Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  “Anni’d been bothered by hunters recently. Have you heard any gunfire? One trail heads off back of your property.”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t sure. Sound carries some nights and not others. Sunday at dawn I thought I heard a shot or two.”

  “That ties in with the new moose perch I discovered today. Don’t go hiking in there unless you’re wearing red.”

  “Walking the road’s my limit. Fewer surprises from man or beast. Say, I came to ask you for supper. Pork baby back ribs. I found the best little meat store. Tarini’s, it’s called.”

  Belle slapped the table in mock exasperation. “Not again. I haven’t repaid you for the last feast.” But her wilful stomach had a greedy mind of its own.

  As the western sky layered a Neapolitan ice cream parfait of pinks and blues across billowing vanilla whipped cream clouds, shortly after six, she eased the Grummon canoe into the water and clamped the mighty 1.2 horsepower to the side bracket. Sounded like a blender grinding coffee beans, but it cruised across the lake on a cup of gas.

  Passing a dozen properties, she waved at people in their yards or on docks, some hoisting a beer in friendly response and motioning her in. Flags were flying, including the occasional Québecois fleur-de-lys, a New Brunswick provincial banner, and even the stars and stripes. Charles rushed to help her tie up, and soon she was sitting in her usual lawn chair, listening to Mahler’s tones issue from the cottage windows, licking sticky sauce from her fingers in contentment and feeling as if they had been friends for years. “Dirty rice, too, Monsieur Prudhomme. I wouldn’t eat chicken livers any other way. What other talents do you have?”

  The comical expression on his face pinked by sun lent a Puckish look. “Oh, a talent to amuse, I hope.”

  She glanced around in wonderment. “I doubt Noel Coward did landscaping and carpentry. You have this place pretty spruce. New siding on the boathouse, the garden starting to burgeon. And is that a sauna you’re building?” With unselfconscious flair, she pointed a rib bone toward a framed structure behind the house.

  He gestured like a prospective father. “A four-seater. You’ll get to inaugurate it next week if the stove arrives. Special order from Toronto.”

  “Count on me for the birch switches,” she added, which brought a clearing of throat which she interpreted as embarrassment. Perhaps she had gone too far. Suggestive banter was second nature to her neighbours, but Charles would have been more at home in Jane Austen’s Pump Room. To change the subject, she proposed an après-souper canoe ride to a special place.

  “It’s only half an hour with the motor. You’ll sit in front, so you won’t go deaf from my little monster. And I always carry two life jackets.”

  “I had been hoping you’d ask. Lead on.”

  He went to the house, returning with a large paper bag and field glasses. Belle was glad that he seemed to have good balance entering the canoe. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had capsized beside a dock. Due to his greater weight, however, the nose was riding low, so to correct the trim she lugged a large stone from the shore, tucking it under her seat. A power boat with an engine the size of a Chevy truck’s blasted by, eroding the beach with huge wakes. Why didn’t they haul those three-bedroom hogs to Lake Huron? God knows what they did secretly with the effluent from the head. As the waves calmed and Charles pushed off, she pulled the starter cord. He covered his ears in mock protest.

  “I know it’s noisy, but twelve pounds is all I can muscle. Besides, if you want to see scenery, really see it, you have to go slowly.”

  No cottages dotted this quarter of the lake. Rough terrain and lack of access roads kept it as wild and breathtaking as when Champlain had canoed down the nearby French and Pickerel Rivers to Georgian Bay and lost his astrolabe. With the noise of the motor, conversation was impossible, but Charles sat alert, scanning with the binoculars while his smile widened in pleasure. She circled a few rocky islands stopping at a shoal less than a foot above water. One gnarled Jack pine leaned with the prevailing wind direction like a faithful sentinel.

  “Flowergull Island. My biological microcosm. I come here from time to time to see what’s landed and taken root. Smaller than my deck, but you can see daisies, blue flag irises and one pale corydalis. Oh, and a Saskatoon berry bush. The nesting gulls help fertilize.” Charles followed her directions with interest, as if he welcomed any knowledge about his new world.

  She headed toward the shore again, aiming for one of the long, narrow inlets. Soon they were cozying in beneath rugged cliffs shooting up a hundred feet, tapered into the forest where huge chunks of granite had fallen. Often she climbed among these giant’s building blocks, always aware that a fall might break her leg. Why did most memorable experiences contain a frisson of danger? “Raven Cliff, I call it,” she said. “You can barely see a nest below that twisted cedar. The fledglings are gone.”

  He trained his glasses to the right with a curve on his lips. “We might have another. Look on that shelf under the pine.”

  A shadow with long, pointed wings and a narrow tail swept past. “We’chew,” was its call, followed by a series of “cackcacks” and a wailing note. Belle whistled softly. “Peregrine falcons, aka duck hawks, a less dramatic name. Always noisy near the eyrie. They’re documented on the northeast side of the lake, but this is a first. I’ll have to tell my birder friends from Shield University to bring their summer classes here.”

  Tying up at a spar of weathered cedar, they wiggled their fingers at curious bass which peered up through the clear water. Charles sighed ruefully. “A semper paratus lesson. No tackle again. I can see I’m going to have to get a boat, too, if I want to do some serious fishing.”

  Pleasant time passed with the gentle rocking of the canoe. A breeze sifting down the inlet kept off the bugs, and the smell of ripening blueberries drifted from the peaty hills. They were worlds away from raucous music or roaring boats, only the lonesome cries of seagulls in the distance. Belle stared mesmerized at the cliffs, matching the geometric holes to the massive pieces below. As she rotated a hunk the size of an elevator in a familiar mind game, an idea occurred to her.

  “Charles, do you know much about collectibles?”

  He met her eyes with a helpful expression. “I have that Toby jug. Or do you mean stamps and coins?”

  “Not so ordinary. Have you ever heard of a market for puzzles? Jigsaw puzzles?”

  A quizzical expression crossed his face. “As a matter of fact, yes. When I was wedded to cable in the city, I used to watch a show on the FX channel. Ran the gamut from Elvis memorabilia to cigarette lighters to antique banks. You name it, and some fool’d have a passion, and speaking of passions . . .” He pulled out a bottle, along with two mugs, pouring with aplomb. “This is one treasure I brought from Ottawa. Quinta de Vargellas ’55. Unblended, of course. It is said to have the essence of, well, can you guess?”

  Sherry again, from the description and colour. That binge at Anni’s was fresh in her mind, yet she couldn’t refuse his thoughtful gesture. Belle reached for the mug reluctantly, but found herself inhaling its promise, a light and ambrosial spring bouquet. “Could it be violets?” she asked.

  He nodded like a satisfied mentor. “But here I am interrupting you. What were you saying about puzzles?”

  “Just remembering a hobby of Anni’s. She collected jigsaw puzzles. Framed them on her walls.”

  “Is that so? I had one of Buck Rogers,” he confessed with a chuckle. “Used to be a card-carrying member of his fan club.”

  “A few older ones might be valuable. Her nephew Zack’s starting out in business and might appreciate the information.”

  The sun had dipped behind the hills, leaving coolness in the air. From far away, small bursts of fireworks began. They looked toward the marina, where fountains of red and white sparks showered from the sky. “Time to go, I guess.” Pushing off, she pulled the starter cord. An ominous click made her wince. “It’s stubborn sometimes. Never failed me yet, though.” A harder yan
k brought only a spastic chug. Uttering a generous selection of Miriam’s minced oaths, Belle adjusted the choke, checked the gas, and jiggled the cord before trying again. Finally a roar broke the stillness, but she cocked her head. “This motor sounds fun . . .” Her hand shot forward in a reflexive grab as the 1.2 headed for the bottom. With her arm nearly wrenched out of its socket, soaked to the shoulder, she hauled the motor into the boat, setting it down gently and bending over the gunwale in bewilderment to inspect the wooden bracket. “It split in half. Dry rot, I guess.”

  Charles was a statue of relieved horror, frozen in his seat. Then they both started laughing. “Quite the timing. At least you saved your little friend. What now?”

  She picked up a paddle and gestured. “Old-fashioned elbow grease.”

  Thanks to a cooperative tailwind, they made their way back in an hour. Several times Belle was forced to turn the canoe into the wake of a thoughtless powerboater to avoid swamping. Up and down went the prow, soaking Charles with spray. He brushed his eyes and reset his cap, the image of the Old Man and the Sea. Belle could have sworn that he took a slug of the sherry, perhaps in homage to Papa Hemingway, and he insisted on singing boating songs. Her unsteady alto joined his baritone in “Paddling Madeline Home.”

  As they rounded the final point, a vast and slow-moving craft emerged from the darkness, spotlights crisscrossing the water like a patrol boat. “Ahoy, the canoe. Is that you, Belle?” yelled a familiar voice.

  So that was the party barge. Only on Edgewater Road would a rescue party be dispatched so fast. Yet she knew Ed and Hélène caught everything from their deck. They’d never forgotten that summer twenty years ago when their three cousins had drowned, buried in a black storm. “We’re fine. Some motor trouble.”

  “Saw you go by such a long time ago. Barometer’s falling. Thought we’d check. Glad you’re safe and sound,” he called, and the barge moved sedately away, heading for anchorage.

  EIGHT

  That night Steve called. Before he could finish a sentence, Belle interrupted. “Thanks for telling me about arresting Anni’s murderer. I thought you were going to keep me posted.”

  He sighed and muffled the receiver, though Belle could hear him call out with an apology in his voice. “I won’t be long, hon. Start Heather’s bath.” If he could drag his feet on filling her in, perhaps she wouldn’t be as forthcoming in the future.

  While she seethed, a chair squeaked, and he continued. “Don’t blow a gasket on me. Here’s why I didn’t bother telling you. Sure, the paper reported a confession, but it’s a dud.”

  She lifted a dubious eyebrow. “A dud? You mean you can’t make the charge stick?”

  “If confession were good for the soul, Chris Ralston would be in heaven by now. Give him the IQ of a smashed pumpkin or a duffer’s golf score, same difference.”

  “But it all fit. Skead’s just across the lake. And that Seniors’ Centre. Maybe Anni had visited there. Word gets around about old ladies living alone. What’s the story on him?”

  “Sometimes he gets into trouble on his own, or sneaks out after dark to meet friends. On their daddies’ quads, he and his buddies cruise the roads looking for entertainment. Got probation for some mischief with a closed-up cottage this spring. Broke a window and guzzled the rye that was left. Place was pretty well hidden by trees, but they got seen by a wildlife photographer bushwhacking. Other times he hears a few details of a crime and makes up the rest. When his parents question him, he breaks down and bawls. Then, like good citizens, they call us.”

  She snorted in disbelief. “That’s a new one. So what tied him to Anni?”

  “Day after the murder, he started bragging to some Grade Nines at his school like he was living in a television show. Stupid, eh? Luckily one of them told a teacher. Guess teenagers aren’t all bad.”

  “But you don’t believe his story?”

  “Can’t. His parents have an alibi for him a mile long.”

  “First they turn him in, now an alibi. How credible is that?”

  “Sure as Salvation. His mother’s a preacher, and they were all in their pew at church that night singing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Iron clad in the Lord.” He paused. “Sorry you got confused by the paper. I warned the reporter not to print it, but she was a gung-ho rookie fresh out of Nickel City College.”

  So cancel the easy answer about Anni’s case. Back to zero, square one. The more she thought about the hunters, the less she imagined that the moose perch belonged to a murderer. Who would be stupid enough to return to the scene and pot more game? Her thoughts turned back to the house, the puzzles she had discussed with Charles. Blessing the technology that had linked her isolated Northern community to the outer world, Belle went to the computer room and logged onto Ebay, selecting “Collectibles.” Maybe this was the place to advertise those Royal Doulton white elephants her mother had left her. Gracious ladies in flowing gowns didn’t belong in Belle’s cosmos, though the impressive St. George and Broken Lance could stand guard. Postings covered Fritos chip racks, Jackie O catalogs, and the elusive bakelite bird napkin rings, so she wasn’t surprised to find a heading on “Nineteenth-Century Toys.” The seller was offering, among metal banks and china head dolls, a jigsaw puzzle of the Crystal Palace during the Great Exhibition of 1851. A thousand dollars, and Anni’s picture pre-dated that by a good fifty years.

  Belle picked up the phone again. “Charles, I need your discriminating eye. I want to check Anni’s collection. And by the way . . .” She explained about the boy’s false confession, realizing as she spoke, that Zack was back in the picture.

  When she reached him the next day, Zack was cooperative about the visit. Why not? As the heir, he had a selfish interest in adding to his auntrimony, or whatever it was called. He met them that evening at the lake, sighing elaborately. “I swear those lawyers delay things deliberately to pad their fees. Probate’s still not completed, but the police have given me permission to stay here. Some question of keeping the property safe. It’s better for the dogs, too.” As he opened the Firefly’s creaky door and they pounded out after a chipmunk, he stroked the shiny van with a fondness that made her cringe. “Too bad I’ll have to wait on this beauty.”

  With footsteps hollow on the polished wood floor, Belle felt that the proud house’s spirit seemed to have withered in the absence of its owner. All but the hardy cactus plants lay brown and sere. Anni had helped Cece fashion this home, woven herself into the very fibres. Now the slow ticking of a shiny brass century clock marked time where measurement no longer mattered. Or perhaps it did. That was why Belle had come.

  “Never thought twice about those puzzles,” Zack said. “I just checked for the stereo system, the boat motor and stuff. She didn’t own any guns.”

  “The Internet quoted a thousand dollars for a good Victorian example. Even portraits of Shirley Temple could finance a vacation in Bermuda,” Belle said.

  “Aunt Anni had something like that?” His uneasy look lacked credibility. “I knew some were old, but I thought she collected them as a kid.”

  Step by step, they examined the puzzles on the walls and those boxed in the spare room. Nothing caught her attention. “I’m pretty sure that’s all,” Zack said, sneezing at the dust as he pulled his head out of the closet. “She wouldn’t have kept any in the shed where the damp might have ruined them.”

  “I’m no expert,” Charles observed quietly. “You would likely have to take the collection to Toronto or Ottawa, but there might be some money here from the right buyer. I wouldn’t mind that delicate Japanese one myself as a curio.”

  Zack’s eyes lit up. “How much would you . . .”

  His voice trickled off as Belle drew close to the wall, looking at an ordinary framed print of Paul Peel’s “After the Bath,” youngsters standing naked in front of a cozy fire. Innocent pre-pubescence rendered in chiaroscuro. Probably get a child pornography rap today. A light margin around the picture indicated that a larger object had been removed. “Where’s that Pilgr
im’s Progress? That was her prize. It was here over the sofa.” She wheeled accusingly. “Zack?”

  He sat down with a gasp as if suddenly asthmatic. “It’s at my place. I need money to buy stock for my store.” His voice grew petulant, like a querulous squirrel deprived of a juicy nut. “Aunt Anni left everything to me anyway.”

  “Since you profess to be such a novice, may I ask why you chose that one in particular?” Charles said sharply, in a credible imitation of Frederic March in “Inherit the Wind.”

  Zack reached across the coffee table and swiped at some dust. “She boasted that it cost her a month’s pension. I was going to cruise the antique stores in Toronto. A couple of them expressed interest over the phone. Sure it was wrong, but I couldn’t lose out a second time. Even a thousand dollars would give me a start on a bunch of used CDs. I have to be ready to roll. Liquidation opportunities don’t come along every day.” He agreed to return the puzzle if they kept the matter private . . . and he promised to water the plants faithfully.

  “We’re probably doing the wrong thing, letting him off on a judgment call,” Belle confided to Charles over coffee on her deck. “He’s such a jerk, almost pitiful sometimes. I’m revising my dog lover theory.”

  “Yes,” he said, the mellow glow of fire in the sunset reflected in his kind hazel eyes. “It is hard to imagine the callow fellow as a suspect. From what I’ve learned of Mrs. Jacobs, she could have juggled five characters like him. What a sad excuse for a nephew. Family ties spelled only a source of money. That disheartens me.”

  Belle hadn’t heard him speak so frankly of personal concerns. “Sounds like family is important to you, Charles. Do you have relatives up here? You’ve never mentioned anyone.”

  “Mother and Dad are gone now, of course. My older brother was killed at Dieppe. Just turned nineteen. And my only sister died years ago. Leukemia. As for friends, I’ve always been a private man.” He spoke so softly that she had to strain at the words. “Not that I seek isolation, though. The worst punishment in the world is being cut off from family and friends. But that’s a different idea entirely.”