by Lou Allin
Belle felt a tug on her waistband. He was right on both counts. “Dumbfood, I guess.”
Micro climbed to the perch, intuiting the use of the birch caller on a nail, and made credible oo-ga sounds. When he returned, she said, “Follow me to something special . . . if it’s showtime.” She led him into a shady area where a huge cedar lay crumbling on the ground, transforming into the peat which bore it. “This is a nurse log. Just another cycle in tree life. Now it’s a perfect environment for seedlings.”
“What’s that weird . . .” he asked, stretching a hand toward a four-inch protrusion vaguely like a dog phallus, pink with a slimy brown tip.
She pulled him back by the collar. “Whoa. Don’t touch that. Meet the elegant stinkhorn. Hollow inside, a rare fungi. Under the right conditions of temperature and humidity, they can spring up in a night, then droop and wither. Look carefully and see if you can spy the ‘egg’ that starts one.”
He walked along the log, peering at every inch. “This what you mean?” He pointed at a small, milky bump like the blind eye of the victim in Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”. “Will it come out tomorrow?”
“If moisture and temperature are right. This blasted rain we’ve been having helps the process.” She looked at the clouds massing in the sky. “We were lucky to get a window for the mowing and this hike. More’s on the way. See the cumulus thunderheads?”
He studied her with a hand on his slim hips. “Did you learn this stuff in school?”
Belle remembered as a child coming up to visit Uncle Harold at his cottage on Lake Penage, entering a new country north of Barrie, where ordered farmlands surrendered to the great bones of the Cambrian Shield. To be at home in the landscape, and to stay safe, she needed to learn its names, she explained. An old woman on her road, Anni Jacobs, had tramped trails into the woods, inviting Belle along. Anni had regarded the bush as a pharmacopoeia, from the use of yarrow for stomach cramps to dogbane for headache. “Curiosity is the best teacher.”
“I just thought they were woods. They’re like a free store.” He nodded as if making new connections, and she could see the wheels turning in his fertile little brain. “Is it okay if I go look around? I won’t get lost or anything.”
At the wave of her hand, he set off with the dogs to do some exploring as Belle packed up. Craning her neck, she could follow his small form combing the ground with interest. Finishing a few minutes later, she sat under a shady pine near a clearing where yellow lady’s slipper had greeted last May’s sun. She had taken Anni’s place in the scheme of things. Some day, as she grew old, the torch would have to be passed. But to whom? A wee tug at her heart reminded her that her clock had stopped from rust years ago.
“Yoooooo. Belle, come here.” Hailing her with waving arms, he directed her through a tangle of scrubby alders, leatherleaf and Labrador tea plants into a boggy section with a small clearing. The level ground was dotted with a few dozen black plastic garbage bags of soil dug into the earth. A wizened plant stem poked out of each one. Leaning against a sheltering white pine was the remainder of a fifty-pound sack of potting soil. “Check this out,” he said, a miniature detective.
Belle scratched her head. “What is it?”
“A pot farm, what else?” he said, rubbing a stem and sniffing to his satisfaction. “In the city they call them growops. Like in operations. Kid in my class told me his father got arrested for setting one up in his basement. Sent to jail for a couple of years.”
He sounded like a child of the Underworld, but Belle supposed that the language was commonplace. Right in her backyard. This could explain that note on her windshield. The overeager Junior Crime Stopper had seen Belle often on that trail and thought she ran the farm.
Safer than planting in a corn field, where aerial surveillance would find it easily. Random, small and personal, with a convenient water source. Checked perhaps once a week, about the number of times she took this trail. Who could have put it here? A local or a townie? So many new people on the road, yet they would have needed a quad to cart in the soil. Did the trapper have a more lucrative sideline? She monitored the entrance to this path, but perhaps he had a back door connection from the Bay Trail.
Ten years from now, they might not be having this conversation. Not all the armies in the world, nor Nancy Reagan, could stop an idea whose time had come. The Marijuana Party had garnered thousands of votes in the Sudbury area alone in the last election. The Liberal government had legalized medical marijuana and was cultivating it with traditional Canuck caution deep in the abandoned mines of Brandon, Manitoba. Apparently this genetic strain had such feeble buzz next to the muscular B.C. legends that over half the registered users had returned the supply in disgust. They headed for home at a rapid pace. It was nearly five, and Hélène served dinner on the minute. “Suck it up, Buttercup,” he said, passing her on a steep section as she paused for breath.
“I’m nearly four times your age and carrying considerable poundage. All those bags of Dumbfood. Be merciful.”
As they came down the hill to the trailhead, Freya pointed her muzzle towards the far turn, pricking her rabbity ears. Despite Belle’s calls, she refused to come immediately. Impatient to get Micro back for his dinner, Belle jerked her away with a swift command. That dog was always seeing things.
Then an old bike streaked past her, crunching gravel. “Watch it,” she called. “Not enough road for you?” The serpent tire track looked all too familiar, but before she could react, a gangly girl, her pipestem legs beating circles, disappeared around the corner.
EIGHT
Two weeks had passed since Bea’s death. Belle followed the papers with a sadly personal interest, hoping for a break in the case. According to the news, the pizza-delivery man had been cleared when it was learned that he had been doing his route while babysitting two sisters in his van because their mother was testifying in court against her abusive boyfriend. The ten-year-old twins provided a credible alibi.
Hélène called after dinner. “Come on down. Dave’s here. Says he met you at the viewing. He has some ideas about . . . finding Bea’s killer.”
Whatever his options were, Belle couldn’t imagine, yet the frustration of the aftermath must have been more crushing than the initial anger.
Leaving Freya to guard the house, she walked in the twilight, searching the muted sky as fall’s new cast of characters arrived. Vain Cassiopeia, then Perseus, holding the Gorgon’s head as he averted his eyes. How priceless to have a front row seat on the constellations with no urban congestion to mask the wonders. Satellite maps of the world at night showed that bright lights were rapidly spreading over the velvet canopy. It irked her that some homeowners on the Molly Maid end of the road had begun installing glaring sodium beams on their property. Couldn’t they find their homes without a lighthouse? Then the town had streetlit the mailboxes at the corner. She far preferred the ride with only her headlamps to lead her.
The waves were noisy along the shore, even in the DesRosiers’ quiet bay. With alarm, she noted that their dock was nearly underwater. With autumn storms on the way, everyone was in for trouble. Whipped to a frenzy by gale force winds, the water would devour anything in its path. It was like living next to a sleeping dinosaur with a root canal and no dental.
The house was wreathed in woodsmoke, a warm, intimate defiance of the encroaching dark. In the drive was parked Dave’s Santa Fe, a living room on wheels that could climb a mountain. All leather and dressed nicely, its metallic copper colour a welcome change from the ubiquitous pewter of every other Sudbury truck. Belle gave it an interested appraisal. According to ads, it beat other SUV prices by ten thousand dollars. She climbed the steps with a shrug. She needed her spacious van with all-wheel-drive to ferry clients and navigate treacherous back roads.
When she was settled on the sofa with a decaf, she had a moment to reassess Dave. After giving her a welcoming smile, he turned with a serious expression to Ed, gesticulating with strong hands. He wore tan slacks and a dark brown
flannel shirt with a duck embroidered on the pocket.
Coming in with a plate of sugar cookies, Hélène spoke with excitement. “Tell her about the plan.”
Dave took a sip of coffee, then placed the mug on a coaster. Even from a distance, his eyes were bloodshot, reflecting the pressures of the ongoing tragedy. “I’m a patient man, have to be in my profession, but I’ve really had it with this so-called police investigation.”
Belle nodded, her instinct to defend the beleaguered forces tempered in the wake of his grief. If anyone she loved had been so brutally killed, she’d move heaven and earth to balance the scales.
“I’ve hired a man to search for anything the authorities haven’t turned up.”
Folding her hands on her knee, Belle smiled. “A private eye? Do we have those in Canada, much less in this town?”
He gave a knowing laugh. “Several, as a matter of fact. Len Hewlitt will think outside the box. His credentials are excellent.”
Then what’s he doing up here, Belle wondered, barely suppressing a suspicious frown. The North wasn’t a hotbed of crime, at least not until this statistical blip. Ed and Hélène were paying rapt attention.
Dave aimed a finger at Belle, cocking his head to examine her face. “I see your skepticism. His life does sound like a cheap thriller, nothing like we’re used to. He’s from Montreal but spent fifteen years in Israel with the Mossad, sort of a troubleshooter. He was injured in a suicide bomb blast in Jerusalem, nothing serious but disabling enough to force him to settle down. Then since his daughter moved here to work, he decided to relocate, too. Len’s a pro.”
“Did you find him in the Yellow Pages?” Belle was serious, but she could have phrased the question in more politic terms.
He cast a glance at Hélène, who pressed his hand in her motherly way as Ed looked at the ceiling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound flip,” Belle said. “PIs remind me of Los Angeles or New York. Guess I read too many mysteries.”
Dave cleared his throat and seemed to take a breath. “To be frank, I met him at an AA meeting last fall. No family secrets here. I’ve been clean and sober for over ten years.”
Honest enough, Belle thought, her admiration growing. Admitting an addiction was the hardest part. As a respected part of the community, he’d raced his beast and still was in the lead. Who was she to be smug, with her cigarettes and scotch? “He sounds interesting. I’d love to meet him.”
“Your wish is granted.” He checked his watch, a Timex sports model. “Len will be here any minute. I told him seven so as not to keep you folks up, but he isn’t used to driving this cowpath.” Everyone laughed at the stretch of potholes guaranteed to suck a set of struts faster than a kid with a Dairy Queen Blizzard.
Half an hour later, as darkness fell and talk turned to the latest political scandal involving questionable government grants to advertising firms, a car triggered the motion-sensor lights in the DesRosiers’ yard. Up to refill her cup, Belle said to Hélène, “I’ll get it.”
The engine of an ancient Chevette screamed like a young girl and died. The door creaked open, and a fireplug of a man got out and kicked the fender. “You bugger. One more like that and you get recycled into the pop cans you came from,” he muttered over his shoulder as he boosted himself to the deck with a slight limp, stopping to pat Rusty’s inquiring head. “Hey, buddy.”
Belle stood at the threshold, shielding her eyes from the glare of the floodlights. “Welcome, Mr. Hewlitt.”
“I had to brake for something dark, hairy and way bigger than my car. Nearly went into a damn swamp. Did I cross the border into Kosovo?”
“You’re still in the Region of Crater Sudbury, and I have the inflated tax bills to prove it,” Belle said with a smile and an introductory handshake.
Lifting a brown felt fedora, he stared pleasantly at her from behind heavy, square black glasses. As she took his three-quarter-length faded leather coat and hung it on the rack, she saw a greying moustache and spade beard, a weak chin and a deeply receding hairline which lent a gnomish appearance. He was her height, five foot four, but solidly built, a good two-hundred-twenty pounds, harder to knock over than a stuffed cat at a carnival.
Hélène shot a quick look towards the hall to the bedrooms. “Keep it low, and let’s move to the kitchen table. We don’t want Micro to hear this. His door’s closed, but he’s got half an hour more at his computer until he goes to bed.” A fresh pot and an industrial-sized pickle jar of shortbread made the rounds.
“I’ve wanted to meet you folks,” Len said, pulling out a notebook after everyone had settled down. He also snapped a tape into a mini-recorder. “Dave’s told me everything he can. Pardon me for starting off with the nitty-gritty, but I know you want to find Mrs. Malanuk’s killer. The machine’s so’s I don’t miss any details. I need your input. Don’t be shy.”
Ed added, “Damn straight. I’ll go first.” Leaning toward the recorder, he proceeded to give his history with the family. Hélène took over, and time passed as she related several decades, starting with Bea’s first communion.
Ed put down a cookie in mid-bite. “Come on, woman. He doesn’t have time for all that stuff.”
Len raised a chubby finger in a gesture of acceptance. “No, siree. Everything can be important. God is in the details, or the devil is, never could remember.”
Hélène pushed out her lower lip. “I was finished anyway, Edward.”
They all turned to Belle, who once again revisited that hideous morning. She fixated on the rose pattern on the tablecloth, avoiding the sorrow in Dave’s eyes. Told many times, her story had achieved a sanitary narrative. The gore could be left to the police and coroner reports.
Scribbling notes, when she finished, Len sat for a moment, all eyes on him. He underlined a few words. “Okey dokey. We have liftoff. Now I’ll open the floor to questions.”
Belle asked the obvious. “Do you think that Bea’s death is connected to the other two murders? And why are the police having such a hard time solving them?” With his big-city experience, he’d probably seen dozens of cases.
He finished a fifth cookie and blotted his fleshy mouth demurely, squaring his shoulders. His eyes were pouchy and world-weary. “Answer one: I’m new on the job and don’t know jack about the first two women, but I will find out. Answer two: No offense to you kind people, but these folks are purely bush league, pun intended. Bar-room brawl, a lovers’ quarrel gone sour, no problemo. Something complicated, where a killer has an IQ no higher than the cost of half a litre of gas, they’re over their heads.”
Ed nodded, stifling a yawn. “You nailed her all right.” His pale silver brows waffled at Belle’s glare. “Sorry. Didn’t mean your pal, Steve. He’s tops.”
Belle said to Len, “I have a detective friend on the Sudbury force. Steve Davis.”
“Really? Could be helpful.” Len tapped a stubborn pen back into action and made a note. “I’m from Montreal, la helle province, and I guess Dave told you about my qualifications. Expect the unusual, but never look for a zebra in a herd of cows. One time in the Gaza Strip when I. . . .”
When Len got talking, he didn’t stop for breath except to light a cigarette, despite Hélène’s gentle cough. Special training by the FBI at Quantico, Virginia, had given him experience in mingling among “narco-terrorists” as an executive casino host in London, England. He’d also worked as consultant to the Gananoque police in a cigarette-smuggling sting operation and received a special commendation from the mayor. The Sûreté had used him as an agent in their ongoing biker wars. He had been the only Indian-motorcycle owner that the Hell’s Angels with their Harleys allowed in their clubhouse.
He slapped his leg, wiggling a worn loafer. Belle noticed that he’d kept his shoes on, unlike the rest of them. “This old guy’s not as young as I want to stay. I’ve been winding down the last years. Some of my old friends in the Association of Former Intelligence Officers became PIs. And I never really got to know my daughter in all my travels. Got her Mas
ter’s at McGill, and she’s settled in at a nice job here. If I can get her married, maybe I’ll see grandchildren some day.”
Though blanching at the “get her married” quip, Belle lapped up the details. Whatever the truth of his claims, Len was a bona fide investigator, and from his imagination, maybe he could offer fresh ideas. What was Dave paying him? A couple of hundred a day?
The DesRosiers and Belle were usually in bed by ten and drinking coffee by six. As Ed’s head snapped up in a snore and they all chuckled, Len said, “Guess we should call her a day. I’ll cover every house on John Street and the crossroads. No leads, they say? Bulltwaddle. Someone saw or heard something. Maybe they went on vacation the next day. Persistence and a fertile mind are an investigator’s most important tools. Who are your next door neighbours, Dave?”
Dave gave a weary sigh. “Greenbelt on one side. On the other, Miss McBride. Not much goes by her. The north side of John Street is railway land.”
“How will you learn more than the police?” Belle asked Len.
“Sometimes authorities can be intimidating. I sit down, enjoy a nice cup of tea, praise the cookies.” He winked at Hélène. “And have a long chat. Lots of psychology. Women are my speciality.” He used five syllables for the last word and tapped his temple. “And then there’s the dog.”
They all spoke at once. “Buffalo?”
“Why didn’t he raise a ruckus?” He turned to Dave. “Didn’t you tell me he was a great watchdog?”
With a grimly set mouth, Dave said, “I thought so. Our part of town gets the occasional break-in. Mostly drug-related. Looking for items to pawn. We’ve never had as much as a trampled flower bed. His barking can be heard across the lake. Squirrels and coons drive him nuts. Bea leaves him out until she goes to work. But that day, no one heard any barking.”
“I heard him when I arrived,” Belle said, “but he was tied up. If someone were very quiet and entered from the greenbelt, or came up from the lake . . .”