Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  As the last seats filled at the table, Zack tapped his glass lightly, only a quiver in his voice revealing his emotions. “Thank you for coming tonight. Aunt Anni wasn’t a formal lady. She would be happy to be remembered by a gathering of friends.” Belle was relieved that he wasn’t getting lugubrious, sinking into guilt about his debts, moral and financial. Instead, he dwelt nostalgically upon boyhood summers with her and mentioned the volunteer work with modest praise. Later that week Anni would be cremated, and according to her wishes, the ashes scattered among the many floral beds she had loved.

  Asked unexpectedly to say a few words, Belle rose with trepidation, taking a sip of water, focusing on Hélène’s sympathetic face for encouragement. When was the last time she had made a formal presentation? A senior seminar on Jacobean Revenge Tragedy? Keep eye contact, don’t use filler words like “um” and “uh” and remember that sincerity smooths the worst gaffes. She tossed aside the sterile rules and spoke from the heart. It was difficult not to feel frustrated at a killer still walking free, but bitter observations didn’t belong in a eulogy. Their meeting amid the fragile blossoms kick-started her, and she pursued the nature theme. Anni’s celebration of the wilderness, her forest paths, the gardens which crowned her property, and . . . she paused for effect, her devotion to animals. Finally the ordeal ended, and she resumed her seat in great relief to quiet nods from all and sniffs from dog owners, especially Hélène.

  The savory roast beef was ferried in, medium rare, she noticed with approval, duchess potatoes, asparagus, salad and fresh blueberry pie to crown the meal. Zack had not scrimped in his tribute, so perhaps probate had been settled. As coffee cups were refilled and dishes clinked on trays, people began to rise for departure, clasping Zack’s hand or patting his shoulder. A white-haired woman across the table had been hard to ignore, her thunderous voice dominating the conversation. After pausing at the liquor table, she sailed up to Belle like a colourful galleon, taking as ballast great gulps from what looked like a double Gibson. Maybe a triple. Under a fluffy yellow silk print dress with scalloped neckline were the shoulders of a wrestler, Marjorie Main gone the route of Sly Stallone.

  “I don’t think we’ve . . .” Belle said, holding out her hand.

  “Eh?” The woman adjusted a small device in one ear. “Maureen Murphy. Call me Murph. Liked your words about our girl. Did her proud.” A healthy seventy-plus, she looked as if she could squeeze blood from the most wizened customer, and her grip confirmed the impression.

  “I was at the Canadian Blood Services the other day,” Belle said. “Melanie mentioned you as one of Anni’s good friends.”

  “Siphoned enough red stuff together to float a ship. Served on one in my navy days,” Murph answered in a gravelly voice tempered with a toothy grin from an era before orthodontia. “Knew Anni for donkey’s years. Quite a shock. No accident either, I gather.”

  Belle stifled a smile. Was the woman speaking in abrupt fragments like some preposterous Colonel Blimp in the Pinewood Studio films? “Apparently not, yet they haven’t made an arrest. You might say I’m prospecting unofficially for clues. Even something casual you talked about might lead to a breakthrough.”

  Murph pursed her lips, crumpled foil creased with animation, the lightest dust of face powder making peace with age instead of disguising it. “Just chewed the fat in slack times. Still trying to win back support after that damn tainted blood scare. Bunch of twerps. Can’t get AIDS or hepatitis from donating, for Lord’s sake.” She drained the drink, popping the onions into her mouth like peppermints. “Now the Mad Cow fiasco’s started.”

  “Was anything bothering her lately?”

  A batwinged arm swept out in a casual gesture, barely missing a ducking waiter. “Usual old lady gab. Weather. High cost of living for seniors. Damn government wrecking our health care to balance the budget. Letting our water go to hell and sending us tax rebates to buy Naya. Never voted for those—”

  The room had nearly emptied, and the DesRosiers were waving at her from behind a potted palm. Belle interrupted. “What about her new van? She must have been pleased.”

  Murph squinted in reflection, a bulldog ruminating over a problematical thigh bone. “Odd thing. Waltzed in out of the blue a week after our ’78 Suburban went belly up at 400,000 klicks. Said she’d got it to drive donors and run errands. Damn handy timing.”

  “But that van cost a fortune. Where could she have found the money?”

  “Beats me. Stretched the pennies like yours truly. Boosted that car all winter for her. Carry heavy duty cables. But . . .”

  “Yes? You remembered something?”

  “Different that last day. Teasing her about the van again as we left. Air conditioning, power whatzits. Asked if she’d nabbed her a sugar daddy. Know what that is?”

  “Sure do. Along with rumble seats, bathtub gin and flappers. I learned my slang from classic movies.” She cocked her head, interested in the repartee between two opposites. “What was Anni’s answer?”

  “ ‘Bitter fruit,’ she said. The sly old cat. How do you like that?” Proving that she could complete a sentence, Murph plucked the last unopened wine bottle and shoved it into her massive purse with a wink.

  What had Anni meant by that famous radio signature: “The weed of crime bears bitter fruit”? Clearly reverse gear from the impression she had given the salesman about an ill wind bringing good. And after the good, why remorse? Tainted blood in the gift of life? Why had she changed her mind? Only the Shadow knew.

  THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, Tuesday kept rolling around again, time to collect her father’s lunch. Maybe she could catch Zack to discuss the letter. It had been in her briefcase for days, but the dinner hadn’t seemed like a politic moment. Belle headed for the restaurant, surprised by the lopsided grin which greeted her. Fred, Maria’s second best customer, commandeered a pot from the counter, escorted her to a chair like a maître de, and straightened his tie, emboldened with a large beaver. “Complimentary coffee all week,” he said, taking special effort to master his diction. “Guess who’s the new owner?”

  Belle shook his hand, newly strong and confident. She should have guessed from his hints about plans. “Now those marketing courses will come in handy, but don’t juggle any books, just the dishes. Say, though, you have to maintain standards. Did Maria toss in her recipes?” Luscious homemade gravy was the elixir which elevated the simple café meals to nirvana. With bitter winters and chill nights even in summer, Sudburians needed arterial transfusions year round.

  “Big Mama gave me lessons before she left. Boil up a ton of bones late Sunday’s the trick. Ten pails do her.” He set his mouth with pride, rubbing a freshly-shaved chin bearing a few nicks. “The usual order? I know how you like your dad’s shrimp. Hold the seafood sauce. Fries and lots of cole slaw. Hey, cherry pie today.”

  “New staff, too?” The coffee was hot and robust, a good sign.

  “My sister Fran’s our waitress. Just broke up with her husband and needs a job. The cook’s a pal from my rehab therapy. Gosh, we’re a real support group.”

  Cadaverous and waxen, her hair in a lacquered bouffant draining strength from her small frame, Fran moved timidly around the restaurant. Thick makeup couldn’t disguise the mottled colours of a bruised eye. Back in the open kitchen, a strangely familiar figure pushed a broom. Belle took a second glance. “Who’s your helper?”

  “That’s Craig. He sweeps up for meals and the odd buck. Washes supper dishes to spell Fran before closing.”

  “He passed me once on Brewster Street.” She tried to be discreet, but he looked even more like Steve now that the beard had been trimmed to a neat goatee and the long hair gathered into a shiny ponytail.

  Fred learned forward and lowered his voice. “Might have. Couple of weeks ago I saw him dumpster-diving in an alley downtown. Booze is his problem, nothing special up here. Helped him find a rooming house around the corner. It’s pretty quiet in Garson. No biker bars or dope deals. Best way to straighte
n out is stay away from bad habits, ‘friends in low places,’ as the song goes. Got to start fresh, get out of the ruts.”

  Belle followed his facial expressions and body language, occasionally asking for a repeat instead of patronizing him with non-committal replies. “You should have been a psychologist, Fred. Breaking new paths is important.” She recalled her depression over her mother’s death from cancer and the distractions she had used to heal, namely the purchase of a sharp-toothed, inquisitive shepherd pup. Would Steve welcome good news about Craig? Maybe she should stay out of family business after witnessing the raw nerves behind his feelings.

  From her window seat, she watched Craig ply his way in methodical deliberation to the front of the restaurant, twisting the broom expertly to snare every dustball and crumb. His brown work pants were unpressed but clean, with a denim shirt buttoned to the neck. Even the scuffed boots gleamed with a spit shine. He cocked a thumb toward the door, and when Fred nodded, went outside and lit a cigarette, leaning against a post and staring at a buxom babe in shorts and a swimsuit top scissoring herself out of a Miata. A teenager in a Marilyn Manson T-shirt leaving the Mac’s store next door seemed to be badgering a young child, snatching at his package. It seemed like harmless teasing until the bag fell, scattering the contents and spilling open a milk carton. Sinking to his knees, the boy scrambled for the groceries while the grinning teen stuffed fallen candy bars into his own pockets. Suddenly Craig flipped away his cigarette and grabbed the youth, holding him firmly and whispering into his ear until he handed back the candy and ran. After helping the sobbing child rise, Craig opened his wallet and pressed a blue five-dollar bill into the youngster’s hand. Saturday Matinee without a ticket. Prince Valiant’s got the real moxie, Belle thought.

  When he returned to the broom, she caught his eye. “I saw that. Good for you.”

  One corner of his mouth rose to reveal a missing tooth, then lowered in apparent embarrassment. “No big deal, Miss. Don’t like to see kids pushed around, that’s all.” He straightened his shoulders and walked to the kitchen like a knight in denim armour. Was that a soft whistle she heard?

  Fred was helping his sister wrestle mammoth hot turkey sandwich platters, three pounds of food per serving, including fresh-cut fries and vegetables. “Craig’s a hard one to talk to. Do him good to make some friends, though,” he said, nodding like a concerned parent, despite their similarity in age.

  Belle collected the meal and drove the few blocks to Rainbow Country as the Statler Brothers celebrated Thomas Edison, for “giving us the best years of our lives.” She and her father had loved playing that song’s game on long car trips. The first person named a film, and the opponent had to start another with the last word. No simple Caine Mutiny and Mutiny on the Bounty, Rio Grande and Grand Hotel stuff. This was expert territory. All About Eve, Eve Knew Her Apples, a musical version of It Happened One Night with leggy Ann Miller. Or Hunchback of Notre Dame which her father countered with Busby Berkeley’s Dames. She ceded him that round because of its lead tune, “When You Were a Smile on Your Mother’s Lips and a Twinkle in Your Daddy’s Eye.” Since his cumulative strokes, their contest had faded to a poignant memory.

  “Lunch day?” Cherie asked from the desk, sniffing the rich seafood aroma. “You are a sweetheart. Never miss a week. Were you close when you were a child?” Her warm brown eyes looked sincere and motherly rather than inquisitive.

  Belle recalled toddling along to private screenings as soon as she could walk, receiving a nickel for the ancient red Coke machine between features. Often alone in the little theatre in his office building, she sprawled in the front row with him one row behind. “I guess we shared a love of films more than anything else,” she said. “Maybe it’s genetic. But one thing for sure. Whatever I did was right. Can’t ask more than that.” Besides, she thought, his unconditional love balanced the demands of her mother, who frowned at an A minus.

  A bit groggy that day, perhaps from a change in medication, her father ate slowly and seemed to want to nap after lunch, so she helped him to his bed and cleaned up in record time. When she stopped later at Zack’s to return the letter, he was hammering new boards onto the deck. The bushes and perennial beds were freshly nipped, and a brush pile sat by the lake ready to be fired, garden hose nearby. The tantalizing smell of roasting meat reminded her that the chicken intended for dinner was as icy as the lake in February. Captain and Sam were clearly expecting largesse, parking themselves downwind and minding their manners for a change.

  “A white bleeding heart,” she said, tracing a finger along one delicate row, from the embryo stage to the full drooping bloom. “Hard to find up here.”

  “Take one. Seed themselves, Aunt Anni used to say. And how about a hot dog and a beer?” he asked, pointing to a sizzling grill with buns and trimmings on the side shelf. “Later we can play Boy Scouts and burn that brush pile.”

  “Not unless you have a permit, Zack. And only after dark.” In forest fire territory, a wisp of smoke during the day and a contingent of planes or helicopters based at the Sudbury Airport would descend on the naughty cottager like a black and yellow wolf on the fold.

  “Thanks for the warning, and for speaking about Aunt Anni at the dinner. I’ll get you a bag for that plant,” he said, heading for the house.

  Belle never turned down a free meal or a free perennial. After preparing the shoot and its earth ball, she bit into the sausage he offered, appreciative of the fiery mustard. “You did a fine job yourself. But I came with a question. A letter fell out of that Peterson guide . . . and I read it. Shabby ethics, or what?”

  He waved off her confession and unfolded the paper she presented, shaking his head as he scanned. “Maybe you had the right idea about her past. The scary part is what’s left unsaid. Know what I mean?”

  “I thought so, too. No date, of course, but it doesn’t look that old. From the reference to marriage, I’m guessing that the letter came fairly recently from someone who knew her in western Ontario. Where exactly was she?”

  He frowned, sucking on the beer for inspiration. “I was just a kid. Some animal name, that’s all.”

  “In this country, only 1001 places. South Porcupine, Caribou Lake, Whitefish Falls, Marten River, Heron Bay.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a brain wave. Anyway, it was some godforsaken spot.”

  “This mess seems to have taken place years ago. Sounds like she had gone to some trouble to find this Verna. Written for information. Or called. Did you keep her long distance bills?” His vacant look answered. “We have to track down this place, Zack. Tell me everything she said about that town.”

  “Aunt Anni was pretty serious, not one to gossip. I think I told you that she assisted a dentist. He was nearly retired but did charity work with poor kids. For sure, she loved those youngsters. Never could have any of her own, Mom said.” He wiped mustard from his mouth. “Guess that explains why she spoiled me.”

  “What about the dentist? Any hope of finding him?”

  He shrugged, then shook his head. “Never said his name. God, he was decades older than she was. That’s a dead end unless he’s a hundred.”

  “Did she mention an Edith?”

  “That’s a name I’d remember.” He threw up his hands. “Nada. Zip. And the address book’s still missing. I asked that guy, Steve, but he said that it wasn’t on their list of evidence.”

  “Damn,” she said. “This is the first break, but there’s no substance.”

  Snapping his fingers, he excused himself and returned a minute later with a black and white photo in a shiny silver frame. “Think this might be the place. Aunt Anni wasn’t big on photos. Luckily it’s one from Mom’s album, a special keepsake I brought over with my things. Nothing written on the back, but the time looks right. About twenty-five or thirty years younger, wouldn’t you say?”

  Belle considered the snapshot, disappointingly amateurish with its sun flares. “Scrub bush. Black spruce. Must be the dentist beside her, and you’re right. H
e’s quite the fossil. Nothing else except . . .” She turned it around, wishing that she could sharpen the focus. “That curious steeple sticking up in the background. An octagon with a timber spire. A little piece of England in the brave new world.”

  The next morning, after settling the white bleeding heart between two clumps of sea pinks, Belle took Freya to the turnaround, rescuing a nine-inch earthworm crawling across the road by placing it on a bed of humus in the shade. “Sure you can have sex with yourself, don’t even brush your teeth, but you don’t have the sense to stay off the gravel.” Then she spied an ominous striped shape inching toward the lakeside. How many feet a day could an army of tent caterpillars advance? Gleefully she stomped on it, one less potential cocoon to spin destruction.

  At the Rogers’ camp, six dogs sat on the property line observing her quietly, the spotted pup among others apparently redeemed from the pound. Only cars interested them, or perhaps a German shepherd kept them in line. At their first meeting, Freya had raised her hackles, given tongue and chased them howling back to their property. As Belle turned to dance a tarantella on a few more ’pillars for good measure, Charles called her down to his gate, lifting a small basket. “Funniest thing. This present was left hanging here with a card. ‘Welcome to the Neighbourhood.’ From a Mrs. Ben Drummond. Does she live nearby? I haven’t heard you mention her.” He rubbed Freya’s ears with an intimacy she rarely allowed strangers.