Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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a good idea. We are running low, and no shipment will leave Toronto in this weather,” the old woman added as she netted the merry victims, all anticipating a private bowl, a modest sprinkle of gravel, plenty of tasty pellets and a little porcelain “No Fishing” sign. Poor babies, Belle thought, if only you knew. She accepted the bag and couldn’t believe that she asked if they had any new Orandas.
“Some beauties. Golden pom poms.” Mrs. P pointed to a small tank.
Belle choked back a sob. They were tempting, even at $39.99. Words like “grotesque” and “bizarre” did them pale justice. Huge, porcine goldfish with bulging sides and gaping mouths, scales of a gleaming copper rare to the aquarium, they sported a floppy pom pom over each eye, like chubby cheerleaders who had plastered their decorations to their faces. Just in time, Belle recalled the tortuous deaths of her own Orandas, Beanbag and Ochi, hellish red streaks eating them alive. Her PH balance mastery was still in question. Orandaless but proud of her self-discipline, she returned to the parking lot, trying to remember where she had left the van. When she saw it, her attention fell on the wheelwells, clogged with crusted ice and grit jamming the tires and inviting steering problems. A few tentative pokes with her boot toe did nothing. The ice was too hard. So she backed up to the wells and aimed strong heel kicks karate fashion. At last the mess fell free, but at a painful cost. She winced as she tried the key. Was the lock frozen again? Then a thin voice screeched through the wind. “What are you doing to my van? I’m calling security.” Belle spotted a tall figure in a embroidered parka turn and trudge back to the mall. In her embarrassment, she recognized that her own van was one row farther down.
Her foot throbbing to the sounds of “Heat Wave” on the radio (very funny, guys), she wheeled out onto Lasalle Blvd, skidding on the greasy surface. How many words did the Inuit have for snow? How many for the sounds of a storm, the shriek of a wind which would freeze skin in thirty seconds and send weak branches crashing onto roofs, slicing off shingles? Just before the airport hill, Belle saw flashing blue lights, a comforting sight, and nestled herself in behind the plow, its mammoth wings clearing the way like the arm of a merciful God. For once she didn’t mind turtling behind since the flat, open stretch past the airport was famous for blinding whiteouts and head-on collisions. The radio reported that a ten-car pile-up near Whitefish had closed 17 East. Three were dead and many injured. When the plow detoured into the airport, Belle floundered along until she reached her own road. She stopped at the mailboxes to sight down the most dangerous hill, covered a good eight inches deep, pristine and untouched by tread. Turning off the radio to concentrate, Belle steered down the steep slope, wary of the treacherous ditching on either side. It was important to take the big dip by Philosopher’s Pond at top speed to make the grade up the other side. Anyone stuck at the bottom, at the bend of a paper clip, would stay there until the next thaw. As for the rest of the trip, Belle’s strategy was to hug the right and pray that no one would be coming around the tight and often obscured turns.
This time fortune had been with her. Belle whispered a special hosanna as she glided into the driveway, then tensed at the confusing sight of a dark form against a snowbank near the propane tank. It was Freya, still and limp, a bright stain beneath her head. How had she got out? Belle knelt in the swirling snow, smoothing the soft fur, following the shallow rise of the chest. One eye was barely open as the dog tried to lift her head, a torn ear pricking up feebly in response. A quick assessment showed the head wound as the only apparent damage. Nearby lay a shovel used for tossing ashes on the drive, its metal edge darkened. Back inside the house, Belle grabbed a sheet which she used to drag the dog to the van. No way could she lift nearly ninety pounds. A piece of plywood from the junk pile served as a ramp. The driveway was badly drifted, and there was no sign of Ed’s plow truck. He had probably come to fetch it home for a quick morning start. As for the road back, Belle didn’t allow herself to imagine its condition. All she knew was that Freya needed help.
After tucking several blankets around the dog, Belle dialed from her cellular phone, glad that Shana lived on the clinic premises. On the tenth ring, a tired voice answered, “Petville Animal Clinic.”
“It’s Belle. Freya’s been hit on the head. I’m bringing her,” she gasped, glancing at the quiet form in the back.
Shana had no patience for useless questions. “Is she conscious?”
“Barely. Slipping in and out.”
“Keep her warm. And for God’s sake, be careful. It’s pure hell on the roads. What if you have an accident in the middle of nowhere?”
“Don’t jinx me. See you in an hour with luck.”
Back down the road Belle drove, side-slipping, glad to have her own grooves to follow, taking the hills at crazy speeds, hardly caring if she were in the middle or not. “Hang on, pal,” she called. “You did your job. I’ll do mine.”
Battling thick gusts of whiteouts through unprotected spots, Belle inched along the flats. Night vision problems had been plaguing her lately. Ten or fifteen feet of road at a time emerged as she rounded corners, skewing dangerously. At a particularly bad stretch across the swamp, she forgot the icy patches beneath. The van tried valiantly to correct, but the steering was too tight for Indianapolis 500 hairpins. Pivoting 180 degrees, it skidded fifty feet, and brushed through alders at the edge of the road, back wheels miring in the soft muck several yards from a culvert. The jolt was kind. Belle wasn’t hurt, but it wasn’t likely anyone would be along for hours, not until the plow had passed. The machine near the airport belonged to the city; a separate provider took care of Edgewater Road and might not arrive until morning. She touched the cellular phone. What good would that do? The police wouldn’t put an injured pet at the top of the priority list with serious accidents all over town. Oh, she would be safe. Every Northerner carried an emergency kit: blanket, matches, chocolate and candles. But that wouldn’t help Freya. Belle crawled back to stroke the dog, noticing that her eyes were closed and her breathing fast and noisy.
She struggled out of the vehicle and squinted painfully into the whitelash, tears freezing on her cheeks, her fists pounding the top of the van. Then, even over the rush of the storm, the shrill cry of the wind through the dry reeds, the purr of a motor met her ears. Standing in the middle of the road, waving her arms, she hoped it was travelling slow enough to stop. A green Jimmy materialized out of snow and skidded to the side. The door slammed, and a man in a huge sheepskin coat approached her, shielding his face against the gusts. His voice was calm and familiar. “You look like you can use some help. How long have you been here?”
Belle peered in astonishment. “Franz, is it?” she said. “Whatever angel brought you?” She pulled him over to the van.
What a miracle to have the strength of a man, Belle thought as she watched him pat the dog, whisper to Freya to gain her confidence and then effortlessly lift her into the back of the Jimmy, covering her gently with a red Trapper point blanket. The four-wheeler, with its high clearance, made an effortless path through the snow, cruising up the final killer hill as if it were a parking lot. Franz turned up the heater and glanced back at the dog. “You’ll soon warm up. What happened?”
“Jesus. I don’t have any idea. I got home and found her bleeding. Somebody had been in the yard. Maybe a break-in. Then I took the hills too fast.” She shivered in damp clothes in spite of the heater’s blasts. “I’m surprised to see you out. Doesn’t Shield ever cancel classes?”
“Wednesday is my big lab day in physical anthropology. I’m usually there from nine to six. When I saw the weather, I gave my last group a take-home assignment.” He paused. “I forgot to ask where you were taking her.”
“Petville on Garfield Road. Do you know it?”
“Shana, of course. She’s been treating my dog Blondi for years for a serious eye problem. Don’t worry, Belle. She’ll know what to do.”
The plows had just begun cleaning the main routes in town, so a few brave or foolish cars were already plying the slippery streets against radio advice. At the clinic, Shana answered the door in a sweat suit, dark circles under her eyes, and her raven hair, usually neatly arranged in a chignon, spilling over her face. Thin but incredibly strong for her fifty-five years, she touched Franz’s