Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
Читать онлайн книгу.
rocket only if Quebec separated, or British Columbia joined the U.S.
Slipping a tape into the VCR, Belle kicked back in the blue velvet recliner with a glass of Rebel Yell, bought at discount at the liquor store. That intriguing corn tang of a sunny Tennessee hayfield might someday burrow into the hearts of the rye lovers, but it was an acquired taste. Susan Lenox, Her Fall and Rise came on with a clean-shaven Gable as an engineer and Garbo on the run from a leering Alan Hale. How could anyone communicate so well using just the clavicles?
As she switched off the lights in the television room, a gentle hooting of barred owls greeted her from the backyard. She had heard their calls her first spring night in the house and had named the property after them, as a varnished sign at the driveway proclaimed: The Parliament of Owls. They returned in March to lay their eggs, risking sudden spring storms that could freeze them on their nests. Nature’s amorality cut deep for animals as well as people.
FIVE
Meg’s jar of gooseberry jam on the kitchen table the next morning reminded Belle of Melanie’s invitation. She was curious about the girl Jim had taken into his heart and to his treasured places among the woods and streams.
Skipping breakfast and putting the jar out of sight, Belle was down the road by 7:15. The morning was cloudy and dark, the huge snowbanks an eerie source of reflected light. As Belle rounded a corner, her hands tightened on the wheel and she reached for the brake. A black, demonic shape seemed to be flying across the road four feet from the ground, its neon blue eyes trapped in her headlights. She heard no thump as the van moved slowly, now joined by a scrabbling form alongside, all jerky legs and lolling tongue. It was Buddy, a very fat young black Lab at his favourite game. Had he actually been flying or simply moving uphill from the vehicle in an optical illusion? She stopped, rolled down the window, and called him over. “Hi, Budman. Now get home, and I mean it.” There wasn’t a brain in the dog’s head, nor a mean bone in his body. His owners should take better care of him, she thought. Bored dogs made their own entertainment; sometimes it was costly, sometimes dangerous. One more bite at a wheel might be his last.
Tim Horton’s was Canada’s premier doughnut shop in a country with five times more per capita than Big Brother down south. No surprise that beleaguered Canuckleheads chose a quick sugar and caffeine fix to escape briefly from the arctic temperatures. Tim’s number 1000 had opened, and the prosperous chain was branching into sandwiches, soup, pies, cakes and cookies along with the reliable 25 different doughnut varieties available any hour of the day. Even the bathrooms would rate a nod from Martha Stewart. Belle sipped at her mug and checked the mutual fund reports in the Toronto Star, relieved not to have taken a flyer into the South American markets.
She lifted the paper periodically to check for Melanie, until she spotted a strange, medieval apparition in the crowd. A red wizard hat, made of soft fleece, cupped the head and ended with a tassel two feet down the back. Harry Potter’s choice was worn by a strawberry blonde woman, shoulders bowed over a pile of books. Belle motioned her over, noticing that her eyes were swollen and tired as if she had been up most of the night. The girl’s hand trembled as she took Belle’s, but her grip was firm.
“Melanie? You look like you could use a coffee.” In response to a nod, Belle brought back two mugs and matching giant carrot muffins and resisted the impulse to tuck a serviette under the quivering chin. Was the girl going to cry right there during rush hour?
Melanie brightened as she bit into the muffin. Tim Horton’s always had a comforting effect.” Thanks. I’m glad we could meet, and, you’re right, I haven’t thought much about food lately.” A generous dollop of cream went into the cup. “You look just like Jim said.” Her tone was innocent enough.
“Taken as a compliment,” Belle replied, watching the girl’s colour return. A few minutes of getting-to-know-you chat convinced Belle that Melanie could handle the unvarnished truth, so with an occasional glance of assessment, she proceeded with the story of her tragic discovery in the lake.
The girl was having none of it. “I don’t care what all of you saw, or think you saw. That was no accident,” Melanie said with a touch of bitterness and as dark a frown as youth and beauty would allow. “Anyone can tell you how well Jim knew those woods, every lake, tree and branch, down to the last mushroom. Besides, he had no time for bushwhacking. Exams were coming up, and he was part of the Stop the Park group, working on a project to document the diameter of those Granddaddy pines, he called them. Even had names for the biggest ones.” She stopped to brush back a tear, sniffing into a napkin and pausing to gather her arguments.
“He mentioned that project when he stopped by for breakfast the last time I saw him. And you’re right. The lake wasn’t on one of his usual routes.
“That’s why I called you. His parents told me that you didn’t believe the accident theory either,” the girl continued as Belle looked away helplessly. “Jim was the most cautious person in the world when it came to winter travel in the bush. Once he was standing on shore when a young boy broke through trying to cross an open patch. The machine flipped, and the boy was killed. First thing he told me when we went snowmobiling was never, never to break trail on a small lake, no matter how tempting.”
“I agree with everything you’re saying, but we don’t have all the facts yet. Have the Burians mentioned the autopsy?” Belle wondered.
“Apparently Dr. Monroe has already finished. Told Ben that he checked for alcohol, but we all know that Jim never drank more than one beer, and never when driving. It just doesn’t add up.”
Belle looked into the swirly pools of cream in her coffee as if divining the future. “I’m not a professional investigator, Melanie, just a lowly real estate hack. Sure, we can trade our doubts, but why don’t you go to the police? Steve Davis is a good man. Tell him I sent you.”
The girl took a deep breath and contracted her brows. “What’s the point? They’re not taking it seriously. Listen, can we ask around? I’ll take the campus, his friends, his teachers. Maybe together we can find out something. Jim did mention those planes near his hunt camp. The Burians said you had travelled the area north of the lake, and I know they wouldn’t mind if you went to his new camp to see if he left some papers or notes. I’m sure they’d loan me a sled, but I’m tied up during daylight hours with my clinicals at the hospital.”
“Last time I saw him, he was pretty upset about the drug traffic. If he found anyone using the bush for transfers, who knows what he might have done? As for records, Jim was pretty methodical. The camp might be worth a look.” Belle pulled out a small notebook and scrawled a few words, frowning at her efforts. “My writing is so bad that it has a shelf life of about ten hours. After that, it’s illegible. Anyway, I’ll be glad to do some fieldwork. Just don’t expect magic revelations. And don’t discount the accident idea completely. One bush pilot I knew for twenty years flew right into a mountain near the Sault ski hills one bright June afternoon. There were five witnesses, and even they didn’t believe what they saw. Nothing wrong with the plane either.”
They sipped their coffees for several minutes, the interview winding down as they both checked their watches politely. Then Belle spoke up suddenly. “Something I didn’t ask you, Melanie. The answer is probably obvious, but it is personal.”
“Jim was my personal life, Belle.” She looked dangerously close to tears again, but Belle pressed on.
“The ageless question. What about enemies?”
“Enemies? He never had a bad word for anyone. He was a kind and gentle man. I never heard him raise his voice. Oh, except when he got excited about the drug problem in schools.”
“Kind and gentle means nothing to some people. They regard it as weakness. Did anyone carry a grudge against him, a disagreement even in principle?”
The girl thrummed at the table with her fingers, a pink flush appearing on each check. “Well, there was Ian, my old boyfriend. Kind of embarrassing, though.”
“Just keep it under a hundred words. You don’t have to write for the tabloids. What was the story?”