Blackflies Are Murder. Lou Allin
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of that abomination is gone.”
“Did anyone see you?” Belle asked, choosing a rocker.
“I don’t think so.”
“So nothing has happened? No phone calls or other dirty work?”
“For precautions, I left town that night to stay with an old friend in Muskoka for several days. Since I’ve been back, I haven’t heard any shots, or seen anyone who didn’t belong on the road.” Sighing, she rose and went to the credenza, reaching for a cut glass decanter and pouring small glasses of sherry with a shaky hand. Several drops spilled, but Anni didn’t seem to notice.
“So what’s wrong? They learned their lesson,” Belle said, accepting the drink.
Anni gestured at a picture of a grinning young man on her mantel. It was her nephew, whom she mentioned occasionally, always with a curious mixture of love and exasperation. “Another wild scheme of Zack’s.”
“Again? Not another budgie sitting service or balloon delivery from Batman. Or is he opening a chip stand across from McDonald’s? Too bad he missed the pet rock craze. Can you imagine the raw material around here?”
The Gatling gun humour had misfired. Anni blinked her cinnamon brown eyes, shadowed with concern. “He has an idea for a used book store, compact discs, too. Maybe computer games. It’s true that he’s my only relative and welcome to his legacy. God knows he’s given me a hand with the spring and fall chores and made sure I got good care when I broke my arm last year, but I’m not made of money. Why can’t he find a rich wife or rob a bank?” She managed a weak smile.
Belle sipped at the sherry, a tiny dose of Bristol Cream, but “cherce” as Spencer Tracy would say of his Kate. “Small businesses are risky,” she said. “Half of the new ones go belly-up every year.”
“I know. Lack of planning, faulty demographics, too much staff or overhead, heavy competition. And some, like men’s clothing, are extremely perilous.” She realigned a ruby glass paperweight on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “Listen to me lecturing like Zack. Says he’s read enough books and made all the right mistakes to succeed. The infallible logic of the young, bless them. They’ll learn as we did.” Her eyes grew moist as she looked away.
Belle wondered if he had considered the obvious. “Tell you what’s big in this aging town. Home care. Assistive devices, help with daily chores. Special clothing, too, now there’s a gold mine. Silvert’s comes up from Toronto several times a year to make the rounds of the nursing homes. Surely he could beat their prices. I paid sixty dollars for my father’s ordinary sweatsuit with Velcro fastenings.”
Finally, Anni laughed. “That’s the last venture Zack would try. Except for me, and he tells me I’m really twenty-five, he can’t handle old people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, face the concept, I guess. When his mother, my sister Nell, had to be put into a nursing home because of Alzheimer’s, he became so depressed that he had to take tranquillizers every visit. Says he’ll kill himself before he reaches that stage. Early dementia runs in families.” Her voice trailed off.
“I can understand. First time through the door at Rainbow Country, my legs turned to rubber. You and I can’t imagine living in helplessness.” Belle shrugged and made a palms-up gesture. “But for some, a word or a wave brightens their day. Not that I’m bucking for sainthood, but I can’t just skulk in and out with his lunch. These people I see every week. They deserve acknowledgement.”
Anni’s slender fingers curled around each other as if to husband strength against a growing vulnerability. Her eyes flickered toward the kitchen. “I’ve . . . been forgetting things lately. The odd bill, the time I left the dogs out all night, and I’m forever losing my keys. I made the mistake of telling Zack, and you should have seen his face.”
Belle gave a light laugh of reassurance, took off her glasses and twisted the titanium frames, which sprang back obligingly. “I’m always losing these, or sitting on them. Happens to everyone. You’re safe as long as you remember that you wear them.”
“I hope you’re right. Anyway, enough family problems. Thanks for listening and for bringing the cheque. I’ve been a bit short this month.” Anni tossed back the last of her glass gamely, but the droop of her shoulders told a different story. “I’m not sure how long I can keep the Geo going. Rollins Automotive said that it needed a valve job and a new ‘tranny,’ I think the word was.”
Swallowing, Belle tried to keep a neutral face. Big time expensive, but why worry the woman more? As they walked outside, her eye was attracted to a contorted woody shrub. “What is that bizarre plant?” she asked.
Her friend hummed a tune. “A clue? You’re the film buff.”
“The puzzle lady. It’s familiar, but so far away. Another era. ‘You are my dearie . . . da da da. Sweet as sugar candy’ and something, something brandy.” She snapped her fingers. “Greer Garson in Random Harvest. She did a little dance. Cute kilt. So what’s the connection?”
“You know your movies, but not your music halls. The Scottish entertainer she was imitating. Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, it’s called. Common name: hazel.”
“Will it grow here?”
“Zone Five.”
“Risky. I lost my lavender last year in that -35° stretch.”
“We’ll see. It’s in a sunny spot, and the bay is sheltered. In a few years I’ll whittle a stick for you.”
Belle drove home with a nagging concern for her friend. Dementia, what a cruel spectre for someone with a healthy body. Belle’s father had been so vigorous, at eighty-one keeping pace with her all over Epcot Centre. Then, a few months later, he had needed full-time care.
THREE
Several weeks later, a giant wicker basket on her porch snapped Belle out of the doldrums of a Friday afternoon. Wrapped in bright red cellophane was an assortment of fresh fruit, California zinfandel, cabernet and chardonnay, no shoddy brands either, and expensive cheeses sampled only on holidays: triple-crème French Brie, Emmanthaler and a butterscotch square of Gjetost. A pound of cashews and a jar of macadamias completed the feast, along with palm hearts and marinated olives. What gourmet angel had been monitoring her wish list? The card was inscribed with a copperplate style that recalled her mother’s careful hand: “From a grateful client. If you’re free tonight around six, I have some perch who wish to make your acquaintance.” Belle grinned. Mr. Sullivan, Charles, had settled in.
She popped a macadamia into her mouth, moaning at the milky crunch, and took Freya scampering up a path behind her house. Checking the time carefully, she doubled back at Skunk Brook after the animal enjoyed a brief, peaty slurp and was home in time for a bath. As she prepared to leave, ladling out Mature Purina, extra oil and Metamucil, which the vet had recommended for the older dog, she rubbed the velvet ears. “We’ll find out if he likes pups, and maybe next time you can go.”
She strolled to the end of the road, encountering Charles beaming at the gate. He had a proprietorial touch in the way he escorted her down the lane. Wearing crisply pressed khaki shorts, a zippered safari jacket and dark green knee sox, he might be serving with the Raj in rural India, except for the spotless apron around his waist. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” he said as he studied the bottle she presented. “But the chardonnay should complement our friends.” He escorted her to a picnic table by the house, appointed with an Irish linen tablecloth along with an assortment of covered dishes. With a flourish, he filled two crystal goblets, and they relaxed in lawn chairs under a shady grandfather oak next to the house. Old-fashioned citronella candles warded off the bugs with less distraction than the popular electrical lanterns which crackled ruthlessly but dispatched only innocent moths.
“You’re all moved. I wish you had given me a call to lend a hand,” she said.
“No