Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  Then she was heading around a sharp curve, where someone had built a descanso in memory of a traffic victim. A pile of stones and plastic daffodils on the barren ground. The banking was wicked, and the cracked and leaning wooden guard posts looked like neglected teeth ready to snap at her. With the concentration of playing a video game, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, she tried to steer away from the yellow line as an approaching pick-up pulling a wider RV came whisper-close to her side mirror. Idiot. He should be jailed, pulling a big tin can like that at rush hour. A power surge came over her, and she felt like she could wrestle tigers. Her foot pushed to the floor, and her head rolled back. This baby could fly. Vans were no sissies.

  How odd that she hadn’t reached her road yet. Too much daydreaming. Snap out of it, girl. Grrrrrl. That’s what Yoyo would say. Yet nothing looked familiar any more, as if she were in a different country. She blinked and swallowed. Her throat was dry from that wretched coffee.

  Ave atque vale. Edgewater Road on her left. The mailbox pavilion was gone, but that didn’t fool her. Someone always slammed into it on black ice once a year. How would she get her mail now, though? The authorities would never spring for home delivery. And what was that sofa doing in the middle of the field? More dumping? She continued driving, pleased that the road was smoother than usual. Usually she navigated a Kosovo minefield. Had a regional truck arrived with a load of asphalt to patch the potholes? About time.

  Where were the houses? And had she already passed the swamp and the new mine complex on the hill, towering head frames clad in Wedgwood blue and lit up at night like Coney Island? Despite her elation, a primitive urge deep inside sensed that something was wrong. Then the van began bucking and lurching like a rodeo horse. If only she could find her driveway, anyone’s driveway.

  Trees rushed by, closer and closer, their branches scraping her windshield. One axle ground on a rock. Then a miracle happened. Home at last, she spun the wheel and took a right turn into her yard, searching for her Horny and Corny sign. The van soared over a hill, plunged down an embankment and stopped. As her head hit the padding, the front and side air bags deployed with a whomp.

  Dazed and frightened, Belle began to moan. Fumbling with the ghostly air bags, she pushed against the door and fell out onto the ground, confused at the sand. Her parking lot had gravel. Was she on the beach? Had the retaining wall stopped the van? On the Beach. Deborah Kerr rolling with Burt Lancaster as waves rushed over their bodies. No, that was, that was . . . From Here to Maternity. If her body wasn’t working, couldn’t her mind take up the slack? If she had to crawl up to the deck, she would. Mother would know what was wrong, put her to bed, bring chicken soup and make her well. On her hands and knees she inched forward, reaching a patch of greenery under a copse of dwarfish birch and poplar. Her senses were at the same time sharpened and dulled, like a wide-awake drunk. Small rocks picked at her slacks, wearing holes in the knees, but she felt nothing. A good sign, or was it? The canopy of sibilant leaves whispered endearments, the waning sunlight blinking through like a thousand diamonds. From high above, three ragtag ravens chortled at her like a biker gang, while an effete chorus of King’s College warblers spilled liquid tunes deep in the bush. She was surrounded by sound. It reminded her of the glory days of Dolby in the grand old theatres, but her ears were aching.

  Farther and farther she crawled, swallowing acid at the back of her mouth. It was going to be a hot evening. The air conditioner in her bedroom would go on for the first time all year. Not all night, though. Too expensive. Before her, she saw blueberries nodding on their stalks. Weeks early. She extended her hand and plucked one. A singleton, but huge. Giving it a nibble, she spit it out, tasteless and foamy. Not a blueberry. A Clintonia, blue-bead lily. Was it poisonous? Freya liked to munch them. She pressed her head against a soft clump of sphagnum moss dotted with the British-soldier cup lichens.

  At last she was out of the blinding light, lying in a shady spot. She rubbed her eyes as she imagined the sounds of a brook. Babbling, like brooks always did. The water would be cool and tangy with the flavours of the woodland meeting the Cambrian Shield, a peat and granite martini. A real “dirty” martini, not with olive juice like Gary had suggested. She urged herself onto her elbows and crawled forward, blocked by a mossy log long fallen. With a painful groan, she dragged on. The lower grounds were wetter as she continued toward the creek by sound alone. Everything was as blurry as an Impressionist painting. She could almost taste the pure water trickling down her throat. That was all she needed. A drink. She had grown dehydrated. Everyone knew that could cause confusion. Her hands scrabbled along the forest floor like ragged claws. At the creek’s edge, she met the cool, green overlapping mysteries of liverworts with their scaly lobes and umbrella-like stalked fruiting body. No fragrance when crushed, but what a texture. They were sending her messages, or was someone talking? Slowly she reached toward the rippling water with her cupped palm. It seemed to be bleeding.

  “Stop!” Strong, tiny hands grabbed her shoulders. The goblins had found her.

  NINETEEN

  Yoyo knelt beside Belle and shook her vigorously. “Jesus. Here you are. What’s the matter? Did you get dizzy again? I’ve been following you ever since you nearly cut that guy off on the Kingsway. Why did you keep driving? And this is a fine time to go on a hike in the bush.”

  Belle couldn’t quite bring Yoyo’s face into focus. It was distorting like a cartoon of a chipmunk wearing a Veronica Lake wig. Looking at only one eye was disorienting. She’d never realized how very blue Yoyo’s were, like her favourite cobalt crayon.

  “Can you hear me?” The woman’s voice was rising in fear.

  “I need . . . water. It’s right here. Then sleep. I must be overtired.”

  “Don’t drink that water. You don’t know where it’s been. I have some in the car.”

  Why was Yoyo being so mean? Pure spring water was the best kind. Rosaline had told her that. Yoyo returned with a bottle, opened it, and handed it to Belle, who swilled it. Mouthfuls dribbled down her chin onto her turtleneck. The fabric was scored by itchy leaf litter and twigs. Belle brushed at it half-heartedly. “That’s good. Thanks. Now I have to take a nap. Just a short one.” She pillowed her head in her hands and closed her sore eyes.

  Yoyo pulled on her arms. “No way. I didn’t follow you to hell and back to leave you for buzzard bait. Get up, and let’s go to my car. Your van needs a tow.”

  “Please. I’ll be fine in the morning. Where’s my blanket?”

  “It’s thirty-two degrees, a heat wave. You don’t need one. But I don’t like the look of that sky.”

  Belle shielded her eyes and tried to look up. Dark clouds were gathering, and the wind was rising. A crash of thunder made her flinch, but she still couldn’t muster the will to stand. Yoyo returned with another bottle, which she splashed on Belle’s face.

  “Stop that! You’re drowning me.” She shook her head like a wet dog and ran a hand through her hair. The ground was suddenly hard, and a dull pain was announcing itself in her hands, arms and down her legs.

  Yoyo kept prodding Belle until she rose shakily, leaning on the younger woman. Slowly they made their way to the car as hailstones pelted the roof and bounced off the windshield. Some were as large as ping-pong balls. “What timing!” Yoyo yelled amid the deafening clamour. “If that isn’t all my poor car needs.”

  Finally they reached the door. “Watch your head. You put this car on, instead of getting into it. I was a swinging babe, not a mother-to-be, when I bought it.” She jack-knifed Belle into the passenger seat, belted her up with a grunt, went back around and started the vehicle. It squealed like a young girl. “Fan belt,” Yoyo said. “She’ll settle down.” Then she thought for a minute. “We’ll need your health card. Your wallet’s in the van?”

  Things were starting to make sense. And it didn’t look good. “In the compartment next to the driver’s seat.”

  The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived, leaving
the atmosphere as sultry and oppressive as a night in a bayou. Yoyo rolled down her window as they drove off. “Air conditioner’s shot.”

  Belle was drifting when they reached the main highway. She could hear Yoyo talking into a cell phone. “It’s a dirt road to the west about a mile past the airport. There’s an old sofa twenty feet away in the bush. Follow the tire tracks in the sand for about ten minutes until you come to the van just over a rise on the right. Take it to Robinson Automotive.” She rang off. “That’s your mechanic, right?”

  Belle heard only a few words. “They’re repairing it in my yard? What service. How did you—”

  “It’s not in your yard.” Yoyo spoke quietly and evenly, as if to a fretting child or a senile elder. “Somehow, drugs got into your system. From what I saw and heard at the clubs a few years ago, I suspect the date rape drug. I never can pronounce it.”

  “That’s impossible. I haven’t been on a date, and it’s obvious I haven’t been raped. I would know.” Belle began to snore, and when she awoke, she was being placed on a gurney and wheeled into Emerg. Yoyo stayed by her side, giving particulars to the admitting nurse. Too tired to talk, Belle could only whimper when lights were shone into her eyes, answering questions with monotones. With her condition in question, she was fast-tracked through triage.

  After an hour, as she lay in a curtained cubicle, Dr. Evelyn Easton, tall as an Amazon, with a long silvery blonde braid down her back, said to Yoyo, “From her symptoms, you were right about the Rohypnol, I suspect. The toxicity results take longer than the normal scans. Whatever’s in her system, she’s stable now and can go home. Her blood pressure’s back to normal.”

  “How long before the drug wears off completely?”

  “The effects start within half an hour, peak in two, and take six to eight to disappear. We found no alcohol in her blood, which is a good thing, because the interaction can be fatal.”

  “That stuff shouldn’t be legal.”

  “It’s not legal in Canada, but it’s sold in Europe as a sedative. The hypnotic effect is a bonus for abusers. At five bucks a pill, a cheap high. Tasteless, odourless and very soluble. Dizziness, confusion, visual disturbances, hallucinations. She’s lucky you came along.” She checked Belle’s pulse again for good measure.

  Belle felt better as she tried to focus on the doctor. Evelyn was a crack ER physician who’d attended both her father and Miriam. “I’m great, really. And I can go home?”

  “Of course, but not alone.”

  Somehow Belle found herself unable to protest. Yoyo spoke in a whisper Belle strained to hear. “And the long-term effects?”

  Evelyn packed up her pen and chart. “Memory impairment. Depends on the dose.”

  As she left, an officer poked his head into the cubicle and cleared his throat. A native man of about thirty, hair in a ponytail behind a square and honest face. Belle felt her eyes closing again. How humiliating to depend on others. But at least she was safe.

  “Got a report of a Rohypnol poisoning from the admitting nurse. This the lady?” Officer Ray Redfern introduced himself to Yoyo.

  “She’s sleeping it off, so to speak. If she comes to, I can’t guarantee anything will make sense.” Yoyo explained the incident, from the office to the crash landing in the bush. “She was out all day on business, but she was fine just before five. The last thing she did before leaving was finish the dregs in our coffee pot. She got dizzy for a minute, but that passed. Honest, I’d never have let her leave if I’d suspected anything was wrong. Good thing I took off down the Kingsway to hit Costco before going home. Same way she was headed.”

  “She didn’t stop anywhere else?”

  “I was behind her all the way, except for when my car stalled in a sand pit as she made the turn onto that bush road. Mom always said to carry a shovel.”

  “So someone spiked the coffee pot?”

  “If they did, it was after I had my last cup around three.” Yoyo perched her butt on the edge of the gurney. “I’d never have noticed. We had a mob scene for a couple of hours. People coming and going. I was a one-man band.”

  “Do you have the names in your records? Can you coordinate the times?”

  She firmed up her lips. “I think so. Most of them. Maybe some people left and intended to return at a less crowded time.”

  “How about the pot? Any residue? I can send a unit out for prints.”

  Yoyo’s shoulders sagged. “Cleaned and polished, along with Belle’s cup. The one day I decide to play Martha.”

  The officer opened another page in his notebook. “We get several roofie calls a year, usually in a date-rape circumstance. This is very unusual and could be classed as assault with deadly intent. The victim was driving? She could have killed half a dozen people. Why would anyone do this to her? Does she have enemies? An estranged husband or boyfriend?”

  A giggle came from Yoyo. “Whoa. Wait a minute. I can’t . . .”

  Belle had been listening to the conversation, fading in and out, too tired to join in until the word “enemies”. Grunting, she forced herself to sit up and gather the ruins of the hospital gown around her. The paper slippers fell to the floor. “Joey Bartko. He’s in custody, but check out his friends. Call Steve Davis.”

  “You know Detective Davis, do you? He’s in Virginia at Quantico for a training project. Gone for another week.”

  “What about Bartko’s mother?” Yoyo asked, her eyes widening.

  She’d been in the office that day. Maybe he’d told her that it was a prank, like the old laxative ploys. What would a seventy-year-old woman know about the sedative-hypnotic Rohypnol? It might as well be Love Potion #9. Sitting up as she became more alert, Belle told the officer what had happened.

  “We’ll send someone out to talk to her,” he said.

  After the officer left, Yoyo said, “You’re welcome to stay at my place tonight if you want, but what about Freya?”

  Dangling her legs over the edge of the padded table, feeling for a footstool, Belle squeezed her eyes. “Poor girl. I remember leaving her outside. Where’s your cell? And where are my clothes?”

  Wheeled back downstairs and taken to the door, Belle checked in with Hélène as Yoyo took a hike to the far end of the jammed lot to get the car. She gave a taxi the finger as she wove her way through the traffic clogging the front portico and yelled, “Learn to read off a beer box? The signs say no parking and no stopping, buddy.”

  Resting on a bench, Belle smelled the tangy aroma of a pizza being ferried through the doors. If her appetite was coming back, she must be improving. She gave the particulars to Hélène. “I can’t ask her to drive me all the way home, so maybe I’ll take a taxi.”

  “A taxi? They charge forty dollars to come out here. That would give you a heart attack.” Hélène’s voice assumed a soothing tone used by seasoned mothers. “We’re on our way. Give Dad an excuse to stop making love to the refrigerator. He’s been eying the beef roll for a sandwich. And how about you? It’s nearly nine, and I’ll bet you haven’t eaten.”

  Yoyo drove up and got out to open the door for her passenger. Belle felt all eyes on her, being waited on by a pregnant woman. She explained about the DesRosiers. Yoyo looked around as a queue of walking wounded wheeled their IVs along the sidewalk two hundred feet to the smoking hut for pariahs. “I don’t like to leave you here—”

  “It’s a hospital,” Belle said with a laugh.

  “Okay. If you’re sure about your friends. You know my number. But don’t stay alone tonight. The doc said it wasn’t safe.” With a wave, she pulled out.

  Belle weighed the possibilities of privacy vs. security. She’d be all right alone, or would she? Bits and pieces of the past few hours were beginning to pop up like annoying advertisements on a computer screen. Only now did she perceive her good fortune. With half an hour to go, she picked up an abandoned copy of the Sudbury Star. An emergency evacuation from the Kashechewan First Nations Reserve on James Bay had brought over two hundred residents to town. They
’d stay until their water system got a temporary patch, if not a permanent fix. Officials were scrambling to arrange for hotels and motels. Water again. Could that trickle down a trail to the solution to Gary’s death?

  An hour later, ensconced in a fuzzy blanket on the couch, a tray with a bowl of homemade minestrone and a rye roll filled with spicy Italian beef in front of her, Belle thought about Yoyo as she munched. It was not an exaggeration to say that the woman had rescued her from great harm. She could have been crawling around the bush all night until she recovered her senses. She might have plunged down a ravine and drowned in one of the steep-sided kettle lakes that dotted the area. Wasn’t there some idea about a bonus? Now it would look like she was paying Yoyo off for saving her life. And the van. Was it salvageable? Another rental charge.

  Ed and Hélène were watching One Hundred Objects Left Inside the Body After Operations. Wincing at the sight of a fourteen-inch retractor, Belle excused herself. At least Hélène hadn’t pummelled her after learning the basics, just fixed her with an eagle eye and left her beak closed. For the time being.

  Despite the swaybacked bed and the birdcall clock in the kitchen, she slept the sleep of the living dead in their spare room, Freya on the floor beside her. Several times she woke in the night and nearly panicked, had it not been for the familiar snuffling sound. Images of dark figures in the bush. Trolls under a bridge. Gary falling from a canoe, hitting his head. Then she saw his form underwater, his golden hair billowing like a medieval saint’s halo, bubbles spilling from his mouth, his glazed eyes staring like maraschino cherries, weeds trailing his clothes like a winding sheet. Something was pulling at her. Hélène’s nightie. Why did women wear these things? Every time she rolled over, it bound her like a mummy. Sitting up, her heart throbbing, she clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream. Get a grip. The nightmare is over. Then she reached for the dog, felt her steady breathing. Unable to get back to sleep, she climbed out of bed, taking the comforter, and spooned next to Freya, one arm around the deep shepherd chest, their hearts beating as one.