by Lou Allin
To get an early start and avoid prying eyes, at eight she started to drink and read. The light outside and racehorse nerves made it hard to settle down, but she never scrimped on sleep, an affordable luxury. Didn’t Delores Del Rio snooze fifteen hours each night to keep that profile baby smooth well into her eighties? As the last Scotch trickled down an hour later, the phone rang. “I hope I’m not intruding, my dear,” a plummy voice said. Sister Veronica waited politely.
“Of course not. Did you reach your friend so soon?” Quite an operative, Belle thought. Speaking of an éminence grise.
“Under the pretence of an emergency . . .” She coughed delicately. “I was able to talk briefly with Margaret, but the news is ambivalent.”
What an odd word. “What do you mean?”
“Euphemia arrived at Le Coeur de Repos ten years ago, transferred from a redundant facility in Manitoba. By the time she reached Anticosti, she was a very sick woman and passed on shortly after. With no word from her family about arrangements, she was buried on the island, her goods placed in storage. The shocking part . . .”
“Yes?”
“So that you may better understand, let me tell you more about Margaret. Psychology is the field in which she took her degree. When the occasion arises, she acts as therapist. In this personal capacity, she spent much time with Euphemia.” A long silence made Belle uneasy. Something had shaken the nun’s usually maddening sang-froid.
“Go on, Sister.”
“I don’t know quite how to form the words for this loathsome sin. There was no repentance. The woman claimed divine sanction for a mother-son relationship. Utter blasphemy.”
Belle stubbed out her cigarette in a punishing gesture, grinding it to tatters. “Better dead then. I would have liked to have laid hands on her myself.”
Sister Veronica exhaled, then her voice strengthened. “And although I am not one to credit a cult of diabolism, a singular malignancy seemed at work. Thank God her timely unmasking forfended further destruction.”
Belle poured another finger of liquor against the painful light of these sobering revelations as well as another word to define. Forfend. “That’s very helpful information, perhaps all we’ll ever learn at this point. What about the victims? Do you suppose they would find solace in knowing that their tormentor is dead?”
“Malebranche says that we are not our own light. In this case I hope he was wrong.”
As she hung up, making a mental note to research French philosophers, a bright spear across the lake at the North River caught her eye and she waited for the corresponding crash, counting the seconds. Twenty miles. Somewhere down the line the Hydro was disturbed, flickering the lights on and off. On and off. A chill thought charged down her spine. Like the headlight of the vehicle the night Charles had died. She’d pushed that fragment into a corner of her magpie mind, but it hadn’t disappeared. Suddenly Belle realized what she might have witnessed through the ravaged trees. The car of the elusive visitor. That narrowed the scope to seven hundred local “padiddles,” as her generation of teenagers called them when looking for an excuse to steal a kiss.
With troubled thoughts and sketchy plans, not to forget the hot sauce, even dreams allowed no escape. Belle was tracking someone through the deepest woods. She could hear bushes crackle but saw no one ahead. The moon cast sickly beams between the scraps left by the caterpillars. As cloud shadows dodged among the rock outcroppings like starvelings, a wolf howled across the distance, answered by another. In the choking humidity, her lungs felt asthmatic, gulping the thick, poisonous air with no relief. When her bare feet met something slippery, she stumbled to her knees. Along a slime trail, chewing at a bunch of leaves, its raspy maw undulating as it ripped the fabric, crawled a metre-long blue-green caterpillar, covered with red, yellow and blue tubercles. The larva of the stunning Caecropia moth, destroyer of maple, birch, wild cherry and lilacs. For a moment she was as fascinated as repelled. Then the creature whirled, spinning a cocoon, only to burst out in winged glory, beady eyes compelling her, antennae banging her face. With a scream, she jerked up in bed, riding the swelling water waves. Thrashing her hands and tossing off covers, she hit the light, only to discover a fragile white moth battered on the pillow.
TWENTY-TWO
Despite her insomniac’s rule that the best way to return to sleep was never to check the time, Belle lifted a bleary eyelid. The earlier the better, so at 4:45 by the green glow, she flicked a switch before the obnoxious country station blasted the morning into honky-tonk hell. If only the CBC came in without static, she might have awakened to Mozart. Freya stretched idly, so accustomed to six a.m. reveille that she returned quickly to doggie dreams. Best let her doze or she’d make preparations miserable. Dawn Patrol was the scenario, not Dog on Parade.
The coffee maker wheezed in cranky protest while she tossed back orange juice and glanced out at the lake, the darkness swallowing space and time like a black hole. The storm had long passed, leaving everything green and wet for a change. Surprisingly hungry in anticipation, “nerved up,” as Hélène would say, she popped a bagel into the toaster, piling on soft, succulent goat cheese.
Charles’ safari jacket hung in the closet, with a light scent of bay rum that made her heart jump as she tried it on, rolling up the sleeves. “Help me, my friend. I should have been there when you needed me,” she whispered, tucking her Swiss army knife into one pocket, a mini-flashlight into another, and fixing a screwdriver into a couple of loops. Doing up the flaps and zippers, she felt a small bulge in an arm pocket. A padlock key, presumably for the toolshed since he wouldn’t have locked the sauna or boathouse. No need now to play vandal. So far so good, she thought, tiptoeing to the door, only to trip over her garden duckboots. At the crash, the beast awoke and barrelled down in the dark, hitting each stair by sheer faith. “Not wanted on the voyage,” she said with forced sternness. “Go back to chasing imaginary rabbits.” Literate with tones and gestures, Freya wheeled in displeasure towards the computer room and the solace of her easy chair.
The road was shrouded in Avalon mist, dew sticking to her eyelashes. A cool front was sucking warmth from the lake. Only the sounds of a foraging raven broke the silence, a cry so raucous that Ed’s aunt, a skeetshooter in her youth, had taken her shotgun to one who had plagued her mornings. Not that such thoughtless savagery caused her to drive into that rock cut a year later, but it was foolish to anger Raven, the Trickster. He was a faithful companion through the bitter winters, a comical ragman in his tattered feather cloak.
At Charles’ gate, a lock confronted her, but she climbed over, bending the wire squares with her weight. Where to start? She squinted through fog as she walked, each building emerging like a separate tomb. Forget the sauna. Charles had built it, not Brown.
The boathouse was unlocked, as she had suspected. Brown’s nephew had taken the small motorboat, so likely Charles hadn’t even used the place. An old anchor, cracked canoe paddles, and mouldy lifejackets made when they were called “Mae Wests” hung on the wall. Apparently Brown had collected car licenses as far back as 1950, tacking them over knotholes. Alberta, the Wild Rose province, a polar bear from Yukon. A small bird, perhaps a starling, rustled in the eaves, the frantic peeping of chicks audible over the lapping of the water. She climbed a rough wooden ladder to inspect the high shelves, but found only a cracked buoy and a faded old navy ensign, Canada’s flag before the maple leaf arrived in 1965. She was about to descend when a messy pile at the end caught her attention. Burlap, often used for winter plant protection. Someone had disturbed the dust pattern. Using her screwdriver, she poked the bundle, sensing a solid mass. Then it moved! Black button eyes and a robber mask stared at her, tiny hands waving, yellow teeth clicking. They both screamed and fled in opposite directions.
In the commotion coming down the ladder, Belle collected a large splinter. Flash clamped in her teeth, she watched her finger blur and clear in the presbyopia of age. God bless the inventor of the needle threader. She would have to wai
t until she got home, punching pain-override. Closing on five-thirty, the sky was beginning to lighten, she realized with alarm. It wouldn’t do to be seen by early-bird boaters or strollers. Chubby Phil Christakos had started to powerwalk at dawn.
Passing the deserted garden made her heart throb more than her finger. Charles had scarcely enjoyed the fruits of his labours. His zucchinis were bombs like hers, the lettuce rotten, the spinach bolting, and the luscious cherry tomatoes portable lunches for chipmunks. Only the root vegetables might be edible. She pulled on a carrot, tapped off the dirt, and stuck it in her pocket.
With her key, she entered the house quickly. Inside all was black as earth with heavy curtains drawn. Even so, she used the flashlight instead of risking a lamp. A quick paw through books and records brought nothing, nor did a perfunctory toss of the couch, chairs and pillows. Next came the tiny kitchen. Charles hadn’t lived there long enough to have accumulated much. Except for a new set of dishes, the original cottage fixings remained. She rummaged though the foodstuffs, flour, coffee, feeling silly. Some helpful sprite had cleaned out the fridge and left it open. Next came the bathroom. “Medicine,” Brown had said. Like a narcotics agent, she peered inside the toilet tank, pushed on the panelling, and opened the medicine chest, a cheap tin variety securely bolted to the wall. He had been serious about the high blood pressure. A half-full bottle of Norvasc sat next to the aspirin along with cold remedies, bug dope, corn plasters, and Metamucil. Middle-aged Land. Nothing more. Maybe poor old Brown had missed his meds the night before? What else could he have meant?
She turned to the bedroom. Under the bed, not even a dust bunny. In the closet, the beam revealed neat little shoe soldiers. Her fingers probed the floorboards, but the seams were solid. A masculine oak desk seemed inviting, and from a bottom drawer she retrieved a thick envelope. Money! Except with a merry Scot instead of a dour prime minister. Canadian Tire bonus bucks. Some enterprising Canucks had passed them as legal tender in Europe. Charles would have accumulated plenty by paying cash for home improvement supplies. Maybe fifty dollars with nickel and dime bills to fatten the pile. Quite a treasure. She laughed, resisting an urge to stuff it in her jacket. Then she noticed the envelope. Cream vellum. An exact double of Anni’s.
For a moment she sat at the desk eyeball to eyeball with “The Anatomy Lesson,” stunned against a terrible idea beginning to take root. Another drawer of stationery confirmed the suspicion. The paper belonged to Charles. Still, she defended him. Though he claimed not to have known Anni well, could an innocent exchange have passed between them? A recipe? A shy invitation to dinner unrequited? Mail misdirected, opened by mistake and returned?
Thoughts racing, Belle forced herself to resume the search. In the basement, the smelly oil heater and empty packing boxes made for fast work. Cement floor, cement block walls. What about the crawl space upstairs? The nefarious Paul Bernardo had concealed his documentary tapes of torture and murder in a light fixture, overlooked by the police who had gutted the house. Placing a chair on the kitchen table, she pushed aside a ceiling tile and hoisted herself up, brandishing the flashlight. Dust coated her as she scrambled over the joists, sneezing and dislodging long-abandoned mouse nests, finally dropping back with a grunt. Besides, how could Brown or Charles have played acrobat?
Only the toolshed remained, a sizable, windowless building containing the lawn tractor as well as the lathe and power saws which Charles had been so jubilant to discover. She found the key a perfect fit in the large padlock and, wincing at the metallic squeal, rolled aside the massive doors, closing them before hitting the lights. In the distance, a dog barked a question, and she swallowed nervously. Upstairs was a loft, apparently the repository for Brown’s wine-making equipment. Five- and ten-gallon green glass jugs sat mute along with dozens of empty bottles in dusty crates. She opened boxes of corks, filters and other paraphernalia her friend had probably kept in hopes of reviving his own craft, but now the raspberries were fast ripening and he would never sip their jewelled sweetness.
Downstairs was a nightmare, but one last hope. Minuscule drawers of nuts, bolts, and oddments, racks of wrenches and screwdrivers, flotsam and jetsam with a tang of oil and sawdust. She peered underneath the table saw, moved tarps and rolled the lawn tractor away from the wall. Though the front and sides of the shed had exposed two-by-four framing, the back was finished in drywall, lighter spaces indicating where pictures or other tack-ups had gone. A new IDA calendar was turned to July. Flipping along, she noticed that Charles had planned a massive bulb planting for the fall.
Next to the calendar was a large, built-in first aid cabinet. First aid? An old man’s fuzzy name for medicine? Inside on a shallow shelf were ancient bandage packages in graduated sizes, mercurochrome gone black, gauze, tape in sticky masses. Strike three. What had she missed? Belle stepped outside for a pee. Squatting in meditation, she noticed that the building backed against a steep hillside with an odd, dark shape on top. When she scrambled up to roof level, she found a ventilation pipe. Root cellars had the same construction. Was some space hidden behind that wall?
Returning on the run, she opened the first aid cabinet and placed everything on the floor, frantic at one last possibility. She gripped the sides, and with a sharp pull, lifted the structure out in one piece, leaving an opening about one-and-a-half-feet by two. Behind it was a clean, well-insulated cubicle containing a new plastic tote box.
Belle reached for the box, touched the cover with shaking hands, jumping at the thrum of a small motor by the shore. Little time left. She unclipped the snaps and opened the top, puzzled at the contents. A large piece of black cloth with flashes of white lay within tissue paper, carefully folded, covering some documents. Setting it aside for a moment, she examined the first item. An old passport. It was Charles. Handsome, young, many pounds lighter. The stamps indicated that for a few years in his youth, he’d travelled widely, Italy, England, Germany. What a wonderful companion he would have been. Then she glanced at the name. James Morris? The same words appeared on a Royal Bank passbook. Her frugal mind was appalled. Over five hundred thousand dollars with only the yearly accumulation of interest, paltry interest lately. Savings accounts were paying three-quarter percent. Only one withdrawal. June 15th. Thirty-five thousand dollars. How many times had she thought about that sum? The envelope, now this. A wave of nausea swept over her. Pictures didn’t lie. Charles had another identity, money he never used for himself, even to purchase the property. What else was a lie? Not knowing Anni? Why had he given the money to her, unless . . .
The sturdy twill unfolded, she held the large garment at arm’s length. It appeared to be a priest’s cassock. Then a white cloth, a surplice? Other small pieces of regalia she couldn’t identify without a lexicon, along with a tiny silver cross on a chain. No diary to serve as confessional. No exculpatory letters. Only a manila envelope containing a black and white picture which morphed Deborah Kerr with Agnes Moorehead, Saint and Manipulator icons. A young bride, seventeen perhaps, taking the veil, the selfsame white wimple that had caught her attention. What was Euphemia to him? Lover? Sister? Both?
With a rue late born, she remembered the precious wooden triptych, those Gregorian chants, the comments about punishment. What did it matter if Charles hadn’t been in the Osprey Inlet picture? Never in the picture, yet always there, like Sister Veronica’s sinister description. Somehow Anni had detected something wrong at the school, but had moved away before she could confirm her suspicions. Had she recognized Charles’ voice more than the bearded, fuller face? Zack had said that Anni was good at voices. What had she done then? A prudent woman in some ways, she wouldn’t have acted on mere intuition until checking with Edith.
Belle wanted to run from this place and never return, yet the signals weren’t reaching her legs. Too many unknowns. If Charles had killed Anni, had someone killed him? How fractured was the human jigsaw? Had she arrived at the Hill of Science, or was she floundering still in the Fields of Fiction? Truth was straining credibil
ity, even with this palpable evidence. Carefully she repacked the box, safe in its hole. Steve couldn’t ignore this, and what he’d say about her collection of facts and fantasies would scorch her ears.
As she locked up and headed for the gate, the scrape of gravel echoed down the lane. A series of painful creaks followed, as if metal were being stretched to capacity. She shrank into the shelter of a thick fir tree, making herself small and inconspicuous. The heaviness of a body falling to the ground made her catch her breath. Then a dark form lumbered towards her on all fours.
TWENTY-THREE
Ed, for God’s sake. Do you want to have to carry two canes?” she said as she helped him back over the gate, its wires bent into v’s where his feet had pushed.
“The dog put up a fuss, and I came to investigate. And what were you doing?”
“A final reconnaissance. I have to talk to Steve before I can give you any details.” The look of consternation on his face paid her in full for the near heart attack he’d caused with his snooping.
Belle trotted back with renewed purpose, calling Steve at home despite the early hour. No answer. Flinging her filthy body into the shower, she scrubbed diligently and dressed for work. The splinter was stubborn, requiring a combination of tweezers, wicked needles and educated guesses. Freya gave her another accusing look, and she forced herself to the mundane requirements of a working life, packing a hasty lunch. “Where do you think your dog food comes from? Three hots, two trots and a cot. OK. Just to the end of the road. Maybe this weekend we can go to Hidden Valley for blueberries.”