by Lou Allin
Mutt and Belle examined the old Pepsi can. The design didn’t look recent, but neither did it appear vintage. The aluminum had begun to fade and corrode, more than sun damage. “I wonder why he kept this? Or maybe it belonged to someone else here years ago.” Mutt spoke so loudly and pointedly that the man had to answer.
“I saw him with it. God knows why it interested him.”
Mutt shrugged, and he fingered it gently so as not to cut himself. “Gary never did anything without a reason. Let’s take it.” To wrap the can safely, he found an empty plastic bag in a wastebasket.
As they were leaving, they saw Rosaline Silliker embrace a tall, balding man with a clerical collar. “I’ll get an oil change for the car and come back at five, dear. You make the reservations at Verdicchio’s.” Sudbury’s premier restaurant, a doctor at the table on the left and a lawyer on the right. A minister’s and a middle-ground civil servant’s salaries? Either they’d won the lottery, or there was money in the family.
“Finished already?” asked Rosaline, turning to Mutt and Belle. “Did you get everything? Is there any other way I can help?”
Mutt nodded thanks, but Belle could tell that his voice was breaking. He soldiered his way outside, hauling the cart, as she exchanged female glances with Rosaline.
“I couldn’t help wondering why Dave was so unfriendly. Is he normally like that?”
Rosaline raised one professionally plucked eyebrow and folded her hands in front of her. Her nails were short and buffed. “Homophobic, I’m afraid. He was surly to Gary from the beginning.”
Belle put her hands on her hips in a gesture of incredulity. “What? Such a young man? Hard to believe he’d be so judgmental.”
“A very provincial attitude. He comes from way northwest of here, where they’re not very . . . enlightened. Sioux Lookout’s the nearest town. Maybe I was wrong, but I refused to buy into it by reassigning him to another office.”
“Some people want to turn back the clock.”
“You and I both remember how women had to fight for equality even in our lifetimes.” Rosaline nodded. “Gary was a brick about it, though. Not a word of complaint. His approach must have worked, because things quieted down.”
Belle managed to pass Rosaline and Marj business cards before she left the site. An hour later, back on Edgewater Road, as they unpacked, a large, hairy animal snuffled its way around the yard, pawing at a clump of sage in the herb garden. “Get out of here!” Mutt yelled. The beast bared its yellow teeth, one incisor chipped.
“It’s Bill Strang’s dog. Has he been bothering you? Sometimes he chases cars.” She bent to scoop up a handful of gravel, a gesture any canine understood.
“Damn right,” Mutt said, as the animal slunk off through the caragana hedge. “I spent an hour rebuilding what it dug up in the irises. And it left a pile smack in the driveway. I went next door to complain, but the guy’s never home.”
“Put the pile in his driveway. Saves time and effort to send a clear message. Everyone recognizes their dog’s productions.”
“God, you take no prisoners up north.”
The remote road was “conflicted” about the subject of dogs. In the city, they were strongly regulated with registry and leash laws. Here, the new residents thought they had moved “to the country,” negating any responsibilities. Dogs often ran free on the road, a danger to drivers and to themselves, not to mention walkers. Strang was a retired codger with few friends. His wife’s death from congestive heart failure a year ago had made him even more reclusive.
“Or call the Animal Control. They’ll check for a license and give him a warning by phone. Too bad you can’t catch the dog and take him to the pound. That’s my usual solution. But Buddy’s too cagey.”
“Buddy. Hah. Normally I’m not afraid of dogs, but that one is a monster.”
That night while reading CNN online, Belle noticed a review of a new book that suggested Abraham Lincoln was gay. Apparently he had shared a bed with a storekeeper’s son early in his career, a common occurrence on the frontier, but the boy’s diary made startling suggestions. How had anyone ever found the diary or Abe’s doggerel poem on same-sex marriage?
Upstairs in her waterbed, as the first loons of the year began duelling across the lake, Belle gulped a handful of vitamins, including calcium bombs, then tucked a cigarette into the jewelled Adolph Menjou holder her father had bought her at Universal Studies Park in Orlando. Before the TIA’s rendered him unable to live on his own, they’d had some wonderful times in Florida. She made a mental note to call the nursing home for an update.
SIX
Belle toyed with a pencil, its point dull as chalk. Yoyo had broken the office sharpener that morning and was off to Staples. She wasn’t that clumsy, just careless, wanting to do everything as fast as possible. As a multi-tracked Gemini and a minimalist, Belle understood the phenomenon.
“I knew you were concerned, so I read the files on your friend’s drowning,” Steve said, coming in the door and putting an attaché case on a table. “Detective Ramleau filled me in. Seems that the autopsy found alcohol in the stomach.”
“That’s not surprising. Mutt said that they found a bottle in his truck. But I didn’t want to believe that he’d been drinking.”
“Mutt. That’s some name. Only ever heard of one. Shania Twain’s husband.”
“Mutt’s a sweetheart. He’s very . . . sensitive. But strong.” She added what he’d said about the cheap brand.
“It wasn’t as if he were boozing all day. Nothing in the bloodstream. The liquor was raw. Undigested.” He leaned against the wall and sipped from an aluminum car mug.
Belle snapped her fingers. “So doesn’t it rule out his being drunk?”
“Let’s say he took a swig just before getting into the boat. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. As for the unusual brand, he could have bought it at some small outlet on 69 where there wasn’t any choice.”
“Any prints on the bottle?”
“Inconclusive.”
“I hate it when they say that.”
A glowering shadow came over Steve’s face. “It’s not all CSI, you know. Shows like that are perverting the legal system. Everyone wants DNA, hard evidence. Juries, like in the Robert Blake trial, aren’t convicting without it, even though witnesses testified that he solicited the killing of his wife.”
Tread lightly. Professional to his core and taciturn about his responsibilities, Steve usually dragged his feet on the details. So far he was being more than cooperative, perhaps because of her former relationship with Gary. “I see your point. Can you tell me more about the autopsy?”
“I’m only letting you in on this because it seems to be an accident, nothing more. No worries about compromising a case.”
Steve opened the case and passed her a photocopied file with scarcely ten pieces of paper. Was this all there was to a life? She scanned the jargon. Major contusions to head. Occipital bone reveals compound fracture and haematoma measuring six centimetres by ten centimetres. Bruising on ribs. Haematology was normal in the blood profile assays. No toxicology concerns. Victim has no appendix. Additional examination unremarkable. Cause of death, drowning. Lungs full of water. Pond water, not tap water. Daphnia. Other organisms she couldn’t pronounce.
Belle remembered when Gary’s appendix had been taken out. He’d been in pain for days but insisted on finishing his midterm exams, collapsing as he turned in his math paper. In trying to preserve his valedictorian status, he’d been half an hour from a rupture.
Steve took back the report. “So it appears that he fell. It would have rendered him unconscious, or at best too confused to save himself.”
Belle blew out a sigh. “Occipital?”
“Back of the head.”
“But in that case, wouldn’t he have been more likely to have come down in the boat?” With her fingers, she formed an area the size of the haematoma. A massive blow.
“Canoes are tippy. The fracture’s consistent with hitting the
gunwale more than the seat. You’re letting your emotions carry you away . . . as usual.”
Belle bristled and tried to stifle a frown. “Can you make a few more inquiries? Accidents often aren’t what they seem in more ways than one. Think about that medical examiner in Toronto who misdiagnosed cause of death and sent parents and relatives to jail for killing children.”
Twenty seconds passed before a wry smile came her way. “Ramleau’s wife won a trip to Costa Rica, and they have to take it before July or lose the opportunity. Maybe I can muscle in and keep the case open. I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you. And don’t mention intuition, because your track record’s wobbly.”
Belle gripped his arm. “What a guy.”
He opened a small notebook and took a pen from his jacket pocket. “Now tell me everything you know about Gary, his partner, and what the hell they were doing up here.”
“For heaven’s sake, take a chair.”
“I’m used to writing standing up. Besides, my back is killing me. A whack of yard work on the weekend. I’m on my way to the chiropractor, as a matter of fact.”
Belle made a commiserative face. Dear Steve.
After he left, she pondered the simple words in the report. Unremarkable. She knew what it meant, but the idea stung. Gary had been anything but unremarkable. Wasn’t everyone’s son or daughter? At least he’d known a committed relationship. When the role was called up yonder, she’d check in as a dog’s best friend. Meanwhile, bills had to be paid. A lucrative apartment appraisal on Kingsmount was scheduled. Uncle Harold had been wise to suggest that she qualify for her appraiser’s credentials. It kept the place solvent in lean times.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened, and Belle blinked. The woman of sixty plus wore Capri pants, which exposed sinewy lower calves with a roadmap of varicose veins, a loose paisley top, and battered flip-flops. Her hair was a thin nest of home-permed curls, unnaturally black with silver roots, and she wore mirrored sunglasses like a wizened trooper. She gave the room the once-over and clumped to Belle’s desk, tapping on it with a carved cedar cane. A cigarette dangled precariously from a cerise mouth sucked back into wrinkles. “You Belle? How ya doing? Yoyo around? I need a ride.”
“She’s . . . out for the moment. I don’t think we’ve met.” Belle fanned blue smoke from the air.
“Coco Caderette, her mother.” Beery fumes surrounded her like a cloud of fermenting barley. She leaned forward for a handshake, her fingers thin and cold as turkey tendons and her nails chipped.
“I can’t say when she’ll be back. Half an hour’s a guess.” Belle couldn’t help watching as an ash dribbled down the woman’s blouse. “May I call you a taxi? I’d drive you, but I’m all alone here.”
Coco guffawed, swiping at the blouse. “Oops, clumsy me. That reminds me of an old joke, honey. But shit, no. I can hitch down Notre Dame from here. Thumb, don’t fail me now.” Brandishing a digit gnarled with arthritis, as she turned, she noticed the picture of Freya on the wall, the noble sable head emerging from a greenery of ferns. “Gotcherself a nice shep. Female. I can tell by the nose. Very refined. À bientôt.” She lurched towards the door, leaving it open as she exited.
Belle blew a sigh of relief as she clicked the handle shut. No doubt there was quite a story in that family. Her own life was so uneventful, all the better for amassing funds on the march to retirement. Only lately had Gary’s return wakened her from her doldrums. Then there was the dumping in the bush. Would anything come of her report to CrimeStoppers? Maybe she’d been a bit hasty in putting up those pictures. Steve would have slapped her wrist.
She picked up the phone to check on her father, but the line was busy. As Belle listened to the weather, Yoyo returned, grinning broadly. “That place is as dangerous as Costco. They had a special on Turtles. Have one. So yummy,” she said, revealing a dozen luscious morsels.
Between nutty chocolate and caramel bites, Belle mentioned Coco.
“No sweat. I saw her get into a panel truck at the lights. Woman never needs a car. The North is so friendly.”
“It’s still not wise. Even though women of her age aren’t usually abducted.”
“Abducted? Maybe with a stun gun. Ma says she has a nose for people. Never wrong. Isn’t she a character? I love her to pieces. She’s my inspiration and the reason I’m not afraid to be a single parent.” Using a compact, Yoyo applied a fresh coat to her glossy red mouth, pursing her lips and giving herself an air kiss. She wasn’t using lipstick, but a kind of paint with a miniature brush.
Belle cleared her throat, speed-reading the sales slip and filing it. The candy must have been separate. Had Yoyo paid herself, or was shoplifting another habit?
Though Belle had enough discretion not to pursue whether Coco had ever been married or even supported by a man, Yoyo continued. “Old bastard took off thirty years ago. Mom had just lost her job as a cook at Burwash when they closed. Got another position at Pioneer Manor with the old folks. Damn, could she whip up meals. Vats of mashies. The bestest gravy. Homemade is nothing like that gluey, tasteless stuff that they—”
Yoyo’s phone rang as Belle was about to tell her to get back to work instead of reminiscing about gravy. Suddenly she craved one of the hot beef, turkey or chicken sandwich rafts that floated the North through winters.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Picking up a strawberry sundae from the convenience store on her way home, Belle stopped at Rainbow Country to check on her father. He dove into the ice cream as if he’d been starving, even though she knew dinner had already been served. Afterwards, dreading the truth, she checked his legs. A jungle infection. The blisters were oozing and broken.
“Still doesn’t hurt, though. They put bandages and cream on every day. The cowards look kind of scared. Am I contagious? Is it beri-beri? Remember Edwina Booth from Trader Horn? When they shot that film in Africa, she caught malaria and nearly—”
She took away the empty plastic container and spoon, her temples pounding. Belle hated making scenes, but enough was enough. “We’re going to find out. I promise.”
Down the hall she walked, choosing her words carefully. Passively accepting her father’s medical treatment had led to this crisis, but the staff wasn’t to blame. “Ann,” she said to the nurse at the desk. “My father needs to get another opinion. I think he should be in the hospital. Do you agree?”
“Cherie and I were going to suggest that,” Ann said with a relieved sigh as she picked up the phone. “I’m glad you’re insisting. The way the system works, the family has to make some healthcare decisions. Frankly, I don’t have much confidence in our Dr. Davison. If he had a decent practice, he wouldn’t have to pad his payroll with nursing home visits. Makes you think.”
Back in his room, Belle put an arm around her father’s thinning shoulder, once so muscular. She owed him the same care he’d given her, even if he had pinned her to a diaper once. Recalling how at only five she could twist him around her finger to take her for milkshakes made her glad her mother had tempered the spoiling with an occasional wooden spoon to her bum. “You’re getting a ride to the hospital. Someone will take a look at you. Let’s hope they have better credentials than Vonnie and Davison.”
“Will I get any food there? When will I come home?”
And Rainbow Country was home. “I’m not sick. I’m just old,” he’d grumbled when he’d arrived, an accurate assessment.
Still worried about the delay in her father’s treatment, Belle stopped at Mutt’s. The soft, warm June evening had brought him to a lounge on the covered porch, where he was sifting through a pile of papers. Gary’s massive pickup sat in the driveway. As she got out, he hoisted a beer. “One for you? Light okay?”
“Perfect.”
When he returned, she let a cool trickle run down her throat. Today had actually passed twenty-five Celsius. Who needed to live in the banana belt? “How’s everything going?” she asked, forced to lean backward in the angled chair until her neck muscles hurt.
&n
bsp; “I’m just getting started. It’s weird, though. Gary always typed up his field notes within a few days. There’s nothing from the last two weeks. It’s as if he stopped working.” He shrugged. “Of course, I have his little pocket notebooks. He left a pile here on the desk. From the dates, it looks like the most recent one might be missing. His writing is terrible, though. Could be I have the dates wrong.”
“I didn’t see any small notebooks at the office when we picked up the supplies.”
“Maybe he had it in the canoe, and it’s at the bottom of the lake.” Mutt sounded discouraged.
She told him about the autopsy. “The details are pretty spare, but they’re always upsetting.” She recalled reading her mother’s death certificate. Everyone died from heart failure. The cause made the difference. A massive infection after chemo had triggered Terry Palmer’s final collapse.
“So I heard. Detective Ramleau again. Cold bastard. I didn’t care for his line of questioning.” He gave a disgusted look. “The jerk asked me about any insurance or wills.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Belle swallowed another few ounces and gave what she hoped was a contemptuous laugh. “That’s absurd. Are you saying that they’re investigating you?” Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed Steve to keep the file open.
“The old qui bono has them back on the case. Gary left everything to me. Double indemnity on insurance from the university.”
“But everyone needs a will. And accidents happen. Surely they can’t be—”
“He told me about it when we first got serious—$200,000 on the policy. Then of course our house in St. Catharines. A friend’s occupying it while we . . . I’m away. My name’s on the deed, though I didn’t contribute much. Gary insisted on making us equal partners. Everyone thinks writers are all rich, but I’m just getting started with a small press.”
“So that’s all, then?” She tried to minimize the totals, but the remains of the day would be considerable. Down south, especially in the Golden Horseshoe, house prices had gone to the moon. Half a million dollars bought an ordinary bungalow.