Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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“His sister? How did you find out about her? That seems to be a forbidden topic for Franz, and of course, you have to respect people’s privacy.”
Belle felt a tiny twinge of guilt, but pressed gaucherie-override and pried further. “I saw a picture of her at the cabin. What is she like?”
“There’s not much I can tell you about the mystery girl. We weren’t friends. I might have seen her once or twice. Eva was studying history, and nursing is a fierce little world of its own; we stick together because of the heavy hours and clinicals. The school paper carried a story about her scholarship. Then she dropped out suddenly in her sophomore year, just disappeared.”
“Grade problems?”
“Hardly. Eva was a top student. She had a couple of publications in a history journal. Could have been a breakdown. You’ve read that book about passages. Twenty, thirty, forty, as our psych prof says, the beginning of a decade can be stressful. And perfectionists crack. We’ve lost about 30 percent of our initial class.” She shrugged philosophically, tapping her temple in the traditional gesture. “And sometimes I worry about myself.”
A few minutes later, they headed toward a cubbyhole at the end of a corridor. Franz was on the phone, talking excitedly and waving his free hand. When Mel touched his arm, he looked up with a broad smile.
“See you outside. I’ll just round up another supporter,” she explained, disappearing with a wave.
Franz’s handshake was firm and his smile welcoming. “Belle, glad you could make it. Pull up something and relax. The rally’s not for another half hour. I’ve just been calling the marshalls. No parade permit from the city, probably afraid to step on toes, so we’ll be marching down the sidewalks, stopping at lights. Kind of a hitch, but we’ll improvise. Have you picked Freya up yet?”
“Later today, thanks to you.”
“Any clues on the attack? Tracks, perhaps?”
“Not a chance in the snow. Just a fumbled burglary. We’ve had enough of them on the road. Or . . .” She drew out the last word like a long pull of toffee.
“Well?”
“Or maybe I’ve been asking too many bothersome questions about the drug traffic. I did go out to Brooks’ place, the Beaverdam, and looked around in a half-baked fashion. I’m sure he noticed that I was snooping.”
“After you mentioned drugs, I made some connections.” He picked up a pile of student papers. “It’s everywhere. Look here.” He passed her a handwritten essay.
Belle squinted as she read and gave a derisory whistle. “My God, it’s totally incoherent and all over the page, too. Did the writer get a bad mushroom? Surely you don’t have to put up with this?”
“The university has to be very careful, Belle. I don’t dare accuse the student of taking drugs. Unless he causes a row in class, he’s not considered a problem.” He paused at her expression. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Most of our students wouldn’t touch the stuff. Then again, last Christmas two freshmen were arrested bringing back cocaine from the islands. Donkeys, are they called?” His eyebrows rose cautiously over the sense of his usage.
Belle laughed. “Don’t talk the talk, my man. It’s mules you mean.”
He looked embarrassed, then coughed. “Yes, well, they seem like asses to me, if you’ll pardon the pun. Poor fools were promised a free trip and a few thousand dollars to hide the bags inside a jar of cored pineapple. Pretty stupid, eh?”
Belle couldn’t help grinning. “Would have made an unbelievable upside down cake. But to trade stories, what about the three guys who swallowed condoms of coke before boarding a plane from Acapulco to Toronto. Forgot their Boy Scout knot lessons, because they all collapsed at takeoff.”
He flicked his hand over a bust of Shakespeare. “Classical poetic justice, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You mean like ‘hoist with your own petard’? My favourite kind of story. The biter bit and all that.”
“Shakespeare is so popular in Germany that we would claim him as our own if we could.”
A knock at the door introduced a huge native man with thick braids down his back. He wore a heavy hand-knit wool sweater under his parka and untied construction boots like many students. “Nearly ready, Franz?” he asked, glancing over at Belle with a shy smile.
“Come and meet Belle Palmer. She lives on Wapiti and knows the park area well.” The man’s large hand wrapped around Belle’s like a warm heating pad. “William Redwing. He teaches Ojibwa in our new First Nations Studies Program. In the summer he takes groups low impact camping.”
William’s eyes crinkled. “My people have been doing it for thousands of years without leaving any footprints. How much more low impact can you go?”
“It just makes me sick to see what people leave around at campsites. Styrofoam plates and broken beer bottles,” Belle said. “And how can archaeological sites be protected?”
“Exactly. That is our fear. We have verified that a burial ground dating from the mid-eighteenth century lies within the boundaries. Will somebody dig it up as an exhibit? Why not display Sir John A. Macdonald or René Lévesque? These artifacts record our history. Look at this beauty,” he added as he lifted a dark gray rock from Franz’s shelf.
“A tool?” asked Belle. The object was about eight inches long, sloped and chipped at one end.
“Hand axe is our guess,” William explained. “Somewhere around 1500 A.D. Franz and I found it on the North River, just below the small falls. Under the pines the ground is as soft as a cushion.”
“I know that spot well,” Belle said, closing her eyes in reflection. “The flat outcrop comes down to the water for bathing, and the blueberries make great cobbler if you have bannock mix.”
“A good campsite, a good tool, they don’t change over the centuries,” William added, turning the rock slowly. “Such a practical feel. See how it fits the thumb perfectly? Could have been used for skinning.”
“I’m really worried about the pictographs at the narrows. They’re fading with each year,” Belle continued.
“It’s sad, but little can protect that fragile art short of erecting a dome to prevent weather damage like with the Peterborough petroglyphs. If you want to see an unspoiled site, Belle, go to Elliot Lake,” William said. “Now that the mines have closed, there is water access to a very holy place, an overhang on Quirke Lake. The elders took the young warriors there on their way berry-hunting and left them on the ledge for their dream time. Several days later the elders returned with their fruit to hear the stories, see the pictures and welcome the new men into the tribe.”
Belle admired a birchbark box on Franz’s shelf, its intricate pattern woven with porcupine quills. “What meticulous quillwork. I’ve often been tempted to buy smaller pieces at the craft stores north of the Sault. Out of my price range, unfortunately.”
“I can tell you that the labour is considerable, and what tiny portion goes to the artist is a moot point,” William said. “As children, my sister and I were in charge of finding quills. ‘Road kill!’ she’d yell, and off we would run. Then my grandmother sipped tea under a kerosene lamp until dawn sorting the quills into sizes and colours. Some birch baskets can boil water.” His confident expression challenged her.
“Now you’re kidding. That’s impossible,” Belle said.
William explained the careful seaming, the folds and fastening to prevent leaks. “Suspend the pot over smouldering coals, and allow no contact with a flame. Be patient, and tea can be brewed.”
Belle cocked her head at Franz, who agreed. “But it’s scientific, Belle. The water cools the bark from inside. And remember that water boils at 100° C, about half the ignition temperature for paper.”
At the noon chime, Franz picked