Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  She drove on, eye on the clock, calculating how much time she had to turn back safely before the sun fell below the horizon. At one point, she braked at a swamp to watch a cow moose forage for pickerelweed, the beast’s slack jaws dripping with water as her head rose. Beside her, a spring calf watched the van, twitching its ears in nervousness.

  Her stomach made moans of protest to her stubborn mind, and she wondered whether she should give up and head for a home-cooked meal at the Three Bears. She might have been totally mistaken about the meaning of Micro’s words, yet someone had bought the old plant. The road had been narrowing, with no clear place to reverse. Suddenly, it ended with a sharp right turn, the shambles of mossy split-rail fences marking an entrance. An old painted sign lurching into a ditch caught her attention. She stopped and got out. Surrounded by beaked hazel bushes and tall grass, it bore the image of a family crest, a maple leaf above a rampant moose. “Aikenhead Brewery. Serving the North Since 1920. Ten miles.” The days before metrics. She lived on the cusp, accepting centigrade, starting to think in kilometres, but baking with cups and spoons.

  A track led into a grove of birch backlit by the sun setting in the western sky. From the crushed bracken, a few vehicles had travelled it recently. For a moment, she wished she had Steve or Dave by her side, someone to sort this out. Curiosity as much as concern for Micro led her on.

  Big deal, she thought, excusing herself as she pictured her saner friends’ disapproval at a questionable excursion to a remote place so close to twilight. A quick look, and out. Surely there would be a parking lot, some vantage to scope out the place from afar without being seen. Running alone into danger was such a cliché for a woman, and she weighed each moment that Micro might be suffering against the odds. She turned on her cellphone. Signal clear. No worries now in an emergency. 911 would bring an OPP unit from Shining Tree. The overhanging willows and pin cherry trees brushed her van as she turtled forward, her blood pressure rising steadily. From the depths of a lemony aspen stand, a “Hoo HooHoo Hoo Hoo” echoed, and she saw a dark form perched on a branch. The great horned owl who guarded her property would watch over her.

  At last, slipping along soundlessly across a sandy patch, she reached a large clearing with no visible vehicles. What remained of a dirt parking area was now peppered with scrubby poplars and birch having taken root over the decades. Surrounded by shattered glass and shards of scrap metal sat a derelict car, Capone vintage, tires rotten and its windows gone.

  The massive, incongruous red-brick brewery reached three windowless stories, a castle in the wilderness. Two large, round white exhaust stacks bearing the Aikenhead crest rose a hundred feet. Several outbuildings lay in stages of decay, doors sprung and windows splintered like ravaged eyes. A ziggurat of wooden barrels faded to grey had tumbled at random, the broken staves poking up like supersized fries. Her neck muscles ached from tension as she inched along, craning her head. The warble of a raven picking at paper led her to lean out the window to notice the fresh remains of a chocolate and marshmallow pie wrapper. Her breathing quickened, and her foot trembled on the gas pedal, braced for a fast and dirty exit.

  Although a couple of broken-down boxcars sat at the end of a railway, a shiny new hydro mast connected the building with a pole. She thought about Paula’s vision. Commercial green paint was common in plants. And a brewery would be filled with metal structures. She bit her lip in frustration. Either this was all coming together, or she’d need intensive psychiatric therapy for an imagination gone wild.

  She parked the van behind an industrial-sized garage and took a two-foot Maglite from behind the seat as a cold wind swept across the lot. Putting on her coat, she walked toward the complex, ready to bolt at any movement. It had a delivery area at one end, leading to three sets of giant doors where she could make out the words, “Nature’s Pure Spring Water Makes a Superior Beer.” Cynthia had mentioned a spring. This had to be the place Allan had bought. If her theory about Micro was wrong, what did she have to fear? If it was right, she was his only chance.

  Belle walked the perimeter, trying several doors with no success, knowing it would be foolish to call out before she could assess the danger. At last she climbed concrete stairs to an office entrance. A shiny, unsnapped padlock was hooked on the staple. She removed it, pulling the rust-streaked door with a creak that made her cringe, advancing warily. It led to a dingy reception area, nothing more than a few wooden chairs, two desks with black rotary phones and assorted file cabinets with a 1955 wall calendar displaying a cheesecake picture of Marilyn Monroe. She crept along down the hall, opening each door with the delicacy of a surgeon, some rooms empty, the last two with metal bunks, dressers, clothes on the floor, new Playboy and Penthouse magazines, beer cans and full ashtrays, a makeshift dormitory. Her sense of fear sharpened, but it was too late to turn back now. No cars in the lot didn’t mean she was alone.

  Then she parted a double set of doors, gazing up openmouthed at twenty copper vats, each reaching two storeys inside the vast warehouse. Instrumentation panels of complicated controls, dials and levers monitored the brewing process, but they weren’t making suds here. Some of the glass was cracked, and levers were missing, yet the plank floor was as spotless as if it were swept daily. The atmosphere was oddly humid, and a strange herbal aroma teased her nose. From somewhere she heard the dull buzz of fans. Each vat had a plywood door installed into the side, and a web of wiring and plastic tubing snaked down from above. Entering one round incubation chamber, she blinked at the sight of hundreds of green baby pot plants, scarcely six-inches high. Sprinklers joined massive light systems on the ceiling.

  A grow-op. And on a potentially gigantic basis, or getting there fast. Had Micro stumbled onto something in town and been taken here? Then it wasn’t a case of a molester after all. Where was he? She swallowed against the possibility that he’d already been moved far away, or worse yet, left in one of a million hiding places in the bush. Cold sweat trickled down her back, and she felt her knees tremble.

  Beyond the brewing area was a bottling facility with dusty cases of empties, labels and caps beside a broken conveyor belt. The next door led to a storage room for wooden packing boxes with the brewery’s stencilled name. She passed a small bathroom and noticed fresh shaving supplies on the sink beside an old can of Bab-o, still useful after half a century.

  Then as she tiptoed farther down a hall, she heard the faint cadences of a familiar song and froze in her tracks. “Clap Hands Til Papa Comes Home.” She could still see Bea nodding her head at the sweet and gentle rhythm. How the lovely song must have sustained him. She had to take the chance. Time had run out. “Micro?” she called, her words sticking in her throat.

  “Belle! I’m here! Down the hall.”

  Galvanized, she ran like a sprinter as his voice led her along a dark warren of halls with only the flashlight to point the way. At last she came to a frosted-glass door which opened onto a staff changing room. Flanks of rusted metal lockers stood like sentinels. Frantic, she stumbled over a bench as she pushed down one aisle. “Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom!” he cried. And she rounded the corner into a room with a set of sinks, urinals and toilet stalls. He was sitting on the floor beside a storage chest, leaning against a pale institutional-green wall, his hands tied to a heavy water pipe. Metal grills crossed the filthy windows. No bars, yet a prison. Paula was a true seer, and the soup kitchen was getting a Christmas bonus . . . if she lived until then.

  “My God. I thought I’d never find you.” In her haste, the Maglite fell to the cracked linoleum, where it rolled out of sight under the chest. She hugged his small, tense body, gaining strength at the palpability. “So how . . .” Her hands fumbled with knots on the harsh polypropylene ropes which had made cruel abrasions on his tender skin. Bruises to the elbow purpled his arms.

  “Please hurry, Belle. I’ll tell you everything later. They could be back any . . . ouch.”

  “Sorry. I pinched you.” Her hands shook from tens
ion, her fingers uncooperative, as if she wore oven mitts.

  Finally free, he stood and shook himself to urge blood back into his limbs. Despite his ordeal, he seemed strong. The boy inside was another matter. His sweet green eyes had changed, older perhaps, having seen things best unimagined. “How did you find—”

  “My turn to call the shots. I’ve got the van. Let’s blow this chipstand.” A Canadian expression if ever there was one.

  He gave an involuntary giggle, then covered his mouth as they retraced her steps through the complex until they reached the main corridor. The darkness made travel slow. Damn. She’d forgotten the Maglite. As they reached the office, the outside door opened, and Allan Ritchie stood there, tipping back his greasy cowboy hat, a toothpick dangling from his cruel, angular mouth. Instead of the shabby clothes he’d had in town, he wore a new leather jacket and clean cargo pants. “Lookee here. A visitor. Girlfriend of yours, little boy? Must like ’em on the tough side.”

  As Belle bit her lip and the lights came on, he reached into his jacket and brought out a blue steel automatic, which winked under the fluorescent wands above them.

  “Run, Micro!” she yelled, and they took off down the hall toward the vat room. Why had those lights come on? Were they on a timer, or had someone else arrived? Seconds counted. If they could reach the van, they were out of here, foot to the floor. Micro could alert the OPP on the cellphone before they travelled a kilometre.

  As she pushed into the huge warehouse, a stumpy, familiar figure blocked her way, his face expressionless, except for a flicker of sadness in his saggy eyes. Len Hewlitt held a large fire axe and cocked his head as a warning. Before they could backtrack, Allan strolled up behind them.

  “Nice and easy. Nobody gets hurt. Get back to where you been.”

  Len said nothing as he followed. In the bathroom, Allan passed the gun to him. “Spread ’em, ladies,” he said. “Got the rifle off him at the camp, but the little bugger had a weeny pocket knife I missed. Isn’t that right, smart ass?” He gave the boy’s head a mocking cuff.

  Then he patted her down, enjoying the job a bit too much from the grin on his feral face, pitted with acne scars. She could smell stale tobacco smoke and a wisp of rye. “Hey, what’s this junk?” He pulled the ceramic bear from her pocket and tossed it into the corner. She held her breath against his discovering the precious topo map folded in the breast pocket, but he finished, giving her bum a caress. Her jaw clenched. She doubted the van would be there if they ever got out, and should they take to the woods, they couldn’t travel blindly. For some perverse reason, she remembered her wallet in the glove compartment. Two hundred dollars and credit cards. Invitation to a crime spree. Go see what the boys in the back room will have. What did it matter now?

  Micro coughed as dust motes played in the dying sunlight, submitting to the ropes as he slumped against the wall. Tears welled in his eyes though he turned his cheek. She swallowed back a painful lump, thinking of his long days in captivity, then this botched rescue. Hope lifted its pretty head only to get a slap in the face.

  She was placed on the opposite side of the room, lashed to another heavy pipe. “It’s obvious what you’re doing here, but why did you take Micro? Were you trying to get the reward?” She drilled daggers at Len, who wouldn’t meet her gaze. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose with a honk. “You damn liar, Len. I trusted—”

  “Shut up, bitch,” Allan said, kicking her thigh as he checked his watch and addressed Len. “Rael and Jean-Paul will be here with more wiring for Vats 5 and 6. Dave’s bringing a load of clones.” Then the door closed behind them as the weak October light surrendered and the room darkened.

  Dave. The dots didn’t even need connecting. She saw Micro scowl at the name. Yet why draw patterns in the past when their short and brutish future was the only question? A plan needed to be made. What was the routine here?

  “Jesus, I’m thirsty,” she said. Would they remain like this all night?

  “There’s breakfast and supper, mostly soup and bread or beans, and water from the taps. At first, they just left me tied in here.” He inclined his head toward the strong grills on the windows. “But I got to my knife and made it to the bunk room a few days ago. Allan’s cellphone was there.”

  “Your call.” What that bravery must have cost him when he was caught. Why hadn’t she realized what he meant by “aching head”? “You told me enough. I wasn’t thinking straight. What happened?”

  “I heard them coming and made out like I was running for the door. They didn’t know I used it until later. Allan bragged that Dave had fixed it up, fooled you with a story.”

  “And how I bought it. Sinus headaches instead of Aikenhead.” She blew out a contemptuous breath at the gullible idiot she’d been.

  He straightened his shoulders. “The first night I was locked in a supply closet with a pile of rags for my bed.”

  “God, how did you stand it?”

  “My tree house is pretty small. I pretended I was a soldier. They have to go through lots of bad stuff, and they don’t always get food.”

  “At least they left us our coats. It’s cold in here.” She leaned against the wall, hot tears flooding her eyes. Belle turned her head to cover her stupidity and shock at the truth. She’d been led by the nose on a ludicrous wild goose chase that wouldn’t have deceived a five-year-old.

  Later, a light went on, and a man in his twenties brought in peanut butter sandwiches. Swarthy and full-chested, he was clean-shaven, short-haired like a military recruit, and dressed in hunting grey camouflage, an impressive Bowie knife on his belt. “I’m Belle Palmer. Who are you?” she asked. Perhaps if they exchanged names, personalized the situation, he’d be less inclined to harm her. Harm her. Now there was a concept. She was headed for a rendezvous in the belly of the beast.

  Contracting his heavy eyebrows, he put a long finger to his full lips. Instead of untying them, he fed them with patience and offered cups of water, which dribbled down their chins. “Dere will be someone come later for your bathroom break,” he said softly, a thick Quebecois accent in his consonants and a fist-fighter’s bump in his long, pointed nose.

  After the door closed, Belle turned to Micro. “How many are there?”

  His round eyes blinked as he calculated. “Len, Allan, this Rael guy and Jean-Paul, a fat man. He’s really mean. Calls me bad names and picks his nose. He smokes the product, too.”

  “Product?” What a little sponge he was. “Right. Anything else I should know?”

  “Sometimes I hear more voices. And there are at least three or four cars with different engine sounds.”

  “Sharp ears. How did they get together in this business?”

  “They act like they’re friends of Len. Talk about places in Montreal a lot. Girls and bars. That kind of stuff.” He paused, and his tones growled like a young cougar. “And Dave. Dave’s the boss. He runs everything.” With a bitterness beyond his years, Micro told her his suspicions that his stepfather had hired one of the group to kill Bea and make it look like the work of the serial killer. “I don’t know which one. It doesn’t matter. I just hope she didn’t—”

  Belle gave a warning “shush” as the door opened. A blond neckless man in faded work pants and shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing a cobra tattoo on his blubbery arm, arrived to oversee their efforts in the toilets. Jean-Paul barked orders and pointed a revolver, leaving no leeway which might be exploited. Manhandling them, he reeked of stale sweat and clouted Micro on the temple when he didn’t move fast enough.

  “What about later?” Belle asked, mindful of her midnight pee.

  “Forget it. Need one before morning, and you can crap your drawers all I care. You’re out of here tomorrow anyways. Nighty night. I gotta date with a bottle of rye.”

  As all but one of the lights were shut off and the door closed, Belle braced herself at his ungrammatical but dire promise. To their captors they were mere liabilities, pieces of meat for disposal. She had to be upbeat b
ut straight with Micro about the long odds against escaping. They would be freed again, with luck in this oaf’s custody. He seemed the dullest of the lot. Probably learned to read from a case of beer. But without a weapon, how could they seize the moment? Then she remembered the heavy Maglite and twisted her head to glimpse its shadowy image under the cabinet. Nothing could clean a man’s clock like a couple of pounds of D batteries. How could she reach it? Timing was crucial. A nonrenewable, get-out-of-jail card.

  “I’m going to be completely honest with you, Micro. After what you’ve been through, you can take it. But I must know everything. Tell me why they kept you alive.” she said. Then maybe I can imagine what’s in store for us.

  He swallowed and gave a small sniff. “Dave owns the house now, but selling it takes a lot of time. Mom left me her half of the bakery. Leonora made an offer, but there could be a problem without a lawyer’s approval. Something about a trust agreement.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “I heard Dave on the phone before I went to Aunt Hélène’s to stay. I didn’t know what it all meant.”

  “So if you were found dead . . .” Bad word, but what could shock him now? “Why does he need the money so soon? He seems set up enough here to start raking in plenty of cash, given the right connections.”

  Micro shook his head. “To buy the brewery and the equipment, he borrowed from some people Len knows. Really dangerous people, like in the movies. They don’t want to wait. Allan and Rael were getting nervous.”

  Len. That sweet cat, Moshe. His lovely daughter. She wanted to strangle him, feel her fingers squeeze his flabby jowls. “Have they hurt you?”