Blackflies Are Murder. Lou Allin
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have to clear your drive with Brown’s old truck or arrange for a contract. Ed DesRosiers’s very reliable. I use him myself, and often I’m away by seven.”
He waved his hand in polite dismissal. “The Capital City gets a lion’s share, and I think I’d like plowing. Make technology do the dirty work. It seems productive and relaxing. Enjoy tinkering with cantankerous motors, too.”
That sounded better. Belle took a deep breath. After expenses, namely Miriam, the six-percent commission would pay for a new refrigerator, maybe a down payment on a van. And it really was a splendid place, much larger and far more private than hers.
He retrieved a small leather notebook from his coat pocket and jotted notes with a gold Cross pen. “Septic OK? And how about the drinking water? Is there a well?”
“Whoa! You’re no amateur.” Belle pointed to a grassy knoll. “Field bed’s back there. Natural drainage slope, so you don’t have the worry of a lift chamber. Most of us have our tanks pumped every two years to be on the safe side. A grant’s available, too. And as for the water . . .” Spread out like a melted Prussian blue crayon was Lake Wapiti, an eight-by-eight mile meteor crater, deeper than the Underworld itself and as frigid as the other place was sizzling. “There’s the best well in the world. Brown has a heated waterline like mine. A bit of colour in spring run-off, but you can get filters at Canadian Tire if you’re squeamish about algae or sediment. Even a reverse-osmosis system is available now. Big bucks, though.”
What they found next in the large shed made Sullivan clap his hands. “He left all his tools? They’re worth a fortune.” He studied the table saw, chop saw, lathe, router, shop vacuum, grinder and rows of assorted jars of nails and screws neatly affixed to the wall. A pegboard with hooks held graduated series of screwdrivers and wrenches.
“He’s in a nursing home. The relatives down south took only the bass boat. Cottages are usually sold all-inclusive,” she said as if bestowing a personal gift. “Never know what you’ll find. Maybe five sets of rusty bedsprings. Maybe buried treasure. His nephew told me that Brown had hinted at some secret hideyhole. Family joke, I guess.”
The central part of the property was cleared, which allowed the breezes to blow off the bugs, with a few well-placed large oaks and maples saved for shade. At one side, flanked by dwarf plum and apple trees, a weedy garden sprouted asparagus feathers and the broad rhubarb leaves of the ubiquitous Canadian staple. “Hurts to see a garden gone to seed,” Belle said. “Before he started going downhill, this used to be the best on the road, especially the tomatoes. Once he even grew a prize-winning pumpkin. Milk-fed, but don’t ask me how.”
Sullivan knelt stiffly and sifted the soil with his hands. “Fine stuff. Just the right mix of organic material, clay and sand. Must have taken him many years, hauling in the soil.”
Belle broke off a thumb-thick asparagus spear to munch on. “Don’t tell me you garden, too?”
Pulling out a plantain weed, he tossed it aside. “Oh, I’m hoping to have time for many hobbies now.”
Belle led him to the dock, bolstered by a formidable rock wall for ice and wave protection. Far across the water, flanking the North River, the hills leapfrogged each other in layers of teal and black under shadows of scudding clouds. A loon called to its mate, ululating and then diving, only to surface a hundred feet away. “Marvellous swimmers,” he said.
“Can’t ever guess where they’re going to rise. One thing’s sure, it proves that there are plenty of fish in Wapiti. Are you an angler, Mr. Sullivan?”
He beamed like an uncle. “Call me Charles. I’m a catch-and-release man, in it for the fight. Will confess something, though. I do eat the perch.”
Belle bent down and peered into the clear depths. “Perch? Are they worth the trouble? They’re so small and bony.”
“That’s true. Most folks don’t bother. Consider them trashy, to use their word. Five or six make a pretty good feed, and I don’t mind the cleaning.” He stepped forward and tossed a twig into the water, following its drift with a trained eye. “My Lord, just look at the little devils down there. Wish I had my tackle,” he said, grinning broadly. “Tell you what. I’ll catch a pailful and invite you for dinner.”
Belle’s heart rang like the drawer of an old-fashioned cash register, and she wondered if dollar signs had snapped into her saucery eyes. “Do you mean that . . .”
“That’s right, my dear lady. I like it. I’ll take it. Not even going to insult you and our Mr. Brown by dickering. Not my style.”
Wondering if he had forgotten the steep price, she tried to cement the bargain. “I know it seems high, but you do have 650 feet frontage. You could split off a lot, sacrifice a little privacy, and realize sixty or seventy thousand at the right time.”
He closed his eyes, folded hands behind his back and took a deep breath. Belle could smell the clean tang of the water as the wind ruffled their hair. “Why spoil paradise?” he asked.
It was after six by the time she left Charles surveying his kingdom. “Yesssssss!” Belle said, clenching her fist. Satisfied buyer, satisfied seller. Whether or not Brown ever connected with reality, she had obtained a fair price which might buy him some comforts. As the van rounded a corner, the letter to Anni dropped from the dash onto her lap. Better take it on down. Besides, she wanted an update on the mind games with the hunters. Women, take back the woods!
The rusty Geo sat in Anni’s driveway like a wounded veteran, a faded Support the Right to Arm Bears sticker on its rear windshield and its muffler dangling an inch from the ground. How the woman kept the beast chugging was a miracle, but money was short for a widow. She lived frugally, her greatest asset the property itself. Parking on the neatly swept gravel, Belle marvelled at the perennial garden surrounding the modest frame house. A pastel rainbow of graduated tulips and hosts of sunny daffodils lent Wordsworthian splendour to the tidy beds. She raised an eyebrow to notice that Anni’s Oriental lilies were already a foot tall. Her own bulbs had become a late spring snack for some discriminating vermin. Around the corner dashed the dogs, yapping and jumping. Belle gave a surreptitious knee to the unruly golden trying to romance her leg. The door opened, and Anni appeared in jeans and a patched corduroy shirt, holding a book and probably wondering about the unusual social call.
“I have a letter for you. Wrong box again.” Belle passed her the envelope with a Government of Canada return address.
Anni swept her arm graciously. “Well, then you deserve a reward. Come in and talk over a crone’s tipple. I usually eat later in the summer.”
The few times Belle had been inside, some new puzzle decorated the wall, this time an eye-crossing Jackson Pollock full of paint blots and streaks. Anni had explained that the concept of “dissected maps” had developed in late eighteenth-century England as a teaching tool. Her husband Cece had started her on the hobby, bringing back specimens from his world travels as a metallurgical engineer. One Japanese wooden puzzle hung vertically without glue, sold with tweezers and magnifying glass to assemble twenty-five pieces per square inch. To add to the museum flavour, purple velvet plants trailed their vines, winding among Boston ferns and an assortment of prickly cacti including an Old Man variety sporting a gray wig. In a brass container in the corner stood Anni’s walking stick and an umbrella. The polished wood floors shone like honey. No traces of dog claws, though, with the mutts likely relegated to the basement at night.
Belle stopped to inspect a curious landscape peopled by small figures making their way from the Barren Land of Ignorance to the Hill of Science, detoured by the Mansion of Appetite, the Wood of Error and the Fields of Fiction. “Anni, is this new? Give me a room in the Mansion of Appetite.”
Her friend set her reading glasses aside, pleased at the observation. “A Pilgrim’s Progress variation, circa 1800. Probably no one bothers with that in school anymore, but it’s always been a comfort to me. Couldn’t resist buying the little treasure.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if life were that simple? Good, evil, black, white. Mind your manners and advance to the