

  “I can understand. First time through the door at Rainbow Country, my legs turned to rubber. You and I can’t imagine living in helplessness.” Belle shrugged and made a palms-up gesture. “But for some, a word or a wave brightens their day. Not that I’m bucking for sainthood, but I can’t just skulk in and out with his lunch. These people I see every week. They deserve acknowledgement.”

  Anni’s slender fingers curled around each other as if to husband strength against a growing vulnerability. Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen. “I’ve . . . been forgetting things lately. The odd bill, the time I left the dogs out all night, and I’m forever losing my keys. I made the mistake of telling Zack, and you should have seen his face.”

  Belle gave a light laugh of reassurance, took off her glasses and twisted the titanium frames, which sprang back obligingly. “I’m always losing these, or sitting on them. Happens to everyone. You’re safe as long as you remember that you wear them.”

  “I hope you’re right. Anyway, enough family problems. Thanks for listening and for bringing the cheque. I’ve been a bit short this month.” Anni tossed back the last of her glass gamely, but the droop of her shoulders told a different story. “I’m not sure how long I can keep the Geo going. Rollins Automotive said that it needed a valve job and a new ‘tranny,’ I think the word was.”

  Swallowing, Belle tried to keep a neutral face. Big time expensive, but why worry the woman more? As they walked outside, her eye was attracted to a contorted woody shrub. “What is that bizarre plant?” she asked.

  Her friend hummed a tune. “A clue? You’re the film buff.”

  “The puzzle lady. It’s familiar, but so far away. Another era. ‘You are my dearie . . . da da da. Sweet as sugar candy’ and something, something brandy.” She snapped her fingers. “Greer Garson in Random Harvest. She did a little dance. Cute kilt. So what’s the connection?”

  “You know your movies, but not your music halls. The Scottish entertainer she was imitating. Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, it’s called. Common name: hazel.”

  “Will it grow here?”

  “Zone Five.”

  “Risky. I lost my lavender last year in that -35° stretch.”

  “We’ll see. It’s in a sunny spot, and the bay is sheltered. In a few years I’ll whittle a stick for you.”

  Belle drove home with a nagging concern for her friend. Dementia, what a cruel spectre for someone with a healthy body. Belle’s father had been so vigorous, at eighty-one keeping pace with her all over Epcot Centre. Then, a few months later, he had needed full-time care.

  THREE

  Several weeks later, a giant wicker basket on her porch snapped Belle out of the doldrums of a Friday afternoon. Wrapped in bright red cellophane was an assortment of fresh fruit, California zinfandel, cabernet and chardonnay, no shoddy brands either, and expensive cheeses sampled only on holidays: triple-crème French Brie, Emmanthaler and a butterscotch square of Gjetost. A pound of cashews and a jar of macadamias completed the feast, along with palm hearts and marinated olives. What gourmet angel had been monitoring her wish list? The card was inscribed with a copperplate style that recalled her mother’s careful hand: “From a grateful client. If you’re free tonight around six, I have some perch who wish to make your acquaintance.” Belle grinned. Mr. Sullivan, Charles, had settled in.

  She popped a macadamia into her mouth, moaning at the milky crunch, and took Freya scampering up a path behind her house. Checking the time carefully, she doubled back at Skunk Brook after the animal enjoyed a brief, peaty slurp and was home in time for a bath. As she prepared to leave, ladling out Mature Purina, extra oil and Metamucil, which the vet had recommended for the older dog, she rubbed the velvet ears. “We’ll find out if he likes pups, and maybe next time you can go.”

  She strolled to the end of the road, encountering Charles beaming at the gate. He had a proprietorial touch in the way he escorted her down the lane. Wearing crisply pressed khaki shorts, a zippered safari jacket and dark green knee sox, he might be serving with the Raj in rural India, except for the spotless apron around his waist. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” he said as he studied the bottle she presented. “But the chardonnay should complement our friends.” He escorted her to a picnic table by the house, appointed with an Irish linen tablecloth along with an assortment of covered dishes. With a flourish, he filled two crystal goblets, and they relaxed in lawn chairs under a shady grandfather oak next to the house. Old-fashioned citronella candles warded off the bugs with less distraction than the popular electrical lanterns which crackled ruthlessly but dispatched only innocent moths.

  “You’re all moved. I wish you had given me a call to lend a hand,” she said.

  “No difficulty there, my dear. I’m a simple man and a frugal one. Hired transport can be expensive, so I packed only the bare ne
cessities, as they say, my library and phonograph records notwithstanding.” He coughed and rubbed his back. “You were right about the wretched beds. My Lord, what white nights I spent until the new furniture arrived. Aspirins every hour. My ears are still ringing the ‘Anvil Chorus’.”

  She laughed out of hard-gained wisdom. “My cottage had three varieties of chiropractic mine fields.”

  He appeared surprised. “But your house is new. When did you build?”

  “A couple of years ago. My uncle left me enough in his will for the basic package, and I added the rest a bit at a time. Did the painting and clean-up myself.” She didn’t confess how she had nearly blown the central vacuum by sucking up drywall dust.

  Sullivan cocked an eyebrow. “Very wise. So many people overextend. Try to have everything at once. Not the way my family operated, nor yours, I’ll wager.”

  “True enough. My parents waited until their forties for our first bungalow. They constructed a basement, covered it with plywood and tarpaper, and we lived there like blind moles until they could afford to finish. Suburban Toronto was loaded with blocks of flat structures with a doorway sticking up. Kids thought it was the way everybody lived.”

  A few glasses of wine later, Belle went inside to use the washroom and was amazed at the transformation of the camp. Neutral curtains and paint, a tasteful brown corduroy sofa and a glass coffee table. One wall was covered with books, mostly music and philosophy at a glance. A stereo system played Brahms symphony which floated outside like a blessing. On other shelves sat a few keepsakes, a Toby jug of Falstaff bearing a droll resemblance to its owner, onyx boxes and a folded wooden shape which attracted her. She opened it tentatively to find a delicate carved triptych.

  A throat cleared behind her. “Ready for our repast?”