by Lou Allin
Belle grunted at the thought of those renos and their leftovers dumped in the bush. “Right, but you never want to own the most expensive house on the block.”
Yoyo chortled. “What were you doing at the courthouse, by the way? Even the idea brings up bad memories and makes me nervous.”
Belle squirmed in her chair, then explained her connection with Joey. “Can you can see why I want to keep a low profile?”
“Wow. Sounds like a dangerous man. Why not tell her to find another realtor?”
Belle listened to the siren call of the cash register and gave a dismissive gesture. “He’s in jail, so he’s not going to bother me. Why would I want to lose the commission? Not on your life.” She neglected to mention the unsavoury friends. If she didn’t think about them, maybe they would go away.
“What about your life? Even an idiot like that has connections, probably as nuts as he is. And he operated a meth lab? Sheesh.” Yoyo aimed her finger like a pistol, cocked and dropped the thumb, and blew on the tip of the “gun”.
“Don’t worry about me. I have some . . .” Her words were drowned out by the roar of a motorcycle pushing decibels just shy of a jackhammer.
“What did you say?”
“I HAVE SOME PROTECTION IN THE VAN.” The noise outside dropped to zero halfway through her answer. With no clients around, she put her feet up on the desk, flicked a dog hair from the stretch jeans and unbuttoned her blazer.
Steve came around the corner from the bathroom, his voice a growl that would have done a cougar proud. “Did I hear ‘protection’ and ‘in the van’ in the same sentence? You better be talking about birth control.”
EIGHTEEN
Belle tossed Yoyo an evil look and dropped her feet to the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me Steve was here?”
“ ’Cause I know your priorities. Money first.” Sticking out her tongue in a mischievous gesture, she rose, placing a hand on her back with an “oooo” in a classic pregnant pose. “No rest for the wicked. Gotta hit the bank for some deposits. Later, guys.”
As the door closed, Steve arced a paper towel into the wastebasket and folded his arms. Round one was about to begin. She heard the gong. “What do you have in the van, or maybe I don’t want to know. Tell me it’s a hockey stick.”
No time for charades. He was furious. Belle mumbled a few words, and he exploded, pacing back and forth like a caged man. “Are you crazy? It gets stolen, and then where would you be? Arming a nervous young punk to hold up a convenience store?”
“Okay, it’s just . . .” When she started spinning her wheels, Belle knew she was in trouble. Why didn’t she shut up until this blew over? She bit her lip and considered the ceiling. Was that a water spot or a ladybug?
“It’s just about showing up at that hearing. Detective Burns told me he saw you scuttling out with Joey’s buddies watching your stupid back.”
“All right! It was a mistake. A stupid one. I’m stupid. Now I’m keeping a low profile.” She didn’t take issue with the scuttling, but it made her feel like a trilobite.
He gave the desk a pound that rattled her teeth, then added a glare that could scorch paint. “You couldn’t do that if you changed into a garter snake. And as for the shotgun, it better be back in your rafters by supper, or I’ll come get it myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Her heart beat a conga rhythm. Maybe he was right, but paternalism went only so far before her independence was compromised.
“The fine for an unlicensed firearm is two thousand dollars, and jail time in some cases. To use your own yardstick, take that to the bank.”
Two thousand from the last commission. Already earmarked for the new sign. “I never said it was un—”
Then the door slammed, and she was alone. Except for Baron, snoring in the back room. Belle went to his side and stroked the soft fur, wiping unbidden moisture from her eye. She knew Steve’s anger would flare out like a Canada Day sparkler, but this would take time. She didn’t envy him, Janet on one side and her on the other. Scylla and Charybdis. Was she the whirlpool or the nymph?
Shaking herself back to action, Belle saw the Maki Cove literature, which she’d neglected to send to Rosaline. She put it into a large mailing envelope and searched the white pages. No Silliker. Unlisted? Or perhaps her husband preferred to get his calls at work or by cell. Addressing it to the Ministry offices by default, Belle added a note about arranging a tour for the mother. Then she wrote a postscript: “You might be interested to know that Dave Watson is still around. I saw him from a distance downtown.” Perhaps the police could do something with that information. With her luck, it would tailspin into another crisis like the one with Joey.
The next day, Belle met Athena for coffee. They were enjoying the doughnut of the month, a chocolate caramel variety. “All the fat in muffins, might as well enjoy one of these babies,” Athena said, patting her stomach. “It’s hard to get back into shape the older you get. When I think of the soccer I used to play . . .”
Belle accepted the bag with the can. “What did Rick say?”
“Lakes close to town that suffered in the acid-rain years had tons of cans like these, especially near the tailings ponds.”
Belle searched her memory, recalling the geography on the new topo. “You mean like around Kelly Lake Road near Copper Cliff? My friend wasn’t within seventy-five miles of there.” Then she recalled that one of his studies had involved nickel content in fecal pellets of moose browsing near the core area. That might have been a few years ago. She couldn’t recall the publishing date of the monograph. Ancient history? Yet he’d only been in the ministry office this summer. Had he found the can years ago on one of his trips and brought it with him? With the reason for the corrosion so obvious, why keep the object at all?
“Rick had another suggestion. What about an old mine back in the bush?”
Of course, Gary would be concerned about habitat if he’d found something dangerous, something toxic. Belle started making connections. The elk. Now the can. High acid content? “I’ll check the topo, but offhand, I don’t remember seeing any of those little crossed pick and axes used as a mine symbol. What about the arsenic idea?”
Athena beamed like a June sun on a sandy beach. “My own tests on a folded crease show arsenic residue.”
Belle scratched her ear. She’d loathed every science course she’d been compelled to take. “Is arsenic a by-product of nickel smelting?”
Athena hmmed to herself. This wasn’t her area of expertise. “From what I can recall from my distant studies, it’s more a factor in gold mining.”
“But INCO processes all kinds of trace metals. Platinum. Palladium.”
“True. You need another opinion.” She gave Belle the name of a mining and geology professor at Nickel City College.
On the way home later, Belle fell into a trance along Radar Road, hardly aware of making the turn up the airport hill until a gravel-hauler pulled out of the pit and forced her to brake. She’d promised Mutt that she’d make inquiries, but she could have used a second pair of legs. The elk, the missing water samples, now the can. Had they overlooked any other clue in Gary’s last few weeks? He’d been such a solitary man, but that was what he’d loved about the job.
Approaching Mutt’s, she saw him in the yard, filling the washer fluid reservoir in the Prius. He wore a crisp blue turtleneck over wheat jeans and slip-on hikers. Belle wondered about his future love life. Would he look actively for a partner or let life transport him where it would?
“Need a ride to the airport?” she asked, getting out of the van.
“Naw. Short-term parking’s fine with me. Easier when I get back instead of taking a taxi.”
She hadn’t seen the Infiniti in the drive. “Megs?”
He grinned. “Seems she went to Vegas with her new boyfriend, Colin. He’s a plastic surgeon.”
“Kismet or what? I see discounts in her future.” What would the woman try next?
“She seems pretty stuck on the guy.
First time I’ve seen her this serious in a long time. But as for more surgery, she was told last time that her nose might collapse. Has to keep clearing it with Q-tips.”
Belle gave an inward shudder as that memory clicked home. Then she told him what she had learned from Athena. A shadow crossed his face. “Mining, eh? Gary and I took a trip to Yukon once to hike the Nahanni and heard some horror stories about contamination left behind at abandoned mines. By-products like arsenic and cyanide.”
“I’m asking a specialist. When you get back, I’ll have more information.”
He nodded. “That Max Leaver I mentioned? He hadn’t heard from Gary in years. Can’t see why he’d lie at this point. He was quite upset.”
Belle put a hand on Mutt’s shoulder. “Take good care of yourself.”
He took her hand, kissed it and made a mock bow. “Your wish is my command. And since I’ll be in Toronto, can I bring you back anything?”
“Certainly no Kopi Luwak coffee. How about picking up a great bottle of wine at their big Vintages store by the waterfront? I’ll go as high as . . . fifty dollars.” Had she really said that? What were her feelings toward this man? Elementary psychology would probably say that she had transferred her affections from Gary to him, revisiting the mentality of her hot-blooded teenage years. Did he see her as ridiculous, or was he enjoying their friendship? As she watched him drive off with a wave, she was sorry she wasn’t going along. She was beginning to feel like a schoolgirl, shoving work aside to play when they could have put their heads together about Gary’s project. Would she ever know the truth?
The next day Belle had showings at the far reaches of town, from Chelmsford to Onaping all the way down to Lively. This was the best week yet for the business, a rising curve that usually peaked in mid-July. She was contemplating giving Yoyo a raise, a generous part of her mind duelling with the usual pesky scruples about finance. The woman would probably be gone in a few weeks. Why not toss a few more dollars her way? Belle thought of Coco’s macular degeneration.
When she came in to drop off a load of paperwork just before five, she passed a crowd on its way out of the office, a happy sight. Yoyo was copying information from a couple from Windsor who had taken teaching jobs at Nickel City College. A wave of recent baby boomer retirements had thinned the ranks. Belle sat them down, glancing at the coffee machine. Nearly empty. “I used to be a teacher,” she said to break the ice. “What are your subjects?”
Judy Johnson said, “I’m in math. Ted is in psychology.”
Good choices, she thought. One was cut and dried, or so she imagined. And, unlike English, no one ever said that they hated psychology. That would be disliking yourself.
After she’d shown them pictures and data about two choice properties on Atlee Street, a stone’s throw from the college, she pencilled in a visit on Monday. As they left, she turned to Yoyo, who was cracking open a container of chocolate milk. “Busy, I take it?”
“It was a mob scene. People coming and going. Half an hour ago, there must have been a dozen at once. Mrs. Bartko came in again. Says her neighbour is going to give the outside a coat of paint this weekend. She didn’t look so good, poor lady. Very short of breath. An aunt of mine—”
Why did women love to gab about health concerns? You got old, you got sick, you died. Why dwell on it? Belle checked her watch and made a Papal blessing. “Ten to five. I declare a holiday. Go forth and multiply.”
“One will be totally enough.” Yoyo broke into a wave of laughter. “You’re getting soft, boss. On the other hand, you know I’ll take some of this home.” She fluttered a pile of papers on the desk.
Belle yawned. “I didn’t get my portion of coffee today with all those showings. Want the last of the pot?”
“No way. I’ve been having some reflux lately. Had to lay off. Another perk—get it?—of approaching motherhood.” Yoyo pressed her breastbone and gave a tiny burp. “’Scuse me.”
Belle smiled. Yoyo was fun to have around, but a little went a long way. She appreciated Miriam’s steady, no-nonsense approach to the job. Pouring herself the black dregs, swirling it to cool, she gulped it down too fast, nearly burning her mouth. Usually Yoyo made great coffee, but this must have been sitting for hours. It was faintly bitter, too, like espresso. She finished it as her lazy lot, then sat down and gave her agenda a quick scan.
Yoyo returned from the bathroom, where she’d scoured the coffee pot. Walking over to Belle’s desk, she tapped her plaid watch. “One minute after five. Got your pound of flesh after all. So you’ll lock up?”
“Nope, all through.” Closing her daybook, Belle stood abruptly, then reached out a hand toward the desk as the room tilted like the Whirlygig at Sunnyside Amusement Park.
“You okay?” Yoyo asked, grabbing her arm. “Was your leg asleep or something? I love that phrase. Sounds like it has a mind of its own.”
Shaking her head, Belle sat back down. “Just a bit . . . dizzy. Happens sometimes when I stand up too suddenly, or I’ve been travelling at a high speed and stop to get out of the van.” She had always moved fast, a dervish valuing velocity over perfection. Was this a warning? When had her last check-up been?
Yoyo regarded her with an analytical eye. “How old are you, anyway, if I might ask?”
Mind reader? Belle flushed slightly. Not that she cared, but every woman had a kernel of vanity, especially when confronted by a younger specimen. “Somewhere between forty-five and death,” she replied, paraphrasing a line from Auntie Mame.
Yoyo’s brow wrinkled, and she raised a grim, warning finger. “Aha. Sounds like high blood pressure. My mom had spells like that, but she’s on metoprosomething now. Has the readings of a two-year-old. Don’t be stubborn about needing medication. That’s called denial.”
“It wasn’t a ‘spell’. You sound like I’m in my dotage. And besides, hypertension doesn’t run in my family until seventy-five.” She blinked a few times, then spread her hands. “I’m fine now. Really. A splash of cold water will wake me up. And Yoyo . . .” The other woman set her expression to neutral, as if not knowing what to expect. “Thanks for your concern. I mean it.”
A few minutes later, still wet around the ears, Belle got into the van, and driving with extra prudence, pulled into the street and headed for the Kingsway. Yoyo was a decent sort, old indiscretions aside. With this latest rush of business, why not toss a few hundred dollars her way? Profit-sharing was a motivator, even for the short term. And it was possible that she might need her services again. Losing Miriam to Jack was unthinkable, but it could happen. Romance did that to people. Just because Belle had chosen a career over a relationship didn’t mean everyone did.
Traffic was exceptionally heavy, and she stuck to the right lane, despite the curbside potholes that gave ball-joint manufacturers and alignment shops happy faces. The dizziness was gone, but she still felt lightheaded. What had she had for lunch? A couple of cheese-and-cracker snacks from Mike’s Mart. And the cherry fritter, Tim’s biggest doughnut, had probably sent her blood readings into toxic overload.
At least the weekend was here, and she’d be able to broil a steak, relax on the deck, soak up a few rays. Not too many, with her reddish hair and fair complexion, like her father. She blew out a disgusted breath. Everything was bad for you lately. She watched traffic wing off like colourful bats into consecutive fast-food caves, Harvey’s, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, the local Deluxe Hamburgers that had its hardcore fans and sold luscious gravy to go with fries and a chicken sandwich cut on-site from the bone. Somehow the thoughts made her nauseous, a rare condition. Too much stomach acid from the coffee? What a person got away with at twenty, she paid for down the road. Then as Belle reminded herself to merge left at Falconbridge Road, a dangerous construction bottleneck, she nearly sideswiped a small vehicle in her blind spot. Its strident horn shook her back to reality. One of those Smart Cars? “Get a crash test, you dummy!” she yelled out the window.
As she passed OK Tire, then the defunct White Rose horticult
ural complex, she turned on the air conditioner. The van was warm, hot sun pouring like pernicious lava through the shaded windows. She felt sleep-deprived, though she knew that wasn’t the case. Should she pull into the IDA parking lot and take a nap? Maybe Yoyo was right. Carlo the pharmacist gave free blood pressure tests. What was the matter with her? Surely she could hang on another twenty minutes. Maybe she’d had a stroke. What a ridiculous thought, but typical of a hypochondriac. She tried a facial test, smiling at both corners of her mouth.
Cruising through Garson, she found herself fixated on a large man in a motorized wheelchair navigating the sidewalks at a fast clip. Should she get her father one? When the concrete ran out, the man switched to the road, a Canadian flag waving from a six-foot fibreglass antenna. Then again, if her father putted out the side door when a resident deactivated the alarm, she didn’t want to imagine the consequences. He might drive down the middle of the road looking for a barbershop on Yonge Street. Suddenly she was coming up fast at traffic waiting at a light. Belle jammed on the brakes, nearly plowing into the bumper of a truck. As her tires screeched, the driver gave her a scowl through the rear view mirror and an Italian salute out the window. How rude. Belle shook her head. Some of the signs seemed slightly blurry, as if she needed new glasses. Wouldn’t that be a nice bite into her bank account?
As she left the final light, she rolled down the window to clear her head and speeded up, letting the wind rush through her hair. Who cared about the sixty kilometre per hour speed limit through the short, residential area? Police never patrolled it anyway. A strange euphoria was coming over her, though a sheen of sweat glazed her brow. Why had she been so worried about Mutt? He was off to Toronto, nearly fully recovered. Business was good, and Miriam would soon be back. She’d give Yoyo a bonus. How her eyes would shine at two thousand, no, three. Shoving in one of her homemade tapes, she started singing “Money, Money, Money” from Cabaret, banging her fists on the steering column in rhythm. A yellow helicopter buzzed overhead, heading for the Ministry pad to join the army of water bombers. Feeling grateful, she gave them all a welcoming wave. “Hello, boys . . . and girls. You stand on guard for me.” In her exultation, the seatbelt seemed confining. Stupid invention. What had people done before it had been invented? She snapped it free and took a deep, liberating breath.