by Lou Allin
Belle sat up, posture at full alert, pencil poised on a pad, its point now history. Who would poison an elk? Farmers were no fans of the ungulates when they wandered into their fields around Massey to munch produce, but they were more likely to shoot first and ask for a trail permit later. Even so, Burwash and points west were thick bush, not succulent hay or alfalfa fields. “Arsenic? But how . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“It does sound strange. I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about those animals. I got transferred from the English department when it was eliminated in a cost-cutting . . .”
As she rambled on, Belle heard less and less. Here was a development worth pursuing. “Maybe I can contact Professor Straten and ask him a few questions about these results. Does he have a cell phone number? Satellite access?” From tundra to tundra.
“Dear me, no. He’s in a very remote location. I shouldn’t think he’d be in touch for weeks. They go in by helicopter and live in tents.”
Belle left her number and sat back in her chair, testing the possibilities. Could the animal have encountered poison bait for wolves or coyotes? Hunted to near extinction, wolves were only now making a comeback. She remembered the lustrous silver pelt on the pine-log wall of an exclusive lodge catering to rich American hunters. On a snowmobile jaunt, she’d wandered in, and the owner had been polite enough to make her a coffee. Later that winter, she’d been privileged to witness the haunting sight of six beasts loping across the ice at dawn. The pelts belonged in action, form and function, not decorating a wall like a lifeless memory.
Then the phone rang. Mutt said, “Sorry for the short notice and for calling you at work, but would you like to see a play at the Theatre Centre? My treat. Megs is going bonkers in the bush. It’s the least I can do, seeing that she did come up here.”
Watching the two of them interact might be even better drama. “What’s playing?” A quick glance at her cotton blazer and slacks made her glad she’d left the jeans at home.
“Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People. Megs was surprised at the choice. She thought the locals went for nothing but fluff.”
A theatre history minor in university, Belle would have preferred Hedda Gabler or A Doll’s House, all of which she’d seen at Stratford. Ibsen was a century ahead of his time in his attitude toward women. How he burrowed inside the skin of frustrated Hedda or revealed the bold yet feminine spirit of Nora was a tribute to advanced sensibilities. But An Enemy of the People? She couldn’t recall the storyline. Sounded very political. Ibsen never scrupled about pointing fingers where scrutiny belonged.
“Starts at seven thirty. We’re eating at Respect is Burning. Got to love the name. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Better not. It’s going to be a squeeze. Meet you in the foyer? Oh, and I have some unusual news about the baby elk. It . . .” A couple came though the door. From his tailored suit to her stylish dress, they were cash on the hoof. Belle wouldn’t recognize Donna Karan if she fell over her, but it was a good guess. Yoyo greeted them with a dazzling smile and a handshake, nodding at Belle. “Clients. Catch you later, Mutt.”
Her business concluded a short while later, a quick call to Hélène got Freya an invitation from the DesRosiers, her number-one babysitters. A tasty porketta was on the menu. Belle would have to do something special in return.
With a spare hour, she drove to the Ontario Map Company, located in an unprepossessing bungalow at 463 Clinton Street. She always bought her topos for canoe trips there. Passing through the peeling white picket fence, she entered the house as a bell jingled. The narrow front room was dedicated to maps of all sorts with the emphasis on hunting or fishing.
On a giant squared grid of Ontario, the clerk helped her locate the area west of Burwash then searched the corresponding drawer. The Copper Cliff number she pulled had INCO’s headquarter town at the upper right corner, but proceeded southwest all the way to the Markis Indian Reserve and the Penage Lake system. In between were numerous uninhabited lakes as well as the Burnt River. Did that explain why Gary had kept the clipping? She had no doubt that as a field scientist immune to weather and terrain, he’d canoed and portaged his way into the deep bush in pursuit of his beloved elk, but the reserve was rather far from Bump Lake. Water samples. Now arsenic. Was there a connection? Perhaps she could make time to see that zoologist Rosaline had suggested.
At six thirty, she ate downtown at a sushi restaurant. This time she tried the surf clam and left with her taste buds winging from the pickled ginger and stinging from the wasabi mustard, a perfect combination.
Centrally located on Shaughnessy Street across from Tom Davies Square, with its modern metal human sculptures, the Sudbury Theatre Centre was a magnet for the city’s intelligentsia and social climbers. She couldn’t imagine live theatre ninety years ago in a rough-at-the-edges mining town, yet drama had been an entertainment mainstay before films and television. The Chautauqua circuit had visited Sudbury on a regular basis. Oscar Wilde might have received the same rave welcome that Leadville gave him on his American tour, tossing back rye whiskey cup for cup with the boys and holding impromptu court deep in the mine as they christened the new shaft, the Oscar.
As she entered the front doors, Mutt waved the tickets at her, spruce in his light charcoal suit with a red striped tie. In a backless black dress that exposed her bony skeleton, his sister was inspecting artwork on the lobby walls, many by Ivan Wheale, a local painter who specialized in the rocky shorelines of Georgian Bay. “Hello, Belle,” she said, joining them. “This optimistic brother of mine promised me some culture. I think half my brain cells have withered since I’ve been up here.”
Gritting her teeth, Belle said in a hushed voice, “Don’t start a stampede, but we even have latte now.”
Megs tweaked a corner of her narrow, fire-engine-red mouth. “Starbucks, probably, but they don’t carry Kopi Luwak from Indonesia. I treat myself once a week. Raven’s Brew has everything.”
“Never heard of Kopi . . .” Suspecting that she was setting herself up, Belle didn’t attempt the rest of the name.
Mutt gave an indulgent sigh, as if accompanying a rude child. “Gary told me about the process. This is hard to believe, but the palm civet eats the reddest berries, then they pass through its digestive system, with only the soft outer shell dissolving.”
“Oh my G—” Belle put a hand over her mouth as the sushi repeated. Should have stuck with the California roll.
Megs smirked, clearly enjoying a moment of triumph as they moved from the lobby. “The fermentation process adds a fabulous caramel flavour.”
On this Friday evening, they settled into their seats amid a full house. The lights dimmed. Belle leaned into the plush seat and was transported to nineteenth century rural Norway. The plot is carried by Dr. Stockmann, who discovers that the runoff from a tanning mill upstream is polluting the local health spa. Yet instead of applauding his life-saving research, the local businessmen and mayor pressure him to cover it up. Corporate malfeasance over public conscience. Nothing had changed from The Jungle to Fast Food Nation to Sicko.
As the act proceeded, Mutt, sitting in the middle, spread his arms along the backs of their chairs, ever so lightly touching her shoulder. The slight pressure and the citrus scent of his aftershave took her back to her first date with Gary, though Old Spice was de rigueur in those simple days. They had ridden the subway and trolley to a Fellini movie at the Runnymede. No one she knew then had owned a car, except for a few toughs who took auto shop instead of French and could fix junkers. When another boy slipped his arm around his girlfriend, Gary no doubt felt prodded to follow suit. She swallowed a lump in her throat, thinking about how he’d forced himself to act against his nature. It had been stifling in the old theatre, his hand lightly sweaty against her bare upper arm. Mutt’s gesture was a matter of posture, ingenuous and innocent, and it sent a message that he felt familiar with her. Given the option, you didn’t touch someone you didn’t like.
At intermission, Belle r
ead the liner notes, chuckling to herself. In a letter, Ibsen had written “the minority is always right. Naturally I am not thinking of that minority of stagnationists who are left behind by the great middle party which with us is called Liberal; but I mean that minority which leads the van, and pushes on to points which the majority has not yet reached. I mean: that man is right who has allied himself most closely with the future.” How many politicians were so brave, especially when safeguarding the environment hit the corporate wallet? Even the dinner table wasn’t safe. Spinach, carrots and tomatoes had been indicted, and now seafood would be off the menu in a few decades. Could even the Green Party save them?
She pointed out the letter to Mutt, who had brought glasses of red wine from the bar, and he nodded. “Gary liked Ibsen. Told me he played a few roles in university theatre.”
“He was a good actor. In more ways than one.”
A sheen filmed Mutt’s eyes as he responded with a bittersweet memory. “His favourite role was Osvald in Ghosts. He drew parallels between the themes of venereal disease and the current HIV/AIDS situation. ‘Mother—give me the sun’, that killer line. Blind, doomed and begging for release. It brought down the house.”
Over at the bar, Megs, décolletage edging ever south, had corralled a balding man in a casual tuxedo, his comb-over a trompe l’oeil. By rough count, she was on her third glass of wine, and she tossed her tiny head back to laugh like a rooster exposing its neck on the block. Mutt’s face had a “what-can-you-do?” expression. Had he bailed his sister out of many uncomfortable situations or watched from the sidelines? Belle wondered why these siblings were so different. As an only child, she had no yardstick.
Megs had disappeared when the chime to return came, though they waited until the last minute. Perhaps she had gone off to play doctor. No doubt she considered the acting third rate and planned to make a few acid remarks. Just as well she was “missing in action”. Belle turned to Mutt. “Does she pull this often?”
He finished his plastic cup of wine and put it in the trash. “Even as a teenager, she was a man-eater. Disastrous marriages. An alcoholic lawyer and an accountant who did jail time. Maybe one of your tough northern guys will give her a run for her money.”
When the curtain fell at last, Belle wasn’t surprised to see that Mutt had nodded off, his head against her shoulder. So soon out of the hospital, he shouldn’t have overstretched his resources. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“Huh!” He came to with a snort, rubbing his bleary eyes. “Sorry about that. I guess even one glass of wine was too much. Always was a cheap date.”
They filed out and headed for the parking lot. Belle was still pondering the timeless theme. If Ibsen were alive today, he’d be leading the charge toward universal acceptance of the Kyoto Agreement. Where were the visionaries when you needed them? Drones and managers. It was depressing.
Mutt reached the car and spread his hands, looking around the parking lot with a frown. “Where is she?”
An ebony Jag XKE pulled up, and Megs leaned out the passenger window as if she were in a French film, batting her thickly-mascaraed eyes, a cigarillo dangling in her hand. She flipped it onto the pavement, then tossed Mutt her car keys. “Don’t wait up. Colin, I mean Dr. Marsh, is going to show me his house on Lake Ramsey. It’s a Frank Lloyd Wright design.” Before they could respond, the sleek vehicle merged into traffic like a cheetah parting a herd of wildebeest.
Mutt stood with his mouth half open. Clearly this crossed the line, even for him.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” Belle said, concealing her disgust. Didn’t the woman realize that her brother was in no shape to drive?
As they forged down the Kingsway and exchanged the garish lights of town for the soothing darkness, an inverted bowl of ink with twinkling stars, she told him about the arsenic. “Did Gary ever mention elk getting poisoned by bait intended for other animals?”
They made the turn past the airport and climbed the hill. Overhead, a small prop plane swooped over, a bird with Christmas lights on its wings.
“Whoa. That’s off the wall. Are you sure they got all the figures right?”
“How could they make a mistake? Arsenic’s either there, or it’s not. And these labs are independent. No axes to grind.”
Mutt asked her to turn up the heater. After the ordeal, his metabolism was still on the slow side. “I think I remember from chemistry class that arsenic can occur naturally. Once it was used for cosmetics, even for health reasons. ‘Eating arsenic’, they called it. Small doses.”
Belle eased off on the gas as they plunged down a hill. “You have quite a background. I guess that’s a writer’s territory.”
“Got that tidbit from a mouldy old paperback, The Shocking History of Drugs. Plagues, poisons, things like that always fascinated me as a kid. Pretty morbid, eh?”
“As long as you weren’t pulling wings off flies, I wouldn’t have been worried.” Putting herself in a parental role reminded her that fifteen-plus years separated them. In a strictly technical sense, she could have been his mother. She shook off the thought as she saw him lean back in his seat and relax.
“It’s so dark out here. Don’t you love it?”
As they turned onto Edgewater Road, piercing yellow eyes in the bush gleamed in Belle’s headlights. An owl peered from the branches of a large poplar. Such a privilege to see one of these nocturnal creatures whose call was “Who Cooks for You?” Thinking about birds, she recalled Rosaline Silliker’s thesis, which triggered another thread. “You mentioned an idea about Dave sabotaging Gary’s research. I’m starting to believe that.” She filled him in on her visit to the Ministry, the missing water tests, and Dave’s disappearance.
Mutt turned his head to her, his voice gaining confidence as his thoughts sped up. “Little fragments are coming back. I went to the Ministry, and . . . I think I got into an argument with him. The guy has a bad attitude about gays. I came close to shoving him up against a wall when he mouthed off about Gary. But the office was the same as we left it. The secretary was busy with someone else, so I missed her input. You might be right. He had access to Gary’s work. Now he’s gone under a rock somewhere.”
Belle narrowed her eyes as she scanned the road. Oddly enough, darkness was the safest time, animals aside. “Could it be connected with the robbery? Someone did take the laptop and camera. Remember the interest in the files.”
Mutt looked confused. “Not the guy next door, then? He was my choice.”
“After I talked to Bill, I scratched him off our list.” Belle tended to put dog lovers on the side of the angels, but she’d been wrong before. Something returned to her memory. She told him about that large white Buick.
Mutt gave a deep sigh. “That night’s still one long wormhole between dimensions. All I remember is going to bed, then someone pulling on me. I woke up in the hospital with a royal headache.”
“The car was there too long to be merely turning around. And not at three in the morning. Bill was too sick to notice much more. But in the dark, anything could have been possible.”
“I don’t know anyone with a white Buick. Can’t say Gary didn’t. What are you thinking?”
Belle’s chest tightened as a possibility emerged. “Maybe what happened to the furnace was no accident, my friend.”
“The furnace? Why in the—”
At the sight of oncoming lights over a hill, Belle pulled to the side, wary enough to avoid the soft ditch but brushing a few willows. “Let’s start with the break-in. Why would an ordinary thief concentrate on the study? Their chainsaw and generator were untouched, in an unlocked shed. There’s two thousand dollars alone. And the last notebook missing? To give us just enough information not to get suspicious. If they’d all been gone, we would have seen a definite plot.”
“You’re way ahead of me, but the lack of sense makes sense, if you can follow that logic.”
“You mean illogic.” The van eased into the yard, and she reached into the back for the rolle
d tube. “Today I bought the topo for the territory west of Burwash. Are you up to a decaf?”
“I’m still pretty dry. A soft drink for me.”
Belle made herself a coffee while Mutt took off his suitcoat, loosening his collar. “God, I hate ties. What a stupid idea.”
“You ought to try pantyhose and spiked heels.”
“That’s what a friend of mine says.” His grin made her laugh. Clearly he was close to normal again.
Shortly after, walking into the study, they placed their drinks on the desk. Belle looked at the cola, something emerging from the corners of her mind. “Remember the old Pepsi can we found? Sure was strange that he kept that.” It reminded her of her mania as a teenager. She’d probably have put Gary’s pencil stubs in her museum.
Mutt sipped from his drink, his Adam’s apple working. “Must still be in the truck.”
Given the keys, Belle turned on the yard lights and hit the remote. In the extended cab, where the seats had been removed for more storage, she saw the plastic bag with the fragile can pushed to the side and picked it up carefully. A very odd souvenir. More to the point, what could have caused the aluminum to corrode?
Together they sat on an overstuffed chintz sofa in front of the fireplace, where Mutt had cobbled together a quick pine blaze. The night was cool. Staring into the leaping flames was a pastime as old as the first men with sticks and a rock.
She pulled over a floor lamp and turned it up to bright. “Spread out the topos on the coffee table and match them up. See if we can imagine where he went from Bump Lake.”
Cracker Lake, Merit, Dooble, Brodill, Big Paddy, Paddy, deeper into the wilds as her finger moved west towards White Oak Lake. No roads, not even water-access black dots for camps. Occasional swamps were indicated by bushy symbols. Low elevations, the highest only a thousand feet. Perfect bug territory. Winding watercourses, Bevin Creek leading to Bevin Lake. This was barely charted wilderness, impossible to travel on foot, and hardly less ugly by canoe. No wonder Burwash had no escapees. The prison set one guard at each end of the nearby railroad tracks and one at the road to Route 69. West was the one impassable direction. What had Gary found?