Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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Very unfriendly. He has been in the restaurant, but he refuses to enter into friendly conversation. I don’t like the looks of him.”
Wishing Carlo well, Belle drove off, keeping the window open to air out the garlic. Medical science might prove him right. Garlic cloves were being touted as cures for any ailment from colds to cancer.
Before that shrimp lunch with Father, she had allotted an hour to the unsavoury task of a chat with Ian MacKenzie, Melanie’s estranged boyfriend. According to her, he lived in a townhouse complex near the New Sudbury Shopping Centre. Perhaps he would be home, perhaps not. Perhaps he had a helpful roommate, perhaps not. So many unknowns. Belle was grateful not to be a genuine private investigator. Selling real estate put more kibble in the bowl. As she reached the first set of traffic lights which spelled city, she noticed that the town was in the grip of an icefog, a strange meteorological combination of cold, vehicle exhausts and moisture. Like a London pea-souper, but marginally healthier. A surreal gleam surrounded streetlights, and people drove with unusual caution, hoping the late morning winds would clear the air.
The covey of older townhouses, three stories and garage apiece, was beginning to fray at the edges. 1245 Nottingham had a skitter of snow in the driveway and no signs of feet or tires. She rang the bell. No answer, but a face peeked from the third floor. She rang again, and again. Finally the door opened, and a head peered around with half a body exposed, state-of-the-art biceps a definite plus. “Who are you, who were you, and who do you hope to be? I was working out.” His blonde crew cut was wholesome enough, but a sullen curl to his lip reminded Belle of a musclebound weasel.
“I’m Belle Palmer. Are you Ian MacKenzie?” she asked.
“We’re both doing well so far. What’s the story? Where are your brushes or encyclopedias?”
“I was a friend of Jim Burian’s, and I—” A slam of the door cut her sentence in two.
“I only want to ask a few questions,” she called against the traffic noise behind her.
“It must be our little Mel put you on to me. This is a joke, right? You can’t be a police investigator or you would have shown me your ID.” A loud cheer followed.
Belle took a stiffer tack. “There may be things the police don’t know yet, and you may find yourself involved. Make it easy for both of us.” There was definitely something in his defensiveness, she imagined as her heartbeat quickened. Perhaps it had been unwise to come alone.
The cheers turned to roars, and a thumping began. Was he pounding the wall in mirth or rage? Mel had said that he got violent. She hadn’t smelled liquor, though. Vodka?
“OK, OK, I confess. I did it. I creamed the little bastard with that pretty scar. He took my girl. I took him. ‘Mother of God, is this the end of Rico?’ ”
Hardly had Belle time to correct him with, “ ‘Mother of Mercy.’ The censors were picky that year,” when the door opened again. She locked eyes with a wild-eyed blond man, then looked at his clothes. Pyjama bottoms on . . . one leg, the other in a heavy plaster cast.
“Heeeeeeeere’s Ian!” he yelled. “And don’t ask, honey, ’cause I cracked the sucker in Mattawa the week before Jim bought it. Check the hospital if you don’t believe me, and now, if you’ll forgive me, my jammies are beginning to ice up.”
Well, at least he’s a film buff, Belle thought. I could write Investigations for Dummies. Despite his animosity to Jim, she couldn’t convince herself that it might be possible to drive a snow machine and orchestrate the accident. Ian was a jerkwater, to use her father’s old term, but he was off the list.
She started the van and navigated through the fog across town. The last fifteen years of massive early retirements in the nickel industry had left Sudbury with a critical shortage of geriatric care. One huge highrise nursing home overlooked the million dollar mansions on Lake Ramsey, its twin building stood in New Sudbury, but their waiting list was longer than the Monica Lewinsky impeachment proceedings. When her father had fallen ill in Florida, the only spot available was in Rainbow Country, a converted two storey apartment building. Rainbow was older, smaller and a little shop-worn, but it was immaculate and gave excellent care. She knew most of the staff by name, and they knew her. Every rash and cough was chronicled, and when necessary, nurses had called to report her father’s falls or the doctor’s advice. Best of all, given her father’s healthy appetite, the meals were tasty and generous. Quiches, stews, roast beef, even pie and ice cream appeared on the menu. In the winter, though, without the brief pink of the flowering crabs out front, the building was depressing. The Rainbow nurses and staff put up holiday decorations and dressed festively, but still . . . Belle had thought about ordering Final Exit, a self-help manual for suicide with dignity as an alternative should she ever see the end of independence.
Belle stopped across the street at the restaurant which they had frequented when he could still walk: Granny’s Kitchen. It was run by a voluble fat Italian woman who was her own best marketing device. Belle had appreciated the owner’s kindness and patience when listening to Father’s order (always the same), cleaning the littered floor or scouring the bathroom after his visit to the facilities. “How you doing, Maria?” she asked. “The usual: shrimp dinner, easy on the fries, hold the seafood sauce but lots of coleslaw; cherry pie and ice cream.” She gazed at the menu she knew by heart. “And a foot-long chili dog for me, I guess.” Meanwhile, she went next door to the confectionary for his National Enquirer, pausing at the bank machine to call up $100.00.
Loaded with bags of steaming styrofoam boxes, Belle climbed the ramp to the home and discarded her icy boots as a sign suggested. A tiny bichon frisé trotted up warily, pet of the activity director. “Hi, Puffball,” she said, giving his well-clipped white fur a pat. “Watch those feet.” Stray shoes shuffling his way had taught the dog to be wary of life at ground level. At the front desk, Cherie smiled at her. One of the friendliest nurses, this curly blonde powerplant never seemed tired.
“Lunch day? Aren’t you a sweetheart,” she said as she filed some charts.
“So how’s he doing?” Belle asked, a prayer on her lips.
Cherie shrugged a smile. “The same. Asking for you since breakfast. Knows when it’s Tuesday, but always thinks you won’t come.”
“And I’ve never missed in two years. Are his feet still swollen?”
“I’m afraid so. The doctor increased the Lasix dosage. Could be his heart. No other problems. He likes his food as well as ever. Do you want a follow-up call next visit?”
“Might be a good idea. Thanks, Cherie.” In search of a fork and bib, Belle toured the small dining room where several patients waited for lunch, exchanging a few words with Billy Kidd, a blind man dressed to dapper perfection, and waving at familiar ladies (always so many more ladies). The saddest group sat docile in gerry chairs, heads lolling. They were fed by the staff, one of the time-consuming attentions which accounted for the monstrous monthly sum per patient. Even so, over a ward fee of $900.00 to her father’s private rate of $1,700, the government added a similar contribution. Staggering numbers, but a friend of Belle’s had reported in tears that her father might have to pay $60,000 a year to put her mother in a nursing home in Vermont. Maybe overtaxed Canucks should “se taire,” or keep quiet.
Down the hall she could hear his television reporting the local news. Sudbury’s first murder of the year had occurred: a ninth grader had left her newborn in a cardboard box. She had wrapped the child in a flowered nightie and pinned on a note, “I love you, precious” when she placed the box beside a dumpster in a -25° night. “Precious” had been found by two schoolboys the next day. The mother waited under the protection of the Children’s Aid until a court decided if charges should be laid. Children having children, Belle sighed.
As she entered his room, her father pointed at her from his gerry chair. Its locking table prevented him from falling, a necessary but cruel protection against the danger of a broken hip, but he hated it. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. His thick white hair was fresh-cut and his clothes clean, matching blue shirt and practical navy