by Lou Allin
“Plane tickets to . . .” Miriam began to rise, but Belle motioned her down. Foolish at this point to cause a row with the girl, cooperatively spilling her youthful guts.
“New York City first, of course. He called it the Big Apple. Cool. It’s ten times bigger than Toronto. Stay at a fancy hotel, see the top shows, do some awesome shopping. Then we were going on down to the islands.” While her audience sat on edge, she paused as if conjuring a scene out of the Arabian Nights, magical places for a local teenager. “Turks and Caicos. Cheap property. The new Barbados, Melie said, and he’d know. We could have started a little inn.”
Miriam snorted, crossed one leg and swung it nervously. “How ridiculous. That doesn’t sound like him. Are you making this up?”
“Excuse me. Much you people knew. He loved to cook.” The girl tossed her turquoise head like a restive cartoon pony. “Especially brunch. Eggs Benedict was his specialty.”
Belle found the prospect of Melibee working a respectable job a new dimension to his personality, perhaps more plausible than other scenarios. Jack had been making Freya raise a paw by offering her cheese bits. But he leaned forward, cracking his knuckles to get their attention. “Not millions, then. But what old prospectors used to call a grubstake. Did he talk to anyone? How about phone calls?”
The girl sighed, picked up a Triscuit and smeared it with Canadian Brie, taking a test bite, wriggling her tongue around it with a moue. “This isn’t French, is it? Melie taught me about cheese. For example, Stilton needs to be—”
“Did you overhear anything?” Jack’s voice had a nuance of irritation which only close friends would recognize.
Crystal tapped herself along the head, flashing him a smile. “Duh. Sorry. Now I remember, K . . . ben. Neat name. You look kinda old for Star Wars, though. There was one funny thing. ‘Eh, why.’ ”
They recited in unison. “Eh? Why?”
Her plump pink face was clearly as puzzled as theirs. “No, like together, but not a question. I heard him say it on the phone a couple of times the week before he died. But he never explained. Guess what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.” She spread her hands in convincing naïveté. “Who knows? A code, maybe.”
Belle followed Crystal to the Airport Road turn to make sure that she passed the rough hills, then returned home where Miriam and Jack were cleaning up. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is she lying?”
Jack dropped his cigarette into the pop can, shaking it until the smoke disappeared. “An airhead. ‘Windshield factor.’ Can you believe?”
“Thanks for not mentioning ‘the old bag’,” Miriam said, heading for the bathroom.
“She’ll get over it,” Jack said, cocking his thumb. “I think we make a great team. Did you like my approach? Sort of wait, then pounce like a cat?”
“The important thing is that we got the information and didn’t scare her off. Melibee had a hole card after all. And her brother wrote that note, no mistake.” But were Melibee’s attentions to Crystal enough to make Doug Wilson a murderer? With Steve gone, any information from the investigation was frozen. Maybe she should make an anonymous call to the police about Doug. On a pay phone, of course, with gloves on and her voice disguised.
Long after they left, and she had finished a platter of angel hair pasta with sausage meat sauce and an avocado salad with balsamic vinegar, she watched Hitchcock’s The Thirty Nine Steps, starring Robert Donat as a military officer on a wild chase across England.
“Eh, why.” Where was a cryptologist when you needed one?
Twenty
A breath before noon the next day, Dorothy Grasslin, Miriam’s friend from the San, walked into the office flashing a set of coupons. “Just my luck to win these gift certificates at a charity auction. ‘This Ain’t the Only Cafe,’ the place is called. Down on Elgin Street.”
Belle felt her stomach rumble as she closed a file cabinet. “A client recommended it. Their food is better than their grammar.”
“I’m starving in this weather, but I certainly can’t eat fifty dollars worth of lunch, so how about both of you joining me? It’s possible that I might want to sell the camp this spring. We can discuss that as well.”
“How generous, Dorothy, and I miss our chats,” Miriam said, pointing with a sigh to an empty brown paper bag. “But I just finished mine, and I need to call Canadian Tire about my car. Treat the boss instead, and we’ll get together another time. I’ve started a new quilt you might like to see. Grandmother’s flower garden. Small hexagonal repeat patterns. An old technique of English paper piecing.”
“I think I ran across that beauty in my research at the library. It sounds like the perfect occupation for winter nights,” Dorothy said.
Unable to resist a free meal or another timely customer, Belle grabbed her coat. As they left, they could hear Miriam’s perturbed tones. “The computerized what’s shot? And two weeks for an aftermarket alternator? Can’t wait to freeze my bum waiting for a bus.”
The temperature hadn’t risen above minus twenty-five all day, typical early February weather, the kind that felt like pneumonia had struck if you breathed too deeply. At Dorothy’s brisk lead, her astrakhan coat swinging around her lanky legs and what looked like a ski pole tapping on the icy pavement, they walked in record time through the downtown core to the small restaurant. As they opened the door, a tantalizing aroma of garlic and roast meat greeted them. Choosing the only free spot, a round table by the windows, they opened the menus with great anticipation, smiling at each other. The choices consisted of three homemade soups, custom-built sandwiches, omelets and a host of salads.
“Soup weather,” Belle said. “And I want my sandwich hot. The croque monsieur looks good.”
Dorothy nodded, arranging her coat behind her and leaning the pole against the wall. “My thoughts exactly. Pass the carbos and don’t spare the cholesterol. You’re a woman who likes her food. Never could stand those picky salad eaters on sitcoms.”
Belle couldn’t help noticing her stick. “That would be handy in the woods. Did you get it here?”
Dorothy passed her the handsome Leki trekking pole, triple-spring-loaded for support, cork form-fitted handle with an adjustable wrist strap. “I ordered it from Toronto. Cost the earth, but it’s worth it. They came as a pair. Double traction. But the other’s gone missing.”
After they ordered, Dorothy went to the washroom, so Belle browsed a magazine pile on the window sill, fixing on a Writer’s Digest. Creative writing, what a great career, or better yet, freelancing travel articles, getting paid to take vacations. Maybe there was advice about marketing her song. From several ads in the classifieds, she chose one with a Nashville address, copying the particulars onto a scrap of paper. “Send material with SASE. Free appraisal. Possible contract.” A risk-free opportunity?
Ten minutes later, they tucked into their gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches, white cheddar with fried onions on huge slabs of whole grain bread. The soup was cream of portobello, full of mushroom chunks and glistening with butter pools. Neither woman spoke much, devouring their choices with a clatter of utensils. Finally, Belle blotted her mouth and groaned blissfully, wishing she’d worn comfortable sweatpants instead of belted corduroys. “Winter. Bless its shameless excuse for extra calories.”
“Speaking of that, Miriam has gained a few pounds. Looks good on her.”
“Ninety-nine point nine percent back to normal. Yesterday she chewed me out for forgetting to order fax paper.” She grinned at the woman’s friendly, reassuring face, ashamed of having focussed on its horsey appearance at their first meeting. “Sorry about being so rude at the San.”
Dorothy waved off the apology. “Quite understandable. I don’t know much about her situation other than the shameless gossip, and I wouldn’t dream of asking, but Miriam seems to have suffered a terrible ordeal. As for the police, I wonder. They still haven’t solved that poor girl’s murder.” A convenience store clerk had been stabbed in a robbery several years ago. Despite havin
g found the killer’s knife, the police admitted that the case had grown cold.
“It’s frustrating. Criminals don’t always leave footsteps in the snow straight to their front door.” Thinking of Steve’s methodical policework, and now his unfair removal when she needed him most, she balled up her serviette. “My friend’s a cop, but he’s not working at the moment. He was my only connection to Miriam’s case. I miss his updates, even if I had to torture him to get information.”
“Miriam seems confident. I saw her lawyer several times at the San. She seemed aggressive, but a bit young for my complete confidence.” Dorothy rubbed at a thumbnail, smoothing the edge. No polish for this sensible woman, nor the Fu Manchu talons that ripped off on a snow brush.
Belle finished her O’Doul’s non-alcoholic beer, trying to banish the bitter taste of Celeste. “ ‘Arrogant’ was stamped on her cradle. But justice in the boonies isn’t the same as in the capital city.”
Dorothy nodded agreement, then turned to the waiter. “Hot tea, Belle? Coffee?”
When a large ceramic pot of Darjeeling arrived, Dorothy squeezed fresh lemon into her cup, looking around approvingly. “This place is next to the Mission, which could put some people off, but it should do well. Details count. Anyway, you don’t mean to say that Miriam could face a jail sentence?”
“We’re trusting that the murderer will be discovered, or barring that, the Crown Prosecutor will decide that it can’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt,” she said with an inward lurch, knowing that the “doubts” were mounting faster than the local landfill, new three-bag limit aside. And she was spinning these tales on her own, hoping to turn fiction into fact.
“Then be proactive, not reactive. Find the culprit,” Dorothy said with an earnest look and a discreet rap to the table. She added a pinch of Demerara sugar to her cup, stirring thoughtfully. “I wonder if I . . . if you’d let . . .”
Belle watched an idea form on the intelligent face. Dorothy seemed to have time on her hands, volunteered at the San. She hadn’t mentioned any family. “Let you join our team?”
The woman pursed her mouth in a demure fashion, then drew back her lips to expose large front teeth. “I have some connections in the city. My late husband, in fact, was a private detective.”
Belle perked up, images of Miss Marple changing her view of the patrician woman. “I’ve always wanted to be a PI, or whatever they’re called.”
“Rodney said that most of it was ever so tiresome. In his day, surveillance of unfaithful partners took up much of his time. And finding a place to pee, though for men . . .”
They both roared, startling a prim librarian type reading a romance novel. Belle was intrigued at the offer. What could another pair of eyes and ears discover? “Miriam’s ex-husband Jack has been helping me, but these efforts are time-consuming. I’m supposed to be running a business, and frankly, I’m scuttling around like a pair of ragged claws.”
Dorothy extended her long hand across the table for a semi-formal shake, a confident smile emerging, as if she were already planning strategy. “Miriam’s such a doll. This will be fun. So to work. Too much to hope that the man had a butler.”
Belle’s eyes snapped to attention. This brainstorming was a good idea. “Not a butler . . . but a cleaning woman, as I recall. I think her name was Elena. Can’t recall the name of the service.”
“Easy enough. Many of my lucky rich friends refuse to push a vacuum. They’d know the names of the local firms. Then a little story about recommendations, and presto!”
Gathering that she had read the papers, Belle filled her in with a selected scenario that protected Miriam from embarrassment. Dorothy’s shapely silver brows moved with growing interest. “The wife? That’s such a cliché, isn’t it? Now this girl? Both of them with protective brothers.” She chimed a light laugh, smoothing back her hair. “Everyone you’ve mentioned sounds dangerous, even the dear old ladies. Remember how deadly they can be with a hat pin.”
“Or wielding a spike-tipped cane.” Belle picked up Dorothy’s stick to thrust and parry, then placed her elbow on the table, her palm cradling her chin. “Add in a mysterious source of money.”
Dorothy leaned forward. “As in the newspaper accounts? That he’d salted away a fortune in offshore banks? Sounds like a thriller. Perhaps the Russian mafia is involved.”
Belle grinned at the concept, rubbing a peephole in the frosted glass as an ambulance roared down the street, its siren shrieking. “At least they’d bring long underwear.”
An hour and a half had passed in a blink before they returned to the office. Belle noticed a popsicle red Jeep Grand Cherokee crowded against the snowbanks. “Yours?” she asked as Dorothy pressed a remote switch that clicked open the lock.
“I’m embarrassed to own a tanklike SUV which sucks our precious resources. ‘What would Jesus drive?’, the latest campaign asks, but what the hell. The roads are killers, and I want good odds. You only live once, or have I missed something?”
Belle peered enviously at the custom leather seats, probably warmed by wires. She still hadn’t tried Miriam’s electric gift. “Not that big. About the same size as my derelict van.”
“Handles like a snow leopard. Anyway, I’ll be in touch. But no deerstalker cap. Sherlock walked the moors, not the tundra,” Dorothy said, using the chrome running board to step handily into the high cab and adjust her belts as she looked at Belle with a self-critical frown. “In all of this excitement, we never got to discuss my camp.”
“Plenty of time for that,” Belle said, though every cent counted. Neither had she forgotten Dorothy’s “rich” friends. “Spring’s eleven feet of snow away. And thanks again for that wonderful lunch.” Sweet machine, she thought as she watched it muscle through six inches of ice and slush, but with its four-by-four height, awkward for female clients. She’d duct-taped around the van’s rusted gas door, happy that the heavily caulked windshield had stopped leaking with winter’s onset. Wouldn’t a few thousand for a down payment on a new vehicle be welcome? She fingered in her pocket the address from the Nashville company.
Back at her desk, she printed the lyrics to “Mama’s Table,” a punchier title, and composed a short query letter with SASE. Then she added the envelope to the pile of mail, smaller each day except for dunning letters. Muirhead’s was getting snarky about the overdue stationery bill.
She filled Miriam in on their new operative, suggesting that since Steve was out of commission, any source of information was crucial. “She’s a smart lady, bored probably. And if her husband was a PI, she knows a few tricks,” Miriam said. “I saw that cute Cherokee, too. I have an idea about our ancient vehicles. When we get back on our feet, that is. Maybe the end of the summer. Two words. Company cars.”
Was the woman living in a dream world? Still, Miriam knew the angles, so Belle indulged her fantasies. “Leasing, you mean? Yours, too? Is that legal?” Without waiting for an answer, she swung her chair around, looking at the calendar. “No other messages then. Janet might have given me an update.”
“Take the advice you gave me. Put your pride aside. I know you can’t bear the woman, but call or go over to the house. Doesn’t that make sense?” She buttoned her coat and dashed out to catch the bus.
Belle dialled Steve’s unlisted home number, but apparently it was no longer in service. Was Janet being harassed by Brian and other enemies of her husband?
Taking Paris Street to Walford Road, Belle approached the Davises’ modest brick home on Edward Avenue, realizing as she navigated the rutted street that the driveway contained the last two feet of snow. Parking awkwardly, her van’s rear a tempting target for other besieged motorists, she walked next door to a neighbour Steve had mentioned, a teacher at Nickel City College, whose name was Anita Hanson.
The neighbour greeted her in a tanktop and shorts, “sweating bullets” from a workout on a Stairmaster, she said, insisting Belle come in, if only to warm up from the snow swirling around her boots.
As they stood in
the foyer, Belle introduced herself and explained her worries. Anita said, “They’ve been gone for a while. Janet took her daughter to Thunder Bay to stay with her parents. I promised to water the plants and collect the mail.”
“Last time I saw her she was pretty upset.” She didn’t feel it necessary to elaborate.
“That’s strange. Not that she told me anything, but she seemed fine when she left. Smiling and making jokes about the weather.”
How odd, Belle thought, as she left. Why the turnabout? Too much to hope that Janet would have contacted her again. If only she knew someone else on the force, but with departmental politics, who could be trusted? Fortunately, Brian had been quiet lately. Maybe that unmarked car she’d seen had been an innocent sightseer scoping out lakeside properties.
She collected a dish of ice cream at Our Place and headed for Rainbow Country. In addition to her weekly lunches, she tried to bring her father an occasional surprise. Nine to five, ice cream was always welcome. After spending a few minutes with him, she checked at the desk to make sure the doctor saw him tomorrow on his weekly visit. The poor man’s neck was red with eczema, and the aide said that his steroid cream was nearly gone. Satisfying herself that his condition would be assessed, she zipped up her coat and turned to leave. Then she heard a bright titter. Millie emerged from the dining room, two men by her side.
“My neighbour said you called for me,” she said.
Belle searched her mind to remember what ploy she’d used. Lying was far more complex than telling the truth. “Uh, it was about starting an organization to lobby for better nursing home standards. I understand that the government is planning on cutting the number of minutes a nurse can spend with each patient. That’s outrageous, don’t you agree?”
Millie’s tiny tongue flitted around her mouth. “Isn’t there already a group? I thought that Thelma said—”