Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  The kitchen was industrial-sized, massive chopping blocks in the middle, sets of glassed mint-green cupboards with a wheeled ladder to reach the top shelves, two six-burner wood-burning cookstoves, a Renfrew Cookrite and an Enterprise, warming ovens and shiny nickel trimmings. Collectibles now, perhaps, but it wasn’t her province to assess antiques. Under the old Maritime Canadian flag with its Union Jack insert, the dining room boasted a table to feast thirty. How much staff would be needed for maintenance, cooking, laundry, cleaning and guiding?

  Back in the Great Room, Belle looked up sixty feet to where huge, honeyed pine beams braced the ceiling. After making more notes, she took the wide stairway to the second floor, grasping rustic wooden railings, now against code. She cruised through seven bedrooms, one per dwarf, ghostly with sheeted furniture. Two huge bathrooms, clawfooted tubs and marble sinks, must have been added shortly after World War I. Still serviceable, but a buyer would want to upgrade the septic system, a substantial expense. She shuddered to imagine what horrors had been allowed in those bygone days.

  A cozy corner bedroom overlooking the lake held a poster bed neatly made with a colourful Hudson Bay blanket. A silver grooming set lay primly on the dressing table, a few snow white hairs in the brush. Chintz curtains draped the windows. Faded dresses of velvet and lace and gauzy flapper shifts lined up in the freestanding wardrobe. Closets had not been de rigueur when the lodge had been built, and guests needed little space for a short stay in the bush. Growing increasingly curious, she opened the drawers to discover a more practical and well-worn selection of flannel shirts and jeans. The room was dust-free and neat, except for a shattered cheval glass mirror so darkened with age that only a blur looked back. A black-and-white snapshot of a handsome man resembling Frances X. Bushman in his Ben Hur chariot days, circa 1926, was framed on the wall. In baggy white pants and a tartan bush shirt, he stood by a dock, his eyes shaded at the camera. So this was Barbara’s room. Could this portrait be that of a lover?

  Outside, she didn’t bother with the cabins and bunkhouse, sturdy enough, needing only new shingles. Two outhouses with moon doors had fresh paint, Bucks lettered on one and Does on the other. Through the snow, she followed a narrow, tramped bootpath to the boathouse, the size of three garages. The low-pitched roof bore signs of Heino’s shovelling. Along one wall, overturned rowboats, wasted by dryrot, lined up on racks. Inside, clamped onto a two-by-four frame, a dozen Evinrude motors awaited instructions. On a hand-winched lift was a teak cruiser often called a Muskoka, after the posh central Ontario region, polished to a gleam reflected through the cobwebbed window. Someone had loved this boat. “Princess” was inscribed on the stern with elaborately gilded letters. Suddenly a creak made her jump.

  “Everything OK?” Toque in his gnarly hand, Heino resembled a goblin. His wrinkled face put him anywhere from a hardlife sixty to a centrefold ninety. A wicked burn scar marked his right cheek and two fingers brushed it self-consciously.

  “What a magnificent lodge. Do you know its history?”

  Invited to coffee in the bunkhouse, she sat on a steelframe bed in the main room, warmed by a handmade, oil-drum stove. In a corner nook were a hotplate, dishes and pans, a bucket of water with a dipper. A shelf held cartons of canned goods and a bag of flour. No sign of running water, so he probably used the sauna for winter bathing. His coffee, robust and fresh, bubbled up in a blue enamel pot. Accepting a cup, she found a shard of eggshell in the first sip, winkling it out discreetly.

  “Grew up here,” he said. “Pa did the guiding and Ma was chief cook.” An older brother had tended the boats but drowned in an accident at eighteen.

  As she smiled and listened more than talked, he opened up, pleased to tell her his recollections. “Lots of fancy rich people here in them high-flyin’ days. Writers, all kinds of famous artists. Even bigwigs from the Premier’s office stopped by to try their luck for our fat pickerel.”

  “And the lodge operated until—”

  “1951 to be exact, ma’am. That’s when Miss Barbara’s parents died in a car accident. She came home from the funeral and closed the place up. Never did much before anyway, mooning around. Ma said she got her heart broken as a girl.” He touched a finger to the side of his sharp little nose. “But she was ninety-five when she died. That’s a long time to carry a torch.”

  Recalling the bedroom museum, Belle pieced together the evidences of a life. “No other family? No visitors?”

  “Nope. And didn’t surprise me she made no will. Hell, I didn’t expect nothing myself. Say, suppose the new owners might let me stay on? I’m pretty handy. Keep the place ticking like a clock.”

  “It’s possible, Heino.” Belle’s sympathies went out to the man. She’d have to put in a good word. Then she cocked her head and did more computations. “Are you saying that for the last fifty-some years she hadn’t seen anyone?”

  He blew his nose with a huge checkered handkerchief. “Happy enough in her own world. I’d take her out to fish in the Princess. Nights she’d read those Harley Quinn books I got at the library, kept up with the papers, listened to what we could get on the radio. No television out here.”

  “But with no income, how did you manage?”

  “Lived simple, a moose see us through winter, then rabbits, partridge. Sold off some timber now and then. I put up the garden stuff like Ma did. Beans and bacon did us fine. Insurance money lasted over thirty years, then some long-term bonds. But them damn taxes kept climbin’. Taxes overdue. That’s when he came. Miss Barbara found his ad in the classified.”

  Belle paused in mid-sip. Finns were shy, but once they got cooking, look out. “Who? Another realtor?”

  Heino refilled their cups and sat back in a neatly patched aluminum lawn chair. “Fellow who bought antiques. See, she got it in her crazy head that something might be valuable. Maybe old Betsy.”

  Humming a tuneless melody to add to the mystery, Heino escorted her to the storage barn. Next to an ancient Bombardier snowmachine, a dusty tarp covered a huge mound. “Betsy,” he said with pride.

  “A car?”

  “Forty-nine Stud-e-o-baker.”

  “In top shape?”

  “Guess not,” he said, pulling away the tarp gently to reveal a rust bucket, nose cones jutting out like Jane Russell’s Maidenform darlings. “Too durn damp in this climate. That’s what he said, that Mr. Elf. She was real disappointed.”

  “Mr. El . . . Melibee Elphinstone?” She should have twigged at the mention of antiques. So that’s how the man trolled for treasure.

  “Oozy sort. Went over the place with a fine tooth comb. Into everything. Came back later with a U-haul and took a rosewood chiffonnier, rolltop desk.” He scratched his head and assumed a quizzical look. “Even some moth-eaten comic books from the war years. Captain Marvel. Superman. What kind of dummy would want those?”

  “When was this?” Classic comics could be worth hundreds. Belle had never forgiven her mother for throwing out the first issue of Mad that she’d bought at a garage sale.

  He squinted in deep recollection, a man who measured time by seasons. “Week before the first heavy snow. Middle of November. Then just before Christmas, he gave Reg at the gas station in Cartier fifty bucks to haul him out on his sled. We were socked in tight as a tick. Made another tour, attic to basement. Last I saw of him, he and Miss Barbara were having words. Some nasty fight. Still see her shaking her fist and ordering him off the place. Guess he wouldn’t offer enough for something.”

  Melibee ferried around on the back of a snowmobile. Belle was so engrossed by the story that she had forgotten the time. A wind-up alarm clock on the table read 3:45. “It’s later than I thought. I hate driving in the dark. So have I seen everything?”

  “Been down below?”

  Back in the house, they followed servants’ stairs to a stone basement. A patched cement cistern five-feet high stood empty, once used for collecting rain water from the roof for washing. Through cavernous warrens they walked, an empty, cobwebbed wine ce
llar, bare storage nooks for canned goods and luggage. The air was dank and chill. Finally they reached the end, a small, dim utility room where the temperature rose. Ancient paint cans formed a ziggurat in one corner. Saws, adzes, and planers sat on a platform, a pegboard held collections of wrenches and screwdrivers, and along the wall leaned scrap plywood amid stiff brown rolls of paper. Belle knelt next to a pile of newspapers, yellowed and crumbling. Shoe salesman Harry Truman was waving a copy of the New York newspaper claiming that his rival Dewey had won the 1948 presidential election.

  She felt a bead of sweat roll down her forehead. “Why do you keep this room warm?”

  “Dunno. Always did. From the start the lodge had a boiler, radiators. Then got the electricity and put in heaters.”

  “Yes, I was surprised at the power line. That must have cost.”

  “Spared no expense to keep guests comfortable,” he said in approval. “’Course that was in Colin Bagshaw’s time, Miss Barbara’s father.”

  Belle moved across the dry concrete floor to the piles of scrap boards. In the flickering light from a lone bulb, some seemed vaguely coloured, smeared with paint, children’s efforts. She sneezed at the dust. What a tinderbox. Yet it had potential, given a cleanup.

  As she turned to leave, she saw moisture in Heino’s eyes. He blew his nose with a honking sound. “She died here, Miss Barbara did. Heart gave out. I found her all peaceful like. Face as smooth as a young girl’s.”

  Seventeen

  At the office, Belle found Miriam chatting with Jesse. “Would you tell this one to relax?” Jesse said. “I’m still wrapping up loose ends.”

  “Me, too. Your Christmas presents finally came,” Miriam said. “I thought they were lost in the mail between here and Minnesota.” On Belle’s desk were two colourful parcels.

  Belle gave her a smile and with an interested eye, opened the box and unfolded a navy fleece jacket made by North Face. Top-of-the-line equipment. Very light, like a sweater. When she put it on, she felt a lump and cords. “Are you trying to electrocute me?”

  Miriam laughed and clapped her hands. “ ‘Warmth on Demand,’ the brochure says. I know you hate wearing your heavy down coat in the van. Spare batteries, too.”

  Belle was amused at the high-tech venture but hid her suspicions about the effectiveness of such paraphernalia. Miriam must have spent hundreds on the gear. “What’s in the other package? More electric . . .”

  “Socks! Now you’re totally wired for action!”

  Late that afternoon, instead of an interview with the Chief of Police, supposedly at a conference in Montreal, Belle found herself leafing through Blue Line magazines in a central waiting room. In a study of murder rates per 100,000 people, Canada weighed in at a smug 2.3, next to the U.S.’s 8.8. Among cities, Washington D.C. hit the homicidal jackpot at 59.5, nearly 45 times peaceful Toronto’s 1.8. But what made her squirm in her plastic seat was Sudbury’s dubious distinction, grouped with Regina and Saskatoon between 4.0 and 5.0. The dull headache from a night of stove backdrafts wasn’t helping her mood.

  Just before five, she was directed to the office of Ronnie Jurok, a liaison officer. Instead of choosing a friendly armchair and coffee table cluster in the corner, Ronnie motioned her toward a straight chair across from a circular computer desk. Thick taupe carpeting, dark brown vertical fabric blinds, a selection of abstract lithographs, and a view of busy Paris Street made Steve’s office look like a shambles. Trim in creased wool pants and a hand knit sweater decorated with lions, Ronnie offered coffee, which Belle waved off to begin outlining the escalating harassment that was stealing her sleep.

  “Brian Dumontelle’s behind all of this.” She wondered at the politics of mentioning the rumours about the man’s shady connections, but voted with her mouth, then added with an earnest expression, “I’ve known Steve for twenty years. If he had a gun at his head, he wouldn’t break the law.”

  Barely thirty, from the recent MBA diploma framed on the wall, trained in public relations more than policework, Ronnie smiled unconvincingly behind mauve-tinted glasses as she jotted on a pad what looked like doodles not words. “Your . . . concerns have been noted. But an ongoing investigation is very confidential.”

  “His wife said he’s in a safe house. I’m a close friend. Is there any way I can—”

  “Naturally, he’s talked with his wife and legal counsel. Anyone else is out of the question.”

  Belle’s molars clenched so hard that she thought she heard her seven-hundred-dollar gold crown crack. She stood, eyes narrowed, surrendering to the bureaucratic firewall. “How long before this . . . situation will be resolved?”

  Ronnie raised a ruthlessly plucked eyebrow narrower than Jean Harlow’s at her most ingenuous and snagged the phone on ring one with undisguised relief at quick closure. Listening for a moment, her voice played dulcet violins. “Mayor Gordon, can you hold a second?” She muffled the receiver and remarked blandly, “I don’t wish to sound harsh, but your guess is as accurate as mine. Justice isn’t quick. And for good reason. But it will be served.”

  Tell that to Guy Paul Morin, tried twice and jailed for years in between for murdering a young girl next door. He’d fit the profile so well that evidence had been tainted, if not manufactured. She returned to the office with sagging shoulders. Jack hadn’t reported in lately, Miriam seemed to be enjoying her temporary vacation, and property transactions were as frozen as her rockwall. Confiding to Jesse about Steve, she found herself twisting a tissue into shreds. “What can I—”

  “A typical Gemini. Juggling fifty plates at once, all crashing onto your head. Take a lesson from a balanced Libra. Go one step at a time, nothing less, nothing more. You’ve been running across town tracking suspects to clear Miriam. Difficult enough. And now from what you say, Steve’s problems are beyond your control. Are you trying to drive yourself to a stroke?” She reached into a desk drawer for a blood pressure machine, affixed it like a rubber octopus to Belle’s arm amid protests and took a reading. “145/92. That’s terrible. Cut out the poisonous coffee for one thing. Drink my green tea. The anti-oxidants will boost your immune system.”

  “They won’t make me immune from murder. At this point, I don’t care any more.” Wrenching free of the tell-tale cuff, Belle took several deep breaths, then massaged her temples. “Steve’s the last person I need to lose now. And this headache . . .”

  Jesse passed Belle three aspirins, a cup of tea and a pile of faxes. Then she riffled a set of file cards like a keno dealer. “I’m no Puritan, but sometimes their work ethic has merits. Stop stewing and get back to your job.”

  After gulping her medicine like a chastened child, Belle followed the advice. Then she flipped off her glasses, squinting at the small print. The thin, crowded page seemed blurrier than usual, or was it fatigue? “And to top it off, I need reading glasses,” she mumbled.

  Jesse turned her head. “What’s that?”

  The message repeated at double decibels, Jesse waved her gigantic squared-off tortoise-shell trifocals. “Welcome to middle age. Bite the bullet and get bifocals,” she said. “But not those gradual lenses. You end up with twenty percent in No Man’s Land.”

  “Impossible. How could I walk in the woods without tripping?” Belle rubbed her nose, stopping short of mentioning that she’d feel ten years older. Then she perked up at a connection. “Call Celeste for the name of Melibee’s optician neighbour. We’ll score a two-birder with one stone.”

  Parachuted in after a cancellation that afternoon, Belle found herself in Dr. Reid’s waiting room, staring at another fish tank. Was there something about Sudbury that encouraged that hobby? A touch of Tanganyika inside the tundra? On adjoining chairs, two teenagers discussed the merits of Ecstasy and plans for a rave at a local club, a baba in a long black dress knitted pink booties, and a jumbo-bellied man in a snowmobile jumper tried to engage her in conversation about the Blue Jays’ new closer. Maybe it was called spring training in Dunedin, Florida, but tell that to the ten feet of s
now on her roof. Browsing through the magazines, she picked up a National Enquirer with Cher’s picture on the cover. In Michael Jackson mode, the Cherokee princess had undergone one too many facelifts and lost all her skin’s elasticity. A grim mask looked at Belle, who resolved to add an extra layer of aloe lotion before bed.

  Marvin Reid was a short, pigeon-breasted man with an immaculate white coat, teal shirt, a pretentious dotted red bow tie only Pierre Berton could handle, and tiny wire-rimmed glasses. His small fingers danced like hamsters as he snicked interminable armies of lenses into the machine. The routine always made her nervous, a critical test whose scores no study could improve. After ten torturous minutes, her answers lost all confidence. “Yes, no, maybe, I give up.”

  Reid sighed in clear impatience, releasing a spicy odour of cloves, an odd choice for breath management. “Don’t be so precise. Choose whatever lens is better, even marginally, total clarity aside. Notice that I review your choices several times to pinpoint the results. You couldn’t lie if you tried.”

  Melibee, Miriam, now Steve. Lies and distortions. My whole life lately, Belle thought. Would anything ever bracket itself into clarity, click neatly into place? In the darkened room, she drifted underwater, the scene as blurry as the Vaselined lens that had filmed Doris Day in Midnight Lace.

  Finally Reid switched on the light, leaving her blinking like a lemur at the glare. “Presbyopia,” he announced as he rechecked the chart, adding bluntly, “Common at your age.”

  “Sounds contagious.”

  “There are other options. You could try the new eye surgery.” From a handy pile on his desk, he plucked a business card promoting the local whiz kid. Did Reid get a percentage? From what she had read, at nearly $3000 per peeper, the profit margins were considerable.

  “Not a chance. Call me conservative, but I’m not letting lasers slice these babies. I was given only one pair. And just a reading prescription, please. No bifocals.”