Blackflies Are Murder. Lou Allin
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sniffed and then pulled out a handkerchief, twisting it instead of blowing his nose. “Aunt Anni was a great one for wildflowers. I was going to give her a new Peterson’s guide for Christmas, hers got so ragged. It was her Bible.”
Her eyes closed, her heart remembering the drone of the forest that day. “This woman dressed in denim strolled out, holding a fragile pink flower like the holy grail. Took me back for tea and got my mind off myself by talking about her trails and their wonders. Later I found out that she’d lost Cece the year before, so she knew what I was feeling.” The roar of duelling jet-skis woke her from the reverie, and to her surprise, Zack had folded his hands in resignation, calm once again as he took comfort in the vitality of Anni’s life.
“She had that knack. When Mother died, she came to my apartment and packed my suitcase. Insisted I stay here for a few days. Know what we did together by the fire that night? Read Hans Christian Andersen. Just like when I was a kid. Aunt Anni was Danish, you know. Her maiden name was Blixen.”
Finally Belle told him about the baiting. “We’ll have to wait until the investigation moves along. My friend Steve is touching bases with the MNR. There’s a bizarre possibility that someone took offense to her actions, and it escalated.”
“Are you sure? She didn’t mention anything, even when I called her from Detroit.” He paused as an idea crossed his face. “We always played a game. I tried to disguise my voice. Like phone sales, something to throw her off. She was so sharp, though. Never missed a trick. Said her ears were better than her eyes.”
“Aunts don’t brief nephews about commando raids. Exactly when did you talk to her, anyway? It will help fix the time of death.”
“I left here at dawn to beat the traffic. Got there around two, so that’s when I called. Took all my spare change. Brutal trip in my tin can car. Wish I had borrowed the van.”
That sounded selfish to Belle, but he was like a kid to Anni, and kids did take advantage. How sound was his alibi? He had given no more specifics. “We’ve been wondering about the van.
He whistled, and a faint smile played on his lips as he swatted at a mosquito. “The Queen Mary, you mean. Rides like a living room sofa. We went to Science North the weekend she got it. Saw a bear movie at the IMAX, then over to the Farmer’s Market for fresh bread, smoked trout from Manitoulin. That vehicle must cost a mint. Air, CD, cruise control. She was so careful with money. Maybe she had a nest egg.” He stopped short at her expression. “I mean, why not? She deserved to go first class.”
Belle’s momentary good will was flagging. Was he genuinely moved by the death or merely acting? The comments about money seemed ungracious. Still, it was no time for recriminations. She waved her hand casually. “The police will make enquiries. She must have seen one of the local dealers.”
“They’ve got to find out who killed her. Is there something I can do? That’s the only repayment I can make.”
The sun was setting on their collection of bug bites when Belle and Zack said goodnight. Coaxing Freya from the basement, she went up to the master suite and poured a purifying soak, dripping liberal portions of kiwi bubble bath for aromatherapy. “Serenity,” the bottle read as if it might be consumed. Or maybe the AA prayer. The things we can and cannot change and the wisdom to know the difference. Nothing could return Anni to life, but nothing could stop Belle from finding out how, then why, then who. A tedious but logical order. Mahler’s “Kindertotenlieder” drifted upstairs. “Songs for Dead Children” sounded so mellifluous in German.
FIVE
A few days later the phone rang at dawn as Belle was mounding hot salsa onto a cheddar omelette. Crammed with sourdough toast, she answered with oral gymnastics. “Hurrogh.”
“It’s Steve. Thought you might like to know what we’ve found so far, early bird. Say, are you chewing something?”
“I was. Don’t keep me in suspenders.”
“That old joke ages you twenty years.”
Belle cringed, vowing to bury Uncle Harold’s favourite chestnut. “OK. Three questions. How could she afford that van? Zack told me it was hers. How did she die? And cui bono, our tie-breaker?”
“Least to most interesting. As for the death, Graveline had it down straight. The oak stick had traces of her blood, minute particles of wood in the wound, but for prints, only hers were retrievable. Some smudging could have been made by gloves or a quick wipe. The blow caused a massive haematoma. To get technical, the upper occipital region, on the lambdoidal suture. She never regained consciousness and died where she fell. Sometime after dinner, going by the stomach contents.”
Belle coughed, reaching for the grapefruit juice. Suddenly her mouth felt dry. “Now I’m sorry I asked. A blurry memory of that scene suits me better. And the van?”
“No mystery there. Her name was on the registration in the glove box. Purchased it a couple of weeks ago at Crosstown. Turned in her vehicle for next to nothing. Price was thirty-five thousand and change. But guess what?”
“GM is desperate? One per cent financing and no payments for a year?” In a town known for a boom-bust economy and labour disputes, local stores often advertised generous plans to drum up business. “No payments until after the strike” was a familiar come-on.
“Our lady bountiful paid in cash.”
Belle released her breath slowly, her eyes bugging like a Peke’s. “Curiouser and curiouser. The third envelope, puh-lease.”
“Except for the mysterious source of money, and that’s a big except, we’re looking at the nephew first. Claims he was in Detroit for the weekend looking for used CDs.”
“So he told me. Makes sense. She mentioned his plans.” Belle’s fingers drummed a paradiddle as she thought about Zack’s immediate and long term needs. “Did you find the will?”
“Tucked in the desk neat as pie along with a property deed, bankbooks, income tax statements and utility bills. And you were right. Small pensions were her only income. Let’s see.” He paused and the sound of shuffling papers echoed over the line. “She banked at the Toronto Dominion in Garson. Few hundred in a chequing account. Three thousand in term deposits. RRSPs of around eighty thousand. Pin money, really. No action on any withdrawals. Her own life insurance ended with the husband’s death. C’est tout. People have been murdered for less, though.”
“But how did she pay? Could there be records someplace else? Maybe n bank in Manitoba or somewhere she used to live?”
“Not under the married name. And we checked Blixen, too. Computers make it easy to hunt cross-country. Wasn’t some old hoard mouldering under the mattress, either. The bills were nice crisp purple thousands, according to the salesman, some polyester sleaze. A neat stack barely half an inch. How often does someone count out cash like that?”
“Think she robbed a bank?”
“Not around here, and besides, she’d make an unlikely candidate with her age, not to mention her sex.” For a moment Belle conjured up the image of Ruth Gordon brandishing a yam in her babushka to shake down the tellers. “So our FOURTH question is, why the cash?” he asked before he rang off.
Exactly, Belle thought, finishing the eggs and washing up. Why not a safe, conventional cheque? Anni was not the high-rolling type. And a van? That was no old lady vehicle, more the choice of a young parent or someone running errands. For the Canadian Blood Services perhaps? Would someone there have any answers? One of these days she should donate.
Meanwhile, she had to take her father his lunch at the nursing home. It was “Tuesday, Tuesday,” the cadences of the sing-song game he had invented when she and Mama Cass had been babies. He was eighty-four years old. Not long ago he had been living in his own house in Florida, adjusting to her mother’s death, finding a stylishly-coiffured, much younger Italian girlfriend named Mary at a Life Goes On meeting. Then came cumulative