Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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to show me where you got stuck in the swamp. Maybe I’ll put up a plaque.” With a wink, he turned the country station up to “deafen” and began his artful rearrangement of the snow in her large parking area.
As she dropped some dried shrimp into the tank for the discus, Belle’s heart skipped several beats with horror. The goldfish were still in the van, forgotten in the rush of the night. “My apologies, little friends,” she muttered as she retrieved the colourful chunk and set it to thaw in a soup plate. “It was you or me.”
Belle wasn’t surprised to find no telephone listing for Franz on the island. Would he be offended if she dropped off some thank-you gifts? Perhaps she could pretend that she was “driving by” anyway since his property overlooked the North River entrance to the trails. A trip to town took her to the newest chichi chocolaterie, Lady G, for a pound of butter-smooth hazelnut truffles, an experience which the clerk assured her left sex far behind, and, even at $30.00, was a better investment. At the liquor store, she added a bottle of an old favourite, German May wine with woodruff. Roses would be a classic European gift, but how could she carry them on the snowmobile?
Belle returned home to gas up the machine. The sliders could wait. Although Franz’s Jimmy navigated the ice road from the marina along with other trucks headed for the fishing hut villages, the van’s shallow clearance was not suited to deep slush. As she took the cover off her snowmobile and broomed away the drifted snow, she noticed a small piece of torn red checkered wool under the track. Brooks wore a shirt like that, but so did every other male in Northern Ontario and half of the females, including herself. DNA tests for dead skin flakes? OJ overdose. Steve would laugh in her face.
After tucking the shred into her pocket and stashing the gifts, she started across to the island, which jutted like an upturned egg from the lake bed. Belle was intrigued to be visiting Franz’s home. In the summer, training her binoculars on it while pickerel fishing at the North River, she had made out a paradise of pink and purple phlox dripping from rock gardens, while bronze or slender blue irises waved in the soft wind over silver mounds of artemisia. As she drew near, all was blanketed by snow. The main building, a two-storey log cabin, had three wings, melded so well it was hard to determine the history of the additions. Over the island loomed a large wind generator, its wings patiently humming.
She neared the docking area where the Jimmy was packed with garbage bags likely destined for the dump. Two tarped snowmobiles sat alongside. When a black and tan female shepherd trotted down the steps warily, Belle did a double-take at its Flash Gordon headgear. The animal gave warning barks but responded to a deep voice from the cabin door. “Blondi, hör auf mit dem Bellen! Das ist eine Freundin.” A wagging tail propelled the dog toward Belle, head low in deference while Franz came down the stairs to remove the dog’s strange headgear. Blondi’s eyes seemed full and dark, but Franz’s were sad and thoughtful as he rubbed the dog’s ears. “It’s Panus, an auto-immune disorder. She sees well enough to get around. Can’t be cured, but maybe slowed long enough so she can live out her life with normal activity.” He presented the glasses to Belle. “What do you think? I worked on these all fall. Sun hurts her desperately, though she lives to be outside.”
Squinting through the glasses and fingering the triple straps cleverly arranged to retrofit the apparatus to an animal, Belle said, “It works! So how come your side lost the war?” She stroked Blondi’s massive head, so much like Freya’s. “Dogs don’t need perfect vision. Smell and hearing are their greatest powers.”
“Are you on your way to the north trails? It’s good fortune to see you again so soon. You must come in.”
With a low bow, Belle offered her booty. “I come bearing gifts to my true knight of the road.” As she looked up, a shadow passed one of the windows.
Trying to suppress a shiver since he had left his coat behind, Franz acknowledged her tribute with a snap of his boot heels. “Knight? Ein Ritter! But of course, Fräulein. We have few visitors, but we haven’t forgotten our hospitality. I think Mother has a fresh apple strudel.”
As they climbed, Belle admired the sets of tiered stairs snaking upwards like an Escher perspective, glad that Franz had a firm grip on her arm. “The turns are more practical than you might think. Fewer stairs would be needed to go straight up, but the grade would be too steep. Still, it’s a task to keep them all clear,” he explained. Salt was forbidden because of the run-off to the flower beds and into the lake. Up close, the cabin complex which capped the rocky island blended early Canadian with classic Black Forest. Carved shutters decorated every window, empty flower boxes begged spring’s return, and cedar bird feeders on long poles poked through the snow, spilling brown seeds below, which attracted noisy chickadees tossing their food in delight. Opening the door, Franz called out loudly, “Mutti, we have a visitor.”
Inside, Heidi’s chalet had been reborn. Instead of drywall, tongue and groove boards lined the walls. And the woodwork continued in copious pine and oak cupboards, carved stairs with newel posts, and an ornate Victorian sideboard sprinkled with porcelain figures. Three doors led from the great room to bedrooms or a den, perhaps. Over an easy chair spread with what Belle’s Aunt Marian called an antimacassar, stood a large and unfamiliar tree. “How unusual, Franz. What is it?” she asked, touching its tender leaves with care.
“From the homeland. A linden, dwarfed to keep inside, safe from your Canadian winters. A German version of bonsai. You have heard of our famous street, Unter den Linden?”
“I’ve seen it in pictures.” Belle admired the delicate hues of a table of violets, artfully arranged to graduate from white to pink to dark purple. “And what heavy blooms in the middle of winter. Your mother must have a true green thumb. Violets are too tricky for me. My pathetic plants either dry up or rot.”
A spicy smell of baking met Belle’s nose as a Dresden statue of a woman glided in, blonde hair turned to silver. In her youth, perhaps, the Teutonic ideal of Leni Riefenstahl’s films, a terribly innocent beauty. There was a paleness to her skin, a translucency which suggested vulnerability under strength.
The woman extended her hand and held Belle’s warmly, as if welcoming feminine contact. Her gentle, reassuring voice made Belle instantly regret the tactless stereotype. “A visitor. We are honoured. Please call me Marta.” She smoothed the creases of a spotless dirndl apron, and a small, dry cough punctuated her conversation.
“This is Belle Palmer, Mutti, from the other side of our lake. I told you about the attack on her dog.”
Marta shook her head and gestured toward the wall at several black and white pictures of German shepherds. “We love our dogs as our family. I was so glad that Franz could help you.” As she spoke, her light accent gave a rich European charm to the room.
“Look what Belle has brought us,” Franz said, unwrapping the gifts.
Marta clapped her hands in a gesture touching in its total spontaneity. “Schokolade und Wein. Danke.” She examined the bottle. “Woodruff. A delicate white flower. I have tried to grow it in my herb garden.”
Belle said, “I have a chive patch which thrives on neglect. That’s it. What are your specialties?”
“Natural medicines are my hobby,” she explained, a glow brightening her face. “You have probably seen the bitters, the essences at the health food store. My mother taught me the healing properties of common plants, but she taught me even better the deadly properties. Pokeweed, for example, the tender fresh shoots in the spring have a tonic effect, but any leaf, root or berry from older growth can cause death. Our ancestors learned to be very careful.”
Belle waved her arm at the violets. “And your flowers are so cheerful in the winter. I thought of bringing roses, but I didn’t think they’d weather the trip.”
“The roses are my greatest challenge. Of them all, it is the Maria Stern variety that pleases me the most. Her colour is like a ripe peach. And very hardy in winter. Sadly, some of the most lovely varieties I knew in the old country will not thrive.” For a moment her eyes glistened. “But you must have some coffee and strudel. Franz, bitte, hilf mir.”