by Lou Allin
“MacDonald. Another Scot. Pure as the driven snow. A scoundrel like that Elphinstone has 1001 enemies,” he advised as she kissed him goodbye. “Get cracking and sort them out. But I’m not so sure about Evelyn Dick. Remember that twenty you gave me for the haircut woman?”
“I put it in your glasses case in your bedside table drawer.” He’d abandoned the spectacles and seemed to be able to read and watch television without them.
“It’s gone.” He snapped his fingers.
Belle nodded, saving his pride by not checking the drawer. Petty theft was not uncommon in a place where wanderers played pick-up-clothes, a reason for nametags on everything. The staff advised against leaving money in the rooms. “Let’s play it safe. I’ll drop off a cheque at the desk.”
Belle passed down the hall, stopping to greet tiny Millie Richards, a sheaf of magazines under her arm. Her mother Fern was only sixty, but a diabetic who had recently lost a leg, leaving her unable to care for herself. Millie had despaired at having to put her into Rainbow, but with her own bad heart and her husband’s back injury, couldn’t handle the physical requirements. “Mom OK?” Belle asked.
Millie closed her black peppercorn eyes with relief. “These people are angels. It was a good decision. Phil can’t lift more than a can of beans, and when I get home from my cashier job at Wal-Mart, neither can I.” She narrowed her eyes. “Say, did you read about that son of a bitch stealing from the old folks?”
Belle swallowed a groan, the first aftershocks of Melibee’s fraud starting to bear human faces. Fern played rummy with her father. “Not your mother!”
Millie nodded, her woollen coat nondescript brown like her sparrow face. “All she had. Dad’s insurance money. She bought promissory notes at twenty percent. When Phil rounded up her stuff for the tax man a few weeks ago, all hell broke loose. Instead of a private room like your dad’s, now she’s in a ward of four. Company, I suppose, but still . . .” Her eyes grew anxious, her voice confidential as she shielded her mouth. “Phil tried to find him at his office, but it was never open. He was so mad. God knows what he’d have done. Then we read about the murder. Good riddance.”
Belle left with her father’s words echoing in her ears. One more suspect joined the ranks, despite his physical problems. Entering the van, she reached for a notebook and jotted Phil’s name.
Later that night, Celeste Goldman’s pearl grey BMW 760Li pulled into Jesse’s driveway, and after introductions, Belle treated the women to Greek fare at Herc’s on Notre Dame. When Celeste removed her white Burberry trench coat, little remained except for six feet of skin, bone and sinew, her swanlike neck turning her short, blood-red curls like a beacon. She looked barely twenty-five and hadn’t stopped chewing gum since she arrived.
All ordered the combo plate of souvlaki, rice and salad. Watching the lawyer tuck into the piles of food dispelled all thoughts of anorexia. A case of supermetabolism, a burning energy injected into her causes, perhaps. Jesse had said that Celeste had graduated at the top of her class and preferred justice over income, relishing high-profile pro bono cases.
Belle savoured a succulent piece of marinated pork. Rosemary or marjoram? Then she offered a brief synopsis of events.
“You’ve given me a start. I’ll talk to Miriam post-haste tomorrow,” Celeste said to Belle, her powder-white face a sharp triangle. “Then we’ll try to ascertain what evidence the police have and whether this is going anywhere. Even though she’s not charged now, forewarned is forearmed. And should it come to that, heaven forbid, they’ll expect us to plea bargain. Trials are expensive.”
“What plea bargain? Aren’t you jumping ahead? I told you her prints were an accident. She’s 100% innocent. No possible motive.” Stated simply, believed on trust.
Celeste finished her Coke and gave a sceptical snort. “Let’s be frank and waste nobody’s time. Clearly they were involved, as you admit. The police will be considering a lover’s quarrel, perhaps jealousy over another woman.”
“Another . . .” Belle sat back in sudden uneasiness. What did she know about the man other than what the newspaper stated, and what Miriam had told her? Was there a third party? Those paintings certainly proved a fixation with youth. “I hadn’t . . . but that’s impossible.” She shook her head helplessly, aware of the self-serving logistical snares that cast innocent people into life sentences. David Milgaard, Donald Marshall, Steven Truscott. Some had served decades behind bars before being released after DNA tests or a review of the evidence showed a conspiracy to convict. Blinded by aggressive profiling, authorities made up their minds and tweaked the evidence to prove guilt. Could that nightmare happen to Miriam?
Celeste scooped up the last rice grain and called for an order of baklava. “This is too simple a case. Ergo it’s complicated. No apparent witnesses. The woman just happens upon the body. Meshuga. Craziness. Glomming her hands on the murder weapon. Either she’s the stupidest person on earth, or—”
Ergo nothing, you pompous egret. Belle leaned forward with a passion. “Pardon me, Celeste. Have you ever found a loved one with his head bashed in? With your harsh attitude, you may not be the right—”
Celeste bared tiny, luminous white teeth. “With my objective attitude, I am the only choice. I chaired the Osgoode Hall Debate Team and never lost a match.” As she stuffed wads of Dentine into her mouth like priming a cannon, a cloud of cinnamon floated over the table. “Let me get . . . this . . . clear. She’s your goooood friend. Yada yada. How many times have I heard that?” Waving her hands, she spat out the words, her gum flying onto the table, where Jesse covered it with a serviette. “You say that it’s impossible for her to have killed Elphinstone. ‘Impossible’ is a very stupid word, because impossible it’s not. Forensics may not pinpoint the death beyond a few hours. The word you want is ‘improbable.’ ”
Belle retreated for a moment, her face flushing as she considered the hard logic. “Under provocation, anyone can kill, I suppose. Self-defense, protecting a child.” Or dog. “But we were all heading for dinner. She was so happy that afternoon.”
Celeste’s hazel, gimlet eyes narrowed in response. “Passions sparking expectations. Exactly. Who knows what went on in that apartment? But there is another possibility, that she killed him and has repressed it.”
Though knowing that Miriam had become nearly catatonic, Belle resisted climbing onto this dubious bandwagon. “Never.”
Celeste raised one long finger, the ragged nails bitten into the inflamed quick. “Absolutes are dangerous. Let me present the final option.”
“Which is?” Belle watched Celeste’s slit peach mouth curl into a smirk like a wriggling question mark. Diners at a nearby table turned towards them in the lengthening silence.
Jesse peered at her watch conspicuously and nudged her niece’s arm. “Get to the point. You always were a tiresome child, Celeste, leading everyone along the garden path while you concocted silly theories about Murder, She Wrote.”
Celeste stuck out her tongue in a practiced gesture as her great-aunt rolled her eyes. “If she’s innocent, the timing was lucky for the murderer, or maybe someone knew Miriam was coming to Elphinstone’s. You were in his apartment. Did you notice anything unusual?”
Other than the body and the murder weapon? Suddenly thrust into speculation, Belle squeezed her eyes together and summoned up a stage. A stately pleasure dome of gorgeous furniture, a fortune in artwork. Rented illusions. Wasn’t there a sideboard? “I saw an empty champagne bottle. Two glasses.”
“Drank? Argued?” Celeste pulled apart her baklava like dissecting a sticky frog, shoving one crunchy portion into her mouth as the honey drooled. “Now that alcohol has entered the scene, her innocence is a crapshoot. Does she take drugs, too? We might be able to claim . . .”
Eight
Belle mopped up the last of the hummus and pita bread, saving on lunch costs thanks to Jesse’s generosity. “You’re putting in fifty-hour weeks. Saturday mornings, too. I wish I could compensate you.”
Shifting her broad shoulders like an affronted wrestler, Jesse waved her off with a snarl. “How insulting, my dear young insouciant friend. Besides, the kind government pays me CPP for my years at Harold’s, plus four hundred a month for my wrinkles. What a country. No wonder the loonie’s lower than the peso. My Mother Jones and Ms. subscription renewals made me choke on my kishke.”
“Speaking of money, I want to thank you for bringing Celeste here, but I can’t help wondering how she can afford to take these cases for free.”
“Easy. Zeyde’s Kosher Foods. Her grandfather founded the company in 1890.”
“I have some of their wieners in my fridge. So we’re talking about a meat-packing firm?”
“Much more. Nearly anything can be kosher. Depends on the ingredients and preparation. Marshmallows have been a real sticking point because gelatin is an animal product. Zeyde’s pioneered the true vegetarian variety.”
Her eyes watering from the hot sauce addition to the hummus, Belle reached for a tissue, noticing that a man-sized box had replaced her sixty-nine-cent one-ply specials. Meanwhile, Jesse put away the lunch paraphernalia and consulted a page in a battered address book. “I’ve been talking with my friends, those not yet planted in the marble orchard. Elphinstone’s name came up.”
Belle’s heart sank at the additional pathos even as she welcomed the news. “Did they lose their money?”
“Carol’s too smart for that. Maybe you can get some helpful information from her.” Jesse passed over a phone number.
No time for that now, Belle thought. Then she swallowed her pride and called Steve. Since their last meeting, his mood hadn’t improved. “Of course, I want Miriam cleared,” he said sharply. “But as for turning over our progress to you, forget it.”
Progress, she muttered, muffling the phone to mute her frustration. She bit back a snarl and moderated her voice to cajole levels. “Leak something. You know you want to. How about time of death?”
His sigh blasted the lines. As if to escape, he commented, “Lunch. Wine. End of story. The body was still warm and pliable at seven when Miriam said she arrived.”
Belle toyed with a pencil, her eyebrow arched for action. “Said? Are you—”
“It’s not looking good. If she’s arraigned, there’ll be a bail hearing. Have you thought about that, or are you flying around half-cocked?”
Images of sleazy bail-bond operations crossed her mind. Why hadn’t she seen any, even in Toronto? Belle’s cash register eyes blinked in cold fear. Miriam had only what investments she’d made with Melibee. And as for her own mutual funds in the toilet, cashing them in would cost a fortune, her evil imp whispered.
Interpreting her quiet as acquiescence, he added in dark tones: “I’m wanted on another line. Butt out. Let us do the investigation.”
Belle’s pencil snapped, catapulting over Jesse’s head like an orange rocket. “Into what? Sounds like you’re calling it open and shut. Don’t you have any other suspects?”
“A lapsed insurance policy listed a wife. There’s no apparent will, so when we find her, under the law she inherits everything, whatever that is.”
“A wife! He told Miriam the woman died years ago.”
“Are you surprised at this seedy revelation? And what about that pit bull from Ottawa? Sudbury lawyers beneath you? Anyway, it’ll be months before this comes to trial, if it does.”
“’If’ is right. There’s more out there, and I’m going to find it.”
“Will you stop—” But Belle hung up, trumping his usual move.
Between a tiresome visit to the Land Registry Office and an estimate for a potential client near the college, she sandwiched in a thought for the number one suspect on her list, Phil Richards, Millie’s disabled husband. The Richards lived on Lansing Avenue in New Sudbury. Here was a chance to learn if the man really were incapacitated. As an excuse for visiting, she purchased a jar of homemade red currant jam at Smith’s, a gourmet store with gold-plated produce and prices to match.
Pulling into the drive, she felt uneasy at the absence of a car. Millie was probably at work. The walk was cleared, a snowblower tarped under a carport. From within the house, the bass thump of rap shook the walls. Tapping on the door brought no answer, and a path to the backyard was blocked by a four-foot pile of snow from a recently shovelled roof still heavy with ice dams at the sagging eavestroughing. Then she moved down the driveway, attracted by basement lights. Crouched like a homonculus in an effort to peer through one small, steamy window, she spied a man lying on a padded bench, hoisting massive free weights, a tape deck by his side. His age was indistinct, his head bald or deliberately shaved. On a large frame, he wore a bulky sweatsuit darkened by perspiration rings. When he frowned beetle brows and set his thick mouth into grunt mode in a last effort to lift, she declined to bang on the glass like a voyeuse. It wouldn’t have been the first time that a false disability claim had been made. In the Nickel Capital, some citizens lived a double life, prostrate during the day, conducting furtive business at night. Imagining frigid stakeouts, she was glad not to be a private investigator.
As she left, she saw an older woman bumping a wheeled grocery basket down the slippery sidewalk. It threatened to topple and spill its burden. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Minutes later, safely inside her tiny Cape Cod home, Thelma Parmalee insisted that Belle stay for hot cider. “The bus stop is so far down the block. I should have stocked up before the last storm,” she said, offering a plate of luscious shortbread dotted with hunks of semi-sweet chocolate.
“Were you visiting the Richards next door?” she asked, smoothing a flowered full-apron like Belle’s Aunt Marian wore. Her stiffly permed hair exposed a baby pink scalp, and a hearing aid poked from one dimpled ear.
“Millie’s mother lives in the same nursing home as my father,” Belle said, tasting the cider, clove floating on top. “I was going to drop off . . . tell her . . . about a group that’s forming to lobby for better nursing home standards.” And there must be one, she thought, pleased to be rolling in merry lies.
“God, yes. I’m saving the pills. Got one of those Hemlock Society guidebooks,” the woman said with a firm expression on her apple-doll face. “Can’t walk, can’t think, good night, nurse. And no need for a prescription. Just ordinary across-the-counter medications in the right combination.”
Belle wanted to tell her that the decision wasn’t so simple, that often the gradual diminishment dulled initial will, but she merely let the rich shortbread melt in her mouth. The double sweetness was as cloying as her rhetoric while she pursed her lips in empathy. “Naturally, Millie had no choice with her husband—”
“Poor Phil. Hardly see him at all these days. Hires a young lad to do the blowing. That awful accident at the mill. Hurt his back on a winch going. . . .” She emphasized the gruesome point with a snap of her fingers. A chiming clock on the mantel led Belle to finish her cup and attempt to rise, but the woman pushed forward more shortbread with a hopeful expression.
“Lovely quiet neighbourhood,” Belle said, taking another piece. “I’m a realtor, always on the lookout.”
“Is that so? I’ll keep you in mind. For my friends, of course. I’m going to live here until I die.” She fluttered a hand across her concave chest, looking out the side window to the Richards’ place, its Christmas icicle lights still dribbling from the eaves. “But it isn’t that quiet. I hear noises at night.”
“Noises?”
“Scraping. And then this morning, their roof was cleared. That boy shouldn’t have been up there in the dark. Suppose he fell.”
Belle left the woman the jam and Phil on her list. Why had tiny bird Millie been so naïve as to make such an innuendo about revenge? Perhaps she feared Phil. Obviously, she trusted Belle, a mistake, with Miriam’s future at stake.
Later that afternoon, shuffling a load of papers to the van, she noticed that it was vaguely lopsided. The illusion of drifts? She knelt and scraped away the snow, cursing as her hands
stiffened with cold. The front left tire was flounder flat. Bad timing, but no great surprise. Refusing to pick her way around rocks on her unpaved road and risk a head-on collision from someone doing the same, Belle shredded a set of tires each year. In summer, she accepted this calmly, equipped with a lug wrench and pneumatic jack. Finger-breaking minus twenty-five windchill temperatures were another story. She went inside to dial CAA, drank the last coffee, and was on her way home in an hour, having dropped off the flat at Canadian Tire. “No nail,” the mechanic had said. “Maybe just a slow leak or an unsealed rim.”
Her answering machine had recorded several hangups. Kids playing again, or those bothersome telemarketers? Twenty-four seven accessibility was paramount in her profession. Otherwise she’d get an unlisted number, even if Bell Canada charged extra. What a paradox: Nothing for something.
“Only a short one,” she said to the dogs as she Velcro’d the pup into her Fido Fleece cape. With her hair growing rapidly, she looked like a ruffian. So much for easy care poodles. Self-preservation instincts guided her. Speed, agility, and barking, all designed to deter predators. In the house, however, these were banes, not gifts.
Half an hour later, hiking up the snowshoe trail behind her house, they reached Chimbly Rock. From this pivotal overlook, featuring a six-foot outcropping of olivine diabase atop the granite bedrock, she could see her web of trails branching out below in all directions. The poodle began dancing, pawing icy feet. Belle knelt, placed it upside down on her lap and warmed the pads to release the painful chunks. Ice balls the size of marbles hung from the fur on her chest. “You have heart, but you can’t fight the climate. Pudel, originally ‘water dog’ in German, yes. Ice dog, no.” Freya raised a dark eyebrow in apparent disdain.
The next day at work, Jesse took their ads to the newspaper. Running out of paper clips, Belle rummaged through Miriam’s desk. One drawer held a neat stack of unopened bills: phone, Hydro, cable. Often Miriam brought mail to the office and walked to the bank nearby. Canadians led the world in use of debit cards as well as visits to Internet porn sites. Peace, good government and a touch of magic fingers in the night.