Bush Poodles Are Murder. Lou Allin
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his shoes gleamed despite the grit and salt on the streets. In his late thirties, over his uniform he wore a heavy blue parka with the emblem of the Sudbury Police. His cheeks were ruddy and his smile broad as he brushed snow from his shoulders, studying her face with an uncomfortable, almost mesmerizing attention. “Got your call,” he said. “A den and a gazebo? Sounds great. Maybe this time will be the charm.”
Belle summoned her business smile, hoping that exercising facial muscles would convince the brain. “Fingers crossed.” Maybe she was in a prickly mood, but there was something overly familiar about the way Brian leaned over the desk and placed his broad hand proprietarily on her back as they left, as if steering a possession. Still, the commission would make a down payment on another van, not a new one, heaven forbid, but a decent late model. Then she paused at the hypothetical balance sheet. Miriam would need a lawyer. And Belle would have to pay her salary in the meantime, not throw her to the humiliation of unemployment or welfare. But then she might qualify for legal . . . her pulse quickened and her thoughts charged months ahead as she bumped into Brian, thoughtfully wiping snow from her windshield with his leather glove. He winked as if the brief contact had been deliberate.
Tabular Street was a quiet cul-de-sac in the south end. Brian’s prospect, a late-seventies backsplit, had been recently sided (vinyl is fynal) and landscaped with Norwegian spruce and compact Alberta firs, a dozen bushes covered city-style with burlap over triangular frames, like a frontier tribal encampment. He nodded approval at the two-car garage and pulled on a pair of boots to stomp around the snow-covered backyard, pounding the gazebo to test its sturdiness.
Inside, Brian admired the kitchen and bathroom refits and new carpeting. “I’m definitely interested. Think the price is firm?” he asked.
Belle gave a knowing smile, her professional allegiance with both parties. “Make an offer, but I caution you not to insult them. An old Italian family. Well-connected.”
He smiled broadly, revealing large white teeth, the canines faintly wolfish. “Come on. No such thing as the Sudbury Mafia, despite rumours about black market Chianti.”
He named a fair number, which she agreed to carry to the seller. Then he glanced at his watch, a Patek Phillipe model. “Let’s celebrate with lunch. You’ve refused so many times that I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.” A mild challenge crossed his sculpted lips. Faded blue like ice in a stream, his irises glowed under lashes more white than blond.
Business and pleasure, an evil combination. But if the sale was nearly clinched, hail and farewell. “I’m alone at the office, and I need to get back. Something quick. Vesta Pasta?”
“Au contraire. Upscale for an upscale lady. I’ll confess something. I checked the house out yesterday, and I was so confident about the sale that I reserved.”
A stranger to triple-digit restaurant bills, Belle had never dreamed of entering Verdicchio’s, Sudbury’s premier restaurant in an unassuming location in a business park on Kelly Lake Road. A modern green metal gate opened onto overlapping shell-like parking areas. Located at the rear, the restaurant proudly presented its menu in a glassed case by the front door. Brian swept her into the large foyer, heaped with multi-coloured poinsettias and anchored by a restful fountain and an étagère of antiques.
“Welcome again, Mr. Dumontelle,” an attractive blonde woman d’un certain âge said in a warm Italian accent, smiling at Belle. “Please call me Willie.” A proud owner of the restaurant, she ushered them into an intimate nook decorated with framed floral watercolours and partitioned with lattice and quaint faux windows in an olde world style.
The waiter soon arrived with a lunch menu and a twenty-five-page leatherbound wine list. While Andrea Bocelli sang arias in the distant background, the waiter lit the candles, and before she could decipher a word, except for pasta, Brian was ordering the first courses. Insalata Mista (seasonal greens with prosciutto, bocconcini of fresh mozzarella, grilled red peppers in a balsamic vinaigrette), farinata di cavolo nero (garlic soup with braised Swiss chard), lumache in guazzetto (sautéed escargots with fresh tomato and white wine on crostini).
“For the lady, I think the tagliatelle carbonara con radicchio along with trota al cartoccio.” He turned to Belle. “Sound good? The trout is from the Valley farms.”
“I’m overwhelmed just holding the wine list.”
“For me, the gnocchi al pomodoro. And can you manage that triple A beef tenderloin I like so much? It’s not on the menu. Rare’s my preference.” He flashed a confident smile at the waiter.
“Certainly, sir. Bistecca alla brace. Special orders are no problem.”
Brian consulted the waiter for any recent wine arrivals, deciding on an Ascevi 2000 Sauvignon for the starters (“gooseberry grapefruit rind and grass aromas”). “Intense for an Italian white,” he added. Then an unusual blend of four varieties, an Enrich Santana 2000 Bolgheri Rosso. “Tuscan,” he said. “Vanilla, coffee and prune aromas, spicy barnyard notes, according to Anthony Gismondi’s reviews.” They both laughed at the jargon.
As their table filled with riches and the wine flowed, Belle felt slightly light-headed and reminded herself to stop after the third glass. Brian finished both bottles himself and called for another of the Rosso. His description of a car chase near Mallard’s Landing that had ended in a fatal T-bone accident was delivered in a manner which stressed thrill more than tragedy.
The table finally cleared, zabaglione appeared with a flourish, silver dishes of billowing egg yolks spun with sugar and sherry, hot and heavenly. The coffee was rich and strong, as sobering as the bill would be. Brian topped up his cup with a double Remy Martin. The meal had been memorable, but Belle anticipated the man’s craft, ashamed that she’d sent her instincts around the corner. When the cheque came to him, courtesy no doubt of a previous arrangement, she reached for her wallet. “Dutch treat, Brian. I certainly can’t—”
“Your money’s no good here, Madame,” he said, letting three brown bills flutter onto the table, three hundred dollars. Now on the defensive, she wondered how an officer’s income could afford such a splurge.
Outside, he tried to put his arm around her, snickering as she shook it off politely and picked up the pace. She hit the remote to open the van door, tempted to leave his side locked. Then with a soft growl, he drew her close, pinioned like a prisoner. His body was compact and muscular. “Older women intrigue me with their head games. I’ve been waiting for this, and so have you. Take the afternoon off.” His demanding lips nuzzled her ear. The cloying scent of Brut made her nauseous.
“Let me go!” she said firmly.
Sharp teeth toyed with her lobe as he shoved one leg between hers. A gust of wind skittered a paper wrapper into tarantellas. Thanks to their lingering lunch, the parking lot was deserted. “Ma Belle, why don’t we—”
The hoot of a train whistle and clank of rolling boxcars turned his head. She took advantage of his imbalance to knee his groin, and he doubled over, stumbled back several feet, grabbing at a light pole. His groans signalled that she’d scored, as she wrenched open the door, shutting it like a suit of armour. “Find another realtor. And as for my share of lunch, the cheque’s in the mail,” she called as she bounced out of the lot.
Six
Belle drove to Jesse’s, one leg quivering from the adrenalin rush, pumping the gas with spasms. Her churning stomach had calcified into an expensive lump, bringing an acid reflux. Yet commiseration was out of the question. As if they’d last talked only yesterday instead of three years ago, the practical woman would eyeball her and calmly ask why, if she had suspected Brian’s motives, she hadn’t found a better excuse to avoid lunch.
Her planner sat open on the seat next to her, and she realized that she was ten minutes late for an appraisal twenty miles away. Pulling out her cellphone, she moved the appointment to the next day, citing vehicle problems, chastizing herself for letting life spin out of control. Passing a Ukrainian grocery and an onion-turreted Greek Orthodox