by Lou Allin
The Ministry wasn’t air-conditioned, and Belle had started to sweat. A cold drink would be welcome. She accepted a glass and drank deeply, tinging a nail on the thin crystal. She decided not to mention seeing Rosaline at the hospital. It seemed intrusive. “Guess I should start buying bottled water. I’ve been spoiled by living on Wapiti and taking the lake for granted. But the population explosion on my road, complete with dogs, fertilizers, questionable septic systems, has to have an impact.”
Rosaline turned her patrician head, her long brown hair shiny in a complex but perfect chignon. “Word to the wise. Don’t tell anyone where you heard this, but statistics are coming to light on nickel content in our water, too. I recommend Crystal Springs. Costs a bit more, but vive la différence.” She kissed her slender fingers as a ruby ring instead of the conventional wedding band cast a stained-glass sparkle on the white wall. Weren’t rubies bad luck for marriages? Probably a medieval superstition.
Belle drained her glass with appreciation. “It does seem clean and sharp. Now I sound like a wine connoisseur.”
“Makes President’s Choice taste like Cleveland’s tap water, and I should know. I spent a week there one night at a conference.”
Belle laughed at the rare, laid-back humour of a government official. Rosaline’s office was the same size as Gary’s, but its picture window overlooked a pleasant meadow with maples, oaks, and birches in full-leaf. At picnic tables and park benches, workers chatted on their breaks. A stunted northern red squirrel leaped from one tree to another, chased by a giant black relative. She blinked in surprise and pointed. “I’ve noticed that eastern grey squirrels have started moving into town. Not in the bush so far, though. In comparison with ours, they look like King Kong.”
The director pointed to a wall map of climate zones. “Global warming’s no fiction. Our scientists have recorded many plants and animals moving slowly northward.” She reached for a specimen box containing an insect that resembled a walking stick. “Look at this creature.”
“I’ve seen those in my bay.”
“It’s a brown waterscorpion. Normally only found down south. Its beak can puncture your skin. As for plants, sumac grows here in micro-environments. Hop hornbeam, too.”
“There’s a small hornbeam stand on one of my paths. The bark reminds me of shaggy hickory.”
“Very secluded, right? Probably a few degrees warmer all year round. If it goes on, maybe we’ll see those comical American magpies. My husband and I visit Taos, New Mexico, where his parents live. Missionaries. What a life. God bless them.” She motioned Belle to a comfortable blue suede armchair. Her own executive model was ergonomically designed in black leather. Crossing her shapely legs with a silken schuss, Rosaline sat back and smiled, plucking Belle’s card from a bulletin board and tapping it on the desk. “Here’s the good news. My mother is looking for a condo. Waterfront view would be ideal. Price is no object.” She gave a theatrical grin. “And I’m not just ‘talking through my hat’, an expression of hers.”
Belle’s heart thumped as she leaned forward, hearing the sounds of a teller riffling a wad of crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Thanks for thinking of me, Ms Silliker.”
“Please call me Roz,” she invited with a classic toss of her head.
The polish and quick wit reminded Belle of Roz Russell. “The timing is perfect. There’s a fabulous new project in the south end on Paris Street overlooking Lake Ramsey. Maki Cove Condominiums. Extremely exclusive. Top-of-the-line fittings. Private health club. Prices range from . . . $280,000 to over $400,000.” She stopped for a quick assessment of body language. Nothing changed about Rosaline’s pose or expression. This was going to be one whopping commish, if it went through. When Miriam came back, they’d wing off to the Bahamas in December. Make that Aruba. She hadn’t enjoyed rijstaffel since leaving Toronto.
Rosaline clasped her hands together, at one knuckle a touch of knobby osteoarthritis Belle hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps an old injury. “It sounds ideal. Mom spends the winter playing golf in Boca anyway. Wants to walk out the door at the first flake of snow and return at ice-out with no worries. I live on Indian Road on Lake Nepawhin, so we’d be quite close.”
Belle was one breath short of singing the “Hallelujah Chorus”, but she made an effort to remain cool and professional. Dream deals often melted like May snow. “I have brochures at the office. Shall I pop everything into the mail?”
Rosaline agreed, and they both stood. Behind her were framed diplomas from the University of Calgary and a Ph.D from McGill. To rise to senior management in her early forties meant that the scientist was made of stern stuff. Her maiden name had been Gable. Belle thought of the true king.
“Sorry not to be of more help about the research. Gary’s office is pretty much cleaned out with . . . Dave gone. Thank God for that. I didn’t accept this position to lecture sanctimonious bigots about civil rights.” With her hands on her hips and her brows flashing fire, she had the demeanour of a gunfighter.
Belle banished the scene with a throat-clearing. “There is one thing. Marj mentioned that some water sample results never made it back from the lab.”
Rosaline sighed and shook her head. A silver streak ran through her hair on one side, a striking effect. “Half the staff takes water samples on a regular basis. Especially with our sad history of acid lakes, it’s like a religion. Mix-ups can happen. Poor labelling, wrong dates. Breakage, spillage. Or perhaps he was concentrating on another part of the project.”
“Marj said he never failed. Every Friday.” Another word popped into her mind. With all their gabbing, she had forgotten that mission. “Benthic. I keep finding that word in Gary’s notes. My dictionary is no help, and the Internet is overkill. What does it mean?”
Rosaline pointed to a tiny stuffed greyish-brown owl with no ear tufts. “As you can guess from my magpie comment, ornithology was my focus. Migratory Flight Patterns of the Northern Pygmy-Owl in the Rockies. Of course, Wilf over there died of natural causes. Let’s see, though.” Turning like a captain at a console, she ran her finger along a set of reference books, plucked one, and returned to her desk to put on a pair of half-moon reading glasses. As she searched, her almond-shaped, butterscotch eyes scanned like a machine. “It’s been a long time, and I hated organic chemistry or hydrology, wherever we studied that stuff. I’ll try to translate. The benthos refers to the bottom-feeding organisms in an ocean, estuary, or lake that provide food for fish.” She leafed through a few more pages. “Hmm. Hold on. Then there’s benthic flux, which is defined as the rate that fluid, chemicals, particles or energy flows through a surface. And—”
Belle held up a hand. “I surrender! Not only did I fail physics, I cheated on a biology exam. Science was not my cup of tea. But you’ve pointed me in the right direction.”
“Many women feel that way, unfortunately. I’ve always felt that a female hand could direct the discipline in a more custodial and less damaging direction. I often speak at high schools during Career Week to encourage more young girls to join our ranks.” Rosaline closed the book and replaced it. “Come back and talk to our zoologist in a few weeks if any other questions come up. Right now she’s up in Red Lake on a marten habitat project.”
“You’ve been very patient. We hope to send this to Brock.” She didn’t want to drone on about Mutt’s accident and his problematical prognosis. Why would Rosaline care? She’d met him only once. As for the white elk, she could talk to the zoologist once she learned the test results.
Dropping by the Land Registry Office to search the suspicious title of a camp on Onaping Lake, Belle grabbed a quick and early lunch at Black Cat Too, the bookstore cum coffeehouse on Durham Street. Their chili was hot and spicy, the way she liked it. Blotting her mouth after finishing and heading for the door, she saw Steve at a rack with Photo Life. He’d gotten into digital photography since Heather’s arrival and appreciated the store’s large selection of magazines. Under his arm, he carried a periodical about scrapbooking. Janet’s lat
est hobby? It certainly didn’t appeal to Belle, and maybe that was the point. No one would inherit her memories.
“Free time? What has law enforcement come to?” she said with a grin.
“We are allowed lunch . . . every other day. By the way, Joey’s getting arraigned at ten tomorrow morning,” he said. “No more of Mom’s perogies for him. Grilled cheese and wieners instead for lunch and dinner.”
“Thanks for coming out yourself that night,” she said. “I owe you.”
He put down the magazines and folded his arms in a squared stance like a high school vice-principal, the designated disciplinarian. His liquid black eyes drilled into her, and one thick eyebrow rose on auto-pilot. “You got yourself into trouble, and by a lucky coincidence, back out. It’s not going to happen again. Promise me that you’ll mind your own business, personal and professional.”
Gently she punched his arm. “Don’t I always? And I’m a one-woman-plus operation, remember, so I have to be—”
“Speaking of the plus, how’s Yolanda working out? Or is she gone already?”
“Far from it. She has a great future. Lots of initiative and plenty of . . . nerve.” She thought of the dreaded cold calls, a realtor’s bête noire. Yoyo seemed to greet them with the challenge of a lynx on the hunt.
He nodded slowly, barely suppressing an ironic smile. “A perfect personality for a criminal.”
At the office, she breezed in at last, making a note to send that Maki Cove condo info to Rosaline. She had neglected to get a home address. Would the name be in the directory? Reaching for the white pages, she stopped short as she saw Yoyo with her head buried in her arms on the desk. Muffled sobs shook her shoulders.
FIFTEEN
Bad news about Coco? Belle went over and placed a tentative hand on her back, realizing that Yoyo had a small frame, despite her mammary assets. The simple, embroidered flax peasant top over slacks added an innocent Old World vulnerability. “What’s wrong? Not the baby, I hope.”
Yoyo’s head pulled back, and the tendons in her neck stretched. Her deep-shadowed eyes squeezed in a paroxysm of pain. Despite her make-up, her face was pale as chalk. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a snowmobile. These cramps started last night after dinner. I hardly got any sleep at all. Now my head’s pounding like a jackhammer. I never get headaches.”
Belle heard sirens go off. “Cramps? Have you had any bleeding?” Sounded like an engraved invitation to a miscarriage. But what about the headache? Stress from the pain?
Yoyo balled up her child-sized fists and pounded the desk, overturning a paper clip holder. Then as a spasm passed, she exhaled in relief, her breath ruffling her wispy bangs. “Nothing. That’s why I’m not that worried. Could you get me a couple of those painkillers from the bathroom cabinet, the ones with codeine?”
Wanting to help, her stomach tensing at the obvious suffering, Belle knew medication might confuse the issue. She folded her arms. “Forget it. You need to get to the hospital. Don’t take chances with two lives at stake.” Something else occurred to her. “How about your appendix?”
“It’s out. Do I have to show you the scar?” In her frustration, Yoyo’s voice assumed the cross mantle of agony.
Belle narrowed her eyes and gave the woman one last assessment. Half of Canada was clogging up Emerg with ingrown toenails and harmless sniffles, and this woman wanted to play Brunhilda. “Why not call your gynaecologist?”
“I just moved back. You know the system. The earliest appointment was next month.” Yoyo stood with difficulty, balancing against the desk, her brow etched with agony. The bulge below her waist, barely the size of Miriam’s belly pack, remained unobtrusive, except for Belle’s imagination.
Was Yoyo lying about her due date? Perhaps she’d miscalculated. At five-foot-two and a hundred-ten pounds, Terry Palmer had said that she never looked pregnant. In her eighth month, the doors of the Queen Street trolley had closed over her ocelot coat as she was exiting, pinning her in their grip. George had run alongside the car yelling and waving in panic until it had stopped. Prairie-born, Terry had been tough as a gopher.
“I’m getting worried. Are you sure about this?” Belle asked.
“Just give me my jacket. Then take me home where I can lie down. I’ll get the car later, or take the bus tomorrow morning.” She pulled a tissue and wiped a sheen of sweat off her face. No eye shadow today, nor foundation. Only a trace of a pale cinnamon lipstick. Probably too sick to care.
Belle checked her watch. “Well, if you’re—”
“Nothing’s scheduled for you this afternoon. I’m sure I’ll be fine once this passes.” She clenched her jaw in silence, pride warring against practicality. “All the correspondence and ads are done. Not one possessive error. You’ll see.”
“Of course I will. But promise me that you’ll go tout de suite to the hospital if this gets any worse. Your mother’s home, isn’t she?” She realized that she’d grown strangely fond of the unconventional young woman and her pal, Baron.
After putting a “Back in twenty minutes” sign on the door and saying a prayer for once that no business would arrive, Belle helped Yoyo down the steps to the parking lot. “Want to lie down in the back? I keep the third seat folded under for Freya, and there’s a soft pad.” Thank God she’d given the carpet a thorough treatment with the shop vac after ZZ’s swamp incident.
Waving off the suggestion, Yoyo climbed into the other captain’s chair, and fastened the belts with pained sighs. Belle headed for the Flour Mill, an old section of town abutting hills of black rock. Full of cheap tenements and blocky houses four-square to the north winds, it was Sudbury’s low-rent district, near the Goodwill and across from secondhand furniture and clothing stores.
They passed six cement grain silos nearly ninety feet high. Erected in 1910 along with a long-gone brick mill and commercially abandoned for half a century, they had been hastily refurbished with planters of petunias and a brass plaque paying tribute to Francophones who’d settled in the area. Now the stucco was crumbling again. Getting more exact directions, Belle turned down Queen Street and passed a small historical museum. “Take another right,” Yoyo said.
Along the narrow street, a hoard of children played tennis-ball hockey, dragging aside goalie nets to let the van pass. Another PD day for teachers? They approached an apartment building, perhaps an original rooming house for bachelor miners. “Stop here.”
Vinyl siding had replaced the clapboard, but a rusty stain dripped from the leaking eaves.
“I can read your mind, Belle,” Yoyo wheezed as she stopped for breath, her face red with exertion. “It’s broken. Surprise, surprise.” Broken like the hopes and dreams of those who took refuge here, a way station between poverty and life’s next stage, down or up. Belle felt ashamed to witness the woman’s home, especially with no advance warning, but what did that say about her?
Heat was building like a sauna the higher they climbed. Finally they emerged into a dingy hall with only a stuttering twenty-watt bulb dangling like a moribund tarantula from the flaky ceiling. The shabby linoleum and crack-patched walls were clean, but nothing could erase the toil of a century, nor the whiff of urine. Odours of fried cabbage and sausage from frugal tenants battled microwaved pizza in the stuffy air. Yoyo fumbled for her key, and they entered 4C.
Roo-rooing, Baron shoved his muzzle between his mistress’s legs in typical shepherd style, his tail swishing against a standing fan that Belle rescued from a crash. “Quiet, baby. You know the rules.” Bending over awkwardly, Yoyo buried her face in his thick ruff.
Then Coco emerged from a small galley kitchen, an apron over her faded print dress and a wooden spoon in her hand. “Home early? I baked a spice cake, and I’m making macaroni salad, your fav—” As Yoyo collapsed onto the couch, her mother came to her side, kneeling stiffly. “What’s wrong? Tell Mom.”
Belle said, “Stomach cramps. Pretty bad. I wanted to take her to the hospital, but she re—”
“Damn it, girl. Why didn’t you wake
me this morning?” The women exchanged a few words Belle couldn’t decipher. Then Coco’s wizened hand smoothed her daughter’s hair. “She’ll be okay, and junior, too. Didn’t I have six children, all born at home? Acted as midwife for Olga one January when we were snowbound. Do you remember that, sweetie? You were a big help, even at five.”
Belle took in a long breath, savouring the luscious aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg. If anything, they ate well here. “You mean she’s not—”
The woman folded her arms across her bony chest. A small silver cross hung around her fissured neck. The grey hair was curly, but thin at the crown, exposing a pink scalp. “I bet it’s something she ate. Chinese takeout last night. Had a coupon. I’m allergic to seafood, so she took the shrimp while I had the kung-po—”
“Stop!” Covering her mouth, Yoyo charged from the couch as if possessed and headed through the kitchen. A door closed, and they could hear retching, then the flush of a toilet and the rush of water in the sink. Baron followed his mistress, whining softly.
Coco settled into the couch, folding her hands like a mother superior. Hot air swirled around the room courtesy of floor and window fans. A pigeon landed on the windowsill, and she tossed a pillow at it. “Scram. In France, they eat the likes of you. I’m already dreaming up recipes.”
Belle gave a light laugh. “Don’t tell the Minister of Health. It might replace tuna fish as a menu suggestion from the government.”
Coco got up to check on her daughter. Reluctant to leave until she was sure Yoyo was recovering, Belle gave a cursory glance at the apartment. Barely five hundred square feet. A worn couch in a nubbly Danish Fifties’ pattern, along with companion loveseat. Chrome dining table and two chairs. A pile of magazines on the coffee table, People along with a few tabloids, but a copy of Feed Me, I’m Yours lay open. On the wall, a winter scene with a frozen brook romanticized the savage weather of the North. A Coke bottle on a side table held six daffodils. Scavenged from some innocent and befuddled gardener? Aluminum-painted radiators delivered steam heat, a nice touch if you could imagine the gurgling as babbles of a serenity pool. She did the math. Sixteen units, four per floor, probably with a custodian in the basement, where sunlight never shone. The owner would have bought it for a song and done minimal maintenance. To be fair, often low rents brought a failure to pay, long legal hassles with evictions, and once the riffraff disappeared, costly damages like holes in the walls and ripped-up plumbing nudged the bottom line. It touched her heart that pressed calico curtains framed windows cleaner than hers, and the place was dusted and vacuumed to perfection, not one shepherd hair on the threadbare beige carpet.