by Lou Allin
Mutt put a finger on the legend. “I see what you mean. It’s a nightmare, except by water. How often do they update these maps? This one’s 1993—quite some time ago.”
“From what the woman at the map company said, they don’t bother unless the area’s getting urbanized, like around Tilton Lake. It used to be summer cottages. Now people commute from there.”
Mutt followed her tracks with heavy eyelids. She watched his profile as the resinous kindling sputtered behind the screen, a bank of quarry tiles protecting the shiny oak planking. “If we accept the idea of sabotage on Dave’s part, could it have been just for spite, a random choice? Or did the dead elk mean something more to Gary?”
“The arsenic is proof that he was right to keep the body.” A reactive smile died on Mutt’s face. The corners of the room etched with shadows, they sat in a warm halo of light. “Do you want to take this all the way? As a mystery writer, I can see incarnations of evil everywhere. Go back to the beginning. Suppose his death was no accident.”
“That was my first thought.” Belle sat back into the pillows with electrical charges rising from her spine. “The booze never made sense. A set-up. Are we saying someone hit him?”
“The blow came from behind, remember? It was possible that he fell and hit his head, but I’m saying he would have landed in the canoe. So let’s imagine he was struck on land and then taken out onto the lake.”
“In the middle of nowhere? Who would he meet? Did they get into an argument, or was the whole thing planned? I can’t see him inviting Dave into his boat.” Belle stretched out her sock feet and enjoyed the warmth of the blaze. “Nobody’s at Bump Lake except for the occasional teenager and sportsmen like that Patch guy. What’s the connection? It’s possible that Dave would have known his plans, though. I wonder where he was when Gary died.”
Belle’s gaze went to the mantel, where a handsome bronze urn sat. “Is that . . .”
“Came yesterday from the Cooperative Funeral Home. I was supposed to collect it, but they were helpful enough to send it out by courier when they heard about my accident.” He stood and walked over to lift the container gently. “A few pounds. Dust thou art and dust returneth—”
“Don’t forget the important part: ‘Was not spoken of the soul’.” The fragile carapace around a person was as insignificant as the urn itself. Useful for its tenure but a temporary home for a spirit.
Mutt held the urn in his arms like a baby, but at last he replaced it and went over to the double tape deck. “I’ve played this over and over. His voice had deepened, but I recognized it. Like knowing him as a boy. I made a copy, so I can give yours back.”
Belle swallowed a lump in her throat. “Play it for me. I haven’t heard it since university. God knows why I kept it.” But she knew.
He started the tape, and she was whisked back almost thirty years. First “Once in the Highlands”, then “There But for You Go I.” At “It’s Almost Like Being in Love”, she had to turn away. Almost. What does anyone know of love at seventeen? A trick of hormones aimed at procreation ASAP. Yet for the innocent she had been, a tear sneaked from her eye. “In thy valley, there’ll be love.” The final words faded back into the distance of time, where they belonged. Shangri-la was a place of dreams, no longer of this earth.
She could tell from Mutt’s posture that he was close to exhaustion. The song ended, and he turned off the player. “Whatever fine points a serious investigator could have brought to bear on the forensics at the scene, everything’s long gone now,” she said.
One small ember of hope lingered in his voice. “Court TV is one of my favourite shows. Cold cases are often broken by someone snitching or a paper trail.”
“And we’re unlikely to find either, now or in 2025.” Belle looked out the window. A lone houseboat lit by a lantern Huckleberry Finn style, putted down lake like a sedate dowager, except for the boom box sending “Love Me Tender” echoing across the still water. Ed and Hélène on a moonlight cruise. “The logical course is to ask Dave a few questions, but I don’t even know his last name. Maybe Marj—”
“If the Ministry can’t find him, how can you?” Mutt stifled a yawn. “Guess I should—”
“Sorry for rambling on. You need your rest. Anyway, we still have our mysterious Pepsi can. I’ll show it to a friend of mine in chemistry at the university. What have we got to lose? And when Paul Straten gets back, we can follow up on the elk poisoning. That zoologist might be back, too.”
“I wish I could do something.” Double vertical lines creased above the bridge of Mutt’s nose. “Bloody Words starts Thursday. I’ll be gone for three days.”
She nearly laughed out loud, despite the late hour and her growing sleepiness. Belle hadn’t been up this long since the last election. “Bloody Words? What’s that?”
“Canada’s biggest mystery conference. Authors, fans, publishers, agents, the whole shebang. I reserved at my usual B&B on Jarvis months ago. And I can take time to see my father. He’s doing better. This might be a breakthrough for us.”
Belle touched his hand. Why was she tempted to make contact with him? She wasn’t the touchy-feely type. “Are you strong enough? Is Megs taking you?”
“With her,” she nearly added in high hopes.
He gave a tired laugh.
“The plane is fine. I’d bow out if I could, but I’m committed to speaking on a historical panel as well as the usual signings and manning a booth for the Crime Writers of Canada. Besides, that kind of activity energizes me, takes me outside myself.”
“Tell you what. I want to read about Lucy’s next adventure. You write, I’ll investigate. Deal?”
When Belle returned home, Freya had long since been delivered by the DesRosiers, but she was unusually restless, rooing at the least noise, a plane, a passing vehicle, even a barking fox on night patrol in search of rabbit pie. Belle went into the computer room to check her answering machine. Two hang-ups, not that irregular, given the cold-calling machines that struck at six and disconnected after a few rings. She could still see Bartko’s ugly, threatening face on her deck and in the courtroom. Better start locking her doors like Steve had suggested. With her luck, she’d probably lose her key, have to get a ladder to reach the roof, then leap the yawning abyss to her bedroom balcony.
After a quick shower, she rolled into the undulating waterbed, sailing on her favourite ocean liner to dreamland. Despite the hour and her long prayers including the quick and the dead back to age five, sleep avoided her like a terrified groom. Her grandfather had been obsessive-compulsive, by modern diagnosis, and she carried the genes, by now reduced harmlessly to closing a book on a “lucky” page that didn’t have sevens or add up to thirteen. She was running through a scenario of being snowbound in a cosy cabin, heating beans on the wood stove, finally nodding off when the phone rang. Sitting up with a start, she grabbed the portable model on her night table. “Hello?” Seconds passed. “Hello?” She heard only the sound of heavy breathing, the absence of speech that struck a primal terror.
SEVENTEEN
Cowardly bastard,” she said, punching off the set with a vengeance. Then she flicked on the lights, put on her slippers, and stomped to the utility room in the basement. which contained the washer, dryer, small freezer, water heater, furnace and a host of handy cabinets plundered from the old cottage. Standing on a footstool, she stretched into the rafters for a black plastic bag with Uncle Harold’s old twelve-gauge. She broke the gun and peered into the chambers. Empty, good citizen. Where were those shells? Ed had given her two last New Year’s, when he’d fired his shotgun over the lake after she played “Auld Lang Syne” on her trumpet.
Upstairs in the china cabinet, she reached into the Toby jug of Merlin, who guarded her mother’s seven Royal Doulton ladies, white elephants passed on to an unappreciative daughter. Her fingers found two cartridges. No one would find her defenceless again. She shook her fist Scarlett-style and went back upstairs to lock her doors for a change. Surely Joey’s pals would
tire of the harassment.
The next morning, Belle called a former client at Shield University, Athena Christakos. The sweet Greek lady with the best baklava in town taught basic chemistry to freshmen and was always perking by six.
“Sounds like you need a metallurgist more than a chemist,” she said. “I’ll be at the office all day until vacation starts next week. Drop it off here any time. If I’m not around, the secretary will take it.” She paused and tried to muffle the phone, but Belle could still hear “Mira, leave your brother alone. If he doesn’t want his yoghurt, that will be his problem when he’s a bent old man at sixty.”
With no access to a ski bag, minutes later Belle tucked the shotgun into the dog blanket in the van and left the yard. When she got to the office, Yoyo was arriving, a subdued Baron with his ears askew by her side. “Damn low air in a tire again. Happens all the time. Mom says I aim at every pothole in town.”
“My road is a minefield, too. I even bought an air compressor. Try getting new valves installed.”
Baron headed for the back room with a decidedly stiff gait. Tuned to canine conformation, Belle noticed it and frowned. “What’s the matter with your boy? Did he hurt his leg?”
“Baron, come here. Show Belle your owee.” The dog returned, lay down, and rolled over at Yoyo’s hand signals. Belle gave her credit for taking time to train the large animal. His pink belly streaked with cream hairs led the eye to a decided absence of the masculine companions. Yoyo considered him with a mournful expression. “I finally did the deed. Petville Animal Hospital had a subsidized rate for the first five people to apply. But his poor empty purse. How tragic.”
Never having had a male dog, Belle was unfamiliar with the finer points of the neutering process. “I don’t understand. Was there some option?”
“Not unless I’d acted sooner. He is a very, very big boy. People turned their heads, especially in hot weather when his ballies dropped to stay cool.” She wobbled her lip with a sigh. “They say it’ll shrink.”
An hour later, Belle took off for a walk over to Cedar Street then to Elgin to drop off ads at Northern Life. This seedy part of town included cheque-cashing outlets, a few scabrous bars, and alongside the railroad that bisected town in the least attractive spot, the huge new Farmer’s Market, a glory of glass and metal designed as a year-round venue for the produce vendors that operated in tents during summer. Unfortunately, the higher rents were proving too rich for slim pockets, and many stalls were empty. She stopped at a Mexican food booth with a pleasant Chicano grandmother and picked up a double order of tamales.
The rich aroma of the spicy tomato/pork/corn roll-up was tantalizing her salivary glands when she saw a familiar figure emerge from a pawnshop and head toward her. The fugitive Dave? So he had stayed around town after all. After his theft at the Ministry, how paranoid would he be at her approach? Then again, how could he know that she’d heard about his crime?
“Dave! Over here!” she yelled, waving one arm, the other cuddling the package like a warm puppy.
He stopped and gave her a furtive stare. “I need to talk to you,” she called, as a massive freight train with four locomotives blew its whistle and charged past, sending up clouds of dust and leaving the air perfumed with diesel fumes. Belle rubbed at her eyes, blinking.
When she looked up, she saw him on the run, heading down Elgin and turning sharply into an alley. She considered the delicious package. Swearing, she placed it on the doorstep of an abandoned shoe shop, probably some homeless person’s sleeping spot. Running at top speed, dodging a few drifters lounging with paper bags outside May’s Tavern, she reached the alley, then paused. At the end was an eight-foot chain-link fence and an overflowing dumpster. A street person rummaged through a discarded pizza box.
“Did you see a guy run past here?” She placed her hands on her knees and sucked back air.
The grizzled face had a crooked smile, several teeth missing, the rest rusty pegs. “Yeah, he went over like a pole vaulter. Got into that red truck. Want a boost?” In the distance, a Dodge Ram burned rubber and roared off. Running certainly indicated guilt. But as a thief, saboteur, or even a murderer?
“Thanks for your help.” Belle passed him a toonie.
Returning to the doorway, she was dismayed to find her tamales gone. Some soul had good taste.
At four she drove down Paris, taking Ramsey Lake Road past Laurentian Hospital. Farther along, she turned into the Shield University complex, home to five thousand students and site of the province’s new Medical School. At last the doctor-poor North could train its own. But would they stay?
Winding her way around campus, Belle parked at a meter near the Science Building. Stopping to admire the view of Lake Ramsey with its jewelled islands and monster houses, she saw a dragon boat team paddling in rhythm on the glassy surface.
On the first floor, in a cluttered office resembling a landfill, she found Athena, marking lab reports. How she found time to raise three children under twelve amazed Belle. Never one to fuss about clothes, she wore a grey jumper over a pair of tights and Birkenstock clogs. She looked up and stood to give Belle a hug. “The kids have grown six inches since I last saw you.” On the wall were several photos of a birthday party.
Belle admired the sweet, candid shots. Like their beautiful mother, the children were modelling material, lucent light-olive skin from their Italian father, dark hair and laughing brown eyes with lustrous lashes. Examples of their crayon work were pinned on the bulletin boards.
“So let’s see this legendary can,” Athena said, holding out her hand. With the other, she brushed back a strand of streaked brown hair that had escaped from a leather ponytail clip.
Belle pulled it from the paper bag, holding it like the Holy Grail. “Careful, it’s very eroded. Sharp pieces could cut you.”
Athena paused, fingers pulled back. “Should we be concerned about fingerprints?”
“Too late now, but I don’t think that’s where the mystery lies. Even filled with cement, it would make a poor murder weapon.”
With the delicacy of a scientist, Athena turned the can to catch the light from the floor-to-ceiling window. “Aluminum is a very sturdy metal. Doesn’t rust like iron or steel. Out in the open, it can last for decades. Something’s been at this.”
“Been at?” Belle took a seat on a secretarial stool in front of a computer, rolling back and forth. “Not an animal—”
“No, something quite corrosive.” Athena traced the faded metal, lacy in spots, with a feathered touch. “Clearly this has been in contact with an acid substance. Where was it found?”
Belle spread her hands. “That’s the mystery. A friend of mine was working down in Burwash and points west. I can’t guarantee that’s where he found it, but it’s an educated guess. And he kept it. That’s the strange part.”
“You have me intrigued. What did he say? Why is it so important to you?” Her pleasant manner showed concern, not annoyance.
With little time of her own, Athena penetrated to the core of the matter, a rare combination of empathy and logic. Belle decided to tell her about Gary and Mutt. One more therapist couldn’t hurt.
“An old boyfriend of yours? I’m at a loss for words.” She put a hand on her chest.
“I’ve taken enough wisecracks from everyone I’ve told. You wouldn’t have recognized me at eighteen.”
Carrying a report, a student appeared in the doorway, then pulled back, mumbling an apology. Belle felt guilty about taking up the woman’s time. Imagine if someone barged into her office during peak hours. “Anyway, can you get me any more information on what caused the corrosion?”
Athena pointed out the door and across the hall where a sign on an office read, “Rick Cooper, Metallurgy”. “Our man’s usually here in the afternoons. One glance and he’ll have an answer.”
Fifteen minutes later, approaching her office, Belle saw a squat figure emerge, come down the steps with a walker and get into a waiting Neon, which chugged off. Was that Joey
’s mother or a local baba? Down the street was the Ukrainian Seniors Home, and the mobile ladies did regular walkabouts.
“Did a Mrs. Bartko stop by? I thought I recognized her,” she asked Yoyo as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Ever since Megs had mentioned that specialty brew, she hadn’t taken quite the usual pleasure in her daily cups. Missing Miriam more and more, she had started using her cohort’s “Are We Having Fun Yet?” mug.
“Sure did, and I don’t mind telling you that my grandma’s Ukrainian comes in handy. Vitayu. Hello. Dyakuyu. Thank you. Chalk another one up for yours truly.” Yoyo raised her arms in a double victory sign.
“So I guess she’s selling her house. If Joey’s going away for a long time, she’d be better off in a small apartment. And she probably wants the cash for a lawyer.” Belle gave her credit for pride instead of a pump on the public purse. “But it’s hard to believe that she chose this company after my problems with Joey.”
Yoyo shrugged. “I don’t think she made the connection. She asked for someone called Harold Palmer. He sold her the place decades ago.”
Belle nodded as she pointed to a picture of a moustached, white-haired man with a fifty-pound muskie. “That’s my uncle.” Miss you, Pal Hal.
“My feet are killing me. It’s this extra weight. I bet I’ve gained fifteen pounds. That’s about on course with Mom. You could hardly tell.” Yoyo put Miriam’s foot roller into action, savouring the sensation. “I told Mrs. B. that you’d want to give her place a once-over before settling on the asking price. She’s not going to get a fortune over there on a side street, even with the recent renos she mentioned.” Homes in the million-dollar range had been erected on MacClennan Drive along the hill overlooking the sheltered bay.